Admittedly it had been a while since Apollo last had a really good fight - a couple of years seducing stars and wanna-be stars in LA and a decade before that devoted to being a lover didn't really keep him in peak performance (except sexually, which was where it usually mattered.)
Still, his muscle memory was older than this country.
Or, like, democracy.
He grabbed the first fist and twisted the man's arm behind his back so fast the man buckled to his knees, where Apollo's knee met his face. The second fared a little better, the two exchanging blows while the first man dragged himself to his feet. He might as well make this a decent warm up, Apollo thought, dancing around the men, constantly moving, but taking them down one at time all the same.
These were good men, Tragos thought. Good fighters. He'd seen them in the ring. He'd faced them in the ring. He'd never seen anyone - except Ares - take down any of them so quickly.
But fear was the mindkiller, so seconds later Tragos was in there too, using his own speed. He knew he was fast, her knew he hit hard, but hitting the guy felt like punching a wall. He saw Apollo's hand a fraction of a second behind it hit him perfectly in the solar plexus - he would have been impressed, if every bit of breath hadn't been painfully compressed out of him. That was a blow that could end a fight in a second, and it did. If you couldn't breathe, you couldn't fight, and Tragos most definitely couldn't breathe.
Tragos doubled over and Apollo winked at Marcie over the boy's back, then spun to face his next opponent.