I took a deep breath of the freshly stale Forum air, what with all its fish gut aroma, the spice, the sweaty armpits of scribes and merchants intermingling with the random goat running for its freedom, which was shortly followed by a lanky youth giving chase. Standing on the steps that led to the former Vigil house entrance, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat at home in the morning market chaos. It was my home now, considering I had been officially sworn in as the city master a few nights ago.

  It had been a mundane affair, considering all that led up to it. My future was unceremoniously sealed by some signatures in a quiet backroom of the Basilica, and in the presence of a drowsy notary and one equally bored priest. I dared not complain, though.

  After Cato’s funeral, the Senate session had been a blood bath. Well, maybe not so much a blood bath as a tavern brawl. Three senators had been scratched in the face, and one unlucky clerk kicked in the head. All by the same man, who’d been escorted out of the hall thereafter. And this was followed by some lengthy speeches about decorum, Maazin conspiracies, then another speech about decorum, and then a final speech on Mattabol conspiracies. There had been a unified disgust over Tiridiates’ champion’s actions at the tournament, some suggesting a fine, but most had looked to Matanai for guidance, of which there’d been none. I suspected that everyone understood this was a war between two clans that was best left underground for now. The Senate moved to publicly put this on the few arrested Bedouins, who’d been sentenced to death, followed by a motion to pay blood money for the innocent casualties, which was also approved.

  The Persian senators which had shown up, despite Tiridates continued absence, had been rightfully quiet and withdrawn throughout, offering to stick with majority votes–which interestingly played into Matanai’s hands when he successfully voted me in as the new city master. Cataline had been surprised, which I assume had only compounded when I’d run across to the Basilica and filed my most urgent order: firing Brutus from his post as Commander of the Militia and Vigil Captainship.

  I’d ordered the disbanding of the Vigil’s entirely but that was apparently up to a Senate vote, and Jupiter himself only knew when the old farts would hold another session.

  Still, I felt powerful, secure, for the first time since entering this gods forsaken town. Here I stood, at the precipice of my new career, about to–

  “Standing in my way, nay?” An old beggar challenged me halfway up the steps to the Militia House. His way to what? I thought.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said regardless, and picked up my toga to step out of his way politely. Poor old man, probably a little lost and senile, I figured.

  He eyed me suspiciously, and I instinctively took out a few coins and tried to press them into his hand. But in my nervousness, and to my quick horror, I only managed to drop them on his stump. The wide, brass coins slipped off his wrist and clattered across the marbled steps.

  “I don’t have a fucking hand there, you donkey!” the beggar snapped.

  “I… yes, apologies, I only meant–”

  “Aye, aye, aye, I know what you meant,” he growled, and with a frightening speed, he snatched the sestertius off the ground with his good hand.

  I looked around for some help, and found Hurek still idling by the food cart. He was showing off his Essence of Horse perfume bottles, and the poor peddler was stuck in the conversation, nodding along to whatever Hurek was explaining to him.

  “Hurek!” I said, with one eye watching the grumbling beggar behind me. “Let’s go.”

  The peddler sighed with relief as Hurek bade him farewell. The Nokchi jogged up to the Militia house, surprisingly light on his feet. Every morning at sunrise I had him run around the entire length of the city’s walls, and all he had to show for it on most days was some sweat on his forehead. I marveled at how much he had improved his stamina, and now along with his increased aggression and terrifying strength, I was feeling very comfortable about the next bracket.

  A part of me had been worried I would have to lure Brutus away from public office by promising him a crack at Hurek’s rank, but thankfully the Senate votes had tipped in my favor. Now all I had to do was give Hurek an easy, inconsequential opponent in a couple weeks and keep his momentum going until Nero decided to show up or the tournament came to a close. There had been no set amount of brackets promised in the official announcement or Collegiate record, but the understanding was that sooner or later, Roman officials would begin to show up at Palmyra–hopefully before winter–and the Collegiate could offer a final bracket for the highest possible Primarch ranking. With Flamma’s participation, I would imagine that meant Hurek could possibly reach the rank of seventh in the realm.

  I smiled at the thought of Hurek crushing that two-faced Syrian into a pulp. But with the Persians becoming a problem, I’d had some other plans for Flamma and his constant tantrums about the murder of his protege. I would have to give the Syrian champion a chance at Baba Haza first.

