Joron leaned eagerly forward over the railing that stood atop the wall above the arena. As this was the first contest of the day, the sands below were neatly raked and unspoiled. Ve’el sat under a canopy on a raised dais, Lahs kneeling at her feet. Tarvak sat back in his chair next to Ve’el, enjoying the heat of mid-day. The Kol’ran Province was cooler than his family home in Merad, cooler than the residence he now shared with Ve’el and Joron in Klii-sun. It wasn’t chilly enough to require an outer coat, or for Ve’el to request the quilts available at the games, but it was enough to make the afternoon sun very welcome.

He glanced at the program of combatants in his hand, mentally going over the statistics provided and wondering if the Lady Ve’el would be offended if he indulged in some small wagering. She was frugal with the family finances, but this was, after all, a pleasure outing. He enquired respectfully, and was rewarded with a small smile and an assent, provided he risk no more than fifty veks on each challenge. He signaled to the vendor that moved through the stands, quietly giving the man his choices and wagers for the day’s events.

“Tarvak, it’s beginning!” Joron said excitedly as he turned from the railing. “Did you wager?”

“I did, my Bonded,” Tarvak replied with amused forbearance. Joron loved the challenges, as much for the spectacle as for the particular hedonism it afforded his empathy. It was a true Warrior’s ordeal, he knew, for the Dei’lrn to feel the emotions of the combatants and yet not become weak or overly sympathetic. There were not many of his rare kind that passed all the trials to become a Warrior, and it made his pride in his Bonded all the greater. He has beauty, strength, power and wit, as well as the more usual Dei’lrn’s musical and poetic talent, he thought with fond pleasure.

And heat to match your own, my Bonded, Joron teased.

Tarvak chuckled, hearing the pleased approval from Ve’el of this sort of jest.

Yes, my Lady, he said, we are well matched. He refused to allow the thoughts of others to intrude on his satisfaction.

Behind the Tarvak persona, Spock attempted to remain calm and quiescent. This was certainly a portion of the mission where it would be advisable to allow the Romulan to take the forefront. It was in public places such as this arena where they were in the most danger of being discovered. The press of telepathies stronger than his own natural abilities might easily cause him to react with anxiety, which in his case, would likely mean he would become overly Vulcan in his responses and attitudes. The suspicion this might arouse would definitely be counterproductive. Added to that was the undeniable fact that he would not, under any circumstances, enjoy gladiatorial contests, even ones where, like these, the combat was only to first blood, and not to the death of one of the participants.

Noel DelMonde had never been claustrophobic, but the compactness of the tight space Joron had squeezed his awareness into was so stifling as to be almost a physical sensation. He had agreed to the constraints only after the Romulan had thrown a tantrum and Ve’el/MacEntyre had warned him that any hint of inappropriate behavior while they were in a place crowded with Romulans would mean their discovery, slow, painful interrogations, and almost certainly eventual death. It would be far easier, she had insisted, to allow Joron this freedom, hinting that it might make him more amenable to a graceful switch of the foremost place the rest of the time.

“Tarvak best not be tryin’ to touch me,” the engineer had warned.

“I will do my best to prevent that occurrence,” Spock had assured.

Del had snorted. “While they do ever’t’ing in they power to...”

“I will see to it,” Ve’el had stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

And that was that.

Why they wear such damned skin-tight clothes? he found himself wondering. The admittedly beautiful bright red tunic and pants, with gold accents and richly embroidered torso, showed every muscle in his body to its lean perfection, but also too clearly revealed the effect both the excitement of the coming games and the nearness of his Bonded had on Joron. It was enough to make even an ex-Clavist blush. The only saving grace was that he knew, somewhere deep inside Tarvak, the damned Vulcan must be twice as mortified as he was.

He was interested enough in the idea of gladiators – and distrustful enough of Joron – to pay as close attention as he could when loud horns sounded, signaling the start of the first contest.

