The Body liked the pain. It bloomed from its face, pulsed with its heart, it grew and it grew until the very tips of the Body’s toes screamed from sensitive nerves and bruises:

  The ones I’d gotten from the fight. The fight I’d lost.

  The Body twitched its face, and new pain bloomed. Soothing, comforting pain that kept the Mind at bay. The Body didn’t want to pay attention to the Mind. The Body was scared of the Mind.

  Instead, it groaned. Groaning always helped the Mind keep focus on its Body. And most important of all, it kept the Mind from using its Voice, which was a dangerous way for the Mind to speak and feel…

  Real.

  “Oh,” the Voice exclaimed, and the Body turned, letting the sound escape until it became a muffled groan into the pillow. Something, somebody shifted above the Body, and Eyes shot open. They saw a woman, a faintly familiar face, hovering just above the Body’s face, and it peered into him. An uncomfortable stare.

  Past the soft face of the stranger that was not a stranger, the tent’s leathery surface spanned as a bright shade of textured papyrus lit by the sunlight outside. It was stained. There were some rips. Not enough to let rain or dust in, but just enough that they appeared like scratches of nails or claws of an animal desperately trying to tear free from its thin prison.

  “Are you awake?” the woman whispered. Was she speaking with Body?

  The Body turned, its pain momentarily pushed to the back of its…

  Is she speaking with me? I know her.

  The Eyes blinked, trying to focus on the woman’s face but there was grime and dirt in the way, and something else. But as soon as the Body realised it, the woman brushed the eyes clean with a damp cloth that smelled like mint and honey. She gently brushed each eyelid and under the eyes too, until the Body stared back at her with an expression the Mind hoped was gratitude. The Body’s face was wrapped in bandages, however. Entirely. It tightly covered its jaw, hugged its neck, tucked under its chin, and ran up to its head and around its ear so the faint bustle of the crowd outside seemed dreamlike, imagined. Only the woman was real. Her heart-shaped face, and her soft, flushed cheeks that dimpled when she smiled sadly.

  Why was she sad?

  The Mind remembered being sad, too, but the Body became frustrated and focused on itself again, the bandages that chafed, the breaths that lit a fire in its chest, and the restless ache of limbs that hadn’t been used for days. The woman spoke again.

  “I know your name, now,” she said. “Ali.”

  Ibn Ghassan.

  Nobody had called the Body ‘Ali’ in years. Not since the Body had been a scared, whimpering little boy and the Mind had been the only thing that had existed.

  The Body stirred, trying to focus on gaining its control over all of its separate parts that made it whole, but the Mind kept thinking about the woman’s words, her voice, and wondered what her name was. The Mind was dangerously close to using the Voice, but thankfully, the bandages were wrapped snugly around the mouth and it would take some effort to form the words.

  “It’s alright, you don’t have to speak,” the woman said, as if reading the Mind.

  Gentle laps of water filled the silence between them as she dipped her hand-towel in the bowl next to her and continued wiping its face. “My name is Zainab,” she replied softly, answering the Mind’s unspoken question. “You are from Egypt?”

  The Body tried to focus on itself, on its limbs and exert some form of separation through control, but the Mind united everything once again and thought of the Body, the Eyes, the Voice, all of it–it’s own self. And then it thought:

  Yes.

  “My uncle lives in Egypt, he hates the Kushite,” she continued, lost in her own memories and thoughts. The Body preferred that.

  She spoke of her childhood there, as well, and then the long migration that led her and her parents to Palmyra to find work. She’d studied under a midwife and now was employed as a healer in the caravanserai. But when she wasn’t judging the balance of humors, channels and vessels in Chief Abed’s body, she did the work of a maidservant.

  The Body lost control again as the Mind drifted, now thinking about its own past. Zainab only encouraged it as she catered to her curiosity once more. “What do you like?” she asked in a wistful way, “do you like mangoes? I brought some here. You can have them when you feel like it.” She pointed to a side-table out of its current view, but its Mind teetered out of balance with the question… What does Ali like?

  Zainab didn’t relent, didn’t show mercy as she continued, “Do you like music? I believe in healing through music. I can arrange something if you need.”

  Zainab kept the one-sided conversation going: her opinions on Chief Abed, her life in Palmyra, her parents getting sick, but all the Ears heard were the constant questions about the Mind.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Are you sure you like mangoes? I can get something else.”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  “What’s your favourite place in Palmyra?”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Just blink once for yes, and twice for no,” she finally said, staring at him expectantly, but the Body only groaned, twisting away from the bombardment and then with great effort, it commanded its limbs to life. The arms pushed the body up into a seated position, the feet were already gliding to the side, then with a slight hop the Body was on its feet and Zainab was taken aback.

  “Please lay down! You need to rest.”

