If Hurek was free, he’d be enjoying the morning with a good run around the city, just as Cicero had mapped; from the Palace and into the oasis, up the dead road to the northern plains, then around the caravanserai, maybe a stop and a chat with the drovers, then back down south towards the Damascus gate and finally at the Charnel House where he’d stretch and wait for Cicero’s carriage to arrive so they could resume the rest of the training. The whole route ran over five thousand paces, and was enough to get Hurek’s heart going. He remembered a time where he’d nearly collapse by the end, but Cicero had pushed him to increase his stamina to new heights.

  If Hurek wasn’t imprisoned by Atia, he’d also find some time in the day to visit Ollia, get some meat on the way from the Madani as a gift, and then spend the evening helping Cicero with his politics and other chores he barely understood. He’d follow him nonetheless, answering his questions as best he could–which were becoming rare now that the old Roman had gotten a better grasp of Palmyra.

  But as the young brawler sat on his old, favorite stool, watching dust settle around the barricaded barracks, staring at the table in front of him, nicely prepared for his lone, late guest, he had to come to terms with what Atia had done to him. A prisoner, he thought. He was a prisoner, now.

  Hurek immediately fell into a set of pushups. Exercise always helped him process his emotions and thoughts. The more he had, the more he exercised. And today, he was nearing fifteen-hundred pushups.

  He felt the cold ground reach up to touch his nose, and his body reacted naturally, his arms pushing him back up, and again, and again, and again. Why had Atia imprisoned him? Why had Merula not visited him, yet? Why had his family not visited? Why has Cicero abandoned me?

  Hurek paused, then changed to situps to feel something else, but the same thoughts came flooding back. Cicero had been distant with him recently, more… aggressive and driven. Hurek feared the biographer was not the same man anymore, the inquisitive, honest-speaking priestly figure who reminded Hurek of his village elders from a lifetime ago. Sure, Cicero had his temper and his stubbornness, but it seemed he was slowly turning into a politician. A less than honest public figure like the town councilors and senators.

  Hurek began short sprints across the barracks, rushing down a well-trodden path where his bare feet had now scarred the rough floor after years of the same exercise. People change, he told himself. Hurek allowed it to happen, for people to come and go, anger him, please him, befriend him, attack him, it was all the same in the end when night fell and Hurek was lying staring up at the roof in his straw mattress. He was whole and accepted the world as it was, and as it was going to be. The sun rose every morning, he told himself, and people lost would eventually come back to find him. Except those who’ve died, Hurek thought, and he finally came to a stop, his chest heaving with the intense effort of the intense sprinting–which was meant to create an explosive ability to close the distance, and something he and his Nokchi brethren had trained since youth in the gymnasia.

  Many people believed Hurek possessed some sort of inhuman strength. Of course, now he did. But before Atia’s tonic had changed his body, and brought a strange presence that watched him from the shadows, before everything that had happened since Cicero had peeked into this barracks with his sweaty, flushed face, the Nokchi had always been considered giants among men. And it was true they had tall frames and wide shoulders, and yet Hurek knew their strength lay in their core; their bellies. Men that grew up with a normal life never trained their core. Even soldiers, so used to swinging and marching and building, never truly used their core until they were face to face with a screaming Gaul and forced to wrestle in the mud.

  Wrestling day in, day out, from such a young age, it prepared a man for the inevitable state of hand to hand combat; the ground game. When Hurek’s hands are wrapped around an opponent, and his legs are too focused on balance, he can use his torso to control an opponent; who more often than not had lean abs with little to no strength behind them. Even someone as heavily muscled as Brutus would get thrown around by Hurek. Please make it happen, Mars. Hurek prayed to the Roman god. He didn’t like praying to other gods except for the One God. But recent events had him doubting himself so much.

  The One God had given Hurek patience, humbleness, and peace of mind. And so he felt ashamed asking him for something dirty like revenge. He felt unworthy to walk the path of asha. It only made sense for him to whisper his impure thoughts to gods that Cicero ascribed to.

  Dear Cicero, why have you abandoned me?

  Hurek finally took a break from his sets, and slammed down the weights he was lifting, and rushed to finish the rest of his waterskin. There were only a few drops left, but if you squeezed tightly enough, you could get a drop or two more from the wet animal skin inside. He’d have to wait for the next meal to get it refilled. The only other source of water was a dirty trough where he washed off his sweaty face and body.

  Cicero was a busy man now, Hurek thought. He had a lot on his shoulders, and usually bore the brunt of Atia’s mood swings. Hurek was sure the old biographer had his reasons for not coming to see him or intervening on his behalf. He’d been locked up in the barracks for two nights now, with Atia only allowing a maid servant to bring him food and empty the chamber pot.

