“I’m sorry, sir, but you just cannot be slapping beggars anymore,” Diram said, his voice unusually strained.

  “I did not slap them,” I replied weakly.

  “We would hate to lose you at this time,” Diram continued. He flipped through his papers with a serious expression. I wasn’t exactly sure how serious the issue was, considering Diram ate his morning biscuits with that same expression.

  “I swear by Mars, it was them,” I continued, painfully aware how ridiculous I sounded. The whole affair was laughable to begin with. I’d only missed a couple days in office, and the populace was already at my throat. More specifically the Beggar Union; apparently the wretches had a whole committee that met once a month, like a gang of Barbary pirates getting together to discuss their spoils and future plans of thievery. It was true, I detested them all. And the feeling was mutual, for they’d put up an emergency meeting to discuss my supposed harassment and eventual spar with two of their brethren, though I’d failed to see how they could hold any sway in civilised society. Of all the enemies I’d expected to make, these were truly a shock.

  “Honestly, I don’t even know why we’re giving them the pleasure of our attention. It’s what they want,” I finished.

  “They voted you into second place in the Ostrakot vote,” Diram replied.

  “Ah…”

  My throat suddenly felt dry. Mar’s balls, that would have been a problem.

  The aspiring Greeks of Palmyra had enforced the tradition of ostracising on a yearly basis; the process of choosing one member of society and exiling them for several years, their only fault being their own popularity. Or infamy, in my case.

  “Who won the vote?” I asked out of morbid curiosity.

  “Ibn Arabi,” Diram noted. “A local philosopher. He was trying out a new perfume recently and everyone hated it.”

  “Dear gods,” I whispered.

  “He was pushed out the gates this morning. But the beggars union had gathered enough votes to set you up as runner up.”

  “What was the perfume?” I asked, and the answer came from Cassius Longinus, who’d burst into the city office followed by a cloud of dust and the cacophony of the Forum in the morning.

  “Essence of camel,” he said dryly.

  “That’ll do it,” I said. My spirits lifted a little at the intrusion. Too much time with Diram alone made the room feel smaller. “You’re looking nice today.” I pointed to Cassius’ clean toga, the absence of his crumpled clerical black robes, and even the beard that looked well-trimmed and combed for once.

  “Aren’t you coming to the theater?” Cassius asked. “There is a ribbon cutting ceremony for the construction project. The Baal Priestesses are already there. You should show your face too.” Then after a pause, Cassius furrowed his brow and asked, “Where is Hurek? He’s always with you.”

  That last question soured my mood again, and I turned to Diram. “Well? Do I have your leave?”

  Diram was already in a panic, noted by the slightly wider eyes and more frantic ruffling. “Oh! You’re supposed to have been there already, I am so sorry, Master,” he said.

  I didn’t hold anything against him for the oversight. After all, I’d taken some days off. Maybe I could hire him some more clerks to help around here, or borrow some from the Basilica. Cassius wouldn’t mind.

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” I said, and climbed to my feet, at which my joints responded by popping loudly. “I need to regulate my humors, anyways.”

  The Forum was loud and as crowded as it’d been since before the riot. My militia, as lean as it was, still patrolled the market square but I’d told them to leave their spears in the barracks armory for some days. Clubs were more efficient for civilians, and less of a chore to handle. Besides, I wanted to send a different message under my term; one that said: I’m not going to kill you and put your heads on spikes. Promise.

  That one-handed beggar wasn’t too pleased to see me. We exchanged dirty looks as I descended the office porch. He didn’t say anything, though, eyes flicking to Cassius and Diram.

  I was quickly backed by Gaius Merkov and Marcellus the blacksmith’s apprentice lad, both of whom noticed my exit and fell in step behind me.

  Along with a couple of Cassius’ own young clerks, we made for a noticeable retinue that managed to push and pull the crowd with ease. It felt new and exciting to be the center of it all. Every vendor, caravaner, citizen, and even a few patricians on a morning stroll vaguely nodded in our direction, and when their eyes met mine, they lowered their gaze. My chin kept rising and everyone else’s lowered. Maybe my past self would have been intimidated by the stature I’d gained, but I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. I would give it all up for another chance to walk with Hurek.

  Our group paused by the intersection of the pond and Temple road. A herd of sheep had funneled into the square and were taking their time following the shepherd out. What in purgatory was an entire herd of sheep doing in the dead center of the city? Maybe Hurek would know.

  ***

  Being away from Ollia for a bit allowed me to think clearly about letting Gaius and Marcellus compete. There was just so much to gain from it, especially for the family. Matanai had quickly jumped at the chance of having his slave compete in a ranked match in the next bracket. The Kai brothers, the brick kiln managers, were not too keen on losing a laborer, a Nokchi one at that, so naturally I had to grease their palms as well. But even after sharing the spoils of a win with the two parties, Gaius and I would walk away with almost two hundred denarii if he won. That would easily get the Merkov’s a roofed shelter and help my office with its budgeting issues.

