Somehow, Marcus felt okay. The crowds at the Temple of Baal were overwhelming, his mother was probably getting nervous he hadn’t shown up for two days now… his father, Atticus, no doubt prowling the streets looking for him, and yet here he was, part of the heavy throng that slowly carried its way up the temple’s porticos and through the marbled gateway. He let himself be carried in the sea of sweaty bodies, intoxicating odor of spices and leather and other exotic smells brought in by the horde of travellers that’d come to witness the champions enlisting their names in the tournament’s coming bracket.

  Marcus reached through several bodies to grasp Canary’s hand. Her slender fingers wrapped around his, her face turned and she smiled: the type of smirk that she did just for him. It held in itself years of friendship and love that Marcus had all to himself. But then her glance shifted, past the turbaned heads in front of them, and to her step-brother who’d managed to push ahead. Drusus.

  Canary’s brow furrowed. Her lips parted. In that expression she held true worry and care for Drusus, a sort of nervousness that probably created butterflies in her stomach. Marcus couldn’t help but feel a stab of jealousy. Canary was his, after all, the gods had to have given him such a beautiful friend and he’d cherished her with all his might. He had been nothing but a gracious friend to her.

  Drusus climbed the steps two at a time, weaving and dodging the people in his way, then spared a look back once he was at the top. Marcus liked him well enough: he’d been friends with him since childhood, when Marcus had used to run away from his tutors and hang around the Temple of Belshamin. They’d grown up smoking pipe and playing with Canary and their other siblings in the yard. In the evenings, they’d spent their time on terraces staring up at the night sky wondering what life was like beyond Palmyra.

  Eventually, Marcus’ attention had slipped to Canary, and he hoped the feeling was mutual. Still, seeing his friend up on top in a golden vest and sparkling bands on his arms, waving to an excited crowd, he couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. How far they’d come, from aimless children with no hope for a future in Palmyra, to a potential champion in a Roman styled tournament.

  Drusus was good. Very good. When the tournament had been easier to enter and less organized in the beginning, Drusus had dispatched his opponent rather easily, thus earning him good recognition with the collegiate and he’d since become something of a local hero among the temple’s dancer community. Marcus loved that for him.

  “Beware the auspices!” A crier announced in a cryptic way. He spoke from a podium erected along the main portico, and was flanked by several lictors with wooden batons ready to jump in and control the crowd if necessary. The crier, clad in the dark, somber clothes of the Basilica clerks, continued with more mundane and clearer instructions. “Only fighters and their patrons allowed past the propylaeum!” he announced, “friends and family wait by the nymph niches. Twenty denarii for unranked men, a votive for Baal: sacrificed goat meat, flowers, a pound of rice or grain per household head, and receive your prayers from the Priestess of Yorhibul in the side sanctuaries.” The crier gestured to either side of the temple, actively motioning those around him.

  “What about the moon god Agribol?” Canary remarked with a mischievous smile. Marcus shared in her humor, and replied, “We’ll have to wait till midnight for that.”

  “I’m fine with that,” she shrugged. Then her eyes back on Drusus, who beckoned them impatiently.

  After some shoves and stepping on feet, Marcus and Canary cleared the last few steps and fell into a group hug. “Alright, my stars,” Drusus said giddily, “We ready?”

  Marcus nodded, and Canary did as well, though she bit her lip nervously. Marcus squeezed her hand.

  They escaped the brunt of the crowd and gathered around a niche within the corinthian columns where they could wait for their patron priest of belshamin to appear. His name was Cyril, and he’d been the head priest for a while until he’d retired and spent his days playing music for the dancers in his old age. He’d agreed to sign as patron for Drusus, on behalf of the Lesser Temple itself–which had been more than happy to have their own fighter in the tournament. The Lesser Temple usually couldn’t compete with the Temple of Baal but with a champion that could potentially become ranked, it might just give them more clientele in high society. As it stood, the Maazin priesthood in the Lesser Temple served the working class mostly.

  “Do you see Pater Cyril?” Drusus asked excitedly. He was always in a good mood, and Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been. It was intoxicating, really. Marcus considered himself a social recluse and couldn’t imagine hanging out with the fun, popular youth of Belshamin without Drusus’ arm around his shoulder.

  “I think so,” Marcus finally spoke, his voice a little croaky from disuse. “Over there,” he pointed to a sweaty, bald head bobbing up the far portico steps. The old priest had his robes hitched up and tied around his belt, and he stepped gingerly on to the vast podium leading up to the temple entrance. He paused, staring at a bull being held by over a dozen acolytes; an animal sacrifice that had been sponsored by rich patrons for just this occasion. The bull would be killed and its meat distributed to the poor. But not before the names of each patron was read aloud for all to hear and their exact donation amount.

