Bookworm Gladiator

If the eyes were a person's soul, and the face a memento for those closest to us, then I could not fathom how Septimus had been desecrated so easily. And so simply.

He lay twitching on the ground, or rather the body that remained, twitched and kicked while what was once his face lay a bloody pulp of tissue and shattered bone. His eyes crushed to nothing inside.

I emptied my stomach amidst the chaos. Feet rushed past me, and spearmen clattered their shields on the field trying to break up the brawl or whatever violence had ensued. I knew the elder Nokchi was dead. And I dared not watch his last throes.

When I wiped the tears from my own eyes - oh so precious eyes - I found myself glaring at Brutus. He was untouched. A little haggard with messed up hair, but otherwise unharmed and he looked on at the brewing chaos with a wide grin. The umpire led him away and militiamen rushed to catch the field invaders, throwing large nets on the Nokchi and other slaves as they tried to catch up to the Vigil chief.

Despite trapped within the net, a raging Hurek picked up a spearman and threw him away like a bale of hay. The man flew, his shield spinning out and hitting a random bystander in the face.

"Stand down! Atia's property, they're Atia's property!" I yelled at the top of my lungs because some of the men had drawn blades and begun stabbing at the angry slaves.

Thankfully, the militia commander had heard me, as he threw down his weapon and instead climbed on top of Hurek like a monkey wrapping it's limbs around a full-sized human. His comrades followed, and it took near ten men to pin the large man against the dirt and keep him there. I had never seen Hurek's face twisted in anger before and he was unrecognizable. No words would reach him right now, I was sure.

The rest of the group was also netted and tied in the dirt, and I saw the child Paco being restrained by a piece of rope. "Don't hurt him," I warned the commander. "And cover him up," I pointed to Septimus' body.

"I can't take orders from you," the man stated. Not rudely or with anger, but as a point of order, like this was just a civil meeting and we were discussing simple procedure.

Where had the umpire gone to?

There! Near the royal platform, the collegiate priesthood in charge of the tournament's function all huddled together, along with Cato and Brutus and the umpire nodding along to whatever was being discussed. Brutus crossed his arms, uncaring, and Cato began shaking his hands violently at the robed congregation.

The umpire, to my dismay, began shrugging. They were going to let it pass. Brutus had struck an illegal blow after the horn, and they were going to let it pass!

"Over my dead body," I grumbled. The priesthood would have to send their papers to Suetonius for approval, but now it would be coming to me unbeknownst to them. Let them try to claim this win. By Jupiter, I will send Brutus' back into the obscurity he crawled out of.

"Hail the Geminus, Brutus the Hammer! Hail the Geminus, Brutus the Head-Splitter!"

My hateful thoughts were easily drowned out by the gleeful chants of the spectators, and bile rose in my throat once again. It brought with it the same self-hate I'd felt when Layla had been executed. It couldn't be all my fault, could it?

***

Someone had taken my seat beside Atia. A Greek man, tanned and burnt dry by the Palmyran sun; much like myself at this point. He leaned in, hands clasped together, speaking politely to Atia and she actually smiled back. I followed the curve of her lips, the side-glance from under her glittering lashes when she noticed me. She whispered to the man and he saw me. He stood.

"Apologies, son of Rome," he said. Son? We had to be of the same age. His flaxen hair as thin and greyed as mine. He gathered his green toga, coiled the cloak around his shoulders and excused himself. I followed him descend the steps of the platform. He broke through the crowd of Priestesses and his retinue of sica-armed guards joined him down the path around to the civilian bleachers.

"Who was that?" I asked Atia.

"My uncle," Atia replied. "Patriarch of the Maazin tribe, and owner of the kiln."

"He was here on Septimus' account?"

"Do me a favor Cicero, and inform me the next time you plan on throwing a slave of mine as a gladiatorial sacrifice."

The dust had barely settled and they were bartering for the Nokchi's replacement? "They murdered him, Atia. You saw what happened!"