The crowd roared as the heavily muscled Warrior swung his huge ax and the smaller, faster man neatly evaded the blow, dancing away to maneuver behind the behemoth. With a quick slash of his curving sword, a bright green line appeared at the back of the other’s unprotected calf.

The arbiter blew his whistle, then shouted, “First blood! Match to Klevath!” The larger Warrior bellowed and threw down his weapon, as the victor raised his sword and shield to the heavens. A hundred flowers rained down on him from the stands.

“Did we win?” Joron asked, turning from his position at the railing. His face was flushed, his eyes shining.

“Indeed we did,” Tarvak replied, then added, “again.”

Ve’el clapped the older Romulan on the arm approvingly. “Your choices are always excellent ones,” she acknowledged.

“In more than the games, my Lady,” Tarvak returned, smiling at his Bonded.

“Kah-lir, you make me blush,” Joron retorted, grinning wickedly

I gonna puke here.

Shut up, Human!

Ve’el voice was cool but stern. Silence, Joron.

Yes, my Lady.

Control your… Tarvak began to Spock.

He is not my… Spock started to assert.

Control him anyway, Pelori put in.

You’d have more luck there, Joron snickered.

Joron!

Yes, my Lady.

“Have you ever considered joining the games, Tarvak?” Ve’el inquired as she accepted another piece of fruit from the platter Lahs held out to her.

“I fear I am far too old for such sport,” Tarvak replied modestly.

“But not for other, more interesting sport,” Joron rejoined lewdly.

I really am gonna puke.

What do you know, you’ve never had a Warrior.

Samurai not count, huh?

Joron!

Yes, my Lady.

“Then perhaps our young and virile Second, my husband?” Ve’el teased.

Tarvak made a show of giving his Bonded a thorough visual examination. “I think he would do well, if he put his mind to it,” he declared at last.

“I would make you proud, beloved,” Joron returned with eager delight.

You not gonna take my body into no…

Coward!

JORON! Ignore him!

YES, my Lady!

Del, stop egging him on.

Yes, my Lieutenant.

“Who’s next?” Joron asked, moving to Tarvak to peer at the program.

“lmel from Nos’van and Teris of Klii-sun,” Tarvak replied.

“Did you wager on our kinsman?” Ve’el wanted to know.

“Of course, my Lady,” Tarvak returned with a smile. “It would be dishonorable to do otherwise.”

Joron was frowning, “He won’t win,” he said.

“Unfortunately, no, but honor must be served.”

“I suppose,” Joron sighed. He took a seat next to his Bonded. “Lahs, wine,” he called.

The non-gift moved quickly to his Second Master’s side, offering the tall goblet. Joron’s hand knocked it over. “Clumsy beast!” he snarled.

“Forgive me, Master, I will bring you another immediately, Master,” Lahs replied humbly. The creature turned to the stands, heading for the nearest vendor.

“Why must you plague it?” Tarvak murmured.

‘Cause th’ li’l t'ing got his rocks off.

Ve’el, keep him quiet!

With a sigh, Ve’el turned inward. You said he would behave himself.

Within her, Pelori echoed the exasperation. For him, this is behaving. At least no one else can hear us when we speak to each other.

Except the six of us, yes, Ve’el answered. I suppose that is more or less fortunate.

Lahs returned with more wine, and carefully handed it to Joron, rather than simply presenting the serving platter. Joron scowled at him.

“Forgive me, Master, it is only to prevent my own clumsiness from causing another accident,” the non-gift murmured.

“It seems you are destined to offend me either way,” Joron muttered, then dismissed the slave with a wave of his hand.

Mr. DelMonde, I warned you about…

It not me, Commander, Del returned, but his mind-voice was grinning.

Another shout went up from the crowd as the last of the matches came to its end. The blooding was a little more serious than usual. There seemed to be some sort of a grudge between the combatants, and each was attacking with less care than seasoned and experienced Warriors would usually use in a mere contest.

