Brutus had kept his shelves organized, however, with most of the scrolls in an understandable order. Or had it been Diram keeping it in order?
“So what of the next bracket?” Cassius barked, setting down his cup and wiping his mouth. “I assume Suetonius will announce his matchups soon? Where is the old imperial, anyways? Haven’t seen him out and about for a while now.”
Cassius voiced his questions casually enough, but I saw him glancing at my face curiously, as if trying to gauge my immediate reaction. He knew something was up. I wondered whether I had any reason to keep Suetonius’ death a secret. After all, the tournament matchups were officially my domain.
The question and its reasoning made my head hurt. I just couldn’t think clearly with all this wine, so I just shrugged and raised my empty cup to Diram. “One more, dear man,” I ordered.
Before the slave-scribe could reach for the cup, Hurek was there. He laid a hand on my arm, and forced it down. “Maybe enough?” he said gently.
“Maybe get out of my face!” I snapped, and tried to reach around him. But to my surprise, Hurek snatched the cup out of my hand. His grip was like stone and he wrenched away the cup with ease. “Oy!” I yelled.
“Enough drink, priest,” Hurek said.
“I’m not your fucking priest,” I replied, and was taken aback by the malice in my voice. There was an awkward silence, broken only by a nervous cough from Cassius.
“Don’t you have the carcass exercise to do?” I said to Hurek. To maintain and encourage Hurek’s aggression, I was having him do some bag work on pig and goat carcasses. Skinned, of course. And every night, I had Captain Yaresh cut the meat down and send it to the butcher, but not before I studied the damage. The carcass was mush by the time Hurek was done with it, with most bones inside in a thousand pieces. The butcher usually sent his boy to complain the next morning.
“Go on, then,” I gestured to the door, “you’ve wasted enough sunlight with me.”
Hurek put the cup down, out of my reach, and stared at me for a moment. He didn’t look angry, but I did notice a tiredness around his eyes as if he was giving up on something, and that was a look I had only seen once before; on the morning before his fight with Haza, when he’d been dismayed about fighting to kill. I’d promised him a better future where he could open a soap business and be a free man, along with his Merkov brethren. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Hurek slowly gathered his things, and mumbled something in his language that I’d come to know meant ‘walk with asha’. He left behind a quiet room, and I didn’t bother to break the silence despite Cassius’ awkward stare.
It was the wine, wasn’t it? I thought to myself. To most men, alcohol was a refuge. Many times I’d been asked why I didn’t enjoy it, but it just didn’t hit me the same way as it did others. While a man may find refuge in the warm waves, I was mostly thrown deeper into the ocean, and forced to remember moments that I’d tried very hard to forget; like the way Brutus’ hammer had landed on Septimus’ face and the strange sound it had made. The thud was hard to explain but I could hear it now, along with the blood pulsing in my ear, again and again. I tried to close my eyes and think of something else, but then I saw Layla’s dismembered corpse hanging in front of me. I thought of holding my breath until I fell unconscious or died, but then I’d have to face my wife, wouldn’t I?
I heard Cassius shuffle around, making his way to the door. “Sit down,” I said, “We need to finalize the bracket.”
“The matching takes place after the names are taken and drawn at the temple,” Cassius replied. “I really must get back, the basilica might have burnt down.”
“I meant the ranked matches,” I said.
“Suetonius will be–”
“Suetonius is dead,” I snapped. My cup of wine beckoned me some more, but I had to draw the line somewhere. I gave the cup to Diram, who quickly cleared up our mess and rushed to the shelves for some paper.
Cassius was still frozen at the door, his hand slack on the rope-handle. “Who did it?” he asked in a hushed voice.
“Who did what?”
“Who murdered him?” Cassius said.
“Oh Jupiter,” I said, shaking my head, “he was a hundred years old, who would murder the poor man? And I think you mean assassinated.”
“What’s the difference?” Cassius asked. He left the door and dragged another stool to our circle and sat down, using the extra stool to put his feet up. His calves were lean and muscled, not flabby like mine, and I wondered how he’d kept himself in such good shape at this age–he had to have many years on me.