  The Body stumbled past her, and luckily the eyes spotted Ibn Ghassan’s spear by the entrance, and using it as a crutch, the Body broke through the tent flaps with Zainab’s desperate pleas chasing after it. The Mind was still reeling from the questions, so it didn’t have the willpower to confront the Body’s movements.

  The plains of northern Palmyra greeted the Eyes just moments before a gust of wind forced them shut. The Body coughed into the bandages, rubbed its eyes clean, then forced them open. The summer sun was beginning to dry up the greenery, creating patches of burnt, tan grass giving way to cracked dirt. But there were still enough grassy spots left for some livestock to graze on. The Bedouin drovers were still around, their goat-skin tents and pavilions dotting the expanse all the way to the foothills in the distance.

  The tent from which the Body had escaped lined the Caravanserai, which itself lined the old walls of the city, though its body was newer: of cool marble that sparkled and offered many archways that merchants and travelers could enter to enjoy the fountains and courtyards inside. The Body didn’t like being surrounded by walls so it turned away and stared down the dirt road that cut across; the source of the fistfulls of dust that was thrown about by dozens of passing feet, and these traveling cloaks and cavalry boot-wearers glanced at the Body. Some dismissed it, some noticed the bloodied, bandaged face and gave it a wide berth.

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  The Body paused. It was a statue that decorated the middle of the road, a mummy-like creature leaning on its spear. Only the Eyes moved now. They instinctively searched for the Body’s master between the floating, suspicious, scared, nervous faces of passers-by. A woman broke away from the crowd, a consort dancer in sheer skirts that revealed the dark underwear beneath, she stepped up to the Body and placed a hand on its shoulder, “Ibn Ghassan, Chief Abed needs you to rest.”

  The Body shrugged past her, just as Zainab came through the tent as well and called after it, but the ears ignored her, instead focusing on the multitude of other voices led by peddlers trying to pick the crowd for possible customers. They avoided the moving statue, though.

  The Body limped around, going from voice to voice, intensely staring at the source until the man or woman slinked away in sudden fear. There was no rhyme or reason to Body’s movements, none that it understood itself at least, and without the master’s voice to act as a leash, the Body thus moved aimlessly without purpose, and it flinched every time the Mind asked:

  Where?

  Then it saw something interesting:

  What?

  And then it came across a curious face:

  Who?

  Finally, it spotted a fat man in a purple turban, stark white robes and fingers sparkling with large, jeweled rings. He looked awfully familiar to Chief Abed and so the Body gravitated towards him. He was speaking with a shopkeeper who had shelves lined with sandals and other leather products. The bearded shopkeeper eyed the approaching Body warily but continued nodding to whatever his large companion was saying.

  “Alas!” the white-robed man said. He stroked the rings on his fingers, shaking his head sadly.

  “Alas,” the shopkeeper repeated the saying, which was a common phrase the Body had noticed Palmyrans use often. Alas seemed to mean ‘yes’, or ‘it is what it is’, or in this case, ‘what a shame’.

  Suddenly, the Mind took control of the Voice and said, “what a shame!”

  Both men looked at him sharply. Then, perhaps hoping they’d found a third companion, carried on some more.

  “Yes, shame to our senators,” the shopkeeper said. “My youngest has a stronger spine.”

  “I don’t know, brother,” the large man said, “I don’t know who is going to push the Persians back on the tariffs. Maazin are too busy smoking pipe.”

  “Don’t get me started!” the shopkeeper laughed. Another common speak, the Mind noted.

  “Don’t get him started!” the Voice spoke, and the men chuckled, now seemingly convinced this strange, bandaged man was in fact sharing in their woes. “Don’t get him started!” the Voice said again to their confusion.

  The two began explaining something about the recent city master elections, but the Body suddenly lost interest, now distracted by a loud hurrah coming from a dice table not too far along the path. Footmen of different colors and armament were slapping each other on the back.

  One man in particular drew the Eyes. A black-robed soldier with tight leather belts and braces across his body. A linen wrapped club hung on his hip. Parabalani monks, the Mind recalled. Christian footmen, faithful volunteers of bishops in Alexandria. They did everything from serving the sick to clobbering heads where needed. There were two of them, one playing dice while the other hung back, watching with a slight frown.

  The Christians were playing against a few Aramite locals, with their loose, white robes and purple headscarves. Their bodyguards were cheering their masters on.

  The Body pushed its way to the forefront, next to a Bedouin warrior who watched his master keenly, eyes flitting between the bone die and the Christian monks, and then suddenly noticed the odd bandaged man standing next to him holding onto a spear.

  “What a shame,” the Voice said. The Body remained without purpose save for the Mind’s curiosity that kept it rooted to the spot, using the Eyes to watch the game with fascination. “What a shame,” it kept on muttering under its breath.

  The Bedouin man leaned closer, his breath smelling of garlic, “it’s close but my sayyid is good with this. He’ll come out on top.”

  “Don’t get him started!” the Voice said.

  The Bedouin chuckled. “You’ve seen him play, then? What’s your name, lad?”