“A valuable lesson in what unrestrained animosity can do to a Warrior’s thinking.” Ve’el commented.

I get the damn point, girlie, came DelMonde’s incautious thought.

I would be careful of my tone, Human, she responded sharply. I do have influence over the evening’s itinerary.

Joron gave a glittering show of teeth. I thank you for the reminder, my Lady, he said. Then he stood from his vantage point over the railing and stretched. “Tarvak, how much are we up?”

“Our net gain from my wagers is fifteen hundred veks,” he announced proudly.

“My husband, you truly have a gift with figures,” Ve’el complimented.

Tarvak gave a slight bow. “Thank you, my Lady.”

The voice of the arbiter sailed out over the crowd. “Announcing the Open Matches! Any fighter who wishes to prove himself in combat, report to the judging booth now!”

“May I, Tarvak?” Joron asked excitedly.

“The decision is our Lady’s,” the older Romulan replied.

His Bonded went down on one knee before Ve’el. “For the honor of your House, my Lady, and the glory of the Triad, let me present myself and prove my worth!”

Ve’el, no! Pelori objected on top of Del’s, Hell no!

Prove your worth. Now that is an interesting idea, Ve’el considered.

Lady, care must be taken with the body that is, after all, not… Spock began.

Perhaps a wager? the Romulan speculated. If Joron is victorious, his assignation with my host goes on as they wish with no interference from any other party.

My Lady…! Joron protested.

With the stipulation that he and Tarvak are then also allowed physical release.

No, Spock said firmly.

No sense of adventure, Vulcan? Or do you doubt the stamina and skill of your companion’s body?

He is not truly Romulan, Lady, Tarvak put in. He would be at a serious disadvantage.

That stung DelMonde’s pride. I know how to fight, he said.

With such weapons as these, Mr. DelMonde? Spock countered.

Better at hand-to-hand than wit’ phasers, the engineer retorted.

And I will be guiding his hand, Joron rejoined.

And the other half of the wager? Tarvak insisted.

I have not agreed to the first half, Spock reminded coldly.

Do you feel no need for release? Tarvak asked his host privately. Within the Romulan’s ascendant mind, Spock shifted uneasily.

I cannot allow it. There is another.

The golden female?

She is my wife.

Wife? Tarvak swiftly searched his host’s memories. You are Bonded! he exclaimed with true dismay.

Not formally, Spock corrected hesitantly.

Your culture still adheres to a ritual form? The fact is not enough for logical Vulcans?

Spock found himself without words. The argument was strikingly similar to the one Ruth had used when convincing him to save the life of Jilla Majiir.

What agony to be parted from her, Tarvak was continuing sympathetically. The Romulan’s mental self made a decision. I will not attempt to sully this Bond. I will keep your fidelity for you. But Joron and his host have no such compulsion. Allow me then to give my Bonded release, and I will be satisfied.

How…? Spock began, too flustered to form any image of how, precisely, this would work.

Tarvak chuckled, an almost paternal sound. As our lady did with the non-gift, he said. I will stimulate him mentally until his body has no choice. You will not be involved, nor will the mind of your companion.

I am at a loss, Tarvak, Spock managed.

You are most welcome, Spock of Vulcan, Tarvak returned. He released the mental shields that had kept their conversation confidential. The other half of the wager, my Lady? he repeated.

If Joron should lose, he and Lahs will amuse me as I wish, Ve’el returned smoothly.

Fuck no! DelMonde bellowed.

And if there is no wager, my Lady? Tarvak asked.

Then I will have no choice but to deem the Human a coward, and worthless, regardless of his gifts. He would, in my eyes, Tarvak, cease to have the rights of a true Romulan. Her eyes glittered at Joron, and both the Romulan and his Human host recalled the litany she had instructed Lahs to repeat.

Li’l Mac, help me! Del shouted desperately.

There was no answer from Pelori.

