I couldn’t believe Shams was still alive. His head, wrapped in soaking red bandages, lulled in and out of consciousness. His speech slurred as Flamma tried his best to make him join conversations from nearby guests on the bleacher. A slave-woman attended to his every need, which mostly amounted to wiping droplets of blood that would gather under his chin.

“Water!” Flamma hissed to the poor woman, and she quickly pulled out a watermelon with a straw, the tip of which she stuck into Shams’ blubbering mouth.

“Oh mitte,” I whispered under my breath. Surely, Flamma wasn’t this desperate to pass off appearances?

Atia was disparaging her own slave attendant, a woman I faintly recognized from the palace. She was fanning Atia but apparently was doing it all wrong. Flustered, Atia waved her away, and sent her on a mission for some refreshments.

The final bout had been flagged, and the circle drawn for the fighters. Slowly, the royal bleachers filled up again, the noble attendants returning from their pavilions. Most of the Priestesses were of the Maazin tribe, and so were seated with their fathers and brothers, often senators themselves. Cato the city master and his lictor Brutus had never left, instead choosing to hover around the field, making a big show of authority with their militiamen. I admit they were well-geared, with silver spear tips that sparkled together as they marched in unison. I made a mental note of Brutus occasionally barking orders to the militiamen himself, meaning he had authority over them just as much as his select few Vigils.

A long-haired man in temple robes blocked my view as he slid into the row of seats in front of us. He was one of Atia’s Temple associates called Yarhai. He paused and offered a half-grimace, half-smile to Flamma. “How is the young warrior?” he asked, nodding to Shams. Flamma replied quickly, “he will recover, a little dazed.”

“Perhaps some shade will do him good?” the man said, and I could see the confusion in his eyes as Shams’ head drooped.

“Your concern is appreciated, Yarhai,” Flamma replied. I figured they’d met before. It seemed Flamma was more familiar of Atia’s Temple crowd than I was. I thought I’d feel challenged by that, but the truth was I didn’t much care for competing with the champion anymore.

Watching the sea of aristocrats and nobles assemble on to the bleachers, I couldn’t feel more alone and separate. Yarhai and Atia exchanged pleasantries and discussed some matters I should have paid attention to. But my thoughts wandered to the Nokchi and the other slaves. As soon as they’d been freed, the entire family and even the brick kiln workers had rushed out of the field. They were headed for the palace to check on Hurek.

A part of me wanted to follow them. In fact, all of me. To think that I would rather be craving the company of slaves over freedmen and patricians! In the short time that I’d been in Palmyra, I’d led a gladiator to win two ranked fights, murdered a historian of the realm—and effectively replaced him as editor of the tournament—and now, was lamenting for the company of laborers and posca-drinkers.

I stared at Yarhai absently and he finally caught my eye. “Good evening, uh… Master Cicero,” Yarhai said, curtly. Atia’s associates and other noblemen had no idea what to make of my presence. On one hand, I was an outsider, an actual Roman, intruding in their way of life and walking over their customs. Unintentionally, sure, but no doubt I’d offended some of them one way or another. Truth was, I’d rather work with a used shit-stick than be in a prolonged conversation with the local nobles.

But at the same time, the High Priestess barely went anywhere in public these days without forcing me along and so most of them saw me as an integral part of her retinue. Her veiled threats and abuse aside.

“Please sit down, good priest,” I replied, feeling a little brave. “The bout is about to begin.”

Yarhai’s face sunk into a frown immediately, and his eyes flicked to Atia. But she was too busy searching for her slave woman to return with watermelon juice. “Is there a problem?” I asked Yarhai, and the priest, with a quick shake of his head, finally retreated.

I turned to Shams, who’d woken again and was mumbling something under his breath. “I tell you, my stalwart prince,” I said to him, “I simply cannot wait to get back indoors and splash my face with some cold water.”

I ignored Flamma’s open glare and studied the common crowds. They returned from their tents as well, lining the ropes that marked the arena field. Freedmen, Bedouins and Komare families mixed in together, some running to claim the limited seating and benches. The Persian bleachers across the field were already full and prepared, and I wasn’t sure if they’d ever left. They had a canopy above, like the royal bleachers, to protect from the sun.

