Marcellus made Niobe laugh. Gaius couldn’t make out the words, but he had a rough idea what the man could’ve said. He wasn’t funny like Paco, or silly like Jiri had been, or even smart-mouthed like the Bedouin hooligans Gaius had come to know, but for as long as Gaius had known Marcellus, the blacksmith’s apprentice had a pleasant and happy air about him. Much like Hurek. But not as suffocating. Marcellus had a mean streak too, and had no quarrel getting his hands dirty with Gaius. At the most unsuspecting times, though, Marcellus would say something filled with genuine cheer and you couldn’t help but feel comfort in his company. Niobe had fallen for it, heart and body.

  Gaius smiled as he watched. The woman stroked Marcellus' arm lovingly as she listened to him speak about his day, or his family, or maybe even Gaius. Hopefully the oaf was smart enough to leave out Gaius’ family relations and feud with her husband, Brutus. A blood feud, Gaius reminded himself. One that could only end with Brutus six feet under in the ground. Gaius would make sure of that. But not before they had a bit of fun with his whore of a wife.

  “Oi!” Gaius called to the lovebirds, waving for Marcellus to cut it short and get going. Niobe shouldn’t get too comfortable, he thought. They had to keep her wanting more.

  Marcellus stepped away, scratching his neck nervously. “Dear gods,” Gaius said, as he watched his friend stutter through an awkward farewell. Niobe liked it, though, as she chuckled and pinched his cheek.

  Gaius eyed out their escape route in the meantime. The crowd at the Temple porch had thinned. The youth had scrambled off, and the few chatting women and men were being herded by two militiamen into the streets and off to their homes. The day patrol liked to empty the main roads by nightfall, by force if needed.

  “Nice one,” Gaius said, once Marcellus joined him. They made their way quickly towards the parting crowd, staying inconspicuous and pretending like they belonged. Marcellus did it effortlessly. Gaius had to force himself to not glare at the militiamen like a predator.

  “Oh, fuck off,” Marcellus said with a chuckle.

  “No, I mean it,” Gaius said. He was genuinely impressed by Marcellus’ charm. “You have her wrapped around your calloused sausage of a finger.”

  “I’m thinking it’s enough,” Marcellus replied.

  “What?”

  “Look, it’s all getting a bit complicated, especially after what Brutus did to your family,” Marcellus said. “It just feels wrong, brother.”

  “You love her or not?” Gaius asked forcefully.

  “I do,” Marcellus replied.

  “And she loves you,” Gaius said. “So forget about everyone else.”

  “How’s it going to end?” Marcellus shot back.

  Gaius was quiet. They stuck to a crowd of seamstresses carrying wicker baskets, which were quickly handed off to their servants and slaves as they neared their household. Soon, only a few women were left. Gaius and Marcellus paused by a statue of Athena in her warrior’s garb. She marked the entrance to the Greek quarter. Marcellus had stopped there first, perhaps thinking he was headed home and their day was done. Gaius had to remind him about the Crocodiles.

  “I’m tired,” Marcellus said, “let’s do it another day.”

  “The tournament opens for entry tomorrow!” Gaius said. “We need forty denarii between the two of us.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to continue,” Marcellus replied. And here was his weakness, Gaius thought. For all his strengths, Marcellus had always been a man of low motivation. His father called it laziness, others called it a lack of ambition. But Gaius knew the man was content with his lot, and it didn’t sit right with Gaius most of the time.

  “You are not going to waste your life making horseshoes and nails at your father’s shop,” Gaius said. “There's a fight in you. I know it.”

  “Why should I risk my life further? For glory?”

  “I’ll get us a ranked fight,” Gaius said. “I have an in with Hurek’s biographer friend, the one who was named city master recently. He’ll get us a ranked fight and we will earn a thousand denarii from just one bout. What do you say?”

  Marcellus frowned. Gaius could tell the man still had reservations, but a thousand denarii was more coin than his family would make over ten years of back breaking work at the forge.

  “You’ve seen how my family lives,” Gaius continued. He didn’t like using his family to draw pity from Marcellus, but he knew it would drive in the point even more. “I want them out of squalor. I just need some help.”

  “Fine, fine,” Marcellus said, then with a big sigh, asked the golden question. “So, what’s the job?”

  ***

  It took them a half-hour to walk from the Greek quarter, into the slums, navigate their way through the muddy alleys, and the burgeoning night crowds that fortunately thinned out as they reached the Eastern Wall Butchery. The area had been used for stabling for the Eastern Gate, but ever since it had been barricaded and shut down permanently, the grassy area had been leased to Bedouin immigrants by Chief Abed. Specifically, Marsh Bedouins who had come here a generation ago and taken over the local meat market. Business had been good just over a month ago before the riots. But ever since Brutus had killed and arrested the looters, some of them Madan–Marsh Bedouins–the more respectable clientele had disappeared.

  Even the locals from the slave tent neighborhoods now arrived here with veils drawn and heads down. Brutus had posted militiamen these days to watch, and sometimes harass, the people here. They were still there when Gaius and Brutus strode up to the fenced butchery.