Joron’s eyes were flashing with rage. I will NOT allow this dishonor, Kah-lir! he snarled.

My Lady, Tarvak began with true horror, what could such a thing mean for my Bonded?

You would, of course, continue to treat your Bonded as before, Ve’el supplied. I, however, would see no need to do so with his Human body.

No! DelMonde shouted. No no no no NO!

Ve’el, this cruel game will cease… Spock began.

Silence, him, Tarvak, or I will.

My Lady…! The Romulan’s utter shock showed clearly on his features.

Those are my stakes, husband, Ve’el said with finality.

An’ if I not fight at all? DelMonde demanded.

You will, she said, and for one brief moment, she displayed all the power that lay within her, her own formidable gifts enhanced and heightened by all of Pelori’s careful training, by Ve’el years of rigorous application, by the trials of xenoneurophene Pelori had been subjected to. To DelMonde’s helpless mind, she was The Beast, reborn and re-clothed, with no open heart, so secret vulnerability.

The litany of prayer died in his thoughts before it could be formed, and Ve’el smiled at each of the minds around her.

“Go, Joron, before the matches are closed,” she said.

Don’t worry, Human, I am quite skilled in combat, Joron said derisively as he stood in the arena’s changing rooms, removing his fine clothing and donning the gladiatorial armor: metal greaves for his shins, a short skirt of red edged in gold, a metal-studded cuirass of leather with wide, open shoulder pieces.

In case it not been pointed out in th’ las’ five minutes, this not your body, Del retorted. His insouciance was in full gear, hiding the ugly fear that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

The Romulan paused for a moment, frowning. Then he went to the armory rack, picking up each weapon choice, testing each one’s weight and balance against his new strength and reflexes.

Weakling, he scorned when his usual choices – spears, lances, pikes – proved either too heavy or too ungainly.

I good in a knife fight, Del offered, though his mental tone was a growl.

The Romulan’s thoughts turned speculative. Are you now? He lifted a slender, curving dagger, about the length of a Terran short-sword. Can you fight with this?

It a little longer than I used to… Del began

Joron snorted. It is Romulan.

You always this funny when you ‘bout to get killed?

I don’t plan on dying – again, he returned with a fair show of insouciance himself. He picked up a second dagger, a match for the first, and made a few experimental moves, sweeping the blades around him in an arc, letting the momentum carry him into a graceful, leaping turn. He fell into a crouch, slashing first one blade then the other in front of him in rapid succession, then twisted his body to slice through the imaginary foe at his back.

Fascinated despite himself, Del attempted to make a few moves of his own, but his limbs immediately became clumsy and uncoordinated.

Only one of us can be in control at a time, fool! Joron spat.

Then I jus ‘retreat’ an’ let you handle this all on your own, non?

If you care nothing for the honor of the half-breed you planned on bedding, certainly.

Del bristled, not liking either the term ‘half-breed’ nor the tense of the word ‘planned.’ I care, he said. So what you be t’inkin’?

You lull our opponent into thinking us unskilled, Joron replied immediately. Be as unspectacular as you usually are. When he attacks, you fall back and allow me to counter it. Then I will retreat again, so you can continue to draw him in. When I see an opening, I’ll give you a shove, like this – Del felt a sharp push at his forehead. – and that will be the signal for you to fall back. But you’ll have to do it quickly, with none of your tedious arguments and protests, or we’ll lose our chance for first blood.

You awful damn high an’ mighty fo’ a Junior Husband, Del drawled spitefully.