“The difference,” I continued, “is that Suetonius was an important man.”
“And important men are assassinated, rather than murdered like the common folk?” he said.
“Precisely.”
Diram arranged some parchment between us, along with a bottle of dark ink that smelled strongly of vinegar. Before he could offer both of us utensils, Cassius took out his own; a feather.
“Huh, is that a quill?” I asked. “I’m more of a reed person.” I took the piece of reed from Diram and began writing out the names of the current ranked fighters in Palmyra: Hurek at seventeen, Haza at eighteen, Ghassan at nineteen, and finally Brutus at twenty… unfortunately.
“Flamma,” I muttered, mulling over the champion’s motives. It was clear he wanted Haza’s head, whether inside or outside the tournament circle. Inside would be preferable.
I dipped the reed pen again and wrote his name at the top, ranked sixth in the realm. It struck me that just a few months ago I was a destitute man in Rome who was about to kill himself, only to end up commanding a state sponsored tournament–my pen drawing out the fate of a champion who seemed a hero out of the legend for much of my adult life. Currently in his thirties, Flamma had been fighting since he was a child. He’d won his first championship in Syria the same year I’d quit my first job as a state clerk and started my own business as a biographer. He’d only become more famous and more beloved as time went on. No matter how depressed I became, I could look up to people like Flamma and convince myself that they not only deserved their glory, but that it was preordained. And that must mean that he was a great human being, a true champion at heart. He was a fighter, after all.
But the wretched man I’d come to know in Palmyra had further shattered my faith in the imperium, and made Nero’s demise all the more enticing. I’d forced my son to serve men who did not deserve it, and thus it would bring me peace seeing them suffer.
“Let me see that quill,” I said.
Cassius twiddled the goose feather for a moment, deep in thought. Then he offered it. “Answer me this, Master Cicero,” Cassius said, “was Juno murdered or assassinated?”
“My predecessor?” I asked, surprised at the sudden curiosity. “He’s very much alive.”
The quill felt very light in my hands after the stiff reed, the tip had some weight, and I liked the way I could whisk it about. “It’s very light.”
“Light as a feather, yes,” Cassius said impatiently, “but going back to Juno, you said he’s still alive?”
“He is,” I replied. “It’s a bit complicated but he’s being held by Atia inside her courtyard prison thing in the heart of the palace.”
“The governor's monkey wonderland?” Cassius cried.
“Is that what it’s called?”
“Oh heavens above,” Cassius replied. He put his feet down and buried his face in his hands. “And the governor…is he dead?”
The wine must have loosened my tongue, or maybe I was well past caring, but I leaned forward until our foreheads nearly touched and said, “Atia claims her husband is still away in Constantinople, but you know what my dear man? I am positive he is buried in the vegetable garden. Or maybe squeezed into a potted plant somewhere.”
“Potted plant?” Cassius mumbled.
“You know those big ones she has? On the balconies?”
“Ah yes, yes,” Cassius said, nodding along gravely.
I settled back, secretly enjoying the look on the magister’s face trying to make sense of it all. It felt good knowing there was someone else who could see the madness for what it was. Hurek was another person who I could confide in, but he had practically grown up in the governor’s household and to him, everything Atia did was par for the course. But seeing Cassius lick his lips, scratch his head in confusion, and then give a big sigh as he slowly accepted the knowledge, it made me feel… less alone.
“Juno did something to upset Atia and paid for it,” I continued. “And I’m beginning to suspect that you know of it.”
“What does it matter now?” Cassius said, “Maybe you should ask him yourself.”
“He’s not really in the mood for conversation when I see him,” I replied. “Come now, I’d love to hear what you people were up to before I came here.”
“Atia is winning and it’s all over,” Cassius snapped, “what more is this city going to take from me? I prefer a more quiet life now, a more pleasant life.”
“Is that you or Epicurean talking?” I said, and that got a chuckle out of the old magister.
