His name was Baku Khan the Terrible. Baku Khan the Untenable. Baku Khan the Misery of Parthia.
Baku Khan the gardener, I thought, watching the terribly old fighter wobble his way around the garden with a pail of water. Merula assisted him, taking a cup of water and sprinkling it on the flowers, bush by bush. Her excitable nature made it a precarious mission, as her hopping threatened to tip over the old man any moment. He was mute too, it seemed. Whether by choice or age, I wasn’t sure. The man grunted and pointed as Merula hummed an unfamiliar tune.
“Does he speak Latin?” I asked Hurek, and the large Nokchi tribesman nodded. He gestured to a pair of stools in the corner and I obliged, prepared to wait as long as needed. Baku was an old veteran from a Syrian Auxiliary unit long since disbanded. Hurek wasn’t sure when he’d come into the service of the Palmyran governer. Apparently he’d been a fixture in the local martial circles for as long as anyone could remember. He’d trained most of the local brawlers and even been consulted by the senate on outfitting the city militia. He was probably the most experienced fighter in the city. Possibly the province. Soldiers didn’t live a long life.
The head cook, a slave by the name of Castor, approached us with a tray of fruit. His bald head sweat profusely and I couldn't help but watch as a drop collected on his fuzzy brow and threatened to fall into the mango below. Thankfully, he wiped his forehead after placing the tray and turned to me with a slight bow. "Any nuts, my lord?"
"What?"
"Dried nuts," Castor said, "Romans love their nuts, do they not?"
"Please leave."
"Of course!" he replied, bowing repeatedly.
"And don't call me lord," I called after him as he scurried inside the palace kitchens. "Might as well have called me Rex or Emperor," I muttered. Eastern proclivity to royal hood was always discomforting.
I found Hurek staring at me, a small smile on his sunbaked features. "What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He turned back to Baku and Merula, who were finishing their lap around the garden. At first they didn’t notice us, and when they finally did, they hesitated. Perhaps they figured I was a lounging noble and it would be rude to approach unless otherwise commanded. I had to offer a small gesture, a flick of the hand, for them to feel comfortable coming closer. Hurek immediately offered his stool to the old veteran and the man patted the Nokchi’s head fondly.
"Are you Baku?" I asked and the warrior gave me a toothless smile. Merula had taken Hurek by the hand to go see the flowers again that she'd just watered, leaving the both of us in an awkward silence. He eyed the fruit on the tray between us.
"Please, have it." I gently pushed the tray towards him. The warrior didn't hesitate, dragging his stool up to the table and digging into the wet mangoes. Being rather short—or perhaps it was age bearing down on him—he swung his dangling feet as he ate, giving me the impression of a child.
It would have been a mistake to treat him as such. Old scars stretched up his wrinkly arms, and missing pieces of flesh on his shoulders formed a deep ridge that ran down into his gray-haired chest. While his face was scrunched up in glee over the delicious fruit, there were creases between his brows and forehead that suggested he was no stranger to emotions of a more vicious kind.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that your young lad Hurek will be fighting the coming tournament,” I began. No point wasting time beating around the bush, I figured and kept a close eye on his reaction. There was none.
“With a couple ranked fighters expected soon, Hurek might even fight in the first bracket this week.” Again, Baku didn’t give any indication that he’d heard or understood. The old man dropped a mango skin and began on another. “Hurek! you know him?” I said a little louder and he finally nodded.
“Good boy, good clinch,” Baku commented, his fingers tearing into the syrupy fruit.
I sighed and called Hurek over. The fighter jogged over to us and I pulled him aside quickly, “you said he understood Latin. Is he alright?”
Merula was tugging on the old man’s shirt and he looked down, a momentary shock on his face as if he’d seen her for the first time today. He offered her a mango slice.
“He not the same he was,” Hurek replied slowly.
I can see that. It was a shame, truly. I was within arm’s reach of a lifetime of martial expertise and it was all hidden behind a fraying mind. It spoke to my own deficiencies, in a way. I’d spent most of my life tailing aloof politicians and aristocrats. Fighting men had mostly been observed for entertainment or used as tools of power in my world. As much admiration as I’d had for the martial arts throughout my life, my new work here in Palmyra dared to reveal my deep ignorance. I had to pry out whatever knowledge I could from this man. Before Hurek fought his first bout, I needed to at least understand some basics.