  Without Cicero for company, Hurek felt all the more alone. Being a fighting slave in the palace had been a lonely experience, and he often felt guilty for being a little ungrateful about it. After all, he was the most precious slave in Palmyra now that he was a ranked primarch. Hurek didn’t care much for all that glory. He just wanted to spend more time with his friends and family, and Cicero had been the closest thing to that in the palace.

  A shadow moved in the corner, catching Hurek’s attention. His heart skipped a beat. “Merula?” he called, studying the dark corner where he’d detected the movement. Merula had been the only one who could sneak inside the barracks to see him, and they spent the afternoons playing dice. She didn’t speak much, but neither did Hurek. They rolled their dice, Merula did something strange, Hurek laughed, and then they said their goodbyes and off she went, leaving Hurek in a better mood. She was late today, though, and that usually meant she might not show up at all.

  The dark silhouette in the corner began to grow as Hurek watched, seemingly sucking in light from around it. It grew larger until it matched Hurek’s size, pretending to be his shadow.

  “Go away,” Hurek snapped. The Fiend that possessed him had made itself into a shadow that now followed Hurek around, and it usually arrived when Hurek was thirsty or hungry. Hurek’s stomach grumbled in response and he turned away, trying his best to keep the hunger at bay by focusing on his journal.

  Drawing in a journal was one of Cicero’s three training tactics leading up to the next fight. The first was training pace, which Hurek did through running and other heart racing exercises, then the second priority was diet and rest, which was meant to help Hurek in the way of toughness as Cicero claimed, but the third priority, something Hurek still didn’t completely understand, was Cicero’s insistence on something called mushin. The word had been used by Baku over the years as a compliment, something the old brawler would say in passing to admire a fighter’s ability to find a counter or an opening. Cicero had become obsessed with it. Especially after the most recent fight with Shams, Cicero claimed that Hurek was on the cusp of raising his mushin, and thus finally making him an attack oriented fighter.

  Hurek didn’t much care for Cicero’s system or the way he saw things, but if it helped the old man get his head around the fight games, then so be it, Hurek would play along. Cicero had been correct many times, and his advice had so far been critical in winning his bouts.

  At the end of the day, it was Hurek’s trust in Cicero that made him plop down on his solitary stool, swipe the dice he’d laid out for Merula’s visit away, and take out his journal instead. His calloused fingers held the reed pen with care, as he was afraid his newfound strength would snap it in half if he wasn’t careful. The ink he’d been provided was drying out, and he used some of the trough water to make it runny, but eventually he managed to begin his drawings.

  According to Cicero, Hurek could channel his mushin by focusing on drawing things he wanted in life. He specifically requested Hurek to draw images that inspired power and fortune and then think about how he could get it by defeating opponents in the circle. But for today, Hurek just settled with drawing fruit.

  He began with watermelons, large ovals with squiggly lines in between, then added some grapes and their vines that trailed off. He tried his best not to fall into drawing a pile of nuts, since he felt it was a little derivative of himself.

  He kept adding fruits until he ran out of ideas, then he began making up his own, which was something Merula liked to do with foods; she made up her own imaginary meals and got Hurek excited about the prospect of feasting so much it would just leave the both of them salivating by the time their dice game was done.

  Just as he paused to reminisce about his young friend, a creak of heavy wood grabbed his attention. His head snapped to shutters that the little critter used to slip into the locked barracks. He didn't see her skinny frame blocking the light in between the beams, and instead the noise echoed again further down the empty yard, and the large, heavy doors that Atia kept barred, swung open. The sunlight that flooded in momentarily blinded him.

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  "Hurek," Atia called. She wore a chiton with an embroidered shawl that trailed behind her, and a couple maids held the corners up so it wouldn't drag. It was an outfit she wore for a ceremony, or receiving important guests. Hurek figured the latter, as she was accompanied by a reserved African noble with a retinue that closely surveyed the inside of the barracks as soon as their master followed Atia inside.

  Hurek noticed the man was wrapped in leopard fur and cloth and golden chains around his neck. He studied Hurek down his nose, his eyes squinting at the odd behavior. Atia barely glanced at the journal and the reed pen in his hands. Hurek could be playing the harp and she wouldn't think twice about it. To her, Hurek was like a prized piece of furniture that occasionally fought in the tournament. The attitude had its downsides, but Hurek's family mainly saw the benefits of a cushioned life as a palace slave. They didn't know she was keeping him locked in the barracks like a dog she was afraid to lose.

  Hurek didn't bother getting up. He was already at eye level with her. Instead, he set the reed pen down as his reply and watched the strange men politely. They looked hostile, but their skin was clean and shiny. What soap did they use?

