I couldn’t face Atia, not yet. So after some clerks from the Basilica pulled Cassius away, I busied myself around the militia, explored the back quarters, and the barracks with a surprisingly organized inventory and record-keeping. Every weapon and accessory was accounted for and named to an individual. Unfortunately, when Brutus’ loyalists had abandoned their post and followed their former captain, they had also taken with them their spears and sword-belts. Along with some pila, sandals, and even combat dummies. I imagined they fancied themselves rogue heroes, freedom fighters or some such. I would have to deal with them soon once I bolstered our numbers again. I wondered where they could have gone.

  Diram suggested their natural rally point would be under Cataline, but I wasn’t so sure. Brutus had been a leashed dog under Cato, and a rabid one at that. Once released, I doubt he’d go looking for another leash.

  And if the brute managed to win his next ranked match, then he’d have the coin he’d need to become a big, very real, problem. Oh mitte, this is what I get for being bold.

  Diram retired for the night to his little corner in the fighting grounds, to a sleeping mat made of straw and old linen. He had a little stool with a reflective metal plate propped up near it. I pictured him getting up early in the morning and looking at his blurry reflection, trying to shave himself as neatly as possible while militia men strode about. No privacy for the poor man.

  “On the second floor, I imagine there is a room Brutus used for himself?” I asked the slave-clerk as he prepared his bed.

  “Yes, Master,” he replied, “I can have it ready for you tomorrow.”

  “It’s yours now,” I said, “go lay claim tonight. If anyone asks, tell them I ordered it.”

  Diram was speechless, then he finally found some words that dripped of gratitude, “Master, I… I don’t know what to say.”

  “Please,” I said quickly, “don’t thank me for something that I ought to do. It’ll ruin me.”

  Diram nodded, and began rolling up his bed. I looked around the darkened yard, anxiously trying to find something else to do and think about. Most of the militia had dropped off their arms, and the night patrol had taken theirs. There was nothing else left for me to do but call it a day and finally face Atia.

  After days of silence, she’d sent a courier inviting me to dinner tonight. I’d hoped for an ambush, a knife in the dark, maybe even Flamma coming personally to beat the shit out of me again. With Hurek gone, I was doubly exposed and vulnerable.

  I knew Atia wouldn’t take kindly to my bold moves, especially using her uncle’s help without her knowing. She would try to teach me a lesson somehow. I don’t think I’d ever dreaded a dinner invitation as much as this one.

  As the moon lit the dirt around me, I sighed and trudged back to the front office, past the iron cage and broken furniture, and with a tight jaw, stepped out into the Forum.

  I was greeted by an eerie, misty market square. It was empty save for some figures carrying oil lamps and lighting new ones. One such man stepped near with a lit match in his hand, and reached for the lamp by the militia entrance.

  “Master Cicero,” he greeted amiably. With a casual grace, he flicked open the bronze lid and poured a bottle of olive oil, then lit the wick at the top until it carried its own flame. Satisfied, he hung the lamp back on the wall. “I apologize for the state of the office today. Brutus–

  “Forget Brutus,” I cut him off. “Who are you?”

  “Pulcher,” he replied, “guard commander.”

  I peaked at his sword-belt and as expected, he carried a tessera; a wooden tablet that marked the day’s watchword, which was a secret key that only guards and officials would know. Any other armed individual found wandering in the streets would be required to produce the key and if found wanting, would be put to the sword immediately. How refreshing to see a border town militia following a strict Roman tradition. It was bittersweet, though, knowing how I felt about the empire now and yet being a little homesick nonetheless.

  “Let me help you with that,” I said, and reached for the second lamp on the other side of the door. Seeing Pulcher’s face a little more clearly revealed a short red beard on a ruggedly handsome face. He wore his uniform a little loose–a lanky mail vest over a partially unbuttoned padded shirt. He carried a round shield with a metal boss for bashing unruly civilians. Since it was night, he carried a gladius and other shorter blades all over his person.

  I managed to unhook the lamp from its stand and followed Pulcher’s method–first pouring the olive oil inside, shaking it a bit to let the linen wick absorb fully, and then lit the part of the wick that stuck out of the lamp’s lip. I recalled the eastern folk tales of jinns granting wishes from strange looking lamps. I then wondered what Palmyrene gods thought of me. If I prayed to them, would they curse me for defying their High Priestess?

  “You have to lower the wick,” Pulcher said as he reached over to take the lamp from me. He licked his fingers and pinched the flame, gently pushing the wick lower into the lamp. The flame shrunk a size or two, casting a dim light but not enough to walk around with. “It will last longer through the night,” Pulcher explained.

