SEPTIMUS

Septimus Merkov wished he could raze Palmyra to the ground. Every temple, every court, and every lavish compound that encroached upon the once sprawling southwestern burial grounds. Everything except for the Charnel House. Would the historians call that poetic?

As the rich patricians had built their palaces in the oasis, they had dug up all the graves and dumped the long forgotten bones in this house they called the charnel house. Once considered cursed and haunted, this decrepit tomb was now the refuge of tired slaves and lowly prole workers. They came here to drink and brawl every sunset, and even after a decade of use, they still came across pieces of collar bones and aged teeth.

Yes... if Septimus was a poet, he'd leave the charnel house as the only standing building in this godless town.

Septimus dodged a hook by his brother, Lucius, and stepped out of range of another. He knew that combination by heart and his brother was no threat now. Almost everyone involved in this brawl could barely touch Septimus. He swished the vinegar wine in his mouth, letting the sulfur burn his cheeks and numb his tongue. He didn't swallow. Not yet.

That was the challenge every night after a long, hard day of work at the kiln. The slaves and the lowly workers of the brick-making furnace gathered at the old Charnel House to drown themselves in posca. And Septimus dared anyone to knock the vinegar wine from his mouth with a punch. The only one who had ever managed to do so was Hurek, but the young Nokchi was too good for them now, spending the day training at the palace barracks. Septimus should be proud, though, since his cousin had actually managed to attain an official Primarch rank and defeated Haza.

Then why was he still filled with so much hopelessness?

He jabbed a feint at Lucius' face, another feint to the body, and his brother was left cringing with indecision. Septmius could've landed a clean kick to the kneecaps afterwards, but he held back. That was a critical strike that could cause long-term injury to a fighter. Knee-injuries were the worst. Septimus could never do that to his brother, especially Lucius, who was just as gentle and mild-mannered as Hurek, albeit not as religious.

Gaius, the youngest Merkov, took this opportunity to launch a flurry of quick jabs, which Septimus had trouble dodging, so he clinched his younger brother immediately. Careful not to spill the posca in his mouth, he spun the little rascal around and sent him sprawling across the dirt floor.

A third man, a blacksmith by the name of Marcellus, entered the fray and this time, Septimus didn't hold back. He launched into a lethal combination of kicks and jabs to get the burly man to turtle up, and then a flying knee straight to the face, which connected with a satisfying smack, sending the blacksmith immediately outside of the fighting circle as quickly as he'd entered. The charnel house roared with laughter at the fast exit. And even Marcellus offered a bloody smile as he stumbled back to his stool. His friend clapped him on the shoulder proudly, for at least trying. There was no shame losing to Septimus in a fist-fight, after all.

"You win, brother," Lucius, the last one standing, held up his arms with a wide grin and Septimus nodded. He no longer felt like swallowing the bitter drink and instead spat it out.

"Wasting good posca," Lucius said.

"It's pig shit and you know it," Septimus said and spat another glob on the floor before exiting the circle and settling down with his brothers at the make-shift bar. They'd crafted their own stools and the table was in fact the sarcophagus of an old Assyrian lord, his name and deeds lost to history. He was probably some upstart like Julius or the merchant king. They would be dead soon enough too, and maybe their slaves would use their tomb as their drinking house. If only-

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The door swung open and a wiry man of dirty blonde hair stumbled inside and he hopped like a lunatic, holding a mug of brown liquid in his hands that spilled all over the floor as he took a swig. It was the strangest sight Septimus had ever seen. He'd only known of these types of men to exist in the far western reaches of the empire, and some had served as auxiliaries in the Roman legions that had raided the Nokchi tribes those terrible years long ago.

"You," Septimus bellowed, "Out! Now."

"Isn't that the barbarian who arrived in Bestarii's stead?" Lucius said.

"I don't care who he is, he doesn't belong here," Septimus growled and when he stood to face the visitor, the charnel house quieted. Slowly, everyone noticed the stumbling barbarian and were a little too shocked by his appearance to watch Gaius almost get knocked on his arse by Marcellus.

"Greetings, my tall friend," the barbarian hiccupped as Septimus stood up to him. "Is this where the slaves roost?"

"Leave, now," Septimus pointed to the door. He didn't have the patience for this ruffian. He could be a spy for the Vigils for all he knew. But before he could shove the man out of the door, he spun with an uncanny agility, dodging Septimus' grasp and stumbling the last few steps to the middle of the fight circle. Gaius and Marcellus paused their fight, looking confusedly between the intruder and Septimus.

"What-"

"Behold!" the barbarian cried, throwing open the sack he carried on his shoulders. Goatskin bottles spilled out and he splashed his own mug around the circle, "I bring ye the nectar of the Gods, straight from between the legs of Ninkasi!"

"Is that wine?" someone cried, and the barbarian smiled between hiccups. "No, my dear beetle-dwarf, this is beer. And you remember that it was Mops who birthed it! And Ninkasi. It was both me and her. Joint effort, understand?"

Then "Mops", or whatever was his name, grabbed the tiny lute at his waist and began stringing the most foreign tune Septimus had ever heard. Magic, he thought. The barbarian was bewitching them! He charged towards the hopping man, attempting to tackle him to the ground but the crazed musician dodged his lunge without missing a tune, twirling and jumping onto a table as slaves and kiln-workers piled on top of each other trying to get a bottle of the free barbarian wine. "Beer, beer, beer! Tiddly beer, beer, beer!" he sang in a hoarse voice, hiccupped, then cart-wheeled off the table with a flourish that betrayed his otherwise drunken gait.

"What the fuck is going on..." Septimus whispered, staring at his friends as they chugged down the drink, and he even saw Lucius pushing his way through to grab a bottle from Gaius. He shrugged at Septimus guiltily, "It's free wine," he said as he passed him.

But Septimus would not drink. The truth was that he'd tried giving up alcohol recently, same as Hurek. He needed a clear mind as the oldest, to take care of them all. But he wouldn't ruin the joy for the others, not when this is all they had in a life of meaningless labor day after day, with no escape in sight. Truly, they needed this.

Septimus sighed and trudged back to the bar, and leaned against the Assyrian coffin to watch the chaotic moshpit that this Mops character had begun. Men, who had just moments ago sat tiredly gulping down wine-vinegar in the corner, now danced on top of the tables, chugging down this brown liquid from the goatskins. Mops swayed, his arm around Marcellus, and they both sang in their own languages, not matching a tune at all but this was the most cheerful he'd seen the man in ages.

As he watched the dancing, he nearly missed the door opening once again, a hulking figure slipped into the room and paused at the scene, unsure of what to do. "Hurek," Septimus cried, waving his young cousin over, "come, I'll explain."

But Hurek's face was grim as he approached, his eyes staring into the abyss, even as he shuffled his way to the bar. "Everything alright?" Septimus asked. Hurek was the best of the Nokchi, in both character and prowess. He was their pride and their future, and everyone in this charnel house would die for this man. Even Septimius, despite his reserved jealousy of his success. He was just as young as Gaius, and Ollia had practically raised them both in her bosom since they'd been enslaved by Romans.

So to see this look of despair on Hurek, it sent Septimus' heart fluttering with anxiety. And when the man spoke, it was worse than he could have imagined. "They killed him," Hurek said softly, "they killed Jiri."

***