The second bracket of the tournament began on a Friday and I awoke just before sunrise to catch the empty streets and stables. The only other souls awake were servants and some muleteers preparing their mounts for the busy day ahead. My stomach grumbled as I stepped into the stables. There was no time for breakfast, however.

No matter what happened today, I would not be crawling through the mud this time to watch the fights; looking through peepholes and debasing myself just to get the best view. No, I would be front and center, with full access to the fighter rest bench. And most importantly, I must get there early enough to speak with Baba Haza, and maybe even introduce myself to Tiridates. Enemy of my enemy and so forth.

Hurek stumbled into the stables, rubbing his eyes and offering large yawns that woke the remaining mules and horses. I felt a pang of guilt, considering my plans to forsake Hurek at some point. What loyalty did I owe the large Nokchi, though? He clearly didn't share my anger and hatred of Atia, of Rome, of Nero... and even if he did, there were other more blood-thirsty men out there for me to align myself with. Men like Haza.

"Ready to crack some skulls, Hurek?" I asked.

"Crack some nuts, first," he replied tiredly.

"No time for breakfast here, but I packed you some fruit and meat once we reach the maydan."

Together we strapped Diogenes, my mule, and packed the fight gear. Hurek also carried Jiri's club. It had a slender handle, and a curved shaft that came to a large, heavy stone at the top. Hurek held it somberly for a moment before attaching it to the pack-mule. The next came a chain-strapped book he liked using as a shield.

"Is that what I think it is?" I asked him.

Hurek smiled guiltily, but stuffed his book-shield inside the bag regardless. Jupiter give me patience!

He packed his pauldron as well but opted to wear his helmet. It kept him focused on fight day, he said. But the sun would be hot, today, and I worried the metal on his head would fry his brain. Or maybe it already had?

I pushed my nonsensical thoughts away and led the mule around to the door. The sun might be cool at sunrise, but around noon, it would soon cover the city in blistering heat-waves. Especially out in the cavalry field. Maybe I really should consider spending the day underneath the platforms...

"When do I fight?" Hurek asked.

"You are the highest ranking fight in this bracket, so you'll be last," I said, and realised it wasn't exactly the perfect answer. "It could be today, or not. Depends how long the others take and whatever else the city has organized." The more I thought about it, the more it soured my mood. Sitting out in the sun, amongst the insufferable socialites, watching fight after fight and many other games and parades, and no doubt the long prayers by all the cults. It was all very tedious. "You should have strangled Shams in his sleep, I tell you. Missed opportunity."

Hurek only grunted in response.

When we reached the palace gates, I heard a young girl's voice call my name, "Master Cicero!" Merula came running, as quick as she could manage while balancing a tray of food. "Your breakfast!"

"Oh dear girl, what are you doing up this early?"

"You have to eat, Master, you have to eat."

"Watermelon," Hurek stated, pointing at the fruit.

"Keen observation, as always, young man. Hades is out to get me, isn't he?"

"What?"

"Never you mind," I said, "And you, girl. I told you to eat it for me. I prefer a lighter meal in the mornings, understand?"

"But Castor will beat me."

I paused, pulling Diogenes' reins and he also came to a frustrated stop. Hurek took the opportunity to snatch the watermelon from the tray as I studied the girl up and down. There were some bruises on her legs and arms. "Who touched you?" I asked her softly.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Merula bit her lip, realising that she might be betraying Atia's butler or whatever he was. Or was she afraid of another beating? "Tell me, Merula dear, you won't get in trouble, I promise."

Hurek, finally realising what I was getting at, took the rest of the tray away from the girl and knelt down beside her. "You're safe," he told the girl. "You speak truth, now."

"You need to... eat, Master Cicero," Merula cried, and her lips trembled, "Castor say I can't eat it, or he..." she was bawling, now, drooling all over Hurek as she buried her head in his shoulder. He patted her head gently but it did little to stop the tears. She'd been holding them back for a while, I could tell.

"Take her to my room," I told Hurek as I tied Diogenes' reins to the closest palm tree. "Take the tray, also, and fill your stomachs. I'll be back."

"Where you going?" Hurek asked, lifting the sobbing girl over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"To the latrine, I need to take a shit."