“Fighting the Maazin madwoman has only gotten people killed,” Cassius replied.
“Isn’t fighting for good desirable for its own sake?” I asked. “It should be a way of life.”
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
“Is it?” Cassius retorted, “If good begets bad, requires the bad, and makes one bad, then what good is it?”
“Hah, I’ve got to remember that one,” I took another sip of my wine without realising, then put it away quickly.
Even though Cassius was older than I was, he had a young way about him, and when I thought about it, he actually reminded me of myself in Rome. Back when I was bouncing around from patrician to patrician, trying to get any work possible, I’d been allowed a rare view into the personal lives and secrets of senators and their ilk. And what had been my reaction? Cassius’ words were very familiar to me, mainly since he was the voice I’d heard every time I’d seen a man beat his slave, or murder cases being resolved with exchange of coins and handshakes rather than justice.
I’d been so focused on telling my son to be ‘the bravest of them all’, I’d forgotten to live that way myself. Even now, I’d done nothing to warn Hurek of Atia’s blood tonic. There was always a rational reason not to do something. It was my precious logic that had relieved me of responsibility for much of my life. Or was it hopelessness?
“Did you ever read the book?” Cassius asked. I looked at him blankly for several moments, having no idea what he was referring to.
“Sorry?” I said.
“The tome that my clerks and I were trying to grab, during that stupid brawl,” Cassius said. “Your first day at the palace, remember?”
“Ah yes, what of it?” I said.
“You really didn’t read it, did you?” Cassius said, shaking his head.
“That bloody tome was a parting gift of sorts from Juno to Hurek from what I understand. A poor gift, I must admit, but I doubt he’d hand out state secrets to a fist fighter. Besides, Hurek never lets anyone touch it or let it out of his sight for that matter. You’ve seen him take it into the arena, I’m sure.”
“And that doesn’t seem the least bit strange to you?” Cassius said.
“If I thought about every strange thing that Hurek does or say, I’d never sleep.”
“But–
“Enough politics and Atia talk,” I said, and looked around for Diram to take my empty cup. The slave-clerk had retreated to the shelves, dusting the many scrolls that lay in a pyramid structure. The shelves themselves were in a beehive-like pattern, made mostly of clay and prone to debris and dead insects. My drunken eyes grew weary staring at the countless ribbons hanging from the end of the scrolls, but the sight of Diram standing there, hand gliding over the tags, judging their proper accuracy and placement, threatened to take me to my own past as a clerk. I tore my eyes away and threw the cup on the floor.
“Now then… the tournament?” I said, talking around my hiccups.
“How about we talk about both Atia and the tournament, then?” Cassius said. He was really pushing the boundaries of our fledgling relationship. Two could play that game, and I had a few more questions of my own that I could leverage, if I played it carefully. But my loose tongue beat me to the finish line and I said, “you abacus swinging sly whore, I know what you’re doing.”
“What does she plan on achieving with this tournament?” Cassius continued, “Hurek has always been a local favourite in fight circles, and by Jupiter, he’s made me some money in the past too, but he’s just a slave brawler when it comes down to it.”
“He’s won two ranked fights already,” I said defensively, realising the criticism felt more like an insult to my ear.
“Against a Persian madman and a Syrian whelp,” Cassius said with a shrug. “If Nero shows up at our door, you of all people know the kind of fighters he’ll bring.”
Apocalypse, I thought. The less mind I paid to that dark spirit and other high ranked gladiators, the better. It was too late to change my course, and especially that of Hurek’s. Besides, no one was truly prepared for what Atia’s magic was doing for Palmyra’s favourite boxer-wrestler.
“Hurek will be fine,” I said, then I leaned over and slid the paper over to Cassius and placed his quill on top. “Just write down my instructions, will you?”
“Your instructions?” Cassius said.
“Yes, the instructions of your city master on the republic’s endorsement of valid ranked matches. You will take my instructions and shove them so far up your ass that they will appear in your head as your own intrusive thoughts. Are we clear?”
