Bookworm Gladiator

Morning breakfast came with a private meeting in the palace gardens calling all of the main tournament sponsors: The city-master Cato, caravan-master Abed, and the de facto leaders of Palmyra (in Gaius Julius' ever-mysterious absence); Tiridates of the Tariff Court, and of course, Atia the High Priestess of Baal.

I wasn't sure where to sit.

Cato, a crusty old Roman, devoured a watermelon with unrestrained violence and I was in no mood to sit through his complaints about the increasing colonnade traffic and those "reprobate Bedouins".

The caravan-master Abed, the merchant king of Palmyra, was surrounded by too many servants and I'd been mistaken for one every time I was near him. Arrogant bastard.

Tiridates was missing, and I assumed the lavish throne by the sunflower bushes was his. So that only left Atia, the beloved lady of Palmyra, and my ever-eager tormenter.

She smiled, waving me over, and patted for me to sit on a bright magenta ottoman placed next to her chair. It was suited for a servant, maybe a pet cat.

"It's really too early for this shit," I muttered, and didn't bother with a greeting as I settled down on the humiliating seat.

"You're in a sour mood," she commented.

"A bad hair day, my lady," I replied.

Atia snorted; which was an odd sound coming from her. She always played the part of a regal and poised royal in public, though briefly showing her cruelness on the wretched first day of the tournament. Even then, she'd disguised it as justice; for perceived transgressions against my honor. How manipulative. Layla hadn't deserved that execution. No court of Rome would've charged her with capital punishment just because she spread some rumors about me.

"How's my little Hurek recovering?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Do you recognize that man?" Atia pointed to a veiled swordsman standing behind Chief Abed. He wore a greyish uniform with intricate silver veil and scarf. A circular iron-studded shield leaned on the tree next to him.

"No."

"That's Ali Ibn Ghassan, ranked eighteen," Atia replied, and I admit that peaked my interest a bit. I rubbed my blurry eyes and studied the man closely. He was resolute, frozen like a statue, but his eyes moved this way and that, analyzing any and all probable threats to Chief Abed. Our gaze met and I quickly looked away.

"His master is Abed, of course," Atia continued, "and I'd like to keep him running the ranks for now. Abed has been investing heavily in the competition and I rather not stem that flow of coin so early."

"So... you prefer Hurek fight Shams instead?" I asked.

Atia nodded, "you've seen him and Flamma? The pair arrived yesterday afternoon."

"Yes, they seem... honorable?"

Atia laughed bitterly, "You haven't seen them behind closed doors. No bother, I invited them for breakfast today."

Of course you did.

Servants dressed in flowing blue tunics entered the garden carrying trays of fruit, cheese and bread, followed by children carrying utensils and plates. I watched weary eyed as they set up the tables in front of us, and Cato yelled at them to bring some more watermelon.

There was a murmur around Chief Abed's table, the fat Arab ran a jeweled hand through his bushy beard and nodded to one of his scribes, giving the signal for something. The young scribe bowed and took to the wooden platform in the center, turning to Atia with an elaborate bow. "Chief Abed offers his gratitude for this invitation. He appreciates the... quaintness of this occasion."

I felt Atia roll her eyes and sigh before raising her hand in acknowledgement. "Say something," she whispered to me.

"What?" I replied.

"Reply to him," Atia hissed between her lips. I figured this was some stupid posturing between Atia and the caravan-master, and I was once again a pawn in her game.

My joints ached as I stood, careful not to lock my knees. The scribe had retreated from the platform but I'd be damned if I took another step and put myself in the same level as one of Abed's servants.

"And Atia is happy too," I said simply and plopped back down on my ottoman, avoiding what I assumed was Atia staring daggers into the back of my head. I didn't care.

To the underworld I'm ready to go, Atia. Anything but more humiliation like this.

Thankfully, Abed ended the awkward silence. He grunted for one of his musicians to take the stage; a young woman with a lyre twice her size. She dragged the instrument with the help of two servants and while they set it up, Abed finally spoke to Atia directly.

"Where is your champion, my lady?" the Arab merchant drawled. He had a distinct Bedouin accent but was definitely not a camp-dweller. I assumed he came from a rich clan and based himself in Palmyra at some point. The man's guild acted as a middle-man between much of the merchant caravans and Palmyra's tariff court. He also, indirectly, controlled the desert roads with his strong connection to local Arab raiders.

But he was still in Atia's palace, in her domain, so I was taken aback by his bravado in front of the Priestess. She could have all of us slaughtered by her spear-guard and fed to her rabid monkeys for brunch, and who would stand up to her? Ali Ibn Ghassan?

The ranked eighteen was still frozen, staring ahead at something, but if he had ears like a cat, I was sure they would be flicking towards Atia.

"Hurek is recovering, after his win against Baba Haza," Atia said shortly. "I see you've brought your toy soldier, Abed. Can he do anything, or does he just stand there?"

Abed laughed, a booming sound that shook his belly, "Yes, yes you like dancing. We will show you some proper forms."

He yelled a command in Arabic and the warrior, with a feline grace, swooped up his shield, unsheathed his straight, single-edged sword and rushed to the platform.

The lyre musician looked confused but Abed told her to continue her song. And just as her slender fingers slid across the first string, Ibn Ghassan hefted the heavy shield and swayed into sweeping motions, his blade cutting through the air with unwavering cuts. He moved with the tune, his feet never crossing, his center of balance low and perfect as he moved form to form. His blade whipped and spiraled in an arching reach, covering his range in all directions and even grazed the musician's hair.

I could see her fear stricken face but, bravo to her, she never missed a beat, her fingers moving in a tempo as practiced as the Arab swordsman she played for. I was on the edge of my stool as the song rose to a crescendo and Ibn Ghassa-

"Stop," Atia cried, and the girl cut off her tune with an awkward note. Abed's champion came to a more graceful stop, flourishing his blade back into the sheathe that was strapped inside his shield. I turned to Atia and found her glaring at someone else by the courtyard entrance.

It was Baba Haza, standing proud and as confident as ever in his bright, red cloak. He raised his hand and clapped for Ibn Ghassan; a slow, mocking clap. "Impressive," he smiled, his gold teeth glinting briefly in the sunlight.

***