  “Here,” I said to Hurek, and tossed him a few coins as well, “I need you to get some water and a light lunch. No bread though!” Hopefully I could get Hurek a smaller and easy opponent for the next bracket, but that would mean Hurek would be dealing with speed, and I had to make sure he didn’t get slowed down himself, and also prepare some exercises to keep his reflexes in check.

  I thought back to how Shams had manipulated Hurek’s Reflexes with his deadly feints–a technicus of Mushin–and then used his superior Speed to circumvent Hurek’s both form and reflexes. Thankfully, Hurek’s newfound aggression had saved him, and I felt a pang of guilt at my own biting words to him just before the fight that might have played a part. But it was Atia’s blood tonic in the end, wasn’t it?

  As if on queue, Hurek sloshed his lambskin in front of me. “I take Lady Atia’s drink,” he said. My heart dropped.

  “I see,” I replied. “And you’ve been drinking it regularly?”

  Hurek shrugged. “When she give,” he said. “Very little left I think. She said she make more soon.”

  I don’t doubt she will, I thought. But with whose blood?

  My mind raced with the right words to say. I hadn’t done a single thing to warn Hurek of the drink’s contents, or even confront Atia about it. Every day, I hated myself even more for my inaction. But it was all too convenient to keep Hurek gaining his supernatural strength and keep winning. Atia’s dark magic, or whatever it was, benefited everyone and Layla was too dead to care.

  This is how corruption was sustained at the Forum and among patricians in Rome. Everyone knew what each other was doing to take advantage of the plebs, but as long as everyone was kept fed with coin and other benefits, no one would question it. Sooner or later, someone like Sulla or Julius Caesar would come along and try to purge the infested swamp with the common folk’s blessing, but that would only result in a dictatorship. And the last thing the tournament needed was a populist uprising.

  I clambered past the handless rogue, careful not to meet his glare, and pushed open the heavy doors into what had been Brutus’ section of the militia house, which he’d turned into his office, or rather jailhouse, of the Vigils. I was forced to pause at the doorway despite myself.

  The large greeting hall had been thoroughly trashed and nearly all furniture broken. Oh mitte, I should have expected this.

  It seemed Brutus had left me quite a parting gift. It gave me a bit of pleasure to see his anger in all the mess; the upturned chairs, all missing some legs, a stool which had been thrown against the wall, leaving it shattered along with a large chip in the brickwork. Brutus’ table had been torn in half by some kind of weapon–his hammer I imagined.

  What’s more, there were two slouching figures in the iron cage where Brutus liked to keep his captured slaves and other criminals. I remembered the time I’d come to rescue Hurek, Septimus, and the other Merkov brothers on the day of Jiri’s funeral. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, even though it was barely a couple months past.

  “Hurek, do you recognize them?” I asked, pointing to the inmates. The large man shook his head, and as we approached, the scene became a little strange. One man was a Bedouin–probably from the riot last week–and he was hunched over a large, three-towered cake. His eyes were glazed over, and his hands moved of their own accord, sluggishly digging into the frosted bread and pulling out chunks, which he nibbled at, dazedly, all the while staring into nothing.

  The other man in the cage watched him closely. He was shorter, with a scribal robe and a broken wax tablet around his neck. A slave clerk, I presumed. He looked up, and with an air that made it seem like it was just an ordinary meeting and the cage was in fact his office, he said, “ah, Master Cicero, you’ve arrived. Apologies for the mess. I am Diram, slave-secretary of the republic, and assistant to the city master’s office.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “What happened, dear man?” I said, and gestured for Hurek to help me lift the bar lock. Diram slipped out of the cage with dignity, lifting his robe so it didn’t drag or catch against the metal hinges.

  “Captain Brutus wasn’t pleased with his dismissal,” Diram replied shortly.

  “Yes, I gathered that much, but why are you in the cage?”

  I shouldn’t have asked, I thought immediately. Diram was a slave, and so he was a part of the building, a piece of property that came with the office, no different than the chair or the table Brutus had abused. I decided to save the poor man the embarrassment and continued, “What of him,” I said, pointing to the Bedouin who was elbow deep in cake.

  “He’s the last one left alive from the rioters,” Diram explained, “and Captain Brutus thought it would be humorous to sentence him to death by the method with which he was caught.”

