The Body looked to its new master, Chief Abed, the self-proclaimed merchant king of Palmyra. The Body didn't know what that title meant, nor did it spare a thought to figure it out. The Body's eyes studied everyone near its master for any hint of danger or odd movement that might signal ill intention.

The master's guests today were the usual Bedouins. Except this time, it was someone important, as signaled by their forehead band and the embroidered robe around their shoulder. The old man's wrinkled brow furrowed, and his deep-set eyes judged the fat merchant before him. The Body recognized that facial expression. It was distaste.

Chief Abed was oblivious to it, or simply didn't care. He waited for his maidservant to finish pouring the steaming cup of tea, his own hands busy peeling an orange with a jambiya dagger. Crumbs from his lunch still decorated his chest.

"Tell me, son of Abed, how much did you spend on this toy of yours?" The Bedouin Elder pointed to The Body.

"Oh Akhi! You hurt me," Chief Abed replied. He looked anything but hurt, however. He pointed to The Body, "that toy will bring us ten times over what we spend. Do you know how much a ranked win will get us?"

"Roman coin, Persian coin, it's all the same to us. Camel dung.”

“A thousand denarii!” Chief Abed said.

“You pay our people and where does that get us?” The Bedouin continued. “We need land."

Chief Abed waved him off, "When the Tribune arrives, he will reward land and titles and all those other blessings."

"If your man even survives that long," the Elder snorted, finally taking a sip of his tea.

"You want numbers, old man? Four hundred denarii, that's how much this fighter is worth. He's a ranked fighter of Rome, do you even know what that means?"

"All I know is that my men and women are starving in your city, and you are gambling away their efforts."

"Insult after insult!" Chief Abed said angrily. But it was all the same. The Body had witnessed this many times before, ever since the tournament had begun. Bedouins and other guests had met with Chief Abed in his compound and expressed mostly anger and frustration. The Body didn’t understand nor care for the reasons. Only that this attitude spelled danger for his master.

And now, gathered inside a make-shift pavilion, surrounded by tournament goers of all ilk in every direction, the Body constantly fell into a distracting state of being. Nervousness.

The crowd had grown wilder with every fight, and their movements had become drunken and intoxicated. The Body hated what it couldn’t predict.

The Body’s head tilted, watching the flutter of the tent and the shadows that flitted across the light underneath. The Body’s hand kept its spear aloft, a little off the ground to keep it from sticking but otherwise ready. If the arm grew tired, the butt of the weapon would rest on the Body’s foot. The Body’s mind carefully filtered away any movement that belonged to the world. The filtering light, the swirling steam above Chief Abed, the mosquitoes that whizzed in the shaded corners of the tent.

And then, the Body recognized only potential threats. Humans. The Elder guest who kept looking to his left and right, though that could be a habit of frustration. A single spearman guarded the tent from the outside. The Body could see his feet as the tent fluttered. And finally, the maid, who was busy collecting the dirty dishes. The Body watched her slender fingers lift the knives and forks and place them gently on the metal tray. She paused, brushing away a lock of hair that’d slipped out of her head covering.

“Look at that creature, my brother,” Chief Abed pointed to the Body and the Bedouin Elder craned his neck to follow the gesture. “He’s not just any slave pit fighter. He’s trained in a machimoi academy from birth, under special tutelage.”

“Special tutelage?” the Bedouin laughed, a rough bark that caused the fingers of the Body to twitch in anticipation.

“They have better philosophies there in Egypt,” Chief Abed explained, “better than what these Romans do. You see, a Roman slaver will only use fear to control. But these Egyptians, these ancient Kushite schools, they break these men as children first.” The merchant wagged his finger delightfully, as if he was offering a valuable secret that no one else had access to. “It’s about the mind, my brother.”

The Bedouin frowned. “Treat a man like a dog his entire life, and he’ll soon start barking."

"Exactly!” Chief Abed said, slapping his thigh. The Bedouin was staring at the Body again, this time a little unnerved.

“He fights like a trained animal, with only instinct and form,” Chief Abed continued. “They say he doesn’t even answer to his own name. Watch… Ibn Ghassan!”

The Body’s eyes didn’t bother flicking to its master. The ears were enough. If there was no command that followed that call, there was no need to abandon the current movements. Either way, the Body was still trying to figure out the maid’s movements. There was something about her that intrigued the Body’s mind. Something about her movements that called his attention more than the master’s words. Was it danger? The Body’s heartbeat quickened as the maid caught it looking, and she smiled shyly.

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“See?” Chief Abed said. “He’s probably thinking about how to skewer the bloody Persian.”

“Baba Haza is dangerous,” the Bedouin cut in.

“Bah!” Chief Abed replied, “the man lost his woman. He’s angry and humiliated and beaten. Ibn Ghassan will make a nice Persian maglubeh out of him.” The merchant laughed at his own joke, but the Bedouin only sighed.

The maid carried the tray towards the entrance and the Body, the Mind, the Arms, they all united in the single desire to hold open the tent flap as the woman ducked under. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she paused, the afternoon sun shining on her soft cheeks. “What’s your name?”

“My…” the Voice spoke. Hoarsely. Ever behind a veil, the Voice rarely spoke. “Name?” it finished as a question.