  Marcus had spent his youth trying to understand the human machinations that made up Palmyra. It interested him more than philosophy or religion or even statecraft. There was an argument, of course, on the importance of politics and how a society blended faith and law to govern itself. But what the tutors never failed to teach or understand, was the human heart underneath it all that threw it all away for the sake of desire. For example, a man of good Roman sense should strive to keep every parcel of his land united under a single lineage, and yet, men could not help have many sons, often to the point of favoring adoption for their eldest. They would rather hand their eldest heir to another man, then stop bedding their wives and filling their house with unnecessary offspring.

  Canary brushed up against Marcus, momentarily breaking his reverie. “What are you brooding about?” she asked.

  Marcus smiled. He knew that it was his own weakness to desire a lowly and wanton young woman like Canary, who had no good blood in her veins, and a non-existent reputation besides what her beautiful and slender body provided to her.

  Before he could think of something impressive to say, Drusus barked next to him, a boisterous noise that hurt Marcus’ ears, and he realised Pater Cyril had found them, with arms raised to accept Drusus’ cheerful hug.

  “How are you, my boy! Excited?” Cyril asked. He appeared happy for Drusus, but Marcus noticed the way he looked askance at the imperious Temple of Baal: several nymph dancers in green leaf skirts lounged along ropes tied to the massive columns, and would occasionally shower passersby with jasmine flowers. Marcus followed Cyril’s gaze to the spearmen that lined the perimeter, well-disciplined, albeit young, but lethal nonetheless as they had a reputation for having twice the temperament of a militiaman with less laws holding them back. Marcus shared Cyril’s interest, but for different reasons. Auctoritas, Marcus thought. We are standing in a space that truly exudes power and influence.

  The Latin Mattabol had their clerks and laws and legal speak, and the Persian Gaddabol had their land and foreign connections, but the people’s heart and soul belonged to Baal in this city.

  The Lesser Temple of Belshamin benefited from the religious fervor, of course, but it had become more of a community center with social services, rather than a grand stage of divine providence. Almost every single man and woman in the city paid their dues to the Grand Temple in return for favourable fates.

  “They say the tournament entry days can only be held in something as large as the Temple of Baal,” Marcus whispered to Canary, “but I’m beginning to think there might be more to it.”

  “What?” Canary said, “I can’t hear you.”

  Marcus glanced at his friend, then decided the matter was a little too ruminant for someone like her, and instead commented on the heavy bull being prepared for slaughter. “Poor animal,” he said.

  “I know!” Canary cried. “I always hate this part.”

  Cyril finally noticed them and offered some kind words. He knew Marcus didn’t truly belong with the Belshamin youth but he’d taken him in nonetheless. “How is your father, Marcus?”

  Marcus shrugged. He neither knew nor cared how Atticus was. HIs father was an embarrassment to have around. Atticus always spoke down to Marcus, they never truly had a ‘conversation’ like actual human beings, so how was he to know how his father was doing? The old soldier had lived a life of public servitude that had gotten him nowhere, and now he had the gall to try and teach Marcus about life. Marcus had learned more from his time at Belshamin and the theater then he’d learned in a tutor’s private atrium.

  “How are you, Master?” Marcus asked him instead. “Is your leg still bothering you?”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine,” Cyril replied. “I couldn’t miss this, could I?”

  Marcus smiled politely. The old priest was simple-minded but loyal to a fault. He’d practically raised Drusus and Canary since they were toddlers; just two bare-footed orphans hiding from the rain behind the temple. Cyril had earned Marcus’ respect for that.

  Cyril and Drusus joined heads, discussing the collegium’s expectations and rules. All unranked fighters must have a patron. All unranked fighters had to dedicate their fight to Baal, a new rule. After entry, they had to wait around for the day to receive their potential match, and then approach the bookie a day before their fight to confirm they were still alive and healthy to fight. That last part showed Marcus that things were changing, and rapidly.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The first bracket had been nothing more than a few fights of no consequence, followed by the governor’s brawler Hurek putting on a good show against Baba Haza. The crowd had consisted mostly of Palmyrans, and relatively few foreign fighters had shown up. But since Flamma and Shams had arrived, and Suetonius himself had appeared and sponsored the tournament, the city had seen a constant influx of travelers, tourists and glory-seeking champions. To Marcus, the gambling market being set up to profit off of the successful tournament seemed like the next natural step, and whoever had thought of it knew what they were doing.

  It was probably Atia, Marcus thought. The High Priestess of Baal was an enigma. He remembered her when she was just a local Maazin pretty girl vying for a rich husband. Marcus had been young but still recalled the eventual wedding to the governor, Gaius Julius, and then the quick rise to High Priestess of Baal, which had been vacated under mysterious circumstances. Within a decade, this woman had captured enough power to declare a tournament that beckoned the Roman Emperor himself, along with the world’s greatest warriors. Not to mention, under her tutelage, Hurek had become the most fearsome and high ranked gladiator in Palmyra. Except for Flamma, of course.