Cassius grimaced, perhaps realizing he’d pushed too far and that our fun little banter was coming to an end. I was in no mood to ease up and so, continued, “You will find an easy, unranked opponent for Hurek. I want him to recover some more and be in the best shape before more higher ranked fighters show up.”
“But Flamma has entered his name for the next bracket,” Cassius countered, “He is the next, natural opponent for–
“Flamma wants Haza dead, so we’ll give that to him,” I said simply.
“Isn’t the Persian holed up in Tiridates estate?” Cassius said.
“Ah, that reminds me,” I said, suddenly remembering an urgent task. “Diram, come here.”
“Yes, Master,” the slave-clerk hurried to my side, hands still clutching a dusting cloth.
“Pen a letter for me, would you? For Tiridates,” I said.
“Now this will be interesting,” Cassius said as he put his feet back up on the stool.
The plan, as agreed with Matanai, was to let the Persian patricians off the hook for Haza’s actions, as long as they surrendered the fighter to a combat trial that would happen inside the arena. The agreement also came with Tiridates having to give up a land deed that the Maazin had been eyeing for quite some time. The landlord’s hands were tied; his fighter had failed to kill Atia and now was a major liability. This letter would be a way out. Of course, Haza would be thrown as a sacrifice to Flamma’s altar, but perhaps I could help the Persian out a bit in training.
Diram penned the letter with a deft hand, the quill running furiously across the page despite my quick recital. He handed it over to me and, after taking a moment to admire the slave’s elegant penmanship, I nodded my approval and had him roll it up, sealed, and thrown in the mailbag that would be handed to a runner that evening.
“Perhaps it's best if it be delivered personally,” Cassius commented.
“You’re right,” I said, “Diram, you are familiar with the Persian sector?”
“Yes, Master. I’ve been to Azadan Tiridates many times.”
“Azadan?” I asked.
To which Cassius replied, “It was Tiridates’ noble title, under Persian rule.”
“Well, he is a member of a republic in the Roman realm. You will call him Senator.”
“Yes, Master,” Diram said. Then he went to grab his cloak. It hung on a rack with a collection of other long-forgotten scarves and garments. I would have to throw them out, I figured, or maybe laundered and passed around among my new recruits.
“Who’s next?” I said. “Ghassan?”
“Yes,” Cassius replied.
“Is he still alive?” I said, trying to recall what I’d last heard of him. “I don’t remember him getting back up.”
Cassius shrugged, “Chief Abed has been tight-lipped about it. Ghassan’s name has yet to be entered for the next bracket.”
“Brutus is going to be there, for sure,” I said, “The brute has nothing else left to live for.”
“Speaking of which–
“No,” I cut the magister off before he could change the subject, “speaking of the tournament only. When is the public entry?”
“We open submissions to the public in a couple days,” Cassius answered sourly.
“In the temple, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” I said, “Arrange some names for both Ghassan and Brutus, find opponents that challenge their weakness. For Brutus, someone with an axe or hammer to get through the armour, and also good mushin.”
“Mushin?” Cassius mouthed the word as if it was a strange language, which it was once I gave it a thought. Baku had used it so much, I couldn’t imagine another word that could capture the meaning it held it for me.
“Somebody with a killer instinct,” I explained. “Good counters, feints, a fighter that has managed to find instant killing blows in the midst of a fight.” Most fights ended in an opponent tiring and finally succumbing to the blows. Other fights went all the way to a judge’s decision, especially among lower ranked fighters who would both tire out and flop their limbs helplessly until the horn ended their misery. Some fighters, those destined to become elite, also had mushin. I agreed with Baku on this observation. Apocalypse always killed his opponents in the first round, and the one time I had seen him in person, he had been constantly parrying and countering his opponents attacks as if it was preordained by Mars himself.
“For Ghassan,” I continued, “Anyone with aggression will do, or pace. I had Atia’s clerks draw up detailed accounts of all the unranked fights that took place before the main ones in the earlier brackets. I’ll have the notes sent your way.”