  “Thank you,” I said, “I best be on my way then. Good evening.”

  “Wait, Master Cicero,” Pulcher said, “I have a request. There is a good man who left the militia not long ago, a veteran, and a strong leader. If you could enlist him again, that would be much appreciated.”

  “If he left to follow Brutus, then…”

  “No,” Pulcher said quickly, “Very, very much opposite, Master. He left because of Brutus.”

  I mulled over the request. It made sense to gather allies that were against the former centurion. But as my current situation stood, I was dead broke and any coin I saved from the abandoned salaries of the deserters, I intended to buy slave-soldiers with. And if I hired a senior captain, I would have to pay him double too.

  “I’ll hear from him,” I said, “but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank you,” Pulcher said, and he bowed as if I was some eastern royalty. It was little gestures like that which reminded me I was still far away from Rome. “I will send him your way.”

  I nodded. “Good evening, optio.”

  ***

  Captain Yaresh was at the palace gate with his partner, a sour-faced youth called Murmillo. They eyed me down, a small smile playing on the spear captain’s face. I’d allowed myself to think the noble youth had warmed up to me by now, but the temple spearmen weren’t beholden to anyone but their Maazin fathers and their High Priestess. I’d have to watch my back no matter how close we became.

  “Evening, Yaresh,” I said.

  “Hello, Master,” he replied. “The Lady is expecting you for dinner.”

  “I hope she didn’t start without me,” I said cheerfully.

  My smile vanished quickly as I stepped into the foyer, where I was thankfully alone. I exchanged my sandals for indoor linen slippers, and silently prepared myself for the confrontation. Excuses and explanations buzzed around my head, mixing into each other until I was muttering nonsense under my breath. “Grant me strength, Jupiter,” I whispered. “It all helps, doesn’t it? Having an attendant who is also a city master could only further her influence. I could do favors for her, for the temple. Already I was granting them more influence over the tournament ceremonies and all those votive collections… Her uncle endorsed me, too! So what could she be so mad about?

  The atrium curtains were drawn, made up of light shawls of many colours that waved gently from the breeze coming in from the skylight. As the cloth blew, I caught sight of Atia sitting motionless on the other side, across a small dinner table prepared in the center of the receiving hall. I was quite sure that she saw me standing at the entrance, and our eyes must have met between the flutter of the curtains. She said nothing.

  I took a deep breath and marched through as if I was coming in from a long and arduous journey. “My, what a day,” I said, brushing my toga and loosening it up. I kept a watch on Atia out of the corner of my eye–she was still–but I dared not look directly at her and find the anger I was expecting. What was it about her that always set me on edge? She was young enough to be my daughter, for Jupiter’s sake.

  “Good evening, priest,” Atia said softly.

  I finally met her eyes, and they were… happy? Her smile reached her cheeks, creating lines around her long lashes. And her ears–No, focus!

  “Don’t be so confused,” Atia continued, “I hear that’s what Hurek calls you sometimes.”

  “Aye, he has a penchant for strange cognomen,” I said, then averted my eyes, and instead made myself busy with my plate. I’d been served a thick slice of steak dripping in blood, some vegetables and a loaf of Palmyrene flatbread.

  “A little raw,” I remarked, nodding to the meat.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “My uncle’s beef,” Atia said, “he sent it this morning.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, and cut into the meat, carving out smaller cubes. “You’re not eating?”

  “Already did,” Atia replied.

  The clink of my utensils and plate, metal on wood, filled the silence between us. I could feel her watching me, and this time I returned her smile. Surprisingly, I didn’t notice any malice in those eyes. Atia sighed, her slender fingers playing with the grapes on her plate. She still wore her priestess chiton, but her hair wasn’t braided, and instead fell around her shoulders in dark waves similar to the day we’d first met. She had a gold band around her neck with beads that hung past her collarbone.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  “Oh, as it usually is,” Atia said, “Once you delegate your duties, the day is what you make of it. And today I didn’t feel like doing anything.”

  “You have nightly rituals with your sisters, do you not?” I asked the question casually enough, not trying to appear nosy about the more secretive events that happened at the temple after sunset. “Or some lounging by the nymph pond?”

  Atia shrugged. “I think I’ll stay in tonight,” she said, still twiddling her fruit.

  “Don’t play with your food, now,” I let slip while taking another bite. The realization of how I’d just spoken to her hit me a moment later. I froze mid-chew and glanced up.

  To my relief, Atia was smiling. She made a show of taking the lone grape between her fingers, placing it between her teeth, and then sucking it in after shooting me an expression that said, happy?