  The Mind wondered about the question, and Zainab’s voice drifted back to its Ears. “Ali,” it replied with the Voice.

  “You alright, akhi?” the man continued, “you look like you got run over by a wagon.”

  “I sell sandals,” the Mind said, the words coming quicker and quicker. “Oh, these tariffs are killing me, akhi, what a shame!”

  “Aye,” the Bedouin nodded sadly. “My sayyid had to let go of a couple of my partners. He can only just afford my sword now. I’m thinking Abed just doesn’t give a fuck about politics. Or he’s just not capable. Anyways, I’m going to head back to my tribe once my contract is finished.”

  “No one can stand up to the Persians,” the Mind replied. “No one. What a shame!”

  The dice rolled to a stop and the Christians whooped, all to the Bedouin and his master’s dismay. The others laughed, and some tried to push their way to the front, elbowing and tackling everyone else out of the way. Two fluffy haired youths with sticks began slapping at people’s calves, mostly older folk who couldn’t fight back. They shied away from the Bedouin warrior, though, and when they got to Ali, one of them stared in disgust at his bandaged face. The Mind didn’t expect nor understand the next event.

  One of the teenagers laughed and struck Ali Ibn Ghassan across the knee. The Body stumbled, moreso from the sudden shock than the pain. The pain itself was nice.

  The Mind reeled, however, unable to comprehend why. The Bedouin warrior stood up for him by shoving the teens back, telling them to get lost. But the Bedouin’s Aramite master was already moving away from the dice table after his loss, and so the warrior only had time to offer Ali a quick farewell before disappearing into the market crowd himself.

  The youth returned. They vied for the top spot to play against the winners and Ali still stood in their way. They furrowed their brows at the strange, face-wrapped man that hadn’t moved and was now staring at them with the intensity of a cat that was trying to figure something out.

  Ali raised a finger and pointed it at the two confused young men, “Challenge?” he asked.

  “Get out of the way, fucking cripple,” the braver of the two replied and stepped up to whack Ali out of the way. But while the Mind still led the way, it let the Body be its own thing once more, and the limbs reacted just as quickly as they could, pulling the butt of the spear to the side and intercepting the coming hit.

  The whack of the weapons immediately caused the crowd to disperse, leaving only the rebellious boys, the monks and a few other men who’d taken out their own daggers just in case.

  “What a shame!” Ali cried to the people’s confusion. The youth who’d tried to hit him the second time now, tried once more. Ibn Ghassan’s spear caught him first. Straight in the mouth.

  “Motherfuck–

  The young man didn’t have time to finish his words, as the spear twirled and whacked him on the side of the head, sending him to the dirt unconscious.

  Ali stared down at his victim, head cocked. “What a shame,” he muttered. The friend of the young man was backing away, and Ali didn’t like that one bit. The Mind wanted more. The Mind wanted to win.

  The spear leapt out of Ali’s hands, like a viper with a mind of its own, and slashed the target’s calves so he couldn’t run away. As the man tripped over himself, the spear’s butt came down on the back of his head and turned his mind dark as well.

  “What a shame!” Ali cried desperately. Almost rabid.

  “That’s enough,” one of the monks said, making a shooing gesture to Ali, but the Mind recalled how uncomfortable it’d been that the Parabalani had reminded him of Alexandria: the city of unending whips and torture.

  Ali snaked his way to the dice-table, flipped it over with a kick, and when a monk reached for his club, the spear whipped and cracked his wrist. “What a shame,” Ali kept saying as he turned on the other monk and disarmed him as well, then proceeded to beat the ever-living shit out of the two until a militiaman in purple-striped tunic showed up leveling a spear in Ali’s face.

  “Challenge?” Ali muttered.

  “Get back! Now!” the soldier cried, but Ali had made up his mind. The militiaman was next.

  And then his partner. And then a big bystander, a local wrestler, who’d tried to step in. And then another militiaman, who ended up losing a tooth. Then finally, one of the monk’s gained his footing once more, only to be whacked over the head back to sleep.

  Ali danced. There was a flute playing in the distance, over the quiet crowd that was watching in horror as the bodies had piled up. The Mind basked in the triumph, while the Body twisted and moved to the rhythm, the feet hopping with grace as the arms moved the spear around as if Ali was waving a flag. “What a shame,” he sang deliriously.

  A familiar face jumped out of the crowd: a flushed and worried Zainab. She ran to Ibn Ghassan, carefully picking up her yellow robes to step over the groaning bodies of his victims. “Ali!” she cried as she tried to grab his wrist. “please stop.”

  “Zainab,” Ali said, making her freeze in place. She blinked, looking at his feet that still moved in rhythm to the music, back to his highly observant eyes.

  “Are…are you alright?” she asked.

  Ali nodded, head and shoulders swaying. “Yes,” he replied, then with a thought that made him pause, he added, “I like mangoes.”