What I am, Human, is confident in my skills and aware of my worth, Joron said, but it was distracted, a larger part of his brain going over the strategies and tactics of combat. Ve’el’s arbitrary ranking aside, – his tone revealed just how little respect he truly had for his “Lady” – I know what Tarvak thinks of me. I feel his regard every moment of every day. The tone softened, growing warm. I feel his love every moment of every day. I will win this combat for him, to honor our Bond, to prove myself a fitting equal to the strong and brave Warrior whose very life is my own. He paused. You understand so little. You say ‘Junior’ to insult me, with no comprehension of the honor it is to be a Second. His life is my responsibility. His joy, his contentment, his satisfaction are my own. I am the protection which allows him to flourish, the rampart of strength and defense that is both his first and last hope in a hard and dangerous world. I am jester, slave, whore, adornment, distraction, lance and shield to him, playing each part as he requires – or requests. I am his soul, and he is mine. There is nothing I would not do for him, no trial I would not endure, no pain I would not suffer if by doing so I keep it from him. Again he paused, turning his attention fully to the Human. What do you have that compares to that?

The truths glowed in DelMonde’s brain and for the first time he comprehended the true nature of the tie between the two Romulans.

Not that you couldn’t have before if you’d applied your gifts to the situation, Joron commented.

Pardon me fo’ havin’ a life o’ my own.

And pardon me for not wanting mine to end as soon as it did.

Yeah, Del agreed grudgingly. He took a fortifying breath. So that th’ plan, huh?

And we must be victorious. I will not spend the rest of this life as Ve’el’s menial.

I wit’ ya on that, Joron, ol’ buddy.

The Romulan snorted again, but it was nearly affectionate.

Come then, let us assess our opponent.

That opponent turned out to be a fit and nimble Warrior, as tall and muscled as Joron, but with one distinct advantage. He was still active in the Legions. He’d chosen a mace and buckler for his weapons, and a helm that concealed most of his face. Under normal circumstances, that would have prevented his adversary from seeing his moves in his eyes. Joron being Dei’lrn, of course, nullified that particular advantage.

Why we not have a helmet? Del asked.

I fight better when my vision is unobstructed, Joron replied.

Del nodded thoughtful understanding.

He’s bound to be fast, but though it may not look it, his body will have more mass than yours, Joron continued. This will work for us. Our leaps will be higher and that will help counter the lesser strength of our blows. We must keep moving. His mace could crush bones and still not break the skin for first blood.

He a mean sombitch.

He’s offended at having to fight with one he thinks is not a Warrior.

Yeah, I feel that.

If I announce my status, it may make him a little less eager to pummel us into submission before he draws that blood.

Go for it, then.

Joron moved to the arbiter, giving his name for the announcement of combat. “I am Joron of the House of Bo-rah, retired of the Fifth Cohort of the Gariq Legion, Warrior Bond to Tarvak of House Merad, also retired,” he said.

“And your Third?” the arbiter asked.

“The Lady Ve’el, newly arrived of Klii-sun,” the Romulan replied, but DelMonde could feel the distaste he kept in check.

You not be likin’ her much, he commented. Why that?

She isn’t our Third, Joron replied tightly. Warrior Bonds are not expected to acquire one until they retire from active duty – and as you know, I never did. When we were placed within these bodies, we were told she was – but I know better. Tarvak would have never chosen such a one as she.

Tarvak not know this?

Tarvak accepts. I do not.

DelMonde pondered this as Joron took his place in the arena. It made a whole lot of little things fall into place.

Then, as the horns blew and the arbiter began to speak, all thoughts were focused on the combat.

“…in Triad with the Lady Ve’el of Klii-sun!”

The crowd cheered as Joron took his place with a bow and a salute to his Lady and his Bonded. He then turned to the Legate’s stand, and made similar if slightly less flamboyant gestures to Ramok and Holsa.

I not see her there, Del said. That her husband?

So I assume, not having met the man, Joron replied. Now let me concentrate.

“And his honored opponent, Sestor of the Third Cohort of Kol’ran!”

The roaring of the crowd was twice as loud as Sestor make his acknowledgements to the Legate and his lady and to the Centurion and the rest of his cohorti.

Shee-it, a home-town boy, Del muttered.

Joron made no response, already taking a fighting stance. Remember, when I push, you retreat.

Aye, aye, captain.

