"Not bad." Bahadir said to her with a satisfied grin. He gave a shrug as if considering his compliment. "A bit rough, but not bad." 

She gave the smile a crocodile might before a meal, and the corsair rolled off of him, offering him her hand to help him to his feet. He raised his brows, not expecting the gesture, but she had offered to partner with him, and it looked like she was keeping to her word. He took her hand, and though he was almost twice her size, her body was lithe but fit, and she managed to keep herself somewhat steady as he rose to his feet. The crowd surged, a wave of men and women standing up from their seats and pointing and the pair of them, calling for more. The other slaves jogged to the middle, those that could walk. Some of them were tanned, others were fair skinned, and one was as black of skin as Calliope's hair. They raised their weapons and hooted, screaming out to the crowd with triumph and exultation. Bahadir raised his fist into the air, his face as grim as stone, and that caused another uproar of cheers. 

It seemed like forever, but suddenly the crowd went silent, and Bahadir and the rest turned to look northward, toward the Sultan's seat. Calliope followed their gazes, and sure enough, the Sultan had lifted himself from his chair and had approached the swepping balustrade, his vizier just beside him, leering down at the survivors. They were hundreds of meters away, but even from this distance, Bahadir could see the Vizier was displeased. The sorcerer planted his staff onto the floor, and all knew it was a small cantrip that carried the Sultan's voice across the area for all to hear. 

"Laqad qatalt bishakl jayd. Allah yueamiruk hadha alyawma, wa'ashkuruk ealaa alqital fi sharafi! Antisarun! He declared, and the crowd roared again at his approval. And as the other day, the Arabyan Mamluks rushed out into the field to guide the slaves back to their pens, so they did not get any funny and dangerous ideas of escaping through some crack in the arena. Calliope whispered to Bahadir for a translation, and he told her 'he thanks us, and says it is the will of the gods we can entertain him so well.' 

Two hours later, after having been searched for concealed weapons and being granted their daily ration of water and food, Calliope and Bahadir found themselves now 'free' if one could call it, albeit in a closed off section of the arena. Calliope questioned why they were not allowed to traverse the greater area underground as yesterday, but even Bahadir did not know. They were within a smaller chamber, the size of a living area, with two cushions to rest upon and one jug of water, which Bahadir felt a wonder at. It was rare to be granted such a privilege twice in a day. Closed around three sides, with one wall being carved with inlets and ridges to signify some ancient door, behind them were mere iron bars. It was not until one of the smaller slaves named Ibn-Amrik approached that they could get some answers. 

"If it is not the victors of impossible odds," He said in accented reikspeil, grinning with ivory and copper teeth. He was as scraggly in appearance as a starving dog, and as thin, but he seemed in a fine mood. "Bahadir, my friend! Why did you not tell me you have a woman as lithe and dangerous as a serpent?" 

"Why don't you tell me why we're in here, and not allowed to walk with what little freedom we are alloted, Amrik." Bahadir responded derisively. 

"Have you not heard? Certainly you did not miss the cries of your victory?" He asked, surprise in his wicked voice. "Everyone today could see it was your victory, not the other poor souls of this hell we call home! The crowd speaks of you two more than the Sultan and his nameday!" He cackled at that, a harsh laugh that ricocheted off the ancient stonework. "And you have names, besides! Bahadir they are calling the 'Bronze Tiger,' for your great strength and agility, and you, Corsair, they have named the 'Black Mamba,' a most dangerous serpent of the desert oasis."