Bookworm Gladiator

"She was your friend," I said to Atia. I kept my voice low as the high scholar Suetonius sat with us at the gates. The elder was a literary great, a pillar of Roman history. He was also actual, living history. The man was over ninety-years old.

Atia smiled, unfazed by my questioning. We sat on a raised platform at the entry square of the city gates. The same corner Hurek had killed Kano. The courtyard had been cleared by spearmen and stakes were raised to prevent commoners from entering. Atia had noticeably increased her personal guard; a side-effect that comes with publicly executing a Priestess without trial. Like an animal slaughtered for everyone to laugh at.

And now we sat, bathed and adorned with jewels, a table of desserts in front of us, waiting for the highest ranked gladiator to arrive thus far. Bestarii, the beast slayer. The champion was ranked 8th in the realm, right behind Spartacus himself. But unlike other fighters, Bestarii only fought animals: boars, lions, hyenas, rabid dogs and the occasional cat.

He was important for two things. Something for the public to enjoy while they waited for an actual bout. And he was also a nephew of Suetonius himself, an esteemed aristocrat to bring in more favor from rich patrons. Bestarii himself provided enough sponsorship to maintain the field proper. Many messy days were still ahead in this tournament until the Emperor arrived, and Palmyra was actively looking for coin. Or should I say Atia was.

"She was becoming more trouble than she was worth," Atia said suddenly, "First taking that pit fighter as a husband, and then challenging me on every little thing. Don't you worry yourself, dear scholar. I thought you'd be happy if anything, no? Someone had to die and your man Hurek refused to kill Haza. I'm a little concerned by that if I must say so."

"Concerned with what?" I asked carefully. Hurek was a poor choice to win the tournament, I must admit. He was just a regional boxer, pit fighter, for personal entertainment of Gaius Julius. Sort of like a pet you'd see some families in Rome have in their backyard for party guests. The real danger besides dying in a fight was Atia finding someone better and discarding Hurek like she'd done Layla.

"Baba Haza was so much better," Atia continued, "he was beating Hurek and I honestly thought I might have to take a Persian as my champion instead. But alas, Hurek pulled through somehow. He told me of your advice, you know. Although I don't remember seeing you at the games?"

"I was there, my lady, just out of sight," I replied.

"Oh my Cicero," Atia chuckled, "an agent of misfortune indeed, skulking in the shadows but pulling the strings. I have really misjudged you," Atia pulled close enough for me to get a whiff of her rosy perfume. She wore a blue tiara that looked awfully similar to the one Layla used to wear.

Yes that is exactly what I was doing, I thought, remembering my humiliating exit from underneath the platform, bruised and covered in mud. I'd slept under there until nightfall, then crawled out of the hole like a jackal in the night. The fields were empty by then, but in the moonlight, I'd seen the puddle of Layla's blood darkening the spot where she'd been killed.

Suetonius stirred from his slumber, eyes peeling open and squinting around, clearly disoriented. "Boy," he said, tapping me on the arm, "where are we?" Sheets of paper slipped from his lap and fell on the floor. "Are we waiting for someone?"

I'd met Suetonius many times in Rome, but the man never remembered me, having reached the limits of his memory long ago. "Yes, your great nephew, Bestarii."

"Bestarii!" the old man croaked excitedly, "Oh Bestarii, I remember when he was just a baby. He loved playing with his animals, even then."

Yes, playing.

"Is he coming, today?" Suetonius asked.

"Yes, his carriage will be marching through those gates any moment," I pointed. But the gates were open to an otherwise empty road with no one approaching save a lone horseman. And I doubted that was Bestarii. The man would arrive with many carriages and attendants on foot.

"Who is that?" Atia asked sourly, "I demanded the roads be emptied for his arrival." She gestured for one of her servants and I realised it was the young scholar who had put his hands on me a few days ago. He dared not look me in the eyes now.

"Who is that?" Atia pointed to the approaching horseman and the young scribe shrugged. "We don't know, my lady. We were expecting only Bestarii right now."

"Good evening," I interrupted and the young man whitened with fear. I felt a guilty pleasure seeing him like this. Ever since Atia had executed Layla in my honor, everyone had been avoiding meeting my eyes and addressed me with the utmost respect. "I remember you," was all I said to the young man and he wavered, eyes wide. I could have the boy whipped now if I so pleased. Something in me stirred; a surge of pride and power, fueled by long held grudges I didn't know I still carried for the people around me. If there is one thing power can bring, it is memories of all the wrongs done to you.

The boy excused himself without another glance and scurried away, leaving me in a better mood. Though I did feel a little dirty as well.

Horns blew as the lone horseman entered the city. He was pasty white and had dirty blonde hair. What was a Galli doing all the way in this corner of the world? Or was he a Saxon?

He smiled brightly, raising a mug towards Atia, "Greetings, lady of Palmyra," he said in perfect Latin, albeit a bit slurred. "If I'd known I'd receive such a honorary reception, I'd have put on my best underwear." He burped, took another swig of his mug, burped again.

Atia stood up furiously. "Where is Bestarii?"

"Who?"

"Bestarii of Capua!"

The barbarian furrowed his brow in thought, his horse swaying nervously as he approached. "Ah!" he cried suddenly, then patted the pockets of his tunic looking for something. He held his mug between his thighs as he pulled out a parchment from his breast pocket. He cleared his throat, "Dear Gaius Julius of Palmyra, this is to inform you that Bestarii, son of Turo, esteemed champion of Capua, has fallen victim to a lion on his approach to Aleppo."

The barbarian squinted at the signature in the bottom, "signed Emir something something of Aleppo."

Atia stood speechless while Suetonius mumbled, straining his ear, "What did he say? Is that Bestarii? By Jupiter, he has changed."

"No, Master Suetonius. Bestarii has fallen," I said quietly.

"What?" Suetonius cried, "he has what?"

"Fallen," I repeated, "he has fallen victim to a lion."

"Done what to a what!"

"A lion, Master Suetonius," I screamed into the old man's ear, "Bestarii was eaten by a fucking lion!"

***