  Atia whipped around and faced the noble, while her maids scurried to align themselves and almost tripped over each other. Hurek matched the noble’s stare until the man clicked his tongue in displeasure and complained to Atia.

  “They don’t make them like this in Numidia,” Atia said. Hands on her hips, she continued reciting Hurek’s achievements, starting all the way from his first backyard brawl when he was still training under Baku in his teens. The governor hadn’t purchased him from Matanai until he was eighteen and had built up a good reputation with the local gamblers.

  In a way, both Atia and he were purchased and sold, as he was part of a dowry payment from Matanai to Governor Gaius Julius in exchange for his niece Atia’s hand in marriage. And now here they both were, risen in rank and stature in their own ways years later. Though only Atia had the freedom of choice.

  When Atia finished, Hurek wondered whether he was being sold again or not, but the Numidian nobleman’s defensive reaction seemed to undercut that. He pointed to one of his men: a muscle-head with linen wraps around his wrists, a leather skirt and a quiver of javelins sticking over his big shoulders.

  Hurek sighed. He finally knew what was going on, despite the Latin that was being spoken between the two politicians. It always began like this. They’d probably been discussing politics and the conversation eventually led to showing off their power and property, and finally, as the governor was inclined to do, show off Hurek as the greatest champion. The guest would feel slighted and challenge the bravado with his own, usually offering someone from his retinue to test the claim. Atia sat on her husband’s throne with just as much ego, if not more.

  The javelin warrior raised his brows with a bored expression, which created folds all the way up his bald head. He spared Hurek a glance, scoffed, then shared a smile with his brothers, who were openly gesturing at Hurek with comments in their language.

  “Stand up,” Atia commanded. Hurek finally moved the table aside and kicked away his stool. He matched their height, though they were fairly tall men. Septimus would have towered over them still, Hurek thought fondly.

  As the two patricians went back and forth, Hurek didn't bother waiting around for the inevitable conclusion to the conversation, and began his preparation by stretching his limbs and rotating his ankles. He cracked his neck a few times, his knuckles some more, which were loud enough to elicit a scowl from the watching Numidians, and the larger warrior suddenly felt provoked. He began yelling obscenities in what Hurek figured was even more broken Latin than his own. Either that or a dialect he had no way of understanding. His hand gestures made his intentions clear, though.

  Hurek held up his own hands, showing the anxious warrior his palms in defense to calm him down. Atia finally said the words that proved Hurek's prophecy. With a swift agreement from the Numidian noble, Hurek found himself watching the series of events he had already played out in his mind; the Numidians cheered for their brother as he was ordered by his liege to fight Hurek. The man nodded, then loosened his limbs just as Hurek had done. He shed unnecessary accessories, and thankfully his javelins too. Hurek didn't want to see blood, neither his nor his opponent's. Not with his shadow watching.

  As if in queue to his sudden anxiety, Atia pushed a vial in his hands. "Drink this, dear," she said and promptly glided over to the stool the servants had arranged for her. Hurek stared down at the red tonic, his tongue caught in his throat and lips suddenly feeling dry. He gulped, already imagining the ironic taste flowing down his throat and the feeling of lightning in his veins. At this point, Hurek knew this was not just goat's blood and milk. Atia had woven dark magic into this liquid, for it didn't make sense to him why he wanted it so much. Every part of his rational mind screamed at him to toss the glass bottle away. But his body craved it, more than anything else it had ever wanted. A visceral reaction, similar to a lost, thirsty man coming up on a cold, groundwater spring.

  Except this drink would empower the Fiend's shadow to change places with him. It would reach out, grab his soul, and wrench it away and out of his body. Then he would helplessly watch as the Fiend ripped and clawed at human flesh for another taste of...

  Hurek dropped the vial. It was human blood, he realized. Atia was feeding him human blood. The glass bottle clattered to the dirt floor without breaking and rolled away. But before he could face his mistress again, the air from his lungs escaped him and his world turned upside down.

  The Numidian warrior had tackled him. He drove his shoulder into Hurek's gut and his arms were already wrapping around Hurek's hips. There was no time to think, but thankfully Hurek didn't need to, as they fell into a scramble that catered to Hurek's muscle memory, and his body moved like a knife through butter. He twisted his hips out, arms digging under the Numidian's armpits and wrenching him away. The warrior went for the ankles instead, but that only gave Hurek the opportunity to hop up and take the man's back.

  From there it should have been an easy transition into a chokehold, maybe even put the bastard to sleep, but the warrior must have had some experience because he was doing what many other professional fighters failed to do: fight Hurek's hands.

