The Persian flew into a violent spiral, the heavy sword barreling towards the smaller warrior at a dangerous speed. The clang of sword on shield sounded just as the referee’s horn subsided. The hollow hum was replaced by a sharp, piercing crack, and like flint on steel, Haza’s sword lit sparks on contact.

And yet, as thunderous as the first strike was, Ghassan was seemingly in the perfect stance and footing to let it deflect. I assumed it was luck, a fortunate side-step or inaccuracy on Haza’s part. After all, the large man was animalistic in his charge.

But every step was accounted for, and Ghassan managed Haza's reach with impeccable form. I found myself craning forward, almost falling off my bench trying to understand every little movement. If Haza was a torrent in a storm, Ghassan's shield-work was the rock that split the Persian's crashing waves. The large sword scraped the bronze shield again and again, Haza giving no sign of stopping or slowing down. As they edged closer, I could see scorch marks on Ghassan's shield.

Haza paused, just a moment, and it seemed he was giving into a rhythm, perhaps letting go of his pace, but Ghassan was already moving in anticipation just as the Persian launched a vicious thrust the next second. The sword's tip scraped off of Ghassan's shield once more as the Arab warrior's expert footwork led him away. I saw Ghassan's attack before it even materialized. My eyes were dry and my mind guessing every movement that could be made. There was an opening after the over-extended thrust that the Arab warrior could exploit. And by Jupiter, he did.

The spearhead flicked out from underneath the large shield, a flash of movement that you could have missed if you were instead following Ghassan's simultaneous dodge. But it had happened, and Haza jolted; a surprised hop as the spear-tip slammed into his leather vest.

"Hah," Atia gasped, elation clear in her voice. "He got him, right?"

"Indeed." I couldn't really tell if it'd drawn blood, though, and Haza didn't let the shock overcome him for too long. The onslaught continued.

Ghassan's counter had me questioning myself. On the one hand, I was on Haza's side. At least emotionally. But I'd also just witnessed the most beautiful slip and counter in my life. Sort of like how Hurek would mimic in a fist fight, but this was done with a spear and shield and with the precise movement of a choreographed dance... oh Mars, that was exhilarating!

Baku's talk of mushin had been all theory up to this point, at least for me. I could finally see it in action and the instinctually of it was breath-taking. Ghassan's body had shifted just as his weapon had lashed out, his arm a viper with seemingly its own mind.

The Haza's swings had taken a savage undertone. He gripped his sword with both hands now, and settled on sweeping slashes that allowed him to keep moving laterally. Ghassan's footwork was always a step ahead, but Haza grew more rabid with every passing second. His snarl was just as loud as the blade that sparked the metal shield.

“Come on, Haza,” I said under my breath, “do it for Layla.” This was the first time I’d found myself uttering the dead Priestess’ name out loud, and I was careful to not let Atia hear it. A part of me had died that fateful day as well. The part that had thought this was all just a summer game that I could put behind me once I left the city. There was no going back from the path that I was on. I would carry her fate on my conscience and unto my own deathbed. And I’d be lucky for a bed to die on.

Ibn Ghassan flicked his spear again, this time in a low slash that caught Haza’s calf. Enough to make the tall man stumble once again and there was a half a second where Ghassan could have thrust straight into Haza’s open face. But the Arab man relented, opting to reset his stance and keep his rhythm. All about form this man, I thought. Ghassan would abandon a clean strike if it meant sacrificing his form. Something about that didn’t sit right with me.

But his method was working. At least from a visual perspective. Baba Haza, despite his feral onslaught, had begun leaving bloody footprints in the sand. The onlookers seemed to smell his blood in the air and murmurs rose, expecting a fatal blow or surrender any second. Haza gave no sign of slowing down.

The last strike came just as the horn blew to mark the end of the first round. Haza had just caught Ghassan flat-footed and unable to escape. Ghassan, to his credit, caught the blow squarely on his shield, and I imagined the soles of his feet digging into the ground with the apparent force. If I wasn’t looking so intensely, it might have seemed an ordinary catch. But there was something about catching Ghassan out of sorts that sent my heart aflutter. The Arab’s elbow had folded with the blow, the shield smacked against his body, and for a moment he looked to topple over.