With a battle cry, Sestor charged, brandishing his mace. Del heard Joron’s disdain for the showy tactic as this first feint was easily sidestepped. But the clever Romulan suddenly crouched, aiming for Joron’s right shin. Joron jumped quickly enough so that it was only a glancing blow, but even that hurt.

Don’t favor it, Joron commanded, as he came down on that foot, leaning backward to shift his weight, then snapping forward, his blades flashing.

Already close to the ground, Sestor rolled out of reach. Joron stopped his momentum, turning to face his opponent as the man leapt to his feet, charging again. This time, Joron kept his place, only turning slightly to avoid the rush. His blades clanged on the buckler as Sestor tried to butt him with it. He spun quickly for a chance at slicing the unprotected back, but Sestor went into a forward roll, evading him. Using the opportunity, Joron charged, but Human speed betrayed him and he was unable to get within striking distance as Sestor’s buckler came up.

There was laughter from some in the crowd. Del grit his teeth as he felt Joron’s flush. Use it, the Human suggested.

Joron nodded, and mentally fell back, allowing DelMonde to control his own body.

Sestor’s arrogant confidence filled him, and Del smiled grimly. I‘m playing with you, he sent as a subliminal taunt. I’m really much better than you are.

He saw the man’s body tense as he warily got to his feet. The two circled each other, each waiting for an opening. DelMonde stepped awkwardly on his bruising right leg and stumbled. Sestor seized the moment and Joron shouted Good! as the push came to Del’s forehead.

Quickly he fell back and the blades flashed again, again catching, this time on the mace, preventing its intended blow to Joron’s left arm and neatly slicing Sestor’s leather armor.

Got him! Del cried, and Joron savagely shook his head.

It didn’t break the skin, he said. The disappointment was discarded as Joron allowed himself to be pushed away, regaining firm footing as he again faced his adversary.

“He fights well for a Dei’lrn,” Deron commented to the man who stood beside him.

“He does,” the man returned. “I can see why he is of interest to you.”

“A wager, Linot?”

“The stakes?”

“If he’s the victor, we recruit him.”

“What of his Bonded and the Third?”

“I think they will make excellent candidates in their own way.”

“You dine with them this evening, yes?”

“I do.”

“Then perhaps, if your assessment holds after that, we can discuss it further.”

Deron clearly understood that Linot was reserving the idea of an actual wager – which was not necessarily a bad thing. To have lost would have been unwise – for either of them. Still, his actual point had to be made

“But the Dei’lrn?”

“Definitely. If he wins.”

Deron smiled. Not only had the exchange saved face for both he and Linot, he had suitably impressed a member of the Telanate.

The combat seemed interminable. There were times when Joron apparently had the upperhand, but then he would inevitably do something awkward, or not at full speed and Sestor would gain an advantage – only to be blocked or pushed back or countered. The crowd was loving it, but Tarvak was in an agony of fear.

He must prevail, he must! The older Romulan’s thoughts were colored with his fervent need.

They will, Spock tried to reassure. While not a Warrior, Mr. DelMonde is a capable officer with quick reflexes…

For a Human, Tarvak added ruefully.

They can feel their opponent’s strategies, Spock continued. That surely gives them an advantage.

Why do they not take it, then?

Spock carefully watched the moves and counters. He could tell the two men who shared DelMonde’s body were working together, but that body was beginning to tire. They had avoided any more injury, but were not close to inflicting the blow that would end the combat. With helpless desperation, Spock searched his mind for any tactic, any ploy that would grant them that opportunity – but there was only so much a Human body could do in air and gravity that was so like that of Vulcan…

Sudden memory struck him. He had had to give advice on just that situation before, with a Human body of less mass than DelMonde’s. The words he had spoken to then-Commander Sulu echoed in his mind: “The martial arts at which you excel do not require an advantage in physical size or strength." And were most effective when one’s adversary knew nothing of them.