  I blinked and looked away, noticing the fire pit had been recently used, and the faint odor of cooling ash being carried in the breeze, and the furniture which had been arranged closer together as if there had been a meeting between a small group of people, maybe even just two. Who had Atia been meeting with?

  “I suppose you know what I’ve been assigned to,” I began carefully, setting down my fork. I knew I had to address my new office sooner or later. It was clear that Atia meant to torment me in silence, where I was forced to toss and turn at night wondering if she was angry or not. No, I would have to rip the bandage off and get it over with.

  “Do you remember our wager?” Atia said softly. I blinked at the question, not sure what she was getting at. Had I been tricked into something somehow?

  “What wager?”

  “I don’t blame you for forgetting,” Atia said as she poured herself another cup of wine. She offered to fill mine but I waved her off. I was barely holding my wits together from Cassius’ company. The wine from earlier still made my legs weak but fortunately I could hold a conversation–the main danger being my loose tongue which I kept busy with a mouthful of bread.

  “It was during one of the earlier fights in the last bracket,” Atia continued. “You believed that the larger man was going to win, the more armoured one, do you remember?”

  The memory whipped into focus: I’d been trying to get to Tiridates and had been doing my best to keep Atia entertained. The armored fighter… I couldn’t recall his name but I did remember he’d been undone by a spike on the top of his helmet which his Bedouin opponent had used against him.

  “He’s the one that got his head stuck in the net, right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Atia replied.

  I nodded. Why is she bringing this up now?

  “You promised to tell me more about your late wife,” Atia said.

  I could feel the silence now that I was no longer eating. The sound of crickets drifted in from the outside and I stared up at the moon through the open skylight. “I see,” I replied. “What do you want to know?”

  My eyes flicked to the shadows in the corners of the hall, but they were either vases on tall platforms, or the shifting curtains. Atia took a sip of her wine and continued, “How did she die?”

  “Stab wounds,” I said bluntly.

  “Come now,” Atia said, “You can be more open with me.”

  I sighed. “She’d been accosted in the evening on her way back from the agora. As she struggled, they killed her. She bled to death on those cobblestones praying to Minerva from what they told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Atia said, and she seemed to genuinely mean it–a new look on her.

  “Well, I try not to–

  “What was life with her like?”

  “Sorry?” I said, not sure where the intrusive question was coming from.

  “Your daily life with her, what was it like?” Atia repeated.

  “Simpler, I suppose,” I replied. It was the only way I could describe it now, compared to everything I’d been through. “She was content, or so I believed. I was… less so.”

  “Did you have dinner like this?” Atia said, leaning in.

  “Yes,” I said, “When she could force me out of my library, or if I returned home on time.” I chuckled at my wife’s voice now ringing in my head, recalling the way she’d quickly knock on my door crying ‘dinner for the bookworm!’, and then rushing away before I could respond.

  “What did you do in the mornings?” Atia asked, and this time I didn’t question her motives, my mind already watching the sun beaming through our bedroom rafters and my wife walking around in her white undergarments, slowly slipping them off and choosing the outfit for the day. I’d dose off a bit more, until the servants would come bustling in with their chores at my wife’s behest. Then, I’d have no choice but to wash my face in the bowl and get ready for breakfast with her. Lepidus would join us, and mother and son would talk endlessly about sweet, mundane things while I worried over work in my head.

  “I wish I’d paid more attention,” I said softly, “but they were quiet mornings, mostly. A small breakfast, a prayer or two for Minerva, and then she’d tell me to walk Lepidus to his tutor.”

  “Lepidus was your son?” Atia said.

  My son’s name on her lips snapped me out of my reverie like a cold knife at my throat. It wasn’t lost on me that she used past tense when referring to Lepidus, possibly giving away her knowledge of Suetonius' ploy to get my boy as far away from me as possible to lure me to Palmyra in the first place. What was the point of it all? Just to lure a failed, mourning writer to join her retinue? She’d wanted an outsider, a Roman trophy, a loyal dog who would have no other recourse but to be her pet and glorified secretary.

  The steak had left an iron taste in my mouth, and its blood felt like another invasion from Atia as well. I took the wine jug and poured myself a few sips to clear the taste from my mouth.

  “Did I say something?” Atia said as she watched me gulp down the liquid, rinse my mouth and spit on the plate.

  “Not at all,” I replied, “I best turn in for the night. Busy days.”

  Atia regarded me softly, and I had to keep repeating to myself that she was a killer, a murderer, someone without reproach, so when she finally spoke, her voice sounded gross to my ears. “I wish I could have enjoyed a simple life like yours, perhaps here with you, someday,” she said.

  “I’m afraid Flamma has grown tired of my presence here,” I said, “And you’ve certainly encouraged his vitriol.”