  “So that’s what I was thinking, I try to take his back since Brutus likes to rush forward,” Gaius continued, and I realized I’d missed half of what he was saying. It didn’t matter, since I’d decided to match him up against Ibn Ghassan anyways.

  “You won’t be fighting Brutus,” I replied.

  “What!” Gaius snapped, and his hand reached out to grab me by the elbow. I quickly matched his glare, hoping he’d get the message. I didn’t want to take my arm away myself as it would look bad and I would certainly have to punish Gaius for putting his hands on a citizen, much less a city official. Most slaves got whipped for just raising their voice, or even not lowering their gaze in time.

  Thankfully, blood must have rushed back into the fool’s brain for he took his hand away and pretended he was just raising it to cover a cough. He glanced nervously at the Basilica magistrate and mumbled an apology as he lowered his gaze.

  “You won’t be fighting Brutus,” I began once more, “because I need you to fight Ibn Ghassan instead. Your friend Marcellus will be fighting Brutus.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gaius protested.

  “You will, soon enough.”

  The square had cleared, and I turned to follow Cassius’ retinue before the crowd took me another way, or Jupiter forbid, another herd of livestock blocked our path. To his credit, Gaius swallowed his complaints and marched ahead to create space for me, and Marcellus brought up the rear, watching for anyone getting too close with a sharp object. It should have made me nervous, being a target of assault as a public official, one with many enemies already, but after nearly losing my life that night at the palace, a public stroll felt benign.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  I found myself staring at the back of Gaius’ head, wrapped in a sweatband that was already drenched and dirty. I’d had the two boys run around the city at first light just like Hurek. Not that Gaius needed the pace and resolve training, but with my recent changes, it would do them well to be prepared. A tournament fight was now three rounds, five minutes each. Everyone had loved the idea, who wouldn’t want more violence? For myself, it was a tactical advantage that would give me the opportunity to speak with my fighters at least twice during the bout–after the first and second round. I just hoped it didn’t handicap Hurek, who’d historically suffered from drawn out fights.

  Can’t worry about that now, I repeated to myself. I had to focus on Gaius and Marcellus. The two youths were a challenging play. Posca had managed to get some notes from the collegium on Gaius’ first bout, since I hadn’t seen him fight myself, but even a quick glance at his performance and the gossip that surrounded the lean Nokchi, it was clear that he would be a terrible matchup with Brutus. Gaius felt comfortable in loose clothing, wielding daggers or shortswords, and won his first fight hopping in and out of range. His opponent had been aggressive and the fight had been a dirty one, but Gaius had managed to cut up the man enough for a surrender. His speed dominated. I could rate his perception based on how he handled the aggressive man’s assault, and along with a resolute mindset that grounded him onwards to a win, meant that I could rely on his resolve.

  Every other skill in my fighting system, I’d rated based on our morning training. We’d gone to the gymnasia and found that while he had his cousin Hurek’s core strength and natural muscles, he was simply too skinny to be considered elite strength above seventy. Perhaps with age he might get some girth and fat to impose himself on an opponent, but for now his fighting style was that of a lanky warrior that relied on closing the distance, countering and possibly feinting. That last ability allowed me to rank his mushin very well, but again, time would tell if it would cross into elite territory.

  As for reach, abysmal. He insisted on using short swords. Two of them, for Jupiter’s sake! And while he could be aggressive when he wanted to be, he was no Baba Haza. Eventually, he reverted to using his speed, and did really well putting on the pace. Both skills I considered elite, with pace halfway to peak proficiency towards eighty, and I hoped that my stamina training, and some mental exercises would push both his pace and resolve into peak proficiency come fight day.

  I’d compared his ratings with my previous understanding of Brutus, and it just didn’t make sense. Brutus’ defensive realm was almost as strong as Hurek’s, with toughness and resolve in peak territory, with good armour, and near-elite form. I could see the fight in my mind already: with Brutus rushing in with his aggression, Gaius trying to clinch with him like Septimus, and failing due to his middling strength, and even his mushin strikes only landing on Brutus’ shield or well-armoured torso. A shortsword allowed for good striking in close distance, but how well could it pierce Brutus’ armour before the brute caved Gaius’ head in with his hammer?

  “You alright, sir?” Marcellus said. I felt his arm steady me across the shoulder as I wavered. I’d suddenly felt a wave of nausea and dizziness, sending me tripping over my sandals and nearly falling into a pottery cart. Now that would have been a mess, I thought to myself.

  “I’m fine,” I snapped, “is it always so bloody hot during the summer?”

  Marcellus chuckled and offered me his waterskin. I declined.

