Everyone loved Flamma. And not just because of his tall, just-left-the-bath look he sported outside of the arena - shirtless, silky shoulder-length hair, an easy smile and relaxed demeanor that contrasted heavily against the usual brutes he was pitted against. I'd seen him once in Rome and remembered his charm to this day.

But no, this man was unique in another fashion that even I'd been extremely curious of when I first heard of him. Flamma had been given freedom four times, and he had refused it at every single opportunity. What's more, he'd dedicated his victories to his own companions, slaves, and other working class families of the Levant and beyond. A people's champion in every sense of the word. The arena would never wish for him to fall, and would always choose him as the winner in a draw.

I wasn't surprised then, when I head the Syrian hero was addressing a gathering in the public square, speaking directly to the commoners, locals and visitors alike. Hurek and I followed Paco to the colonnade, and Jirikoy also tagged along, curious to hear what the champion had to say.

"I fight him?" Hurek asked, as we pushed through the increasingly crowded streets. It seemed word was spreading and everyone was headed to see him.

"I don't think so," I said. "But you might fight his protégé, Shams."

Flamma had begun his own gladiator school in Damascus, and his top student was a young man called Shams. I didn't know much about him other than that he was from a free-born family and a hard-working fighter, given the honorific The Stalwart Prince.

It was all too much and too soon for Hurek. He needed some time to recover, especially with a sprained wrist. Maybe I could negotiate someone easier? But fighting an unranked gladiator carried another risk altogether with little reward. There was also the Bedouin fighter Ali Ibn Ghassan, ranked eighteen. Or perhaps a rematch with Baba Haza? The Persian was still reeling from the loss of his wife and would be an easier opponent, giving Hurek another ranked win.

But if we wanted to rise to the top as quickly as possible, there was no denying that dispatching Syria's young prodigy, Shams, would be a massive triumph for Hurek.

We turned into a residential square connected to the colonnade, where caravans had driven inside, and a platform had been quickly formed with boxes next to the fountain. Flamma was easily recognizable, leaning from his pedestal to shake the hands of the gathering people. He wore a Bedouin agal, interestingly enough; a black head wrap around a white headscarf. Was he trying to appeal to the locals already or just a convenient sun-shade? Favor with the local Bedouin clans would definitely give him an advantage with the crowd if his protégé, Shams, ended up fighting Ali Ibn Ghassan.

"Nuts," Hurek pointed to a vendor stall filling the air with clouds of freshly roasted spiced almonds. I grabbed the large man by the elbow before he could run off, "For Mars' sake, look." I turned his attention to the smart looking youth at Flamma's side, wearing a silver breastplate with elaborate threads at the shoulders. He nodded to the crowd graciously and winked at a few women; their husbands too busy gawking at Flamma to notice.

"Friends," Flamma began, "You are too good to me. Thank you for this welcome. Please offer the same honor to my greatest student, the prince of Shaam, the stalwart prince, Shams of Damascus!"

Shams stepped forward nervously, a shy smile playing on his lips. He seemed at a loss for words as the people around him yelled greetings in everything from Arabic to Latin to Greek. "He seems indecisive," I commented. Only Jirikoy was paying attention and nodded in agreement. Hurek was still stealing glances at the steaming nuts being handed out.

"Flamma, he seems just as I imagined," Jirikoy replied. The Nokchi clansman was much better with Latin than his friend Hurek.

"I suppose," I said, not to sure what to make of Flamma just yet. There was something off about him. Shams, though, seemed harmless. Maybe a fight with him would not be so bad?

Stolen novel; please report.

Shams, still teetering on this toes for some way to respond, instead unsheathed his two blades, vicious scimitars, which he twirled in blinding speed, creating spirals of flashing steel around him. The square burst into cheers at the display and Flamma stepped back to the let the young man show off.

"Or not," I finished, a little taken aback by Shams' skill. But it was just display right?

"Hurek need better weapon," Jirikoy told me, arms crossed and watching Shams carefully. "Yes, give Hurek my club."

