A clenched fist struck him right in the jaw, right at the edge of his well-groomed mutton chops, and the spot blossomed in pain. He didn’t keep his guard up and paid for it dearly. The crowd that surrounded the makeshift ring roared. He staggered back at the sheer force of the blow, his eyes losing and regaining focus. The rage welled up inside him, and he put up his dukes, and the two opponents circled one another. A few hits were exchanged by the men, and the bell rang, signaling the end of the round.

Each man went to his own corner, attended by a second and a bottle-holder. The man with the mutton chops sat, chest heaving, sweating heavily. “Max, what are you doing out there?! You left yourself wide open there!” said the second with a thick Irish brogue as he dabbed the fighter’s forehead with a sponge. Max’s ‘colors,’ a green handkerchief, waved in the breeze attached to the post behind him. If his adversary won, he’d get the piece of cloth as a trophy, which only further fueled his fury. Max was angry with himself and wanted to just skip the break between rounds and go throttle the other gentleman.

Maximus “Roman” Bettencourt was the bastard son of a Frenchman and his Irish mother. She gave him his red hair and a life of struggle, despite such a rich and glorious name. He had grown up in rural Ireland, but his mother moved him and his six younger brothers and sisters to London to live with family after the potato blight had ravaged yet another family crop. He worked in a mill until he was sixteen and joined the army, a messenger in the Crimean War. Once the war had ended, he went back to the hardscrabble life of Victorian working class.

He was a short nineteen-year-old man with broad shoulders and an athletic build from years of hard labor. His fiery red hair was cropped short, his dark green eyes piercing deeply into the heart of his opponent. He wore patched pants, his hairless chest exposed. He was given the nickname “Roman” for his audacious first name. The other men would make fun of him for it. His mother had intended to give him a name that would help him to rise up out of poverty, and now it only served to mock his continued destitution. He took a sip of water from his bottle-holder and wiped the sweat that clung to his red facial hair. He was suddenly reminded of his aching jaw.

Sitting across from him, a look of smug satisfaction crept over the gentleman’s mustachioed face. Brixton Jones was twenty-seven and came from wealth and boxed for the thrill of it all. He had grown bored of the sport of fox hunting, tired of fencing, so he would venture into the slums and take on fighters for sport. His hair was oiled, his handlebar mustache waxed and curled almost sinisterly. His chest was lightly covered with a sheen of sweat that glistened between curly, dark chest hairs, his legs clad in fine linen pants, leather shoes adorning his feet.

The bell sounded, and green eyes darted to meet steel grey. The two men stood again and approached one another, and Max’s fists flew, the lines on his face riddled with wrath. Max was about half a foot shorter than Brixton, making it more difficult to land the critical head blows. Max’s hand connected with Brixton’s chest plate in a sickening thud. Brixton staggered backwards, breathless. Max seized his opportunity and gave the gentleman another right hook to the chest. As he moved for a third, Brixton blocked his jab. The two circled as the crowd cheered and urged the men on.

There were a few men in nice jackets and polished leather shoes, but the crowd was generally lower-class men who reeked of cheap whiskey and sweat from a hard day’s labour. They took their meager earnings and tried to multiply them with a gamble. There was a lot of money riding on these fights, and it was constantly changing hands. Some bet on the final outcomes as judged by the referees. Odds were created by the bookmakers, and official wagers were paid out at the end of the fight, the two fighters getting only a pittance for their participation. But that didn’t stop men in the crowds from betting with one another. Some bet on how long the fight would last, how many rounds the opponents would last. Others bet on who would cause ‘first blood.’

The three minutes of the fourth round went by quickly, and soon the men were glowering at one another from opposite corners again. Max was so irate he couldn’t even sit for the full minute of the break. He wanted to get back. He wanted his sore knuckles to connect with the rich man’s flesh again. He wanted to strike him. He wanted to make him hurt. His head wasn’t in it as the bell chimed, and they met each other in the middle of the ring.

Max moved to make a left jab at his opponent and left himself open to a counter-punch. Brixton exploited the weakness and landed a straight hit right to Max’s mouth, splitting his lip wide open. The crowd went wild as Max spat the blood onto the bare ground beneath them. Money was exchanged among the fight-goers. Max flew into a rage at the sight of his own blood and hit the gentleman with a flurry of punches to his chest and stomach. Brixton stumbled at the force behind the blows. He spun away from the Irishman and stepped backwards, his hands up to protect himself. Max stalked forward, intent on making the gentleman suffer.

Brixton saw the look in the younger man’s face and knew his intentions. He looked like a ginger alley cat ready to pounce. He had wondered for a moment if he had gotten in too deep this time. If he would end up bruised and broken, carried off by his second and bottle-holder. He knew the only way to save himself was to give it his all. In one swift movement, the two men were mere inches away from each other, and the punches fell like rain. The crowd watched as they beat one another mercilessly. Max struck Brixton in the chest, and Brixton got another punch in the jaw. The outcome was uncertain.

Brixton looked for a way out and saw his opportunity. Max took a jab at Brixton’s jaw and landed solidly on the steely bone there. As he went to cross with his right fist, he left himself open. Brixton gave him a devastating upper-cut to the gut that sent him reeling. The force of it caused the Irishman to fall to his hands and knees and vomit. The rich man took a few steps back and caught his breath, keeping his fists up in defense. Max groaned and wiped his bloody mouth on the back of his hand and wearily got to his feet as the referee approached.

The referee was ready to call the fight, but Max wasn’t ready to concede defeat. He stood, sore, bloody, and bruised. Brixton hesitated. He knew that ‘Roman’ was done. He knew the young man wouldn’t be able to take another punch. Yet he hesitated out of compassion for the redhead. He had lasted five rounds in the ring with a man who had professional boxing training. The boy from Ireland living in the East End of London had fought for everything he had ever had, and now he stood, defiant yet defeated.