Is there anything lower than planning to vie for another man’s post at his own funeral? My own little attempt at veni, vidi, vici. Maybe it was partaking in a ceremony that would see a poor woman sacrificed like an animal above her master’s grave, followed by a bunch of old men tossing black beans into their grave.

  I watched Cato’s funeral proceed with my best, somber frown that I had been practicing since morning and it was permanently stuck on my face by the afternoon. It was easy to keep up, at least. All the Paters of the noble families congregated around Cato’s grave with similar frowns–not as good as mine–and their womenfolk and slaves hung back, some wailed, while others watched with barely held back horror at the two former concubines of Cato that had “volunteered” to be sacrificed in order to join their former master in the afterlife.

  And in the midst of it all, standing chest out, was High Priestess Atia in a chiton of gold and white and wearing a crown I hadn’t seen before. Her dagger, though, I recognized. She shot me a look that said: What are you looking at?

  I blinked, switching my stare to the sacrificial lambs behind her; they wore stark white robes that would no doubt bring out the crimson of their impending death. Their skin was pale too, and one of them held a bell which she rang again and again but not of her own accord. Her hands trembled with fear.

  The sound accompanied a procession of pallbearers, Cato’s male relatives, as they carried their Pater’s body through a crowd of Latin mourners and other citizens in black togas. It was perhaps the largest congregation of Roman folk I’d seen since arriving at Palmyra. But the cracked earth, the blazing sun, and the countless Persian tombs that dotted the northern graveyard betrayed that feeling of familiarity. I was still at the edge of the civilization I’d grown up in.

  As the body was lowered into the stone coffin that would eventually be pushed inside the Mattabol family tomb, a wiry man of greying short hair and black-on-red robes stepped forward and addressed the crowd. Cataline, Cato’s younger brother and now the Pater of the Mattabol clan.

  He began his speech by praising Roman gods, not Palmyrene, and I could see some displeased faces from the Maazin clansmen, and especially Atia, who raised her chin higher as if to rise above Cataline’s words. Cataline quoted some traditional verses, some stoic lines that I connected with. He eerily reminded me of my father, and I held back a shudder.

  “Death is nothing to him who has died, it only pains those around him,” Cataline said.

  A man I faintly recognized brushed up next to me and whispered, “Much like a man’s stupidity.”

  My frown faltered, and I covered my snicker with a fake cough. Fabulous Fabula grinned next to me, looking oddly normal in a black toga. I remembered him; he was the director of the theater and usually in colorful robes and even more vibrant hair. Today, he’d chosen a more subdued look. I was going to ask him what he was doing here, but I noticed the flute in his hand.

  “You’re the piper today?” I asked.

  Fabula nodded.

  “Not a fan of our city master, then?” I said.

  “He was as useless as a puppet could be,” Fabula muttered.

  Cataline ended his speech with a prayer, and Fabula took that as a signal to continue forward, raising his flute and taking a place beside the coffin. His melody accompanied a line of male patricians as they took turns tossing black beans into the former city master’s final resting place.

  I chewed over Fabula’s words in my mind. Of course, I expected Cato’s reputation to lower the prestige of his title. After all, he was just an extension of the Mattabol clan, a puppet of the Senate, with some oversight on the day to day city matters. Cataline would replace him in the high council that consisted of all the major clan paters, and Atia.

  But it all played nicely into my plans. The city master title seemed weak and inconsequential to most eyes, and yet, it would bring me significant influence over the tournament. While the Senate approved the budget of the brackets, and Atia signed off on it in the Governor's absence, it had been Cato who oversaw the daily duties of the tournament priests. It had been Cato who drew up policies that affected the daily budget and procedures. Seemingly mundane, but in the right hands, these policies could change the entire function of the event. Cato had also the power to substitute Suetonius’ matchmaking in the historian’s absence, meaning I would no longer have to create fraudulent letters and announcements from the dead man.

  I took a deep breath and reinforced my frown, for I was sure that I’d begun grinning somewhere along the way. And why is it so hot?

