Exhausted but exhilarated, dripping with sweat and blood, Ares raised his fists high and closed his eyes, basking in the flood of sound from the crowd. He had won, and kept his throne, and showed his flashy braggart of a brother what happened when someone invaded Ares' turf.
His name was being roared again. His dog barked and howled from the dais. His elites surged forward to lift him up and carry him high. Ares' position as leader and god had never been more strongly affirmed.
At some stage, someone lower down the ladder would be instructed to see to Apollo, get him onto a stretcher and carry him out to be dumped outside the nearest hospital. Let someone else tend to the vanquished.