The slap of my bare feet on muddy water echoed down the dark, empty streets of Palmyra. I charged down the temple road, the one which ran past the lesser temple of belshamin, and would eventually get me into the Forum. Maybe Pulcher was still there, or some other militiaman to help protect me. I could–

  “Master Cicero!” Captain Yaresh cried, “Please come back, you’re safe!”

  Several shadows followed me at a distance led by one I recognized as Atia’s spear-captain. He waved his hands and tried to appear non-threatening, but the bare shortsword in his partner’s hand told a different story.

  I could lose them if I tried, but they would no doubt expect me to run to the militia house. And the lone footman I managed to find would be no match for these thugs. Where else could I possibly go, though?

  I came to a corner with several alleyways breaking off, one towards the colonnade. There might be a crowd there I could seek help from. But come morning, the whole city would be laughing at the city master who ran naked through the streets at night like a lunatic. No, I won’t begin my career like this.

  And so, like a respectable official still clinging to his pride, I hobbled half-naked into the nearest alley that was out of the moonlight. There were some iron-banded barrels collected by the walls and I crouched down among them, peeking out just enough to catch my stalkers passing by. Once they passed, I would then have to move on towards… where exactly?

  I knew the governor’s palace was not a place to call home, and it definitely never felt like home by itself. It was Hurek, wasn’t it? He’s the one that felt like home. Like family.

  But I couldn’t go to him, either. That would only drag him into this mess, and I was sure the young man would try to defend me and get himself punished for it. But if not the palace, and not with Hurek, then where did I actually belong? No matter how hard I tried, my life had led me to this: hiding in an alley like a stray dog, with mud climbing up my arse.

  “Shop’s closed, laddie,” came a gruff voice and I whipped my head around to catch the source.

  “Who goes there?” I hissed.

  “By Ninkasi, a funny lookin’ boy, ain’t ye?” said a blonde haired man, sitting inside one of the barrels. He had his arms out hanging from the sides, and his head lolled around in a drunken stupor.

  “Mops?” I said, the name coming to me quickly. He was the barbarian, probably a Gaul, who’d shown up after the first bracket with news of Bestarii’s death. How or why he’d come to Palmyra was anyone’s guess, but he’d been peddling his rancid beer to anyone who’d give him a second look. “I’m Marcus Titus Cicero,” I hissed, “Chief Magister of Palmyra, and I am in need of your assistance.”

  Mops squinted, leaning in to get a closer look. “Poor boy, what happened to your hair?” he replied, then let out a long burp that echoed down the alley. His barrel teetered for a second, and every muscle in my body tensed at the noise.

  “Stop, you need to sneak me out of here,” I said, but before I could get him into his senses, he finally toppled over, landing in the dirt with a heavy crash that cracked open his barrel.

  The barbarian slid out, groaning, and as I tried to steady him the thugs rounded the corner to my abysmal state of affairs: hunched over in the dirt, tattered and muddy, and helping a drunk slide out of his… home?

  “Master Cicero?” Captain Yaresh said, pausing to study the curious sight before stepping into the alley. “I’m to take you back safely.”

  “Sons of Dis!” I cried, and tried to make a run for it. But the barbarian caught my wrist and pulled me back.

  “Where you going, boy! I can help,” Mops said, still a bit unsteady on his feet. But he had a tall, lean and muscled frame, along with a noticeable beer belly that stuck out of his undersized tunic.

  “Let go of me, heathen,” I said, trying to pull away but his grasp was nearly as vicelike as Hurek’s. “Can’t you see, they are trying to kill me.”

  Mops looked between me and Atia’s thugs, then back at me again. “You steal from them?”

  “No, they are assassins.”

  “Alright,” Yaresh said, finally coming to get me wearing a frustrated frown. “That’s enough. You’re coming with me.”

  Mops held out his arm to block the man, then when the patrician boy tried to push it away, the barbarian flung his head forward, slamming it into Yaresh’s nose. The audible crack jolted the others to action, while Yaresh crumpled to the ground beside me. Oh dear.

  I thought the others would crowd the barbarian, hack him to bits with their shortswords, and maybe it would give me the crucial seconds to get ahead and lose them for good. I was not prepared, however, for the image of one of the thugs with a blade going through his face. The spearman fell like a rag doll, his head and limbs at odd angles. I blinked, and the barbarian was on to the next two men before I could fully wrap my head around what was happening.