  Thankfully, Hurek was with me, and he cast a long shadow, which he also wore on his face. I knew he’d be grieving still for his Merkov cousin, but there was something else in his eyes too. I should have been worried about it. But after seeing his strength surpass human capabilities… perhaps he was evolving for the better? After all, I’d been praying for something concrete to rely on, and Mars had gifted him both aggression and strength.

  His daily training had confirmed it. The third bracket hadn’t been finalized, but I’d made sure Hurek woke up every day to run a full circle around the city at least once, starting from the Charnel House. He’d lost every grain of fat since I’d met him–not that it was many grains to begin with. After the stamina training, I’d let him wrestle a few friends and family until noon, then he’d return to the Palace barracks for specific training based on technique or specific plans I’d had for him. Since the main threat right now seemed to be Brutus or Haza all over again, I was having Hurek maintain his grappling prowess and reflexes. That meant more focus on wrestling, lifting weights, and dodging stones that Captain Yaresh would throw at him. All in all, I’d increased his rating for strength to be above what I consider humanly possible, and I felt justified in the rest of his ratings going into the third bracket. As for specific techniques and my plans for the duel itself, I had to figure out who his next opponent would be. And I couldn’t control that unless I pretended to speak for Suetonius again, or I somehow convinced a clan Pater to back me as the new city master.

  Hurek licked his lips. His stare seemed empty, his mind turned inward, possibly reliving his memory of Atia’s energy tonic; the liquid that for certain contained Layla’s blood. I was sure of it. And yet, I’d done nothing to question it further. When the time came for him to drink it again before his next bout, would I prevent it? Would I protect Hurek from that cursed tonic? The little grey man inside my head gave no answer either way.

  Cataline had stepped forward again, and was addressing other Paters, all lofty praises and gratitude for their support. It seemed like an extension of a speech he’d given many times in front of his Senate brethren. I nodded along, absently, until small hands tugged at my robes.

  It was Merula. She’d developed a habit of popping up beside me when I least expected it. I was worried she was running away from her new home with Hurek’s cousins, the Merkovs. But Ollia had assured me that she stayed close to Paco and the other children. The “other” children of the slums were on a loose leash, though, left to wander around the city while their parents slaved away most of the day.

  “Good day, mango,” I said, using Hurek’s nickname for the former child servant. “Where’s Paco?”

  Merula shrugged, then gestured for me to come closer. When I leaned in, she spoke in a tiny voice which I was surprised to hear was rather coherent. Her question was…

  “How many chickens would it take to beat a lion?”

  I straightened, my frown intact. “How many chickens to fell a lion, eh? I’m not sure. Do the chickens have murderous intent?”

  Hurek had heard the question as well. “What type chicken?” he asked.

  “What do you mean what type chicken?” I said.

  Hurek shrugged. “Chicken from my village, very strong,” he said.

  “You are saying that Nokchi chickens have a noticeable advantage against a lion, compared to other chickens?”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Hurek thought for a moment, perhaps trying to translate my Latin. He’d gotten much better with his communication since we’d first met. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “That’s absurd!” I said, a little too loudly. A few mourners shot me a pointed look and I lowered my voice to a hiss. “Well, how many then?” I challenged him.

  "Ten chicken," Hurek replied, but then he shook his head. "No, no... eleven." He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied with whatever brawl he was envisioning in his mind.

  "That's ridiculous," I whispered. "Completely delusional. It just... how would they even break through the hide?"

  "My village-"

  "Please, no more about your hill barn chickens,” I cut in, “or I'm going to jump in there with Cato myself. It's simply not possible." I looked towards Merula, who was watching our exchange with barely held back excitement. "And you, mango, do you think chickens can beat a lion?"

  She nodded.

  Hurek offered her a clap behind me. "Smart mango," he said.

  "How many then?" I said as I played along, while carefully returning my gaze to the somber ceremony. Cataline was accepting personal condolences from a long line of patricians.

  "One chicken," Merula said, raising a finger.

  "Just the one?"