He quickly reviewed his knowledge of the information in DelMonde’s personnel files. The engineer had easily passed all the physical training required for Starfleet, which included a rudimentary knowledge of Karate, Tai Kwon Do and Judo. And if Romulan hand-to-hand combat was anything like Vulcans’, it contained no such instruction. Quickly he turned to his Romulan guest.

Tarvak, can you send a completely shielded thought to the mind of your Bonded?

Of course, came the immediate reply. But to distract him at a time like this…

I must send an instruction to Mr. DelMonde, Spock stated. It need be only one word.

One word?

Trust me, Warrior.

Judo!

By Telan, what…?

Sestor was charging again, and Joron was getting winded. He steadied himself for a pivot, when DelMonde’s awareness shouted, Damn me fo’ a fool, MOVE! Startled, the Romulan fell back.

Del braced himself, and when the Sestor rushed him, he dropped his blades, grabbed the upper arm of the man and neatly flipped him over it. Sestor landed in the sand on his back with a forceful exhale, the wind knocked out of him.

The crowd screamed in ecstatic delight, roars and cheers louder than any before filling the stands.

What did you…how did you…? Joron gawked.

Forget that, Del snapped and bent to retrieve one of the daggers, intent on claiming first blood.

Joron stopped him.

No, you must tell me what you did!

I tell you anyt’ing you want after we finish this. He made another move and again the Romulan stopped him.

Human, do you hear? he said.

The crowd had begun to chant: “Jor-RON! Jor-RON! Jor-RON! Jor-RON!”

So?

We’ll be crowned the day’s champion! Joron exclaimed excitedly. Do you know the favors we’ll be granted, the status we’ll win, the prize of the champion’s purse?

We not win nothin’ if we not hurry up an’ get that green trickle goin’.

No! If you can do that – and more… he added, reading his host’s thoughts. Come, let’s really give the crowd a show! That’s what they come for! If we can humiliate Sestor…

All his Cohort buddies gonna rain right down on us…

No, no! Joron snapped impatiently. That isn’t how it works here. They will give us due honor, they will sing our praises and call us worthy Warriors! We may even be invited to one of their…

DelMonde didn’t understand the word Joron used, but it translated in his head as “bacchanals.”

I thought you Bonded.

The Romulan scowled. I am, it wouldn’t be like that for Tarvak and I. But the stories, the song, the camaraderie – Human, you have no idea how I’ve missed it!

I got a name, Romulan.

But the pictures, the emotions Joron poured at him were overwhelming. It would be like him being declared Clave Royalty – or Fleet’s top engineer. The incredible thrill and hedonism of being proclaimed by one’s peers, acknowledgement from those whose opinions mattered the most…

He sighed. All right, he said in capitulation, but only till I say so, deal?

Agreed! Joron said happily.

He walked to his blades, picking them up, then graciously stood aside as Sestor got his breath back and got to his knees. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the other Romulan’s weapons.

The crowd again erupted into wild cheers and applause.

The remaining battle was more than half spectacle. Joron would make swift, graceful moves, drawing Sestor into a charge, and DelMonde would neatly flip the man over his back, or throw him into a hip-check, or jump, launching his feet into the man’s chest. Neither of them commented on the fact that this was Joron’s strategy neatly reversed.

When Joron was flushed and laughing and taking the time for elaborate bows and flinging kisses out of his hand into the cacophonous, delirious crowd – and DelMonde was out of breath, streaked with sweat and sand, his muscles beginning to ache like a son of a bitch, he said, That enough, now, and at the next charge, instead of a throw that let go of Sestor, he followed it with a slam to the Romulan’s throat. He quickly grabbed one of the blades and gave Sestor a sharp nick along his collarbone.

“First blood!” the arbiter called, barely heard above the tumultuous din of the spectators. “Match to Joron!

In later years, DelMonde would always remark on how surprised he was that he hadn’t been buried alive in flowers.