Gaius was bored out of his mind. He leaned outside the popina’s wall, and watched the Gymnasia entrance across the square with a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t bother going in anymore. His hands were too calloused, his energy too depleted, and his mind too far distracted after a laborious day at the brick kiln to join his childhood friends in a good scrap or even a simple exercise. His body was sore, and screamed with pain instinctively even at the mere thought of walking over to the gymnasia. So Gaius simply watched and waited for his friend Marcellus to appear.

  The boredom made his feet restless, and he began pacing around the empty benches of the popina, while his hands played with the kusti tied around his other arm. Gaius didn’t worship Ahura Mazda the way he was taught, and neither did he recognize the Palmyrene deities, nor the Roman, nor the Greek. But for the sake of Ollia’s comfort, he still tied the kusti around his waist every morning, and moved it to his arm while he worked the wheelbarrow, transporting bricks around the kilns. Increasingly, ever since Septimus had died, he felt like tossing the kusti into the ravine on his way home.

  A girl in a pink chiton exited the popina with a clay jug, and began refilling the water cups on the tables. He hadn’t seen her before, and figured old Pompeii had finally hired some help. The old Christian had run this popina on his own ever since Gauis was a child. Gaius and the gymnasia boys had been banned from coming here, as they usually chased away the more respectable clientele, but ever since Gaius had joined the kiln as a working man, Pompeii had tolerated him for some reason. He still didn’t serve him, but allowed him to loiter around and rest under the popina’s umbrellas outside.

  The girl looked to be around Gaius’ age, maybe younger, with curly black hair and as she poured the jug, one of her shoulder chiton pins slipped down her arm, baring her shoulder. Finally, Gaius thought, something to do.

  “Leave it,” Gaius said, “It suits you.”

  The girl covered herself even quicker and glared at him from under her brow. “Uncle Yahya says I’m not to serve you.”

  “Uncle Yahya?” Gaius said, as he circled the table towards her. “You mean Pompeii? Your uncle and I go way back, love.”

  “He said you are a gangster, and that you are up to no good,” she continued. She’d filled the last cup on the table, but didn’t make a move to leave, instead holding the jug at her hip and watching him curiously as he approached.

  “All lies,” Gaius replied, “I’m a nobleman.”

  “Sure you are,” she said, and her eyes glanced over his sunbaked torso with tattoos visible under his rough linen vest. She squinted at the kusti in his hands.

  “You like this?” Gaius said, lifting the silk-woven rope. He stepped closer, holding the kusti up between them. The white silken threads braided in-between the cotton seemed to sparkle in the soft evening light. “It’s my kusti–a reminder to do good, speak good, and think good. To walk the path of asha… but most days, I’m ashamed to wear it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your uncle’s right about one thing,” Gaius said quietly. “I’m not that good.”

  Being near her, she smelled like firewood and sweat, and something more floral. He loved it, so he leaned in further until he stared into her large, black eyes that in turn were fixed on him. “I can also tell the future.”

  “The future?” she mouthed.

  “Yes,” Giaus replied softly, “I can foresee that in five breaths from this moment, we will kiss.”

  She blinked in shock, her hands whitened on the handle of her jug, but her feet stood rooted on the spot. She stared up at him speechless, and he was close enough to see the freckles on her flushed cheek.

  Gaius smiled, daring her to move away, and when she didn’t, and her lips parted, he whispered, “Five”.

  He kissed her, and to his delight, she kissed him back. Their tongues found each other and they danced, at first hesitant and then in earnest. Gaius usually had a mind about these things, but with her, he seemed to lose track of time. It felt like an hour until a forced cough interrupted them.

  They pulled apart with a light pop, and Gaius turned to face a judgemental, pudgy clerk standing at the doorway of the popina. The man pursed his wet lips, shaking his head at the pair of them. “Do we have a problem, fat cheeks?” Gaius said, squaring up.

  He seemed to be one of the Basilica clerks, what with his somber clothing and wax tablet hanging from the neck. His receding hairline was slicked back with olive oil. The man was about to speak, when his eyes fell to Gaius’ chest, and it was clear what he was staring at. The girl wouldn’t have noticed since she seemed to be an outsider, but locals recognized the crocodile tattoo under Gauis’ collarbones. It was an easy marker of someone involved with the Marsh Bedouin Crocodiles, the dominant gang in the slums.

  The clerk cleared his throat and scurried off without another glance. But as soon as he’d left, the girl shoved him hard, “keep your hands off me, scoundrel!” she cried.

  Gaius opened his mouth but wasn’t sure what to say, being caught off guard at the sudden change of mood. “Look, he's gone, so we’re good,” he said.

  “If you don’t leave, I’m going to start screaming,” she replied, and Gaius could tell she wasn’t joking. She frowned and glared at him as if he’d stolen her mother’s necklace. What was she so angry about?

  “Fine,” Gaius said, holding up his hands. “At least tell me your name, or should I just call you sweet lips?”