  "Yes," she replied. "Because the chicken is poisoned!"

  I snorted. "So it was a riddle, then."

  The ringing came to an abrupt stop, and I found Atia ushering along the sacrificial slave-women to be prepared once more. Apparently their tears had ruined their makeup and it was being re-applied by some Priestesses. My frown turned to a scowl, and the little grey man inside my head decided to do something for once.

  "Hurek," I said, "Can you do me a favor?"

  The fighter leaned closer in response.

  "Can you punch someone for me?" I asked, watching Hurek's furry brow pinch in confusion. I continued, "I am going to go speak with Matanai, and in the meantime, I need you to go find someone you really hate, and break their nose. Understood?"

  Hurek straightened, and he stared ahead for a moment. I kept up my appearance as well, calmly watching Fabula as the man swayed to his own tune. I was afraid that the Nokchi would deny the request but then he grunted, "yes."

  "And Merula," I said, my hand touching her shoulder. "You see those two slave-women?"

  The girl followed my discreet nod. "I punch them too?" she asked.

  "No," I replied, "When the fight happens, I need you to take their hand and guide them to my carriage. Hide them inside and tell Captain Yaresh to guard the door." It was probably a risk to use Atia's own spear captain as a part of my little trafficking attempt, but the man would hopefully think it was all official business.

  With Merula and Hurek bounding off to their positions, I slowly pulled back from view, and slid along the edge of the funeral until I spotted Matanai's retinue. The man himself sat on a wooden stool, accompanied by his manservant, and watched the ceremony with barely held back boredom. As the head of a rival clan, I didn't expect him to approach Cataline like the other Senators.

  I slipped past his spear-guard easily enough, with most of it composed of Temple boys that inter-mingled between Atia’s and other Maazin clansmen’s retinue. They offered me a respectful nod, as was my right as the royal biographer of the increasingly imaginary governor of Palmyra. He exists in our hearts, someone had said as a jest once at a dinner party I’d been invited to.

  Of course, people knew how Atia treated me like a plaything behind closed doors. But who was truly spared from her antics? Her uncle was probably immune to it, and he stared at me curiously as I approached. I would be the most interesting thing to happen to him today.

  “Lord Matanai,” I said, offering a curt bow befitting his station.

  “What do you want, Cicero?” Matanai said. He fanned himself with an unfurled scroll.

  I knew that I wasn’t going to catch Matanai off guard. After all, I’d given him no sign that I was interested in him before. Approaching him in a public setting like this only meant I needed something from him. The dice has rolled, but it still needs to settle.

  “Do you see them?” I nodded to Cataline and his family, “Pretending to be Roman?” I didn’t care much that Matanai could see through my mask. Working for patricians all my life had taught me that politics was a mutual war. And as ruthless as it could be, it was a test of our ability to play our role adeptly and without faltering. Shame had no place in it. Honesty had no place in it.

  The most accomplished dictator was one who could present a donkey at the Forum and tell everyone it was a Nicaean mare. And everyone would know it was a donkey, and they would still nod their heads and praise the man for his taste. Such was the world I’d left behind.

  “How much Latin blood does the Mattabol really have?” I continued, shaking my head. “They cling to our gods, and in turn insult yours.”

  Matanai chuckled. “Somewhere along the way a Roman bedded one of us. And now we have this,” he waved loosely in Cataline’s direction.

  “You ask what I want,” I said, improvising my speech a little bit. “Well, I want Baal’s blessing in the tournament.”

  Matanai blinked, and I celebrated internally for finally catching him off guard. I pressed my intentions further before he could put up a wall. “I want to control the tournament through the city master’s office, and install your Temple priests over the Collegiate.”

  Matanai had opened his mouth, but he closed it yet again. I pushed on.

  “After this show ends, the Senate will have its first meeting since a Persian threw a sword at your niece and Bedouins looted the city. And that’s all they will all be talking about. I hope that you, representing the Maazin, can nominate me as Cato’s replacement before the session ends.”