  When I raised my eyebrow, Diram sighed and continued, “He was caught stealing pastries from the bakery.”

  Hurek made a sound of disgust and stepped into the cage to help the broken man. I gave Diram some direction to return the man to the local tribes or Chief Abed, whoever would claim him, and then we spent the next hour fixing up the place. I broomed while Diram organised the utensils and paper, and Hurek quickly put all the furniture, broken and otherwise, into its rightful place. Finally, we settled down for a bite to eat, which was some hard bread and wine from the pantry. Diram brought only a plate for me and I had to send him back for both Hurek and himself.

  I looked around the dark office and the decrepit cage in the corner. It was still a miserable sight. The Basilica had offered me Cato’s old office on its top floor with a bright sunroof and potted plants, but I preferred being closest to the open street, the Forum, and the Militia House, which would have quick access to men who could protect me from any threats. But then again, how many men in the militia were loyal to Brutus first and foremost?

  “Diram,” I said, now reminded of my most pressing issue. “How did the militia take Brutus’ dismissal?”

  “Not well, Master–

  “Call me Cicero.”

  “Yes, Ma…Cicero,” Diram said, then continued, “The men associated with the Vigils quit immediately, including the Primus. They made up almost half of the Centuria, so we have about fifty men left. Most of them are on their usual patrols.”

  “Wonderful,” I replied, and I didn’t mean it sarcastically. The Vigils quitting themselves was most ideal. I had a specific plan for the demographics of my policing force, but it required significant funding, which would come only through the next tournament bracket with the gambling rings I’d prepared.

  “What is our budget?” I asked. “As in, how much can I spend this very minute if I had to?”

  Diram had instinctively made for the tablet around his neck, but remembering it was broken, he blinked and his brow furrowed in thought. “Fifty-seven denarii.”

  “That’s it?” I exclaimed.

  That was lower than my previous salary as the royal biographer. After all the militia expenses and other debts paid, the city master’s office had barely left for any other projects of enforcement. No money for filing for court, attaining public assets, investing in projects for social betterment and order, and a hundred other things you had to have for a frontier colony.

  It seemed the “senate” was happy with a small government that didn’t bother the major businesses and temples–its forces left to guard market stalls and keep the labor class in line with spears. Cato really had been a measly, underpaid puppet.

  Assets, I thought. Attaining public assets was my goal, but before that could be done, I needed more than just fifty denarii to play with. My money scheme was entirely reliant on tournament gambling, though.

  “When is the Collegiate Magister getting here?” I said with a mouthful of bread.

  As if to answer my question, there was a knock at the door. Hurek stood up to get it, but Diram was quicker, and navigating the broken office on light feet, he threw open the door to reveal–

  “You!” Hurek growled.

  Standing at the entrance was the wiry, lean-muscled librarian with the long white beard. His menacing figure blocked the outside light, creating a shadow out of him. Before I could say anything, the man raised his hands, open-palmed, and said, “Peace, Master Cicero.” He carried no abacus, and my breath eased.

  “Peace,” I replied hesitantly. I didn’t think I’d see the man again, or even expected him to hold such a high office in the city. I was sure Atia had seen to his disappearance after his thuggery at the palace. Although, the brawl had been quite the bonding moment for me and Hurek on our first meeting.

  “Cassius Longinus, Magister of the Collegium,” he made a curt bow, and followed Diram to a stool that still had all of its legs. Diram offered him some wine, but the magister waved him off. “Water, please,” he said.

  “Wait,” Cassius then added, “I will take the wine, actually.”

  As Diram retreated to the pantry, a silence fell around the room. Cassius smiled politely at Hurek, and the Nokchi was unsure of how to act towards him.

  “You’re late,” I finally said.

  Cassius raised his brow, blinked, and then with a sage-like tone, he said, “A man shouldn’t enter a room until he’s announced.”

  “What does that even mean?” I snapped.

  “I think we can let go of our hostilities, nay?”

  “You were eavesdropping,” I said.

  Cassius chuckled, and tried to continue on to some other nonsense wisdom, “A man drops no eaves that isn’t… uh… I don’t know what I’m saying,” he finished, and with a shrug he fell silent again.

  He seemed different. As if he’d woken up one day and didn’t care about anything anymore. His eyes drifted to Hurek again. “You don’t have that book with you,” he commented.