  The militia men, most likely from the slave-catcher Vigil gang that had been created within the militia, played dice in the corner and barely glanced up at Gaius, who was somewhat annoyed they didn’t. He wanted to be mistaken as a defenseless slave here. He could call on Ibn Mana to sort these thugs out if need be, and send them back to Brutus bruised and broken. The Crocodiles were following a shadow policy these days, though, encouraging their men to lay low and not be the instigators in any issues with the authorities. Unlike the true Bedouins of the desert tribes and outside clans, the Madan were citizens of Palmyra, albeit second class. They couldn’t just up and leave when things grew difficult like their nomad brothers. Palmyra was their home.

  And so, Gaius clicked his tongue at them, a little frustrated, but not loud enough that they’d look up and see him glaring daggers at them. Marcellus shook his head, too.

  The butchery had decent ground. A large barn, slaughterhouse and several sheds that lined the old, sturdy wall of Eastern Palmyra. Gaius found it odd that while the northern walls facing the open plains were decaying, and the eastern walls had holes that were patched with ramparts and new buildings, it was the eastern and southern walls of Palmyra that were in good shape. It didn’t take long to understand why.

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  The southern and eastern walls faced the oasis and the riverbed that curved around and cradled the desert city. Only the governor's palace, rich Maazin compounds in the south, could access the lush, untouched paradise. As for the eastern wall, gods forbid the plebs could be allowed entry into the oasis. Even the eastern gate had been shut well and good to prevent foot traffic. Gaius could bet the Latin quarter in the south-east had easy entry into the eastern oasis, and it was one of the reasons that he felt good about what they were about to do.

  “Ibn Mana?” Gaius said to the Madani seated at the fence gate. He was shirtless, with tattoos on his sweaty chest and twine wrapped around his arms. His two-pronged spear–the preferred weapon of the Marsh Bedouins, leaned behind him, but the man didn’t bother reaching for it. He popped a few nuts into his mouth and eyed Marcellus. “He with you?”

  “What do you think, shitbrain?” Gaius snapped.

  The Madani jumped to his feet. “Watch your mouth, slave.”

  “Ulama, who’s there?” A voice called from inside the slaughterhouse. Gaius smiled in the man’s face as he scowled.

  “Go on, tell him I’m here,” Gaius said.

  The man spit to his side, and slowly stepped out of the way. He let his anger out on the gate by kicking it open. Gaius could relate. He often liked to break things so he didn’t have to break people. Marcellus wasn’t like that.

  Gaius took Marcellus’ hand and escorted him inside, walking past a few farmhands with shovels and straw hats. They eyed the newcomers, more of an excuse to take a break from their labor than curiosity. They knew Gaius already. The Crocodiles had been more than happy to take a strong Nokchi as muscle, and they paid well, enough for Gaius to afford an extra bucket of clean water at the spring for his family, and new sets of clothes for everyone.

  They also knew Marcellus was his partner, but the prejudice between Madani and other locals had been growing, no thanks to Brutus and his ilk. Madani were blamed for most crimes in the city, and Gaius knew enough to admit some of it was true, but this allowed the councilors to make the Bedouins a scapegoat in anything they pleased. This led to further division and less business for the Bedouin families, which led to more crime. Pressure from the outside clans didn’t help either.

  Ibn Mana was inside the barn. The son of the Crocodile pater worked skillfully on goat meat, cutting and slicing away parts customers wouldn’t want. He spared a glance at Gaius, then another for Marcellus, before turning back to his knife which had moved in practiced motions even as he’d ignored it. “You ready for the next bracket, Gaius?” he asked.

  “If I can enter it,” Gaius replied. He nudged Marcellus toward a stool while he stepped up to the butcher’s table. “Why do you still work at the slaughterhouse? Or is this part of your training?”

  “I enjoy the work. Are you ready for yours?” Ibn Mana said. He wiped his hands on a red towel that was white once upon a time. He then threw it over his shoulder and carted off the cubed flesh to another table where a boy waited with long strips of thin wax paper and twine. A memory tugged at Gaius. One where Jiri had come home with slabs of wax wrapped meat cutlets after the governor had let him have a share of his ring fighting profits. Slave diet was mostly lentils and vegetables, and so when Jiri had come home with meat, it’d become a special night of sorts.

  Gaius had been tempted several times to ask Ibn Mana for meat as payment for his jobs, but the time for simple and short-lived pleasures was passing. He had a future to build for the Merkov’s. “Something in the latin quarter?” he asked.

  Ibn Mana nodded, then shot Marcellus a careful glance, as if judging his roots and whether or not he should be forthcoming with his information. “It’s a fox grab, nothing too dangerous,” he finally said. “We’re working with a maid who has agreed to leave a backdoor open in one of the compounds. The family has a jewelry box in the daughter’s room. She’s a heavy sleeper.”

  “You know I like working alone,” Gaius replied.