“Close the bloody tent, you fools,” Chief Abed barked, “you’re letting in all the dust.”

The maid jumped and quickly rushed out. The Body jerked back, trying to figure out the best movement and placement. But the Mind was a mess. It refused to let the Eyes focus, its thoughts still lingering on her question.

“Is it true the emperor will show?” The Bedouin Elder asked Abed.

“Who?”

“The Roman emperor. Nori, Nora.”

“Nero!”

“Yes, him.”

Chief Abed shook his head. “Atia has lost her mind. It’s best to just smile and nod whenever she speaks.”

The Bedouin smiled, nodded.

“Rome sent their historian, Suetonius. And they will probably send the Syrian Tribune. I don’t much care who else. The main thing to focus on, my brother, is that soon Baba Haza will show his face. Tiridates will replace him if he doesn’t. And by this evening, we will be a thousand denarii richer. Khalas!”

“Khalas,” The Bedouin replied. He spared another glance to the Body, whose Eyes now stared above, watching the steam coalesce at the top of the tent and turn into beads of water.

The Body would find the maid again when its duty finished. When the master slept, and the world stopped. When the only thing that moved was the moon that began its slow arch across the night sky, the Voice would speak again, and it would offer her a word. An important word. The sound of it will carry meaning. An intention.

When the Eyes saw her again, the Voice would speak its name. Ali Ibn Ghassan.

***

When the Nokchi fighter ripped the young man’s face with his hands, it sent a chill down the Body’s spine—a feeling it hadn’t had for a long while now. Arena duels had been no different than a sparring session, which had been no different than a patrol, which had been no different than standing in a state of complete focus and control. Absent of an identity.

But the sudden incomprehensible action, the pure depravity of it, stunned the Mind and made the Eyes flinch. Thoughts popped up in the Mind and the Body tried to breath itself back into a state of focus. Still, the Mind stirred, interrupting the Body with its questions and thoughts and fears.

The Bedouins around him were still crying in shock, and his sweaty sparring partners had quit their warm-up and run to the ropes to get a clear view of the carnage. The Body did what it could do to separate itself from the chaos and hopefully quieten the Mind.

“You’re our champion,” a man’s voice interrupted the Body’s retreat. A marsh Bedouin had popped out from behind a tent, face covered in strange tattoos. The Eyes had seen him long ago, tailing him ever since he’d left Chief Abed’s pavilion. The Mind didn’t concern itself with politics between its master Abed and his Bedouin associates. So as long as the tail kept to the shadows, the Mind ignored him.

But now the spy stood blocking the path to a quieter area of the yard and far away from the butchery happening out in the field. A couple more of his associates joined him, shirtless with loose trousers and entwining tattoos that resembled alligators. They carried tridents, which they set down firmly beside them as if to say ‘no passing unless we allow it’.

“Move,” the Body said simply.

“You’re a strange little man,” the spy continued, his marsh accent a little different from his dry-land brothers. “I think Abed made a mistake buying you.”

The Body froze, quickly anticipating a fight and readying its stance. The Mind, however, was strangely intrigued, and most of all, awake and unfocused. There was something about Palmyra that kept it awake more than it ever had been before in Syria. The tension the Body had become a part of, carried with it many layers and secrets and peoples. It also offered a freedom that the slave academy had never prepared the Body for. Chief Abed didn’t concern himself with strict control of the Body, and let it wander on its own around the training grounds and even around the city when it wasn’t on guard duty. The Mind had awakened from its long slumber after a few days and would continue to interrupt the Body’s movements and distract the Eyes’ focus.

“Well, champion?” the marsh man said, “are you a mistake?”

Challenge, the Mind thought. The man was challenging him, sort of like a jab or a thrust of the spear. Except it was all verbal and without an actual threat of violence. But why would that be? The Mind worked hard, mulling over difficult ideas and concepts it wasn’t used to. For some reason, it was sure they wouldn’t attack him. Something about the situation felt safe and secure. This wouldn’t turn into a physical confrontation because… the Body was important. At least for now.

The Body resumed its movement, circling around the posturing men and closely watching their reaction. The men, interestingly enough to the Mind, only laughed as their leader slapped their hands in what seemed like triumph.

Challenge lost? The Mind felt a little confused. It had been right about the men not daring to lay a hand on the Body, but why did it still feel like a loss? It had been right, after all, and the Body was safe. So why did it still feel as if the fight had been lost without a single strike thrown? Was there no winning position to be had in this confrontation?

The Body came to the edge of the Komare camp, where only tethered camels and the vast Palmyran desert waited for him. “Lost,” the Voice whispered to no one in particular.

Sometimes the Body would let the Voice utter words, just to hear them out loud. The Mind was still reeling from the confounding confrontation where no strikes had been thrown. “Lost,” the Voice said again, louder.

A dull pain grew around the Body’s head and it felt like a vice had been placed around its forehead. The Eyes blurred with the pain and carried with it emotion that was supposed to have been bred out of him long ago. “No, no, no!” the Voice said as anger and shame that had once belonged to a small boy burned again deep in the Body’s chest, and slowly threatened to consume the Mind.