  “Huh,” I grunted, a little surprised by the observation, mainly since I’d overlooked it myself. Hurek wasn’t carrying that large book-shield with him today. It’d been an inseparable part of him ever since I’d met him, but it seemed he’d finally outgrown the silly habit. I felt… a little torn about that.

  Hurek himself was taken aback and fumbled with an explanation. “No, I…” he began, then scratched the back of his head. “Under my bed,” he finished.

  “I still think about it when my ass aches,” Cassius said.

  “I’ll be honest,” I said, “I didn’t expect you to see you again, much less in the role of a magister.”

  Cassius spread his hands, and said, “Likewise, Master Cicero. You’ve brought good fortune upon yourself in less than a couple months. I’m impressed. Although, there are few in the imperial cult who question Matanai’s motives, and that of the High Priestess.”

  The Imperial Cult? I figured Cassius spoke of Mattabol as a part of the Roman imperial cult, since they loved being Roman so much. I doubted the deep imperial politics were operational this far into the frontier of the realm.

  “I cannot speak for the Maazin,” I said, “but yes, I did promise them some favourable policies. Shall we begin?”

  Diram returned with the wine just as we settled down for my main directives. Hurek kept sizing up the Collegiate leader but the man’s attention was fully on me for now.

  For the remaining brackets of the tournament, the temple would hold sacrifices in Baal’s name–goats and other livestock–in the beginning of every bracket. The sacrifice would of course be sponsored by citizens and the Temple would get most of the proceeds. The meat would be handed out as charity. There would be a slight increase in the Temple’s shared fee in the tickets sold. And lastly, Maazin priests would get a say in some matchups of the tournament.

  Cassius furrowed his brow at the last bit. He didn’t say it out loud but it was clear he understood what it entailed. By allowing the Temple to announce their own fights, it essentially gave them the power to conduct combat trials on behalf of citizens, for any reason. What had begun as a traditional, strictly policed Roman endorsed gladiatorial tournament, would turn into a permanent fixture of the local culture and its customs, and it would somewhat intrude upon local judiciaries–made up of mostly Mattabol patricians.

  Cassius, surprisingly, just sighed and nodded to all the demands. The man was in a defeated state of mind ever since he’d walked in here. But his words had still left a mark in my mind, especially when it came to Atia.

  For all my pride and internal bluster in my recent achievement, I knew that I was riding full gallop into my own brick caravan, for there was no way that Atia would let this maneuver slide without consequence. And the fact that I hadn’t seen her since Cato’s funeral, had installed a ball of anxiety in my throat that only grew with each passing day that the High Priestess avoided me.

  “You’re wrong about Atia,” I blurted out. Diram had finished inscribing my words and handed the wax tablet to Cassius as a record. The magister paused his reading at my words, and looked up from the tablet.

  “What’s that?” Cassius replied.

  I wasn’t sure why I was being so forthcoming with him. There was only one man in Palmyra that I truly trusted, but he was currently fiddling with his soap bottles in the corner.

  Still, I continued and said, “You would assume that I’d curry favor with both Matanai Maazin and his niece Atia. After all, the Maazin clan has managed to install their own perceived puppet in the highest bureaucratic office. But I know Atia, or at least patricians like her. She considers me her pet, her property, her own pawn in a particular square on the chess board.”

  Cassius scratched his chin, and thought for a moment. Then he replied, “And now her pawn has decided of his own accord to reach the other side, and promote themselves to another piece.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “A much stronger piece,” Cassius said.

  “Yes,” I said slowly.

  “A Queen,” Cassius finished with a smile.

  “Well, I wouldn’t… I mean, a knight would be fitting.”

  “Bah! Who promotes into a knight? What do you say, Diram?” Cassius asked the slave-scribe, who blinked in surprise at being thrust into this conversation.

  Then, as if he was admitting a regrettable fact, Diram turned to me and answered, “You would have to become a queen, sir.”

  The wine finally must have gotten to my head, for I joined Cassius’ cackling. Diram squirmed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in our company and conversing like an equal. He stood up.

  “Oh, sit down,” I said to him.

  “No, we need more!” Cassius barked, waving the empty wine bottle in front of him.

  “You finished it all?” I asked, then hiccuped. Oh mitte, I thought, and looked at my own emptied cup. “I suppose another bottle wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Exactly,” Cassius said. “It’s never enough, if enough is too little.”