  “Marcus, I’m headed in,” Drusus called after him. Marcus had wandered to the side of the temple in an attempt to find another entrance into the inner sanctums where Priestesses received patrons for important, and private, rituals. He only managed to find a couple of Baal priestess walking down the side corridor with packages of wrapped votive containers.

  “Good luck, brother,” Marcus said as he returned. They hugged, then Canary sighed, getting a little teary-eyed. “Derketo watch over you,” she mumbled into Drusus’ chest as they embraced.

  As Cyril chased after an excited Drusus inside the main chamber that was lined with Collegiate tables, Marcus and Canary retreated to the balcony that overlooked the crowded porticos. A corn seller offered them snacks and Marcus obliged, buying them both a cornet. Canary didn’t eat, though, she just held the steaming paper in her hand as she stared emptily over the jostling groups of fighters and their families.

  Her brown hair fell around her slender, long face in a mess of curls. It still sparkled with glitter and some red paint from the performance last night. Marcus had been mesmerized by her dance, which was more improvised than usual, but Canary had made every move seem intentional and perfect. “Do you remember?” Canary asked.

  Marcus blinked. He realised he’d missed what she just said. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “That play where Drusus played the clown slave of that senator? Do you remember?”

  Marcus didn’t, but he nodded nonetheless. “Somewhat,” he said, hoping she’d continue and fill him in.

  “He was supposed to be this… bumbling, stuttering fool of a boy… dressed in silly frills that Fabula had made in a fit of fancy,” Canary said as she smiled, her eyes glazed over the fond memory. “He danced a jig when he first appeared, then followed up on all these pranks on his master that would only backfire, and the crowd would laugh and laugh until they teared. And I was watching it all from the side curtains, and I remember hating it so much. I was only like… ten years old? And I couldn’t stand watching Drusus do that.”

  Marcus nodded, and said, “like a desecration.”

  Canary snapped her fingers at that, “Exactly!” she replied. “But why, though?”

  “He was your guardian, your rock, ever since you two had been on the road just fending for yourselves. You were looking at someone you loved and looked up to, only for them to be laughed at like a clown. It was all a performance, of course, but like you said, you were only ten and it didn’t sit right with you.”

  And just like that, Marcus had captured her whole, and she smiled at finally being understood or at least she was still thinking about her fond childhood with Drusus, but Marcus could pretend for a moment that they shared this connection completely between the two of them. Then Canary turned back to the temple’s chamber and shattered that illusion.

  Marcus sucked in his teeth and looked out towards the bobbing heads, sweaty, bald, turbaned, and imagined throwing rocks down on them one by one. Like throwing pebbles into the Agora ponds to plop onto the lilies pads.

  “Do you know what my only memory of my mother is?” Canary asked.

  Marcus took it as a challenge and racked his brain for the correct answer. Canary and Drusus’ mother had been sold off to a Greek magistrate years ago, and they’d had to live on in their slaver’s household as orphans. That would mean her last memory would have to be a goodbye of sorts, or maybe watching her depart: seeing her silhouette blur and disappear into the hazy glare of the sun as her wagon bumbled away.

  Her only memory could be something earlier, but considering how young Canary had been, Marcus figured the loss of a parent might elicit a more permanent image in her mind. “Was it… when she left?”

  Marcus bit his lip, and then felt the relief when Canary nodded, eyes still locked on the bustling temple archway. The bull had become agitated, the acolytes having some trouble keeping it contained, and it was slowly creating space for itself, pushing lines of temple goers into a packed line as far away from the animal as possible. It was a good thing Marcus and his friends had come earlier.

  “I just remember her holding Drusus’ hand, tightly, asking him to take care of me,” Canary said. “She kissed me on the forehead… and then she was gone.”

  “That’s tough,” Marcus said, still eyeing the bull. One of the acolytes had tried to grab the large animal by the testicles to try and rein it in, only to nearly get his head caved in by a kicking hoof. Fuck, Marcus thought, that would have been messy. It could have panicked the crowd and maybe even started a stampede.

  “We should get away from the balcony,” Marcus said, as he gently held Canary’s elbow and guided her away from the trapped space, and towards the peristyled veranda path that circled the holy building.

  Marcus’ thoughts returned to Atia as soon as they settled under a statue of Hygieia, the Greek goddess of healing, who stood connected to one of the columns, seemingly pouring out of the limestone and with a serpent that entwined around her outstretched hands. There were several other Greek gods placed around the temple at strategic points with their own votives. All gods, eastern and western, were united under Baal in Palmyra and so there were very few people that came into the city that felt alien or not represented in some way or another. That was another reason the city had grown so much in the past few years and why the tournament’s visitors filled the city streets like an overrun river.