I tried to pick out the red cloak of Baba Haza in the sea of Persian purple, but my eyes weren’t up to the task. Tiridates had his cataphracts mounted and patrolling the outer field in the name of exercise. But everyone could tell it was just a show of power. Like how Atia had arrived with her spearmen guard surrounding her litter. No personal armed group was allowed to enter field, however. Only the militia, under the city master’s command, had policing authority in the tournament.

Atia’s maidservant finally returned, her wrist bangles clattering heavily as she rushed up the steps towards us. She was barefoot. Are all the slaves barefoot?

Surely enough, the stream of slaves that extending from the royal bleachers to the food stands were all barefoot on the hot sand. It was sickening, and I found myself in disbelief that I’d never noticed this before. Then again, how often does someone think or care about a slave’s foot of all things?

“What is this?” Atia snapped. She threw the coconut drink at the panting woman, and it spilled, drenching her already sweaty robes in sticky fruit juice. The gray man in the back of my mind winced, clamping down on my rising anger. I couldn’t do anything but watch.

“It’s… uh… mistress it’s…”

“I wanted watermelon, not juice. Honestly dear, you must have misheard.” The sweetness in Atia’s voice was in sharp contrast to her actions, as she kicked the coconut and it rolled further down the steps. The slave woman immediately rushed after it, and almost knocked over a senator on her way.

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“You did say watermelon juice,” I muttered, leaning over to the High Priestess.

“What’s that?”

“The juice, it was—”

“Oh, hush!” Atia cut me off. “What do you think of this last dance?”

“The dance?”

“Baba Haza,” Atia hissed, and I could smell her minty breath.

“Oh, that.”

Atia frowned. “You have the tiara?”

“Have what?”

“Layla’s tiara,” Atia said, her voice getting lower. “I think I should wear it.”

Of course she would think of something like that, just to taunt the poor Persian further. Maybe even distract him. But the problem was that the warrior of fortune had already got what he wanted. Atia didn’t know that I’d already given him the tiara to win favor. And once he’d disappeared, I figured he’d made a run for it.

“It’s safe,” I replied, “but not here.”

Atia accepted my lie with a sigh. “You’d think Abed has found his father’s cave.”

“What?”

Atia pointed with her chin, to a Bedouin procession that escorted Ibn Ghassan out towards the field. Chief Abed, the self-proclaimed merchant king, sat on a silk-draped litter, carried by slaves that were themselves wearing shining robes. The litter led a group of slave-women that passed out fruit from their baskets. Children and laborers gathered around the parade, their hands outstretched.

“What caves?” I asked, still a little confused by the phrase. But Atia ignored me and stared sourly at the display.

Shams’ slave-woman—a maid about Atia’s age—offered an explanation. “It’s a Bedouin saying. Their ancestors used to hide their treasures in caves. Some tribes still do.”

“Thank you, dear,” I replied to her. That made sense.

Oddly enough, I found Atia staring at me, glancing between me and the maid. “What?” I said bluntly.

She shrugged.

The Bedouin procession continued, until they reached the ropes that marked the dueling field. Some elder priest of some sort blessed Ibn Ghassan, flicking him with what looked like incense sticks. The smoky whisps hung around the Arab warrior as he stood facing the empty field. The man seemed less human than most warriors I’d seen. He moved with precise movements that were fluid but controlled to an inch, like a predatory animal that used the environment’s activity to hide its own. A snake? I thought, trying to find a similarity. Yes, a snake following its own body’s trail in the sand, then freezing before its prey until ready to strike.

Ibn Ghassan stood frozen. He didn’t turn his head either way, but I could feel his eyes searching for Baba Haza. The referee gestured for Ghassan to come hither, and the Komare crowd exploded in cheers as their champion ducked under the ropes and jogged up into the center of a drawn circle. As soon as he entered the area, he slid to a graceful stop and turned to face the Persian bleachers where Haza might appear.

Silver armor covered almost every inch of his torso and shoulders, a lamellar skirt protecting his thighs, and a bronze shin-guard to match his circular Hoplite-like shield. Even his spear looked to be of Greek origin, a wide leaf coming to a thin point.