The crowd was oblivious to it and they erupted with cheers for the Bedouin champion once the fighters separated. A group of cornermen flew out from the Persian camp, carrying a stool and pails of water for their champion. Ghassan marched back to the Komare lines where he was met with his own attendants.

“Well, that was a pleasant surprise,” Atia said, sitting back with a self-assured smile. “I can’t wait to see the old taxman’s face after Haza falls.”

I figured by “taxman”, she was speaking of Haza’s Persian sponsor Tiridates, her rival from the Gaddibol clan and the appointed Tariff officer of Palmyra.

I wouldn’t be so sure, I thought as I flipped through my mental images of the first round. Something didn’t belong.

“How long do I have?” I said, rising from the bench. “A minute?”

Atia had leaned over to speak to her associate Yarhai and paid me no mind. Shams had fainted again. Flamma was the only one still staring intensely at the field. He could probably tell something was amiss and not so black and white. Ghassan was dominant, sure, but Haza wasn’t as close to a defeat as Atia thought. A part of me wished I could pick at Flamma’s thoughts, ask him some questions about the fight. He was, after all, one of the most accomplished gladiators in the realm. I’d never seen him fight, as he mostly dominated Syrian tournaments, but I’d definitely heard his name for years.

But with each passing day, it was becoming clear to me that he considered me a rival. Especially now with Hurek dismantling his precious protégé. And I myself had a growing hatred for him long before he manhandled me in front of everyone. Someday I would unleash Hurek on him, and I wished for that day to come soon.

“I’m going for some refreshments,” I said to no one in particular.

As soon as I exited the row, I quickened my pace, weaving and dodging through stretching socialites and their attendants. I stepped on the toes of a man complaining about the smell of onions coming from his slave. It was an accident but I didn’t bother apologizing, and practically jumped the last few steps off of the royal podium.

I lost one of my sandals trying to navigate the rougher crowd around the food stalls. With only a few moments left to reach Haza, I didn’t bother recovering it. Luckily, I could easily spot his tall figure, pacing furiously beyond the arena ropes. He had refused the stool and his attendants tried their best to wipe down his sweat and dab his bleeding. He’d taken many wounds. But his aggression had definitely exposed Ghassan’s perception. I was sure of it.

The reliance on form had the Arab warrior constantly relying on rhythm and stance. But Haza’s unpredictable variance of speed and timing was a hallmark of his aggressive nature and it had, on several occasions, forced Ghassan to absorb the full strength of his downward cuts. All Haza needed to do was exchange his cut for a thrust that would be able to pierce the bronze shield.

On those occasions where Ghassan was found flat-footed and Haza had come down on him the hardest possible way, the moment had been clearly wasted. As vicious as the two-hander was, it wasn’t an axe or mace. Haza’s power needed to be concentrated on a single point; the sword’s tip. Should I be helping him, still?

Hurek had gained the aggression I so craved for him, and yet after seeing him so torn over his actions, I wasn’t sure it would be something he could repeat. Haza on the other hand, was fueled by revenge and was ready to massacre his way to the last bracket. He could very well be the one facing Nero—if the emperor ever showed up—and the Persian would have no qualms murdering the Roman monarch.

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So that’s what I want, then? Facilitate the murder of my own Emperor? I could not think of Nero as my patron, though. Not anymore. The entire realm was propped up with decorum that facilitated the disregard for human life. I used to think that Roman manner was second nature to the Latin man, but the Palmyran sun had scraped my identity down to one raw passion. Rebellion.

My son was being used as bait for Gallic javelins. Seeing his name in the roster sent to Gaul had been like dumping my face in a pail of freezing, cold water. I wasn’t sure I would see him ever again. And if Nero arrived with the news that Lepidus had fallen, then the emperor would not leave Palmyra alive.

I broke through the thick sea of onion smelling bodies and pushed myself to the arena ropes. The referee on the far end was gathering his ropes and his horn, just moments from signaling the second round. I fought the urge to call out to Haza or make contact. The royal podium was still close enough for Atia to see me hobbling around. I had to be discreet.

One of the collegiate scribes posted near Haza had begun ushering the Persian cornermen out of the field and I racked my mind for his name. “Boy!” I finally yelled. “Yes, you!”

Luckily, some faint recognition dawned on his boyish features and he mouthed, “Master Cicero?”