“Do me a favor, Hurek. Go find and bring over a sparring partner.”
“Spar… what?”
“A person to fight with. You train with someone at the barracks, no?”
Hurek nodded, “my brothers.”
“What about Atia’s spear-men?” I asked. The palace was patrolled by a dozen spear carriers with tattoos that resembled the symbol of Baal, the patron deity of Palmyra. I figured as High Priestess, they were Atia’s personal guard paid out of her own pocket or the Temple itself.
“Yes, they are here.”
“Go, bring one over!”
I had a budding idea, to arrange a display or performance that would tickle Baku’s fading memory. He could not be reasoned or negotiated with like I would have done with a disagreeable associate from my past. I had to procure his expertise a little more naturally.
It didn’t take long for the Nokchi to snatch a young man, with bushy hair and a bored gaze. He was lanky and well-muscled, though not nearly as conditioned and powerful as Hurek. From what I’d gathered, Hurek’s combative equals were his own brethren and other slave warriors, not some glorified militia man from the city’s middle class. But this is what I had to work with on short notice, I supposed. “Can you fight?” I asked the boy.
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“Obviously,” he said with an edge. Oh mitte… I hate teenagers.
“Alright, wrestling it is. Then maybe we can try striking.” I belted my commands with authority but I wasn’t entirely sure how a proper spar was directed. I’d only seen some professional training when visiting my son at his camp back in Rome.
“Wait, him?” The young man asked. “B-but, he’s a slave.”
“And?” I asked, “you’re a soldier aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—“
“What’s your name?” I snapped.
“Captain Yaresh.”
“Oh, a captain are we?” I said. “I’m sure you can muster some strength for a light spar.”
Yaresh eyed the Nokchi uncomfortably as the large man stretched, extending his arms over his head. Hurek’s biceps alone were larger than the boy’s head.
“Go on, then,” I said and plopped down on the stool. No sooner had I sat down, that Hurek flew straight into the soldier’s mid-rift. He pounced like a tiger, low and feral, his hands clamping down on the legs and shoulder bashing into the groin. Yaresh gasped as he hit the grass under the larger man’s weight.
“Oho!” Baku yelled, and turned to face the fighters. The violent tackle had finally caught his attention. “Scramble, scramble! Foot on hips!”
I felt a sudden spike in my heartbeat and I was certain it wasn’t the sugar or my failing health. This is it! I quickly pulled out a scroll from my satchel—Juno’s satchel—and inked a pen with shaking hands.
But Hurek had paused in his attack as Yaresh’ groan turned into a whimper. He looked down worriedly, “You okay?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s fine,” I said, “Go on, keep going.”
“He can’t fight,” Hurek replied as he stood, brushing away the dirt on his padded, leather skirt.
“I can fight!” Yaresh snarled.
“See, he’s fine,” I said.
But Hurek placed his hands on hips stubbornly, “He will be hurt.”
Baku looked confused and I could see his eyes glaze over, instead focusing on a flight of birds that had taken off in the oasis beyond. Yaresh, to his credit, stood up and glared at me. “I can fight,” he repeated.
“We need this, Hurek,” I continued. “Go through the motions, but you can hold back if you want.”
Hurek sighed, and this time it was Yaresh who pounced on him as soon as possible. But it was like watching someone hit a brick wall. Hurek let Yaresh get trapped under the arm and locked his hands around like an iron collar.
“No danger, you’re tough. Mental tough,” Baku said. He was clearly giving survival advice to the young footman. Everyone loves an underdog.
“Alright, Hurek. I need you to show off your strength, then speed, then other techniques you can think of. One by one, understood?”
Hurek nodded, moving Yaresh from position to position expertly. From a standing clinch, to a scramble on their knees, then top control on the ground. He moved with just enough power to control and yet kept himself from completely submitting the struggling captain. Yaresh had enough agency to think he was making some progress.
And Baku ate it all up, barking orders to Yaresh as his own person coach. Most of them were cryptic, as if he was recalling some long forgotten code, but my pen moved quickly across the paper and captured every single word.
Slowly, I began to form a coherent theme across the wrestling session. It was always strength versus toughness in different ways. Baku considered Yaresh to be of low toughness in body and was increasingly getting agitated by Hurek’s reliance on strength to maintain control.