  “Ugh!” the girl chucked a clay cup in his direction and Gaius caught it before it could fall and shatter all over the cobblestone.

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” Gaius said, and backed off before she made a scene for the entire neighborhood and had him hauled off by a Virgil.

  ***

  Marcellus appeared just as the sun set over the quiet square. He’d put on his shirt but his torso was still dripping with sweat, and he smelled like olive oil. Gaius gave him a tight hug, “About time, brother.”

  “Good to see you, mate,” Marcellus said. He threw a towel over his scalp and used its corner to wipe his face. “Gods, I’m fucking hungry.”

  “Junior working you hard?” Gaius said. He was a little jealous that Marcellus got to train more than him during the day, but the blacksmith needed it more. Gaius wasn’t too happy about his first bracket performance. Marcellus could do much better.

  “He’s been a tyrant ever since Hurek came to visit,” Marcellus said.

  “Hurek visited?” Gaius asked, a little surprised. Hurek and Gaius had been friends once, but had grown apart as they became men and saw life a little differently. Hurek became the upright man that Ollia wanted Gaius to be, and Hurek also became the fighter that Gaius wanted to be. Everyone loved Hurek, and Gaius did too, but his ranked wins had Gaius feeling like if he could do it, so could Gaius.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Came with his biographer friend,” Marcellus said. “So what do you want to eat?”

  “The yogurt shop by Belshamon?” Gaius asked.

  “That place just makes me shit now,” Marcellus said. “I want some meat.”

  “You snatch an old man’s coin purse when I wasn’t looking?” Gaius said.

  “No, I’m serious, when was the last time you had a good steak?”

  “Ibn Mana owes me a turkey leg,” Gaius replied after a thought.

  Marcellus made a frustrated groan. He didn’t approve of Gaius’ connection with the Crocodiles. But knew enough about the benefits to not protest too often. “What’s he having you do now?”

  “Us,” Gaius corrected.

  “Don’t drag me into another escort,” Marcellus said. The last job they’d done for the Crocodiles was escorting a merchant around the seediest parts of Palmyra. It’d been a boring day that made Gaius want to claw his eyes out. All for a handful of sesterce. “You have one good day away from the kiln,” Marcellus continued, trying to get a rise out of Gaius, “And you spend it running jobs for the Bedouins.”

  “You’re just being prejudiced, brother,” Gaius said nonchalantly.

  “Fine, I am,” Marcellus said. He gave a side-glance to a passing Bedouin. They were rounding the Forum now, which quieted down around this time, as the market goers were from respectable households that wrapped up their business during the day. Most public offices were closed. It was easier for Virgils and militiamen to find a wandering slave with the thinning crowd, but with Marcellus at this side, Gaius could wander around all night in back alleys and the slums–although not most paved roads, which had strict curfew rules that could result in arrest or worse.

  “It’s always funny when Palmyran’s get racist,” Gaius replied. Marcellus was Greek on his father’s line, but most of his lineage was Aramean, which Gaius could barely differentiate from local Arabs. Even after growing up in Palmyra, Gaius felt like an outsider. He never knew his parents, with Ollia being a mother to him and his brothers, and he barely had any memories of his village or the hills the Nokchi had called their home. So who was he, then? That question had bothered him for quite a while, but the tournament was beginning to answer it.

  “Listen, we need forty denarii between the two of us to enter the third bracket,” Gaius said, getting serious. The tournament enlistment and matchmaking would be open in a couple days, with the bouts themselves just a few weeks away. The first bracket had been free to enter, but with the new rules and rewards for unranked fights, the entry was quickly getting tougher. Fighters now had to completely rely on a rich patron or institution to support them. Slave fighters would be entered by their master, and since Gaius and his brothers were officially property of the Maazin pater, Matanai, he’d expected to be backed by him. Except the patriarch was a recluse, and was content with just leasing his able-bodied slaves to the brick kilns. Gaius and his brothers had been forced to enter the first bracket simply to support Matanai’s niece since the tournament was her plan. But they’d sat out the second bracket except for Septimus.

  With Hurek representing the Maazin clan at this point, and Septimus having lost and shamed Matanai, Gaius had serious doubts that he would be entered into the tournament. He had to force his way in–under a different name if need be–and with his own coin. And that’s where the Crocodiles came in.

  Marcellus and Gaius stopped by a food cart and bought themselves a cornet of roasted peanuts and raisins. The man, an Arab calling himself Akhi, dragged his metal cup through hot gravel that pilfered the nuts buried within and dropped it into their cornets with practiced fluidity. Marcellus negotiated the final price while Gaius stared absently at a crowd of youth playing dice in front of the cobbler’s guildhouse. They’d crossed temple road and wandered north into a dirt road that ran past several guildhouses before splitting off into the muddy slum alleys. Gaius hated this route. It made his stomach churn, having to go back after a day of labor and see where his family slept these days. He decided they needed to make a little detour.