  Mops still looked drunk, and he moved in and out of the attacks half stumbling, until he caught an arm and pulled it toward him, forcing the enemy off-balance. He took that moment to counter the other man’s thrust–a fist straight to the chin, and the man dropped.

  The remaining footman regained his feet but took one glance at his fallen brothers, and sprinted off before Mops could get to him. I didn't think the barbarian was going to give chase, for he was finally still, standing hunched over his main kill; the man with the sword in his face. He studied the dead body quietly, and I couldn’t make out his expression. Captain Yaresh was holding his face and whimpering just a few feet from where I stood.

  “Uh, Mops?” I muttered.

  The man didn’t acknowledge me. He stared at the mess he’d made as if he was entranced, his mind somewhere else far away. And so I backed away, slowly.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, then finally turned to put as much distance between me and the crime scene as I could. The escape led me through the Forum eventually, but I couldn’t step out of the shadows and reveal myself to the militiaman who was lounging by the militia house entrance. Whether it was Pulcher or someone else, I couldn’t tell. And it probably didn’t matter, because news would spread of me running through the night at the exact time that Atia’s spearmen were attacked so ruthlessly.

  The temple spear guard consisted of brothers of Priestesses and sons of prominent Maazin councilmen. There would be an inquiry, and my name would be dragged through the mud for weeks. No, I rather only my body get dragged through the mud tonight.

  Besides, I couldn’t bring myself to call the militia house my home. It was a sign of power, sure, and there was no denying a magister who wanted to live near his office, but it wasn’t really a home. I’d slept in a building without a family before, and it just wasn’t right for a man of my age. It felt like my life had amounted to nothing if I could barely surround myself with people who genuinely cared for me.

  I kept to lesser alleyways and continued north, towards the slums. There was only one person in Palmyra who would open her door to me without question and keep it secret. Ollia’s home was the last place anyone would think to look for a city official.

  ***

  The slums were awake during the night. It was as if the laborers could finally relax without the judgemental stares of freemen and citizens. They had fires going out in front of their tents, their children still running around being chased by mothers who’d been trying to put them to sleep. Tired men with alcohol huddled together over a dice table, and I passed several brothels with either Bedouin thugs or Chief Abed’s men keeping guard. I stayed away from sites like that.

  Most ignored the sight of a half-undressed old man trudging through the neighborhood. The few who did look my way would not think to have laid eyes on the city’s new magister and former royal biographer. I was no one. And it actually felt a little freeing.

  I did come upon a militiaman wearing the MIlitian Vigils ‘slave-catcher’ uniform with a torch and axe–clearly a deserter from my current ranks but somehow still on patrol. On whose authority?

  My blood boiled, knowing Brutus was still out there with his loyal minions trying to keep some semblance of influence and authority. The Vigils had guarded the city gates and exits during the night, acting as sentries for intruders as well as slaves trying to leave the city without permission. They were off the city payroll now so why were they still rallying around Brutus? How deep was their loyalty?

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I realized my glare would invite attention from the footman so I looked away, slipping behind some other men who were in an angry argument in Aramaic. They didn’t mind me hiding behind them for a few seconds until the Vigil passed by.

  A beggar reached out and brushed my elbow. “Alms?” he asked.

  “Arms?” I replied, looking down at where he’d touched me.

  The beggar frowned, “No, alms.”

  “What about my arms?” I said, momentarily thrown off by the strange question.

  “Alms, you fool!”

  “Unhand me, beggar,” I cried as the bastard gripped the collar of my tunic and we fell into a messy tussle. I managed to slip my hands underneath his scraggly beard and shook his neck until he croaked. “Today is not the day!” I yelled.

  Strong hands pulled us apart before I could let out all my pent up rage on the vermin, and I was dragged away long enough to have me worried that I was being taken somewhere. “Master Cicero?” a voice asked.

  Now that I was out of the firelight and inside a barn-like structure, I had to squint to make out the two faces in front of me. Septimus? The late Nokchi elder was my first thought as I studied the tall man in front of me, but then I realized that I was looking at the youngest Nokchi brother, Gaius, or ‘Gayev’ as Ollia called him. He had the angular face of Septimus, complete with the furrowed brow that carried all the anger and resentment, but the rest of his features were youthful, almost boyish.