  “You won’t get anywhere with a single clan’s vote,” Matanai quickly replied with a smile. Try as he might to sound in control, that was simply the wrong thing to say. It affirmed the request indirectly, with little to no negotiation. The right move was to delay any response and excuse himself. Instead, he’d mistaken this as a challenge and tried to make me feel inferior. Amateur, I thought.

  An experienced Roman senator would have thanked me for my time and changed the subject to a mundane topic, thus allowing him to bring up the matter at a later, more prepared time, where they could name a price for their support.

  I glanced down at Matanai, finally seeing him for the local upstart rich noble that he was. He had no experience like I had, did he? I’d toiled for decades at the Forum, day in day out, mingling with the best statesmen and lawyers in the realm. Matanai and I were the same age too, weren't we? Atia had made me nervous about interacting with the nobility, but it seemed they weren’t quite as clever as her.

  “Is that so?” I began, but was quickly interrupted by a commotion near the opposite end of the crowd, where Cato’s city militia had formed a respectful formation with flags raised on their spears. Ferocious yelling and piling bodies drew everyone’s attention. Fabula quit playing his flute.

  Hurek… I cursed under my breath. Perhaps I was a little too open-ended with my instructions. I gathered my toga, and rushed to the melee without a second glance to the Maazin patrician. Let him feel discarded.

  There was no reason to make Matanai feel abruptly ignored, besides my own egotistical amusement. I already knew he would vote for me, and he’d missed his window to push for a favor or make me feel in debt. Come the Senate meeting, he would see his chance to nominate someone that might offer at least some advantage to his family’s cause, rather than capitulate to another Mattabol man.

  I pushed aside a Temple priest who smelled heavily of garlic and onion, and he tripped over his long red robes along the way. My attention, though, was on a group of militiamen trying to pry Hurek’s vice-like chokehold from Brutus’ throat.

  The militia commander’s face was turning purple. He scratched at Hurek’s bicep to no avail. The Nokchi, stone-faced, flipped the centurion around like a doll, pushing his face into the dirt. One of the other men let go of Hurek’s shoulder and rushed back to grab what I feared was a weapon.

  Fuck, he’s actually going to kill him. I slammed down in front of Hurek, my knees screamed with pain, but I pushed it aside and slapped the man’s face as hard as I could. “Snap out of it, you oaf,” I hissed. “By Jupiter, you will get your whole family killed!”

  Hurek’s eyes, which had been an abyss of nothingness, narrowed. He saw me for the first time, and then looked down at what he was doing. Immediately, his arms slacked.

  Brutus was quick to throw the large wrestler off of him, but could do little else as he doubled over, coughing up bile and blood uncomfortably close to my robes.

  The man who’d separated was rushing back with a gladius in his hands–just as I’d expected–but fortunately he dropped it to assist his commander.

  I had to think fast. Militiamen were already snatching Hurek away from me, their arms coiling around the pacified Nokchi like snakes as they tried to drag him into their pit.

  I saw the aghast, insulted faces of the patricians behind me, in front me, all around the graveyard. Cataline had come up, and so had Matanai, who was uncharacteristically shocked. And then it hit me.

  “How dare they attack the Governor’s champion!” I shouted, in the same tone as I’d delivered my speech at the theater, deep from the chest and with perfect oratory inflections–which few would recognize, but hopefully still feel the gravitas. “O tempora, o mores!”

  I turned to the Maazin people, especially to Matanai and his kinsmen. “Look how these savages kill Maazin slaves in the arena, and now abuse them in the open! First Septimus Merkov, Matanai’s greatest warrior, and now the Governor’s own, beloved Hurek!”

  My voice was quickly drowned out by about a dozen militiamen, who were yelling at the top of their lungs that Hurek had been the one to approach and attack Brutus. But it all came out as the shouts of young, aggressive men, who dropped all kinds of slurs and insults.

  I couldn’t say much else, as other people had joined in and Cataline was trying to bring attention back to his brother’s funeral. I gestured for the Temple spearmen to come grab Hurek before he decided to take another crack at Brutus.