“Pull back a little, Hurek,” I said, “Use less than half your strength.”
I could see Hurek’s muscles relax, his iron grip loosen. Yaresh gained enough space to scramble, his lean frame finally having some advantage. He moved with speed. Whether it was the correct movement or not, I couldn’t tell.
Baku, at first hopeful, quickly chided the militiaman for not taking advantage of his speed by employing proper technique. He spoke of Hurek’s perception, and as he did so, I could see Hurek time Yaresh’s movement perfectly.
Even though the young man was quick, Hurek seemed to know where to stick his leg to intercept the scramble, or even shift his weight just enough to slow down Yaresh’s escape. He wasn’t using his strength anymore, but I could see how timing was just as important. Strength, toughness, speed, and perception… what else?
I drew lines and charted comparisons across my notes, trying to draw a story between the elements; an organized table that would help me frame this physical confrontation to my understanding. Baku’s barking was beginning to make some sense, but some of it was still gibberish to me. And it wasn’t entirely due to his broken Latin. For example, he spoke of Yaresh’s lack of “mushin”. Sometimes he mentioned aggression, which was obviously lacking on Hurek’s part, but he also insulted Yaresh’s mushin.
I thought of the legendary Numidian fighter Spiculus. His was the first great duel I’d seen in my life in the coliseum. He was a murmillo, a vicious and aggressive fighter that put on an incomparable pace in his bouts. Much older now and not fighting as much, but he often spoke in public events. Most of it was him sponsoring some new type of sandal, but occasionally he’d mention his past battles and how his blind aggression had fueled him.
I could see Yaresh trying to channel some rage, but there was something else missing in his offensive attempts. Something I saw in Apocalypse.
Apocalypse was the dreaded Gallic warrior with the longest and most efficient winning streak in arena history. He was younger than Spiculus and still fought now and then in Nero’s annual games. His fights were quick, dominant and somewhat surreal in their culmination. It was an aggression with a planned method. Almost as if he saw every move coming a moment before it materialized.
Spiculus and Apocalypse had never fought; both of them had brought in too much coin to be forced into a match that might see one of them destroyed. Nero personally owned both of them either way, and the Emperor didn’t like losing. Even to himself. But the question had always been on every citizen’s mind. Who would have won, if they’d ever fought? Spiculus’ unrelenting force, or Apocalypse’s killer instinct?
“Aggression and mushin,” I whispered to myself. My attention had been on the paper completely when I heard Merula yelling, “Rest, rest, rest!”
Both fighters had stopped their fight; Yaresh panting and drenched in sweat, whereas Hurek only sported a slight blush. As if he’d just taken a brisk walk.
“Fine,” I said, “but we do another session. This time, striking.”
***
image [https://i.imgur.com/ykR2Nqr.png]
"Hurek holds my fate in his calloused fists. His habits confound me, and I am sure there is a vast abyss between his thoughts and the words that come out of his mouth. I don't think I'm ready to cross that abyss just yet.
The day with Baku has done wonders in organizing my thoughts and giving us a clear path forward. From everything the man had barked during the spar, and some more that I surmised myself, fight theory can be broken down into twelve main elements: six offensive realms, and six defensive. I’ve paired them with each other as best as can be managed to offer us a strategic foothold in climbing the coming fixtures.
Sometime ago, I helped appraise a senator’s inventory of apartment holdings using a scale system. The first thing to establish, is a relative baseline. I’ve used Yaresh as a fighter baseline for mental comparison with a rating of fifty across all of the offensive and defensive realms. With that, Hurek was rated in each ability based on his relative advantage. I hope to mimic this system when studying the competing roster going forward.
With Hurek, there is also a mental element to consider. Particularly when it comes to Aggression. Hurek may be the closest thing to a pacifist a pit fighter can be, rendering him a massive disadvantage in attack. Hence a lowered aggression and poor weapons of choice. But his skin is like hardened leather, he always wears a helmet, and years of fist-fighting have given him the perfect form at close-range. Alas, the ability to survive is not enough and he must improve. Somehow."
- Cicero, Fighter Journal
***
Attack rated 357
Defense rated 462
Arena Primarch Rank: Amateur (unranked)