"Yes, I saw you waste good livestock for no reason."

I ignored her despicable reaction and continued, "We can't let it stand. I will deny Brutus' win in the bracket announcement. There can be-"

"You will do no such thing," Atia hissed, "You will bring no attention to Suetonius."

"No!" I felt my face burn, and voice raised in turn, "How can you let them get away with this?"

I realized my voice had taken the platform, as others quieted and I heard Flamma shuffle behind me. Atia, with one quick glance back at him and a short nod, ordered something I didn't have time to understand. Rough arms closed around my neck and I was pulled like a child on my back, my feet kicking up and throwing my sandals down the platform steps. I gasped, filling the silence with my retching.

"Get his tongue," Atia ordered and Flamma's sour-tasting fingers invaded my mouth, clasping my tongue painfully and stretching it out for Atia. The High Priestess took her blade and held it close enough for me to feel it's cold.

"Don't you ever raise your voice at me, Cicero," Atia whispered in my ear. Her hair fell on my face, blocking my view of the shocked onlookers. If I wasn't scared for my life, I would have been embarrassed. But the cold steel touched my tongue and I didn't doubt for a moment she would hesitate cutting it off. "You will do nothing to piss off Cato or anyone else that might create trouble for us. You will sit down and behave yourself, understand?"

"Yekh..." I stammered.

"Good," Atia said, back to her cheerful self in the blink of an eye. Her knife was gone and she patted my head. When Flamma finally let me go, I fell into a coughing fit trying to spit the taste of the gladiator's fingers out of my mouth.

Vibrations, dry wood

feet shuffling, I blink away the laughter

dry throat, humming

Hurek, my hope...

The platform resumed it's hustle and bustle. Their faces, so many faces, from boredom to smiles to excited wonderment and curiosity for the next match. I was left on the floor, my hand grazing the rough woodwork of the benches. Not long ago, I'd lain underneath them - in the mud and dirt, crawling like a rat between the noble's feet. It seemed not much had changed even after being seated next to them.

Flamma had wiped his fingers of my saliva and sat back down to his hushed conversation with Shams. Talking, planning, laughing; that's all they did. And Atia ignored me as well, getting up to attend some of her Temple friends who'd brought over finger food to munch on and wine glasses carried on trays held by their silent slaves.

"Excuse me, Masters?" A nervous voice called to us.

Hurek, my hope...

"What is it?" Flamma asked the boy who was trying to get our attention from below. He seemed a boy to me but he wore the robes of a collegiate clerk. "Master Cicero and Master Flamma?"

"Yes, yes what do you need?" Flamma snapped, not bothering to help me up as I dragged myself into view. The boy paused, mouth agape at my appearance. My robe had fallen off and I was bare-chested, my trousers also hanging loosely at my hips. I wiped the spit from my chin.

"The umpire is asking for your fighters to get ready. They will be next."

"Nonsense," Flamma replied, "The Persian and that Bedouin fighter are next."

The young clerk bit his lip, "Baba Haza has disappeared. He's not answering our summon. Hurek and uh... Shams are next."

Oddly enough, my heart didn't drop. My breath came slow and calm. My hands had done their shaking, and my shame had long withered away to nothing. Between fight and flight, it seemed my body was ready for a fight. "Time to die," I suddenly said to a bemused Shams.

The duo burst into laughter, their cackles catching the attention of the other attendants around us. Flamma placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and pressed, painfully. I dared not give any indication it hurt though. "Atia will find her rightful champion through this, and that is all that matters," he replied.

Shams, on his master's heel, began clapping and pushing others to join, "A toast to the Lady of Palmyra," he yelled. "I dedicate my victory to her!"

Atia and her Priestesses had turned to us and raised their glasses as well. Atia shrugged, half-bored. Her eyes briefly met mine and that's when she finally raised her glass, "May the best man win," she replied.

***