***

It's intriguing how quickly our priorities can change. A man worries about sitting in the sun for too long, and then he worries for his boredom, and then for the tediousness of his day, and before he knows it, he's barreling down a dark path of violence. If I had the time, I would sit down and reflect on what had made my blood boil so quickly. Was it, in fact, a tenderness for the well-being of a slave-girl? Or something else entirely?

I gritted my teeth, heading straight for the kitchens, where Castor spent most of his morning and afternoon. It was usually quite a walk from the front entrance of the palace but I cut to the side, through the vegetable garden, the servant quarters and burst through the curtains of the kitchens. The cooking hall had high, vaulted ceilings - caked with ash and grease - and the walls were lined with pots of all sizes, constantly filled with steaming broth and vegetables every time I'd come in here.

But I hungered for something else this time. "Castor," I called to the pudgy man innocently pouring over a parchment in the corner. He immediately stood up, clasped his hands in front of him and bowed, "Ah, Master Cicero. Jupiter keep you, all is well I hope?"

"No, not at all," I said, maintaining my composure as best I could. I dabbed the sweat from my forehead and put on what I hoped was a disappointed look. "There have been issues with my breakfast."

"Oh? I'm so sorry to hear Master."

"Yes, it seems somebody has been eating it."

"Yes, yes, oh so terrible, yes," Castor nodded somberly, as if giving condolences for a death. "I must admit that I know who is the culprit, Master, and I assure you that it will not happen again."

"Who was it?"

"Just an obnoxious child, a little demon she is," Castor said, chuckling. But his smile quickly disappeared as my frown deepened. "But I assure you, it is all taken care of."

"Corporal punishment, I hear?"

"Yes, yes. I assure you, Master. I take this matter very seriously. I can even have her hands cut off if it pleases you."

"What did you beat her with?"

"Sorry?" Castor's smile faltered and he fidgeted with his hands, clearly caught off guard with my questioning. He was a clever little pig, wasn't he? He should've been able to sense that there was more to the conversation than my irritation with some missing grapes.

"I think my question is very simple, Castor. Was it this spoon?" I picked up a laddle from a bubbling pot, careful not to drip the boiling liquid on my hands. Caster winced as I brought it up to his face. Slowly, he nodded.

"Really?" I snapped, "You beat her with a fucking ladle?"

"P-please, Master. I can beat her again if you wish," he backed away nervously as I tried to step close.

"On your knees," I commanded, and grasped the ladle with both hands, as they were shaking with anticipation of what I was about to do.

"Please, Master Cicero, I beg you..."

"On your knees!"

Castor, in a fit of pitiful sobs, lowered himself to the floor, afraid to look up at what I was about to do. In any other state of mind, I shouldn't have been able to do this. I kept telling myself that. For Merula, I thought. This pig deserves this!

My hands whipped across before I could bring another thought to dissuade me, smacking Castor across the face with the wooden stirrer. He shrieked and fell, clutching his blushing cheek. "Oh, Mast-er!"

He kept begging as I lashed him from arms to feet, and I heard a maidservant run screaming down the hall for help. But it was too late. Not just for him, but for me as well. As much as my arm pained me, I put full force behind each strike, procuring a pleasant shriek from the scrambling pig as I chased him across the kitchen floor. He turned over to his stomach, and I had a clean strike to his arse but someone stopped me.

A hand that felt like solid rock, or iron, clasped my wrist. "Enough," Hurek said.

Castor crawled away into the corner to hide behind some shelves. He wheezed and whined, "Master...why..."

"Let go of me," I said breathlessly, and Hurek, after a stern glare, slowly freed my arm.

"You would defend this pig?" I asked.

"No," Hurek replied, "but enough is enough."

"Fine, but he had it coming for beating that slave-girl," I said, grabbing a box to sit on and calm my racing heart.

"Castor slave too," Hurek said simply and crossed his arms, staring at the kitchen-master with some pity.

The man still cried into his tunic, blowing his nose, and then sobbing some more. He still mumbled questions of why I would do this, clearly not understanding the consequences of his actions. A freedman could beat a slave, and a slave could beat another slave... was there a difference? Perhaps there was. If beatings were a language, these creatures were just speaking in the language they were taught.

I threw down the ladle, not sure if what I'd done was justified after all. Not sure of anything really.

"Come," Hurek said, offering me a hand.

***