Cassius was finally taking my instructions seriously as his hand went back and forth between the ink bottle and the paper in his lap. I offered some more guidance on how to handle the new tournament proceedings, especially with Maazin priests and priestesses getting the chance to bless the fighters and collect votive gifts before the bout. Haza’s fight would be uniquely handled as well, as the result couldn’t go to decision. Haza must kill Flamma, or be declared guilty of his crime and executed on the spot.
“A nice way to get rid of the troublesome Baba Haza without threatening the political status quo between the clans,” Cassius said, more so to himself than anything. Of course, he had no idea that I secretly hoped Haza would skin Flamma alive. It was impossible to imagine, given the Syrian champion’s legacy, but maybe that experience would play into my hands. I was sure that somewhere in Flamma's long and decorated career, there was a martial weakness I could exploit.
***
“It was four times that Flamma was offered freedom from the arena, and four times he refused. At least, that’s the story you’d hear in most taverns in Rome. I’d seen the man once, up close. And when I saw his smile and the way he carried himself, I admit I was taken with this ‘champion of the people’ and the downtrodden. Slaves loved him, naturally.
Could I have foreseen him acting like a dog to a patrician? Could I have foreseen him sticking his fat fingers in my mouth and humiliating me in public at the request of his rich patron? I should have. There are no heroes in Rome, not for me.
But I can still trust what I’ve seen in the arena and everything there is to read about that man and his kills. Of which there are surprisingly few. He’s taken many fights to decision, and most he has won. That would suggest a low mushin, perhaps even low aggression. I would put those traits in the middling elite level, but everything else… It gives me pause. Flamma is known for his pace, his relentless stamina and activity. The fight I personally witnessed was during a funeral of a Roman senator’s brother a decade ago. The family had spent a considerable amount of their wealth in leasing Flamma from his Syrian patrons and paying for his voyage to Rome. He then fought a few matches in honour of the dead, and while there were no kills, I do remember his never-ending blows and action. The brawlers simply couldn’t handle the pressure.
It taught me an important lesson about the martial arts, even helped me place some proper bets afterwards. I used to consider dueling less arduous than, say, running full sprint up and down a hill, or carrying weights, or even swimming, but when I saw Flamma exhaust those monstrous, athletic men in a matter of minutes, it left me puzzled. I kept playing every moment in my mind; the twitches of their legs, their arms, the constant need to drop their hand and the way the losers would try to return to a rhythm or resting stance but Flamma would pounce on them again, forcing a continuous fight or flight response.
The body is in full panic during a fight, and each muscle tensed and engaged and carrying its own weight. The actions are not loud and expressive as running up a hill, but even the tiniest pounces and steps carry the tension of the entire body, and the mental stress of impending doom.
Flamma would bring this storm to Haza, and it didn’t matter how much rage the Persian contained. I had to figure out a way for him to survive the pace, and for that, I would need for him to develop a better defense all around, but especially, his resolve–which was essentially the defensive realm of pace, where mental fortitude went hand in hand with stamina and called for a reason to weather the toughest storms.
As for other traits, I simply don’t see a weakness in Flamma. I’ve had Cassius’ clerks procure every record on the champion’s past duels and summarize it for me, and even offer their own suggestions on scales, and yet they all point to an elite standing in every way. His form, impeccable, hardly ever stumbled and no history of being downed. His ability to glance off attacks with his armored sword-arm just as well as his scutum shield suggested strong reflexes. Among secutores class gladiators, there are maneuvers named after him that show how to deflect properly during a combination, showing his form and reflexes constitute the perfect defense. Against barbarians and raging heathens–calmness, vision, a complete perception of any dangerous blows to dodge or distance himself from. There are absolutely no detailed records of his defeats, as they occurred much earlier, and the later one was against Spiculus during another funeral, which was a decision behind closed doors so no public witnesses. I’ll be sure to note his weaknesses when I finally manage to spear that man on Haza’s sword.”
- Cicero, Fighter Journal