"He'll need more reach, that's true," I replied. Jirikoy seemed to have a good head on his shoulders, and I was craving to ask more questions about his background, his culture, his peoples. It would give me a chance to learn more about Hurek as well. I'd wasted my life writing about nonsense, but not too long ago, I had dreams of adding to the Empire's knowledge of the world with valuable insight on the frontiers. Of course, we were broiled in wars against the Getae and other upstart Greeks, and my intentions were not entirely wholesome. Now, however, I just wanted to learn. Maybe after this god forsaken tournament was over, I could finally become the explorer I was meant to be.

"Jirikoy," I said, "Do you think... that maybe, we could talk some time?"

"About Hurek?"

"No. Well, yes, but more about-"

"About my business?" Jirikoy replied, eyes lighting up. "I need every and all help. We need advice and when my son come, we need more coin. You could speak to the Temple or the Court?"

"I... yes, of course. I'm sure I can set that up somehow," I replied. Jirikoy had his own troubles, with a babe on the way it would be a tense year for him. I faintly remembered what that was like; being a young, bright eyed couple with a single child, facing the day with dreams and motivation to make something for your family. I hoped I'd achieved that, somehow. And knowing that my own son, Lepidus, was out there serving the Empire as an Optio of the Praetorian Guard itself, filled my chest with pride. "Don't worry, Jirikoy," I said, patting the burly man on the back, "you will make a great father. I can see it."

Jirikoy was in deep thought, staring at Flamma and Shams as they met with the crowd some more, accepting gifts and food from well-wishers. "What of Flamma?" Jirikoy said, "he give money to business folk?"

"Hm, yes. He has been known to support local businesses," I said, "that is a wonderful idea. You should go to him."

"Yes?" Jirikoy said hesitantly, and I could see he was a little nervous approaching the famed warrior. I also wasn't sure if Flamma would even talk to him, but who was I to discourage honest effort? Jirikoy needed all the help he could get.

"Go," I told him, "he was once just a lowly gladiator like yourself. He will see your worth."

Those words had a clear effect on Jirikoy, as he breathed in proudly, nodding his thanks and began pushing through the crowd towards Flamma's caravan. I was left alone and-

Alone? I thought. I could have sworn I was with someone else as well. "Hurek!" I cried, realizing the man had slipped away. By Jupiter, this distracted man would be the death of us both. Sure enough, I saw him huddled by the vendor stall, eating nuts out of a steaming paper cornet.

I marched up to him and he offered me some, happily, "Nuts?" he said and I fought the urge to slap them out of his hands.

"Hurek, please pay attention," I implored, and tried appealing to his sense of preservation, "you could die out there if you don't study your opponents well."

"I trust you, priest," he said, "And you trust me."

"Jirikoy offered his club to you," I replied, "maybe you can use that instead of just your fists?"

Hurek nodded as he popped a few almonds into his mouth, "yes, club don't kill. Unless I try."

"Good, good," I said, some relief washing over me.

"Nuts?" he asked again.

"Sure, why not," I held out my hand and Hurek almost emptied his cornet into my palm. "Oh that's enough, Hurek, I don't think I can eat all that."

"That's what I say first time."

The roasted almonds entered my mouth with a burst of flavor; spiced pepper and a hint of lime. "Neriene's tits, this is heavenly..."

Hurek was nodding with a self-satisfied smile, "see?"

I finished the rest of them quickly, and the vendor, an old Persian looking man, offered us some water with them as well. We watched the square slowly empty out, the Bedouins finally leaving to return to their camp and the locals running off to finish their chores for the day before the markets closed. As the crowd thinned and Flamma and Shams appeared back in view, I saw Jirikoy finally speaking with them.

"What he doing?" Hurek snapped, a hint of anger in his voice, something I'd never heard before. Was he actually worried for once?

"Jirikoy needed to speak with Flamma for his business, and I thought-"

Hurek growled, a low rumble that emanated from his hairy chest. He crushed the cornet in his hands, "Never trust enemy," he replied. "Never."

Flamma laughed at something and offered a hand to Jirikoy, who took it gingerly and they nodded, together, agreeing to something we couldn't hear. Shams was standing to the side, measuring the Nokchi man up and down with a sour look.

***