  A warrior’s instincts were always to stay balanced on his feet. When thrown around, he would use both his hands to push himself back up. But once he faced a grappler like Hurek, that was the most dangerous thing you could do, because once he ignored Hurek’s hands, he would quickly find them wrapped under his chin, with his forearm collapsing the veins in his neck.

  The Numidian must have known that. He kept a vice-like grip on Hurek’s wrists, no matter where he led them. Slowly, the man climbed to his feet, with just as much balance as a wrestler from the gymnasia.

  He smelled like sesame seed, and fish. Hurek took a deep breath as he prepared to launch the man across the floor. The Numidian tangled his feet around Hurek’s leg, preventing anything of the sort and finally earning Hurek’s respect.

  Besides being impressed, Hurek was excited. How long had it been since he’d sparred with someone other than Atia’s young Temple thugs? Even those boys had disappeared as he hadn’t seen them around as of late, at least not around the barracks.

  Hurek quit trying to throw the Numidian around like a ragdoll, and instead focused on the technique, which the man complimented naturally. After a series of back and forths and reversals and half-pins unable to be finished due to the sweat and oil, Hurek decided to test the man in a different manner: the clinch and some fist-fighting.

  He wrenched the man’s neck down as he stood and tried to throw in a few knees to keep his hands busy. Hurek planned to disengage and deliver his signature hook that often caught an opponent unaware during the escape. But the Numidian’s next action sent a jolt of pain and shock shooting up Hurek’s left arm and leaving it numb.

  “You bit me!” Hurek snarled. He spoke Persian, and since his opponent didn’t understand, Hurek carried his anger through physically as he shoved him away.

  The power he then put into the hook was more than he’d planned, but definitely as much as he’d intended. The visceral, and instantaneous rage that filled him suddenly didn’t feel his own. The smack of Hurek’s knuckles against the chin, the crunch of the man’s jaw as it broke, and even the spit, blood, and teeth that splattered on his skin; Hurek felt none of it.

  For someone who embraced the flow and rhythm of the fight, who accepted the world moving second by second into change, Hurek panicked at the intrusive feeling spreading across his body. He stared down at the limp, crumpled body of the man he was fighting seconds ago; who’d hurt him?

  “No, no, no,” Hurek whispered, willing himself to step back, finding that he couldn’t. He was rooted on the spot. His fists shook, there was a chipped tooth still stuck to his knuckle.

  And there were voices. Deep, strange voices in stranger tongues that grew until tall shadows surrounded him, and they brought a strong scent of sesame oil. Some knelt over their fallen brother. Others continued to yell at Hurek. But he didn’t feel their shoves, or even when they spat on his face and kicked his shins. They were angry, and possibly humiliated at their brother’s loss, and Hurek’s stunned silence only emboldened them.

  The unfamiliar bloodlust was building inside Hurek again, this time for the sweaty, oily flesh all around him. Hurek found he could still control his eyes. And he searched desperately for Atia, who still sat on her stool, legs crossed, returning her gaze so calmly that for a moment he questioned himself, that maybe this was all just a dream,a nightmare, and that if he wanted to, he could just close his eyes and channel every ounce of his willpower to wake himself up.

  ***

  Hurek did finally wake. Dust motes floated in front of his blurry vision like fireflies, blinking in and out of existence as they crossed the rays of the setting sun. Soft hands caressed his face, accompanied by Atia’s gentle words. “Oh, Hurek. I am so proud of you, my holy companion. Look how far we’ve come.”

  He still felt a coldness in his limbs, but at least he could move them of his own accord, albeit like wading through muddy water. “The men… they were attacking me,” he said.

  Atia understood Persian, but she pretended not to hear him. She reached for something out of his view, and when she brought it to his lips, he caught a whiff of stale blood.

  “No,” he croaked, and turned his lips away. But Atia was persistent. The glass vial followed his dry lips, and Atia leaned closer to say, “you have to, Hurek. We should not reject Agribol’s blessing.”

  Hurek relented; he was so, so thirsty, and his body tensed anxiously when a drop fell on his lips. He took the vial from his mistress’ small hands, and gulped the rest of the vile liquid down out of pure, stomach-wrenching thirst.

  When he’d finished, he made to throw the bottle away, and quickly realised his hands were empty. The bottle lay discarded and empty some few feet away. Atia was nowhere to be found. Had he lost track of time?

  “Oh, Ahura, deliver me,” Hurek begged. “Great Lord!”

  He slowly climbed to his feet and felt the ground give. It was wet, and muddy. The stench of iron and meat made the barracks into a butcher’s shop. With increasing horror, Hurek discovered the wet dirt squelching under his feet, and getting between his toes, was filled with coagulated blood. Some feet away, mounds of pink flesh littered the ground, and in the fading moonlight, he could make out an entire human arm, fingers still wrapped around a broken javelin.