  Atia smiled sadly, but it only appeared condescending to me. “Good night, Cicero,” she said, signaling my dismissal.

  I nodded and left without another word, my heart beating out of my chest as I brushed past the curtains. My heartbeat was either due to anger or getting up too quickly. What was not the cause, I was certain, was fear. I don’t think I was scared of her anymore.

  Glancing back into the atrium, though, I caught sight of her suddenly standing in front of the firepit, hands at her side, looking towards me with a blank expression.

  ***

  The heavy doors of my room shut with a heavy thud and blew some dust around as they did so. The maids didn’t come to my room to clean that often. I discouraged it. The fewer people rummaging around behind my back, the better. With house servants, you either had to trust them with your life or not at all.

  The guest room felt lived in now. Almost as comforting as my room back home. I enjoyed a room with scrolls stuck to the walls, books littered about on the floor, utensils and ink bottles also in danger of being kicked over… It all would seem chaotic to a stranger, but to me, it meant I could pick up my thoughts exactly where I’d left them. Though I kept my fighter journal and more confidential pieces in my trunk.

  “Oh Minerva, help me,” I whispered to the goddess of wisdom as I unwrapped my toga and threw it over my head.

  But the familiar sound of it falling to the marbled floor never came. Instead, I heard a muffled gasp, and then a tussle. A man struggled with my discarded toga, cursing under his breath until finally he managed to throw it off and Bizi’s panic stricken eyes landed on me. He was barefoot, wearing only a blood-stained, leather apron with nothing underneath.

  Words… What words do I need? I racked my brain for the right thing to say in this odd ambush by Atia’s wine steward, and it wasn’t till I saw the naked blade in the boy’s hands that my fight or flight instincts finally hit, and by Baal the Sky God, did I take flight.

  I threw myself on the large bed, arms flailing to reach the other side. Bizi followed me. His hands brushed against my feet as I scurried away. My back slammed into the hard floor, and with surprisingly dexterity, I rolled on, climbed to my feet, and grabbed the first thing I could reach: my chamber pot.

  Bizi stood up on the bed, his face contorted with determination and a coldness I did not expect. He’d done this before. He stepped forward slowly, hands up as if trying to calm a wild horse, but the knife in his hands did little to ease my heart. “Please, Master Cicero, don’t make this difficult,” he said, with the same respectful tone he’d spoken with me before. “This is not personal so I’ll make it quick,” he said, eyeing the metal pot in my hands.

  “Atia sent you,” I whispered.

  “I know this is–

  I thrust the pot in Bizi’s face as soon as he came within range, and his head whipped back, eyes scrunched in reflex, and mouth wide open as I doused him in two days old piss. The urine splashed down his neck and over his body under the apron.

  He gurgled as he tried to speak. “Oh god, oh god,” he cried. “Is that piss?”

  Just as he tried to wipe his eyes with the back of his hands, I lunged with the metal pot again, this time smacking him over the head. My battle cry accompanied the sickening crack as his skull split under my blow and he went limp immediately. The bed caught his fall, but I knew it was over. Bizi lay still with his eyes wide open.

  With blood still pounding in my ears, I scurried to lock the door, sending praises to Mars, Jupiter, Baal, anyone who would be awake at this time to catch my prayers. The thrill coursing in my veins also helped me think clearly. This was Atia’s doing, and if that was true, then I was still not safe.

  And less than a few seconds after I’d struck the iron deadbolt across the door, heavy knocks came through. “Master Cicero?” called Captain Yaresh, “are you alright?”

  I needed to run. But where?

  The knob turned, the iron-bar rattling as several men pushed on the other side. It happened once, twice, then there was a harried discussion as Yaresh gave his orders. I heard the words ‘around’ and ‘window’.

  They would find their way inside through the window, but not before I climbed out. Without any thought to take anything but Bizi’s fallen knife, I threw open the shutters to the cool, quiet yard bathed in moonlight. No one below, I thought, glancing down. Not yet.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I cursed as my foot dangled over the edge, trying to find some footing. As soon as I caught the ledge, I threw over the rest of my body and launched myself into the bushes.

  The flat hedges caught my fall, but it felt like being stabbed by a hundred tiny needles as my body crushed the foliage. Knife!

  I’d lost the weapon in the fall and I scoured helplessly through the dirt for the hilt to no avail. I finally broke out of the hedge, bruised, cut, weaponless, and with knees that were shooting pain through my body. But they still worked, for I sprinted across the empty yard towards the gate with the stamina of a younger man.

  “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs for any militaman nearby. “Help! I’m being assassinated!”