“My true name is Hirodias," the slave reminded himself. He sat in his small cell made of crude stone, facing the barred window. He spent his time watching clouds pass over the new moon.

"And one day you will be Yon," his cell mate added.

"And one day I will be Yon."

The door above the stairs banged open. The guards descended the steps with their torches, laughing. One of the guards rattled the cell door with his club. "Come on Jester, the banquet's about to start."

Hirodias rose and turned to the guards. With each laugh, Hirodias felt another knot in his stomach. He put his hands through an opening in the door to be shackled. The guards then linked a chain to his neck shackle. Before he left the cell, he met eyes with his older cell mate, then the guards led him up the stairs.

Through a maze of narrow underground tunnels the guards led the chained Hirodias. He could hear faint music and laughter from above. There was a banquet they had said. They led him up some more stairs, unlocked another gate and into a small dressing room.

The guards fastened the neck chain to a hook on the wall behind him and the wrist chain to the opposite wall in front. He was stretched against the walls.

"Put him in the red outfit," the guard said. “That’s what they want to see him in tonight.”

Two women with neck chains of their own dressed Hirodias in the new red boiled leather breastplate and white cloak. It was a heroic outfit, for some part he had yet to know to play. They brushed and tied his long flowing hair into a tight bun and painted his face with black and white paint. The two women stole glances into his eyes but he only stared ahead to where his wrist chain secured to the wall.

The guards answered a knock on the door, and a heavyset mustached man with a tall black sheep's wool cap and a bright yellow suit entered. "This is the Jester? Oh my, he's bigger than I thought. He must be seven feet tall."

"Not really, he’s a few inches shorter than that," the guard said, "but the Jester towers over everyone anyway. It’ll make for a good show, don’t worry."

"I'm not putting up my boxers against this one," the man said. “He’s going to kill my stock.”

"It's the Magister's son's wedding," the guard warned. "And you've already been paid."

"Then I'm putting two boxers against him."

The guard laughed. He motioned to the other guard and they unhooked the chains from the wall and escorted Hirodias out of the dressing room into an open alleyway. Hirodias breathed the fresh air and as he exhaled he noted the same pockmarks and weathering on the sandstone walls from every time he had walked through the city. There were more people in the alley than the previous fights. The Magister’s son was taking his second wife, and everyone was invited to the party.

Hirodias was led through the servants' entry. An old blind slave sat in the small lobby with a small branch of eucalyptus leaves and a bowl of water.

“A prayer for our brother,” the old blind man said.

"Be quick with your superstitions," the guard told the old slave. Hirodias kneeled with his hands together to receive the blessing. The old slave felt for Hirodias' head, then dipped the leaves in the water and shook the wet leaves on Hirodias' head.

"Mother, watch over your son," the old slave said. He put the branch down and held Hirodias' hand. "May all his victories bring him closer to home, to you.”

Hirodias squeezed the old slave's hand and rose. The guards opened the door leading to the banquet hall and escorted Hirodias into the room bursting with music, laughter, and the smell of roasted meats. Women with barely any clothes hid behind facial veils as they danced for the guests. The laughs came deep from the bellies full of food, drink, and lust. Those that were attending to the guests all had iron collars around their necks. Even the musicians plucking at the lutes, shaking the tambourines, and piping the flutes had collars.

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So many guests, he thought. And so many slaves.

The Magister would not be in attendance until the formal banquet began. The fighting matches were preliminary entertainment for the guests of the wedding, and the Magister had no taste for crude wagering of the stock. The Magister's son sat on the high seat normally reserved for his father. He had a mustache styled to curl up, his jet black hair matted down with a paste. His tunic was already half open. When the magister’s son saw Hirodias, he stood and applauded in a half-drunken way.

"My honored guests!" he shouted over the music and laughter. "Guests to my party! You will finally see why Isimil is the best! We have the greatest pit boxers in the world! Look at the size of our specimen. Ladies and scoundrels, I present to you, our very own court Jester! Mr. Okur, now let's see what specimen you dare bring from Gamesh to challenge the Jester!"

The fat man with the black wool cap stepped forward. "Gamesh has no giants of our own, lordling. Yes, we have had our history of great champions, but that was long ago. Your Jester, I’m afraid is the size of two men.”

“Because Isimil is the size of two Gameshes!” the magister’s son laughed.

“Then to show the world the quality of your father’s city, then surely he could take on two boxers at once?"

The Magister's son looked at Hirodias, who nodded back. "I assure you, this is my city, and I do what I want on my wedding day! Two against one it is! Clear the area, fill your goblets, and place your bets!"

The guards unhooked the chains from Hirodias' neck and removed the shackles from his wrists. "You can do it, Jester. You’ve taken on two boxers before. Make Isimil proud. I have money on you."

The fat man stepped to center of the room. “Listen to my story, esteemed guests! Today we re-enact a famous story of how Baderdine the Great chased the malicious one eyed giant to the tops of Mount Ottogon where they clashed in hand-to-hand combat for three days. Baderdine had nothing but his two fists of stone. We know how that story ended, but will it go the same way tonight? Ladies and gentleman, today's story will be told through two of my own boxers representing each of Baderdine’s fists against Isimil’s giant himself. Boxers, come to the center!”

Hirodias walked to the center of the banquet room, covered by a massive intricately woven red and gold rug. Two boxers from Gamesh approached and sneered at him. "You're a big one,” said the one with braids in his red hair. “But taking on two of us at once is the last folly you'll ever make."

“Be careful,” the other boxer said. He was a little older had a thinning black hair tied in a topknot.

“Wait for my call, then begin the match!” the fat man cried.

Hirodias flexed and stretched his muscles, giving the two Gamesh boxers pause. "You will have two choices when the fighting starts," Hirodias said. "Stand down or help us.”

The boxers glanced at each other and back to Hirodias.

"My true name is Hirodias, and one day I will be Yon," he said. "But today I will kill everyone in this room."

“Begin!” the man shouted.

Hirodias lunged at the guard that had placed a bet on him and stabbed him in the neck with a small sharpened stick that the old blind slave had given him during the blessing. He pulled the sword from the gasping guard and plunged it into the guard’s heart. Hirodias took a large stride toward the Magister’s son. A guard raised his sword at him, which Hirodias knocked out of his hand and struck down onto the guard’s leg. The Magister’s son screamed on his chair, and with a single stroke Hirodias cut off his head. Screams filled the room as the head rolled onto the rug.

The slave musicians played the music louder to drown out the screams, according to plan. The servants who were previously pouring wine for the guests pulled out various sharpened tools and began attacking those same guests. The guards started rushing at Hirodias, who lifted the heavy seat with the headless magister's son still sitting on it and flung it at the guards, knocking several down. He cut down another guard across the chest.

"Stand down or help us!" he shouted at the Gamesh boxers. The two boxers picked up swords from the fallen guards.

"The doors are locked!" guests screamed.

The musicians played louder and faster as more blood spilled. The fat man with the wool cap screamed for his fighters to protect him. The Gamesh boxer with the red braids grabbed the wool cap off the fat man’s head, exposing a balding head with a bright red birth mark. The boxer struck his sword on top of the fat man’s head, cracking the skull open. Blood splattered the floor and walls. The screams that were loud became faint, replaced by wailing and wounded sobbing.

The slaves shouted in anger as they chased the remaining guests through the various halls, dragging them back to the center of the room. The survivors were piled on top of the dead, the sound of begging drowned out by the music. The slaves continued to plunge the weapons into the pile, splattering each other with more blood. When there were no more to be killed, Hirodias motioned for the musicians to stop.