  His friend I recognized from the gymnasium a few days earlier, Marcellus. I hadn’t spoken with him yet, but from what I understood he was a citizen and a good friend of the Merkov’s–which he would have to be to risk his reputation by hanging out with a bunch of slaves. But from my visit to the gymnasium, it was filled with boys from all walks of life and they would have fostered any kind of relationship. If there was one legacy that Baku had left behind besides Hurek, it was in building a space for lost and troubled boys, especially slave-children who had nowhere else to go while their parents and elder siblings labored away.

  “I swear, is this real?” Gaius said, “Are you actually Master Cicero? The palace biographer? Rolling around the dirt with beggars this late?”

  Marcellus scratched his head, possibly questioning Gaius' eyesight too. “He’s probably just a doppelganger. Everyone has one.”

  “Yes,” I finally said, trying to stand with as much integrity as possible. “I mean no, I’m not an imposter. I’ve just had a rough night, Gayev.”

  “It’s Gaius,” the young man replied, arms crossed. I could tell his name was a soft spot for him, so I corrected myself.

  “Gaius,” I replied. Though I was sure Ollia had called him Gayev.

  “What happened? Did they kick you out of the palace?” Gaius asked.

  I quickly went through the multiple explanations I could give him, as the truth could make things complicated with the four tribes and my new political office. I went over the repercussions if it were to get out that Atia had tried to kill the newly appointed chief magister and city master. But standing there, body aching, smelling nothing but sweat and pig shit for some reason–though I saw no pigs–my mind shut down quickly in a wave of exhaustion. I sighed and let it all out, the strange dinner with Atia, the assassin waiting in my bedroom, the temple thugs who chased me down the streets and into the slums. I carefully left out the part about the temple boys getting their behinds skewered by the barbarian, one of them definitely dead. The news would break out in the morning, anyways, and I would then decide how I approached the matter.

  “And now, I have nowhere to sleep,” I finished.

  Marcellus was the first to reply, “I can’t believe it, that’s terrible. You can stay at my place, Master.”

  “I was actually trying to find Ollia’s place,” I said, looking earnestly at Gaius, feeling oddly vulnerable in front of the youth. To make it worse, he shrugged, clearly not happy with the request.

  “If she’ll have me,” I added, “only for the night. I’ll get my affairs in order first thing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I’ll take you,” Gaius replied shortly.

  We left the barn, back into the street where my eyes scanned for the vile beggar who’d attacked me. Marcellus saw my concern and chuckled, “Don’t worry, Master,” he said, “we’ll protect you.”

  “They’re out to get me, Baal as my witness,” I said, “that’s the second beggar today that’s accosted me.”

  “It looked like you started it,” Gaius said.

  “I hope there’s space, I really hate to impose,” I said.

  Gaius gave me a side glance and said, “there isn’t. We only have the one tent.”

  “Tent?” I replied. “I thought Jirikoy had bought one of the shacks by the spring.”

  “Jiri is not here now, is he?” Gaius said.

  The Nokchi moved on, his long strides becoming a challenge to keep up with. Luckily, Marcellus kept to my side protectively, shoving away anyone that stepped in too close. His presence also kept any curious eyes from lingering on us too long. Or was it Gaius? The tall man walked with an assurance that people would get out of his way, and they did. Some who bumped into him tried to speak up but as soon as they seemed to recognize him, they skulked away. He had a reputation in the streets it seemed. A man like this had enemies, though, and it didn’t take me long to spot them.

  Chief Abed’s patrols, the more outfitted Arab footmen with straight swords and shields, squared up as they saw Gaius and Marcellus march on by. Some rested their hands on the hilt of their weapons, their conversations or boredom replaced by a hawkish glare. Curious.

  ***

  We went deeper north into the slums, until the tower of Chief Abed’s caravanserai was visible among the ancient broken walls of old Palmyra. The northern part of the city was largely exposed to the patchy grazing grounds and open plains, with many breaches that Bedouins often used to infiltrate the city. Abed had kept a sensitive alliance with the Bedouin nomad clans wandering the region, but with recent riots, it seemed that alliance had become strained if not entirely broken.