  Canary was making some comments about the type of fighters that were entering, trying to judge their abilities or imprint them in her mind so she could recognize them and help Drusus with some information if needed. Marcus had eyes only for the path that led to the back of the Temple, where the High Priestess was said to hold private events and meetings with people that actually mattered in the city.

  From some rumors, and by rumors–the gossip from the brothers of certain priestesses–Marcus had heard that there was a midnight cult of Agribol that met and conducted dark rituals under the Temple. Marcus had always been aware of ghost stories and secret rituals surrounding the Baal priestesses, but after seeing Hurek, the governor’s brawler, suddenly turn into a rabid beast of supernatural strength, he knew Atia was up to something.

  The High Priestess had somehow gained the blessing of a god, perhaps Agribol himself, and was using the magic to enhance Hurek’s abilities. How else could he explain Hurek’s last performance? Marcus felt a wave of nausea thinking back to the fall of Shams, Flamma’s dear protege and a properly ranked primarch. The fight had begun like any other, especially with Hurek, who had a tendency to absorb a lot of damage before finding some sort of counter that turned the flow of battle. And yet, that moment had never come. There had been no specific technique or change of gameplan that Marcus could have seen from his view in the public bleachers. Instead, Hurek had been possessed with an otherworldly spirit that absorbed the worst strikes from Shams and then proceeded to rip the skin from the fighter’s face like it was nothing. The blood, the cries, the stark white bone of Shams’ skull flashing in the sun as the fighter convulsed on the ground… it was enough to keep Marcus awake in the night wondering; how had Atia achieved such a thing?

  Gods had always been entities that lived in the physical world in different forms, and aided humans in subtle and indirect ways. They moved the natural world around them, affected their very Fates, but Marcus had now seen proof that a human could truly channel a god’s strength from his own, mortal hands.

  “I think that’s them,” Canary pointed. Marcus leaned around the statue to find Drusus pushing himself out of the standing crowd under the archway, and then turned around to pull old Cyril out as well. Drusus didn’t have to search long for them as Canary called his name, hopped and waved her hands frantically. Several men gave her a second glance.

  The first thing Marcus noticed was Drusus’ blank face. He still carried himself with bravado, weaving his wide shoulders around the passing strangers, hands expertly guiding the swords at his hips. He was clearly trying to mask an emotion, and forcing himself to appear normal, for Drusus’ normal was everyone’s cheer. And he did not look cheerful.

  Cyril gave it away more easily. He anxiously dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a pocket cloth, eyes shifting around with concern as he hobbled behind his tall student.

  Canary was oblivious to it all, and she clapped her hands excitedly as they approached. “Well, that was quick,” she said. “Are you in?”

  “Oh, he's in alright,” Cyril remarked, and Drusus smiled for his stepsister’s sake, for she was already launching herself into his arms. Marcus felt a jolt of jealousy at that. She’d never hugged him like that. With that much force.

  “But something’s wrong,” Marcus voiced. “What happened?”

  Cyril gulped. Wiped his forehead again.

  Drusus waited for Canary to pull back and stare up at him, finally gleaning some concern. “What is it?”

  “They already had an opponent assigned to me,” Drusus replied slowly.

  “Alright, that’s good right?” Canary cut in. “We don’t have to wait around all day.”

  “Who is it?” Marcus asked, his heart suddenly bouncing with… something.

  “It’s a ranked fight,” Drusus continued.

  Could this be happening? Drusus, Marcus’ childhood friend, having reached a status that would put him among Rome’s primarch ladder of champions? Marcus had never given the prospect of this much glory more than a few, fanciful thoughts. He wasn’t even sure Drusus would want to continue fighting until he’d announced it over dinner some nights ago. But the uncertain expression on his friend’s face made Marcus lean in further to hear his next words.

  Drusus took a deep breath–here goes. “Looks like I’ll be fighting Hurek,” he said with a bemused chuckle.

  And just like that, Marcus’ chest burst into a torrent of battling emotions, his hand curled into a tight fist as his mind repeated harrowing images of Shams’ bloody face, and somewhere between it all, he felt his shame twirled around a twisted kind of hope.

  Screams rose up in front of the grand archway, and heads bobbed in panic, scattering every which way that didn’t make any sense to Marcus as he was still trying to wrap his head around Drusus’ news. Then he finally noticed the large white shape bullying its way through the rushing people; it swung its red-painted horns into bodies and flung them away like tossing straw-stuffed dolls. Acolytes rushed after the escaped bull as it thundered down the steps with surprising agility, and it only gained momentum as it reached the street and began a wild charge down Temple road.