"Hmm." He eyed the smaller man for a moment. Bloody was certainly easier to manage with knives, but a knife fight with an untrained opponent and without a shield or bracer was liable to be bloody on both sides. Someone who was just as likely to stab you unexpectedly because they didn't realize they ought to be blocking just then was a more significant challenge than most might realize. On the other hand...

Lesley's guardedly thoughtful expression suddenly blossomed into a broad smile. "Excellent. Let's have a knife fight then." He walked over to the cupboard indicated, though he was a good deal more alert than the casual-seeming decision to turn his back on the other seemed. He heard the quiet grunt of effort and spun, bringing his hand up just in time to catch the thrown jar on his forearm. The pottery cracked audibly, then shattered entirely as it hit the ground, splashing water all over the floor.

Nice. The gladiator laughed. He hadn't even heard the slave's footsteps as he'd moved to grab his improvised weapon. Clearly, at least one of his masters did not appreciate servants who announced their presence with heavy footfalls.

Lesley grabbed two knives at random, and tossed the smaller one to his opponent, letting it skid across the wet floor for half the distance. He didn't try to aim; doubtless Mihail would enjoy watching him scramble to get his hands on it before Lesley was on to him. The gladiator flicked his own knife hard enough that the scabbard flew off and skittered across the floor in the other direction, and headed over slowly enough that his unfortunate target had enough time to get himself properly armed and mostly sorted out. He wasn't going to take a weapon and leave the other man unarmed; that would be unsporting enough to be downright boring. Not that Lesley thought cutting someone up would be boring for him even if the person was completely helpless, but Mimi was clearly an appreciative audience, and Les did love putting on a show.

With both slaves barefoot, the wet floor wasn't as much a hazard as if they'd been depending on smooth leather soles for traction, but the scattered pottery shards were more of a concern than if they'd been shod. Lesley saw the moment when the one who was going to die realized that the only possible way to survive this was to impress Mihail enough that he wanted him kept around. That or sheer luck, but either way trying to run, or curling up and crying, were neither of them winning strategies. He actually lunged first, and the gladiator stepped out of the way and gave him a shallow cut on the shoulder in return. Let him think the need to dodge had stopped him from doing worse. The man yelped and backpedaled, making an aborted motion to grab at his shoulder before remembering he needed to focus on other things right now.

Lesley settled into a proper crouch, and demonstrated why, exactly, he so often referred to lethal fights as the killing dance. He moved smoothly, balanced and controlled, anticipating the other so well he seemed to be moving much slower, yet always ahead. If he was matched to another with equal skill - and equal showmanship - no doubt it would be spectacular. Where the house-slave slashed wildly and dodged by flinging his whole body backwards, transmitting his next move with eyes and shoulders alike clearly enough that likely even his owner could read it, Lesley simply stepped out of the way as if he'd been simply heading in that direction all along, his return strikes flashing out and back to guard position as quickly as a striking snake, unerringly finding blood. Sometimes just a nick, sometimes digging deep into muscle. Never a killing blow, never neck or groin or gut. When his opponent hesitated, Les tossed his knife from hand to hand, smirking. When he stumbled, Les added a solid kick that sent him sprawling, then stood casually tossing the knife end over end until he got himself sorted out and found the dropped knife again.

"Oh come on. I thought for sure you could at least mark me once." He grinned cheerfully at the bleeding man.

Whether he seized onto the faint hope Lesley's words meant the fight was just to settle that one bet, or whether the mocking tone made him determined to at least die with some honor, the house slave lunged to attack again, with no more skill but at least more enthusiasm than before. Lesley actually had to block as well as dodge, and concentration flickered across his eyes despite the smile never wavering.

That flurry of blows ended with Lesley's knife slicing cleanly through the tendons of his opponents wrist, resulting in the clatter of bronze on stone and a yell from the owner of said wrist that was a good deal higher pitched than the ones he'd so far let out. Lesley grunted, his eyes flashing feral, and his left fist shot out, hitting the unfortunate soul square in the throat. The slave's good hand instinctively rose to his throat as he struggled - and failed - to breathe through a collapsed windpipe, and the gladiator quickly grabbed him behind the neck and drove his knife into his gut, angling the blade up under the ribs and into the lungs. Then he dropped the twitching body without bothering to pull the blade back out, and turned back to Mimi.

He didn't bother looking down at the line of red flowing from his own side as he walked over to the bed. He'd meant to block, not hit the wrist, though he'd be damned if he'd admit it. It was a good trade, after all, and he'd done well enough at robbing any force from the slash and keeping it from going deep. He could tell by the feel of it he likely didn't even need stitches. Doubtless proper medical care would keep it from scarring as badly, but when had he ever cared about that?

"I'll take that drink now," he informed his patron for the night, and unabashedly took the goblet from Mimi's own hands. He'd already given his disclaimer about his lack of manners.