Shams mumbled something and it could be heard clearly, as the royal bleachers had finally settled down and watched Ghassan with bated breath.

“Shut him up,” Atia snapped at Flamma, and the champion’s mouth was a thin line of anger. He looked down at his dying protégé, and for a moment it seemed he would finally acknowledge the nonsensical attempt to keep him propped up. Alas, he took his anger out on the poor maid, yelling for her to keep the young man watered.

“I said quiet!” Atia said.

“He needs a drink!”

Flamma and Atia argued on either side of me like two frustrated parents trying to blame each other for their child’s behavior. Except in this case, that child was a murdering lunatic who’d just gotten his face ripped off.

“Baba Haza!” I pointed, relieved to finally see the Persian warrior enter the field. The bickering cut off immediately and I felt Atia squirm in her seat as Haza approached, his angry features becoming more and more clearer.

The warrior of fortune crossed the field with long strides, his heels kicking back his red cloak with each violent step. His thick eyebrows shaded the dark eyes underneath, and he might as well have been wearing a hood. Gone was the smiling yet bold Haza that I’d met a few weeks ago. In his place, stood a man possessed with a rage that I recognized. Intimately. “I wish you well, slave of Balash,” I whispered.

“What is your prediction, Cicero?” Atia said.

Was that nervousness I heard in her voice? She was right to fear the return of the Persian champion. He may be standing in front of Ghassan, but his gaze lingered on the royal bleachers, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was looking straight at Atia.

"I think Baba Haza will win."

"Do you, now?" Atia said, trying to hide her worry. But it was there, and I'd already seen it. It didn't matter what I really thought, if I could see the High Priestess feel vulnerable for once. What did I really think, though?

Well, Ibn Ghassan for one always seemed a fragile looking thing, as far as gladiators went. He was barely taller than me. But I hadn't seen too much of him so far, truth be told. His form and grace had been the most impressive, in addition to a complete set of armor that left little to no weak spots. With a shielded stance, I couldn't imagine any ordinary warrior getting through his defense. His pace was questionable, but lighter folk usually had the stamina to outlast heavier opponents. I would rate his strength lower, but with a spear like that, he was clearly going for reach and opportunistic strikes.

"Oh mitte," I said under my breath. Baba Haza just dropped his heavy two-hander with enough force that it dug into the earth and created a cloud of dust that was quickly whisked away by the light breeze. He unclipped his cloak quietly, head down, and the red cloth fluttered and crumpled behind him. The referee was about to blow the horn and Ibn Ghassan bounced on his feet in anticipation. I thought I saw Haza's shoulders sigh, and even if I didn't, I was sure that is how he felt. With Layla's tiara in his possession, he must certainly have lost some motivation. Which ultimately should lead to a lowered aggression. So, what did I really think?

"Haza will definitely win," I repeated, purely to annoy Atia some more. A win for Haza meant a win for Tiridates. Before this tournament had begun, Atia was the only leader sponsoring a fighter with rank potential; Hurek. But then Chief Abed had spent hundreds of denarii to get himself a ranked warrior from Syria, and then Tiridates had pounced on the opportunity to sponsor Haza. I wouldn't put it past Haza's former owner to have sold the Persian to Tiridates completely.

"It matters little," Atia said, mostly to assure herself. "Hurek will be seeking the next ranked fighter."

"No one else left in Palmyra but Flamma," I argued. Flamma insisted on not participating. But perhaps with Shams out of the game, the Syrian champion might change his tune. Or we could wait until more ranked fighters showed up in the coming weeks. The last bracket of the tournament was scheduled before winter, and at this point, I was sure almost every single ranked fighter of the realm would make their way here. Every day, the city received caravan after caravan of Roman pilgrims and guests, eager to see this unique blend of eastern and western champions. And of course, the Nokchi madman flailing around a book and ripping off faces.

"What about a rematch," I leaned towards Atia, who stared daggers at the Persian fighter below. "Haza will surely requ—

The horn blared, cutting through the soft murmur of the crowd and I felt the breaths of a hundred people catch in their throat.

The apocalyptic sound filled my ears, banished my thoughts, and reverberated through the wood underneath my feet. I could feel the vibrations through my sandals. The world had suddenly changed, and in this reality, Haza was rage manifest.