  “Before we go see the Crocodiles,” Gaius said as Marcellus finally handed him his cornet, “I’m thinking we go pray for your soul.”

  Marcellus raised an eyebrow. He munched on his mouthful for a second before finally getting the hint. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Come on, heart-stealer, it’s been awhile. You know she misses you,” Gaius teased.

  “And what makes you think I miss her?”

  “Because,” Gaius said as he flicked a peanut at his friend’s forehead. He failed to dodge it and it lodged in his short, curly hair. “The old Marcellus would be talking his ass off about the pretty lamb working Pompeii’s popina.”

  Marcellus picked out the peanut from his hair, blew on it, and popped it in his mouth. The man was more frugal than a slave, refusing to waste even a drop of water during training. “Pompeii hired a maid?”

  “Not only that, but I was able to find out the man’s real, Christian name,” Gaius said.

  “Oh brother, I would have sold Vulcan’s forge for that piece of information,” Marcellus said. “What is it?”

  “Guess.”

  Marcellus dropped the rest of his nuts into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Jesus?” he finally said.

  “Is that the best you can do? Jesus?”

  Marcellus shrugged. “I don’t know that many Christian names.”

  “Yahya,” Gaius replied.

  “Don’t tell me you’re trying to get with this Christian lass now,” Marcellus said.

  “What if I am?”

  “You’ll have to change your name back to Gayev,” Marcellus chuckled.

  “Fuck off,” Gaius said.

  They watched the commotion across the street for a bit, and Gaius waited for Marcellus to gain back his composure before pushing the idea again. “Come on,” Gaius finally said, “It’ll do you good to see her again.”

  “You really want me to see her? Even after everything?” Marcellus asked, and Gaius let his question hang in the air between them for a bit. He didn’t want Marcellus to think he had any plans behind it, but the truth was, he couldn’t wait to see this particular relationship grow.

  ***

  It was dark by the time Gaius finally dragged Marcellus to the Lesser Temple of Belshamin. As opposed to the Temple of Baal, this place of worship was for the Sky God spirit that was somehow a part of Baal the Great, or some sort of version of him for the lesser folk. Marcellus had spun some tale about Belshamin disguising himself as Zeus for the Greeks. Whether that was true or not, the Mattabol clan–the self-proclaimed champions of Latin and Greek supremacy, funded this temple as much as possible in a tricky alliance with the Aramaic Maazin priesthood. But while the larger Temple of Baal was all posh and fanfare, the Lesser Temple of Belshamin was the working person’s place of worship and business.

  People filtered in and out of the main hall, which was high-domed and its space clustered with stalls of priests and clerks offering various services. Farmers went in with their daily votives, while parents dropped their children for evening tutoring. The Temple offered one of the few places in Palmyra where a child could learn to read or write for free. A free child, that is. Gaius snuck in a few times to learn his alphabets, along with Lucius, but they were quickly discovered and thrown out. Septimus had eventually found the offending tutor and dropped a fish down his robe.

  “No time to think, brother,” Gaius said as he watched Marcellus pace back and forth in the side alley that led to the Temple’s inner courtyard. A score of dancers and priestesses and other performers could be seen having a communal meal inside, surrounded by tall torches. Their laughter and conversation echoed out in the alley and no doubt added to Marcellus’ nervousness. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said.

  Gaius shrugged.

  Marcellus bent down and grabbed a handful of dirt. He then rubbed it vigorously under his arms and around his neck. Gaius chuckled as his friend continued with his Greek bath by taking a strigil out of his pocket and began scraping dirt, sweat and oil off of his body. “You just carry that around now, don’t you?” Gaius said.

  “We all have to become our fathers eventually,” Marcellus replied. “Can’t stay dirty forever.” He flicked the grime away and into the nearby gutter. When he straightened, he squared up to Gaius and asked, “how do I look?”

  “Smelly,” Gaius said, then pushed him away. “Just get on with it.”

  Gaius watched his friend pick his way through the rocky road, avoiding stepping his new leather sandals in the muddy puddles. He finally reached the archway that led to the Temple courtyard and nervously searched for the woman inside. It took a moment to spot her, but eventually he raised his hand and waved at someone Gaius couldn’t see.

  Gaius stepped around the corner, and leaned against the cool bricks of the Temple columns. He peeked into the alley just enough to see Marcellus, now lit entirely by the dim light casted by the courtyard torches. Gaius’ heart quickened as a woman’s figure approached, her light dance robes floating around her feet, and her ankles had colorful bangles that chimed with her every step. She skipped the last few feet and launched herself into Marcellus’ arms. They kissed.

  It had begun as a simple prank–a few words here, some stolen glances there. Eventually Gaius had convinced Marcellus to take things further and really make some effort to seduce her. He felt guilty for pushing Marcellus into this, because his motivation wasn’t entirely for two lovers to unite. What mattered to Gaius the most, was that the woman was Niobe, Priestess Dancer of Belshamin, and wife to Brutus Geminus.