“Come here.”

Thinking I had some orders from above, he neared and snatched the clay tablet that was around his neck and rummaged through his satchel for a pen.

“Never mind that,” I said, “I need you to tell Haza something.”

“The fighter?”

“Yes, tell him to thrust, not cut, when he finally catches Ghassan flat-footed. Understood?”

“Um-

“I will reward you for this service. Or I can have you expelled from the academy if you deny me.”

I waited for the young man to absorb the threat, counting the seconds as the referee crossed the ropes and gestured for the fighters to re-convene. When the scribe nodded, I shoved him roughly, “Go!”

He ran, quicker even than I’d hoped, and almost tripped over his robe when he reached Baba Haza. The Persian glanced down, a little surprised to see him, and even more perturbed when the scribe leaned closer and conveyed my words. The scribe barely reached Haza’s shoulders so it seemed like a boy tugging on his father’s arm.

Haza immediately looked over and my breath caught as he noticed me. His grimace didn’t give any sign he cared for my advice. Fine, do what you will.

I left before the scribe could come back, already pushing my way through the excited crowd; which grew even more rabid when the horn blew overhead and I heard the resulting clash of iron.

There was another sound, however. Not from the commoners and neither from the warrior fighting to their death out in the field. A rustle of cavalry. I’d heard it many times out and about in the country. But to hear the clinking of horse armor so close to a city crowd worried me.

As I climbed the royal podium, I craned my neck to see above the crowd and spotted Tiridates’ cataphracts. The cavalry had left the environs of the Persian camp and trotted closer to the arena goers, and congregated near their flank.

“Where is it?” Atia asked, as soon as I stepped up to our row.

“What?” I plopped myself beside her and avoided her curious glance. “Where’s what?”

“The drink.”

“Ah, I couldn’t make it to the stalls,” I replied. If Atia thought I was lying, she didn’t show it. “Haza still at it?”

“Incorrigible, isn’t he?” she pouted.

Baba Haza had continued his onslaught, constantly pushed the pace and shoved Ibn Ghassan around the field. His low kicks interrupted Ghassan’s movement, his inconsistent speed and timing—all driven by aggression—allowed for unorthodox strikes.

Of course, the crowd saw an entirely different exchange and I couldn’t blame them. They awed at Ghassan’s graceful footwork that had him escape within inches of the two-hander crashing down on him. His smooth transitions from shield-work to poignant jabs at Haza’s body still had their bite and quickness. Even against Haza’s wild kicks, Ghassan made his stumble look like an intended hop and retreat.

The moments where Haza could have taken advantage of his aggression—the split second of Ghassan flat-footed and the midst of changing direction—the Persian failed to take my advice. His arching swings tried to hammer the shield like it was trying to cut it in half. It sent up sparks and was creating a noticeable ridge-like dent in Ghassan’s bronze shield, but how could that bear any fruit in a round about to end in a few minutes?

Watching the failed attempts despite his strength and rage, alerted me to an important element of strength. And that was technique. If only Haza had followed my direction and applied his strength on Ghassan’s armor the most efficient way, he wouldn’t be knee-deep in his own blood in the second round.

I saw Atia move from the corner of my eye; she was signaling to someone in the front row. What is she up to?

I scanned the benches below and noticed a few of the Temple footmen had made their way between the guests and were clapping along to a chant I couldn’t yet hear. Some Priestesses a few rows above began clapping too, and slowly their partners and families followed suit, along with attendants lining the podium’s edges.

The chant finally gained a unified rhythm and was loud enough to drown the commoners around the field: Laaayla’s… Warrior of Mis-fortune! Laaayla’s… Warrior of Mis-fortune, ey!

I couldn’t keep the disgust from my face and I let Atia see it. “What?” she replied innocently.

“I think you know.”

Atia shrugged and pretended she didn’t know what I was accusing her of. The woman had tormented me for the past weeks like no other person had ever done. Either through veiled threats, humiliating requests, or recently by physically bullying me using Flamma. But this chant cut my spirit deeper than anything so far. Something about it seemed worse than what had happened to me. Not only had she marred the dignity of a respectable woman, but now she dragged her name through the mud in front of her mourning husband just as he fought for his own life.