  The truth was that my mind had suddenly been flooded by memories of Septimus’ ruined face. Not everyone had had the misfortune of witnessing that up close, and in a drunken state too, for that matter. I’d emptied my bowels right there in the dirt, and was ready to do it again now in front of my constituents.

  Not again. Never again. What happened with Septimus and Jiri was my responsibility. I should have known better. I should have done something to avoid both their deaths. The least I could do now was be very careful with Gaius. And if I was honest with myself, Gaius simply didn’t have the attack realm to challenge Brutus in any meaningful way. Brutus’ main weaknesses were his lack of perception, and maybe reflexes. He was a very tunneled vision fighter, but to take advantage of that, Gaius would definitely need to rely on his aggression, his strength would need to hold up and maintain control in the clinch, and in the close distance of a brawl that it would eventually become, he would need multiple strikes in an unpredictable manner–which went full circle back to aggression.

  “How do you feel about the next bracket, Marcellus?” I asked the blacksmith boy. His face hardened immediately. We’d come to the corner of Temple road and the Persian thoroughfare, a market lined alley network decorated with the richest textiles in Palmyra, and that led to the heart of the Persian quarter that hugged the southern walls of the city. Cassius and his men became distracted with a prayer group in front of an ancient looking apartment building. Clothesline hung over the square, the damp clothes creating a cool shade over the lot of us. It was as good a place as any to take a breather and corner Marcellus, who was apt at small talk and ending conversations before they got too deep.

  “Well?” I asked, turning fully on Marcellus. Gaius made an attempt to answer for his friend but I gestured for the Nokchi to watch our backs instead. Frowning, but he did that anyway, Gaius crossed his arms and looked away.

  “Well, what?” Marcellus replied dumbly.

  “Well, you know what,” I replied.

  “Well, I don’t know what,” the stubborn youth continued.

  I sighed. “Listen, Marcus–

  “Marcellus.”

  “Whatever,” I said and continued, “I’ve decided to place you in front of Brutus instead, and you’ve been treating the whole thing like a distraction. I heard you quit running this morning and went home first before coming to the Forum.”

  “My ma needed some milk, I had to stop by–

  I grabbed Marcellus by the collar of his leather vest and tried to shake him. I might as well have tried to move the wall as I ended up just jerking my own body awkwardly. “You have to get your head out of the clouds, Marcus. You’ll be fighting for your life in less than a week, and I believe you are the best person for the job.”

  Except I didn’t, I thought. There was one skill that Marcellus seemed to lack, at least for now, and that was resolve. How did Hurek do it? How did Hurek have such high resolve? I’d never seen Hurek give up or relent or get distracted at all. He would die before quitting, from small things to larger struggles. Marcellus on the other hand, seemed like he wasn’t really into the fight game. Not like Gaius. Especially when I mentioned Brutus.

  Resolve and aggression were skills of the mental realm, completely, from what I understood. Something like pace was a hybrid skill of mental and the physical, but I could surmise that to increase a skill such as resolve, it would have to be a mental effort on Marcellus’ part. I’d pushed Hurek to keep a similar journal about his hopes and dreams, the aggressive kind, and meditate on them, but for Marcellus’ resolve I would have to focus on fear. If the kid didn’t feel moved by the prospect of coin or glory, then perhaps his fear of loss would do the trick. He was a free man of youth, family, and future prospects of craftsmanship, children… a fuller life than any given slave fighter. He had much to lose, and once he realised that, I hoped he would have the resolve to weather Brutus’ assault. At the very least, survive.

  The only thing remaining was for me to get a better handle on his lesser known skills to me, which Diram had been very thorough in digging up. Marcellus’ first fight in the tournament had been a light skirmish, both combatants being defense oriented, and the crowd had ended booing them even, but there had been enough action for Atia’s clerks to mark down some notes for me back then.

  “Master, please, come help!” Fabula cried. I shook myself from my reverie to realise I was standing awkwardly in the middle of the square, with a wet towel directly above me dripping water on my shoulder. I joined my company quickly, nodding respectfully to the Priestess of Baal, a curly-haired youth that had an energetic way about her, and of course Fabula, the director of the theater. What was he up to now?

  “Aren’t you supposed to be hosting the construction ceremony?” I asked him. “We were headed there ourselves.”

  “Nevermind that,” Fabula replied. “I need you to help my dear, and sorely estranged protege, Lester.”

  I looked around and didn’t see anybody. Then a mousey voice from a second-story balcony called out, “Is that the city master?”

  A stout man peered his bald head over the iron-railings. The little hair he had left shot out in tufts around his ears and his large eyes looked panic-stricken as they surveyed the square below.

  “Yes, Master Cicero himself has come to ease your worries,” Fabula cried out. He motioned to me as if introducing one of his actors to a crowd.