  Still, I imagined his caravanserai residence–which was flatter but longer than the palace itself–could host multiple caravans worth of guests and merchant families. With the increase in tourists from the tournament, I knew his brothels and inns around northern palmyra must be doing exceptionally well. He’d lost some prestige from the Ibn Ghassan loss, and possibly his relationship with the Bedouins outside the city, but he might still be the most financially secure noble in the city. While other tribes had old money and assets, like the Maazin with their Temples, the Persian Gaddabol with their land and estates, and even the Mattabol with their Roman network and businesses, the Komare under Chief Abed had a chokehold on any trade, tourists and caravans that were the lifeblood of daily mercantile in Palmyra. Not to mention that Komare seemed to control most of the slums, where oversight and law were the least present.

  We soon came to a circular yard with an old fountain in the middle that had been repurposed as a washing bowl for laundry. It sprouted a weak spring that was also used as drinking water. Many young boys were lined up with their buckets, on nightly errands for water when they should have been sleeping.

  Gaius led me to a wide, patchy tent with goat hair woven at the top like a Bedouin’s hut. Though it was clearly not as finely crafted or well-kept as the ones I’d seen out in the countryside. It was a second-hand shelter that current owners did not have the knowledge to maintain.

  “What happened?” I asked Gaius, but he ignored me and gestured for me to wait outside while he went in to check on Ollia. Thankfully, Marcellus was still there to keep me company and answer my questions–which weren’t too far off from what I’d feared. With Jiri dead, Ollia was the only freed person in the family that could take home pay as a laundry maid. But with her pregnancy, she’d been unable to work and they could no longer afford rent for the shack. Abed’s men had moved the entire family to a tent available in the slave grounds.

  Lucius, Gaius, Hurek, and even Lucius’ wife–four adults that could have been working and making a living for their family, only to spend their day laboring for the benefit of the Maazin tribe. No, this needs to end, I thought. Sooner or later, I’ll make this end.

  “Master Cicero!” Ollia called from inside. I was hit by a wave of fresh spices and lentil stew, the steamy air coating my face as soon as I entered. Before I could adjust my eyes, a skinny body and limbs crashed into me. “Cicero!” Merula cried as she wrapped her arms around me.

  She looked different, healthier, and the fact she’d spoken my name for the first time wasn’t lost on me. “Hello, dear, I’m sorry I’m a mess right now.”

  “Look,” Merula replied, and brought my attention to the wax tablet in her hands. She had drawn three stick figures on the old, muddy surface and I had to squint in the dim candlelight to understand what I was looking at. When I took a moment too long to react, she cried, “It's you.” Then she pointed to a figure in the middle. The other one was large, and the third seemed to be a small child. “You, me, Hurek,” she finished.

  “Proud of you, mango,” I said, “that’s lovely.”

  “Please Master, sit,” Ollia called. She sat with another woman who was either a midwife or Lucius’ wife. Perhaps both, and she offered a curt smile that suggested she knew of me. Lucius worked with some leather in the corner and he gave me a similar smile. Definitely a couple, I thought.

  I stood awkwardly at the entrance, Merula humming to herself beside me still admiring her masterpiece. Ollia wore a loose tunic that was damp with sweat and it clung to her pregnant belly. She tried to get up but Lucius’ wife pressed her back. “I’ll get it,” she said. Her latin was surprisingly good and I realised she might be a Roman Syrian.

  She wrapped her long black braids around her neck as she began stirring the stove pot. Lucius helped me into a cushion, or rather, a rolled up straw mat, one of many that littered the tent floor. The uneven floor felt sharp on my legs but the immediate relief of sitting down, and the ache that followed, forced a grunt of relief from deep within my chest.

  “I must apologize, I know it’s late and…” I began my long-winded explanation, not sure if telling them the whole truth was a wise decision, and thankfully Lucius quickly waved his hand, as if to say no explanation was required. So I relented.

  Gaius must have hinted to them that something terrible had befallen me and I needed a place to rest my head. With my ragged appearance, their sympathy wasn’t too misplaced. I sighed and stared at my dirty hands. Lucius touched me softly on the shoulder. “You can wash in the trough outside,” he said. “It’s not drinking water but it will clean.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I watched Lucius’ wife pour lentil gravy into a wooden bowl. Ollia, despite her obvious pain and discomfort, considered me warmly. They didn’t say much, and I accepted their silence as a gift.