  “You will be, it’s all–

  “The servant, how can I trust her? She could be a coward. Domestic slaves usually are.”

  “We have her family,” Ibn Mana said, then when he saw Marcellus freeze, he added, “Under protection. We have her loyalty, so you have nothing to worry about. That door will be open when you get there. Just remember to break a window when you leave, so there is no suspicion of her.”

  Gaius looked to Marcellus, and when his friend sighed, he turned back to the Madani leader. “Show us the way,” he said.

  ***

  The Madani had dug a tunnel that ran under the eastern wall. They might have had more than one, but Gaius was privy to the one that cut straight down from inside an abandoned tower, and then like rabbits you were forced to crawl through a single man sized shaft, until you hit a rope ladder that led you out into a thick swampy area filled with crane brakes.

  Gaius lifted Marcellus out behind him, and they took a moment to stretch their legs and crack their backs. With the little sunlight left, they could admire the rare sight of the oasis around them. The river still flowed, not yet dried out by the summer sun, and birds still flitted between the palm trees and tall, weed-like bushes that dotted the wet grounds. Even the air had a cool, misty quality, as clear as Gaius had imagined the hills of his homeland would smell like.

  Gaius knew his Mattabol friend couldn’t appreciate it like he could. The free man could come out here with his family for a small fee at the northern outpost or even take a carriage from the colonnade that was offered to tourists. For Gaius to visit the oasis, he would have to be here for a job; maybe to cut the bushes the way the city liked, or clean out the riverbed and maintain the cisterns underneath. The last, and most dangerous way, was the tunnel they’d just climbed out of–used to traffick illegal goods and humans in and out of the city. A few slaves had successfully used it to escape by paying off the Madani.

  But as Jiri had once explained it to Gaius, the real danger for an escaped slave was out on the road, trying to justify their existence and purpose to every suspicious face they met. And if the Nokchi had attempted to sneak their entire family out of Palmyra, the Maazin clan would have their descriptions sent to every city and town from here to Armenia.

  Still, for this small moment, Gaius could look out towards the green shrubbery devoid of any human presence, and feel like the world was open to him. Marcellus must have guessed his thoughts for he placed a comforting hand on Gauis’ shoulder and said softly, “Come, let’s get this done. It’s dangerous for you to be out here.”

  They pushed through the marsh, getting mud up to their knees, and after a few moments broke onto the Road of the Dead, which was a quiet path that hugged the eastern city walls. Households used it to transport their dead to the northern cemetery without dealing with the city traffic. It was a risk taking this road, but Gaius was in no mood to be covered in mosquito bites, or worse, by the time he reached their target.

  “I’ve been worried about Hurek,” Marcellus said suddenly. “Have you seen him recently?”

  Gaius rubbed his nose, the wet air finally getting to him. “What brought this on?” Gaius didn’t think about Hurek all that much since he’d been taken as the governor’s house slave. And now that the brawler had begun winning all those tournament ranked matches, Gaius made more of an effort not to think about him.

  “Atia is feeding him something strange,” Marcellus said. “It’s given him strength.”

  “He was always strong,” Giaus replied. He squinted ahead, trying to gauge how much further they had to go, and whether they’d run into a corpse wagon or not, but the wall curved around and took the path with it.

  “No, I mean, very strong,” Marcellus said. “Strength of a god. He picked up ten stones the other day, the ones–

  Gaius took off. He waved behind him for Marcellus to follow. “Hurry,” he called, “we need to circle the turn quickly and reach the houses before someone comes.”

  They jogged down the empty path for a few minutes until it straightened out, and Gaius could see about three hundred paces out, towards the wooden ramparts of the Latin quarter that rose out from the Eastern wall and slanted downwards into the oasis. The compounds had private access to the more well kept gardens, and the household they were targeting was one of them.

  Darkness had finally settled, however, and the wooden ramparts seemed like shoulders of a giant sleeping on the wall, with its arms slopped over the side. The gates were locked, as Gaius had figured.

  They could still hear the stream, and smell the wildflowers and the peaceful hum of crickets in the shadowy figures of the palm trees. Gaius took a deep breath of the cool, night air and turned to Marcellus. “You could bring Niobe here, it’s nice.”

  “Aye.”

  “Time for the rope,” Gaius asked.

  Marcellus nodded and took the spool of braided hemp off his shoulder. Gaius tested it over his legs to make sure it was good quality and wouldn’t unravel. The Madani knew their ropes, though, and their knots. Gaius attached the hooks that he was carrying and quickly found a spot in the wall above he could hit reliably.

  It took a few swings, with Marcellus anxious whispers in his ear, but after a few tries he managed to snag the hook tight into a corner in the stone. “It’s good?” Marcellus asked.

  Gaius responded by leaping onto the wall and letting the rope fully carry his weight. He grunted his approval and jumped back down. “I brought some hash,” Gaius said, and when Marcellus raised his brow, Gaius shrugged, “figured we’ve got some time to kill now. I say we hit them at midnight. Who knows when these myrrh sniffers go to sleep.”