She did it all without lifting a finger of her own. The people of Palmyra had become an extension of her cruelty and I couldn’t help but feel a little nauseous watching the gleeful abandon with which the nobles clapped along the words. Some smiled nervously, while others laughed freely. A couple of older Priestesses I noticed were frowning and deeply uncomfortable. Maybe they had been close to Layla? Or were intelligent enough to feel wronged by Atia disparaging the reputation of a former Priestess, no matter her crime. Interesting.

Haza, to his credit, didn’t take his eyes off of Ghassan. If anything, his waning strikes regained their intensity, almost as furious as the first few of the fight. I could also see Ghassan beginning to repeat his form, and become more and more predictable. He still seemed dominant, though. Glancing strike here, graceful dodge here, build distance, then try to circle the untiring Persian.

It was there in the last form where Haza would usually catch Ghassan flat-footed. But the next time it happened; it might be Haza’s last opportunity with only a few seconds left in the round. Oh mitte… just do what I said!

There was a mumble on my right side. It began as a moan but eventually subsided into a jumble of gibberish words that I could barely understand. It was Shams, suddenly awake from his reverie.

“Did goat go help me?” he said and I could see his unfocused pupils behind his heavily bandaged face.

“Get off me, you oaf,” I slapped aside his hand.

“Ish no help me!” he cried and I looked to Flamma for help but the gladiator was fully focused on Haza and Ghassan.

Before I could shove the lunatic away, he fell on me completely, hands flailing and his bloody face burying into my toga. “Rumina’s tits!” I cursed, trying to push away the surprisingly heavy young man.

The crowd surged with a unified gasp at something and I couldn’t see what it was. Some shrieks rose from the commoners. Was it the Bedouins?

“Bad goat!” Shams cried in my face and I could smell his irony breath. With as much strength as I could muster, I pushed the fighter away. Thankfully, he himself flopped to the other side and fell upon Flamma, who was standing up for some reason.

“What happened?” I threw off my ruined toga and tried to look over the standing crowd. Near the middle of the field lay Ibn Ghassan, limbs sprawled out and his shield a few feet away from him. Either his head was damaged or his helmet lay askew, I couldn’t tell. But a dark puddle had formed around him. By Jupiter… I missed it.

The commoners were shouting as the Persian camp cheered. The royal podium, however, was silent. It’s chanting noticeably absent. They watched with an eerie suspense that hung in the air above them, and some turned their heads towards Atia, as if looking for direction on how to act or what to feel.

The High Priestess stood poised, chin up, and eyes watching the Persian warrior, who I was surprised to see was walking towards us.

Baba Haza’s two-hander dragged in the dirt behind him. His disheveled and wet hair matted against his face and his chest heaved with effort as he came to stand in front of the royal podium. The Priestesses and the other guests sat down in front of him—a small act of retreat.

I could see Brutus, the city master’s lictor, jump the ropes in the far corner of the field and make his way towards the podium as well. A few militiamen followed, sensing the trouble.

But what could Haza possible do? Carve his way through rows of nobles just to get to Atia? He wouldn’t make it past the first row in his state!

But there he stood, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths and blood dripped from his chin. He looked up, towards Atia. Maybe it was a trick of the eye, or the late afternoon heat, but I could feel a haze of hate pass between them in the air.

The referee had long blown the horn and Bedouins were already dragging Ibn Ghassan away and under the ropes. Haza finally turned away, a dip of the shoulder and seemingly looked defeated. Then, he paused.

I heard Flamma’s cry of warning just as it happened. Yaresh leapt up to Atia’s defense, both of them hurdling down to the floor beside me. People shrieked, jumped out of the way, throwing themselves on top of each other in an attempt to get away.

My eyes were fixed on the flying object—Baba Haza’s dented and bloodied two-hander. It whipped over the royal podium, a vicious whistle as it spiraled, and headed straight towards me.

I couldn’t breathe or move or even blink. As if my blood had quit pumping and my muscles had turned to stone. I watched death come for me. Oh Minerva, please forgive me.

The goddess must have intervened for me in the next moment. Or Haza must have missed, for the heap of raw iron smacked into Shams a few feet away. It crunched its way through the fighter’s torso, pinning him to his wooden bench with a sickening thud. He then croaked his last breath, a wet cough, before going limp over the heavy iron in his chest.