Familiar sounds drifted to Hurek as he and Cicero approached the gymnasia, a collection of grunts, then smacks of flesh, followed by wheezing and pants, with the occasional barks of the trainers spattered in between. It was a unique set of sounds that pervaded the otherwise quiet Greek agora.

This was Hurek’s third home after the palace and Jiri’s... Ollia’s home. But it had been a while since he’d last been here, probably when the governor was still around and throwing his weekly brawling events. Hurek was pressured to win every single one, and so he’d spend every waking hour of his day boxing and wrestling at the gymnasia, the scratchy voice of Baku in his ear that he still heard in his sleep.

Though that voice had taken on a personality of its own. It came to him at night and whispered commands of violence and blood. It wasn’t Baku’s voice anymore, but his own, as if his thoughts had forced themselves to become words of their own.

“It was Ahura Mazda,” Hurek assured himself. Even though the voice sounded very much like the demon he’d become fighting Shams.

“Quid?” Cicero asked.

“Nothing,” Hurek replied, and then gestured to the metalworking house next to the gymnasia, where the landowner had an office. Cicero had wanted to meet with him urgently for some reason. The man was an old Greek man called Milo who also ran a pit fighting gambling ring on the weekends-the same ring that Hurek had grown up competing in.

It was perhaps the main reason he’d let Hurek come back here. Tournament training had strictly been done either in the privacy of the palace, or the open plains of the Charnel house where Hurek could build his stamina. Cicero had been very particular about Hurek’s training. Where Baku had relied on tradition and repetition, Cicero had come up with unorthodox methods and exercises every single day. The way he’d trained for Shams had been very different from his usual exercises.

Cicero left Hurek at the entrance to the courtyard gymnasia. The old biographer peaked into the yard with a curious glance, before stalking down the road towards the metalworking shops.

Hurek should have been nervous, a little apprehensive, he should have waited just before the archway into the yard and quietly braced himself before he met the brethren he’d grown up with. But by the holy fire, he could not feel happier, or his heart be lighter than as he turned the corner and entered the gymnasia with a wide, stupid grin on his face.

“Hurek!” voices exclaimed. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Marcellus was the first to approach and shook Hurek’s hand furiously, both their biceps flexed in the effort, and they immediately fell into a grapple.

“The goat’s getting stronger,” Hurek joked as he wrestled Marcellus into a dominant position and put him in a headlock. To his credit, the blacksmith didn’t panic as he used to in the guillotine and instead worked the angles and pushed his head in to ease the pressure on his neck.

“Oi, Hurek’s back!” A boy yelled just as Hurek used Marcellus’ momentum to drive him crashing into the dirt.

A heavy voice broke the crowd around Hurek, “Get back to work, did I say you could stop?” Junior, Baku’s son in law and gymnasia’s head trainer, punched and kicked the youngsters back into the exercises they were doing before Hurek showed up.

The balding wrestler eyed Hurek before offering a hand, which Hurek took, dragging Marcellus back up to his feet as well.

“Sorry for your loss,” Junior said huskily. And just like that, Hurek’s smile faded, and a familiar wave of sorrow washed over him. Marcellus must have realized, for he wrapped his arm around Hurek in support.

“Where’s Gaius?” Hurek asked. He hoped to find the youngest Nokchi brother at the gymnasia, but knew it was unlikely as the kiln would be squeezing as much labor out of the Nokchi family as possible with Jiri a freedman and Septimus now dead. Hurek would have to speak with Cicero and see if the biographer could convince Atia to let his cousins train with him at the palace instead of stacking bricks all day.

“He’s at the kiln,” Marcellus replied as expected. Gaius was getting old enough to be at the kiln the entire day now. The compound used boys as messengers and for other chores around the town-Paco had that fate currently. But soon, even Paco would be forced to the wheel-cart.

Junior continued to watch him sideways. He'd grown more bitter over the years, from the eager-to-please boy he'd been when they were young, to the hulking wrestler prone to barking just as much as talking. Hurek thought it was just him growing up, but Septimus had once said that Junior was resentful of the Nokchi slaves, especially Hurek and the Merkov brothers, who'd been favored by both the governor and Junior's own uncle Baku.

Still, it didn't make sense to Hurek that a freeman would be jealous of some slaves. Even if they could kick his ass. "Good work?" Hurek asked him.

"You should come here... train, no?" Junior replied in a Greco-Persian slang unique to the wrestling community of Palmyra.

"Why?" Hurek replied.

"It's your duty to come here and give back, right?" Junior said, trying to make his voice boom over Hurek's but he averted his eyes, looking back and forth around the courtyard which had returned to its usual rhythm. The master wrestler's chest gleamed from the olive oil and sweat, his leather breeches giving off a strong stench under the sun. Hurek realized training in the palace had made him different from his former brethren. The daily baths and the washed laundry had slowly changed his appearance and coming face to face with what he used to look and smell like was a strange experience.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Junior reached over to squeeze Hurek’s arm, it wasn’t a gesture of any sort, but a simple check of his biceps and other certain muscles. Junior lifted Hurek’s tunic and frowned at the still-fresh wounds. “You ruin your body for what? Glory?” Then he tapped the heavy tome slung over Hurek’s shoulder, “And what is this book for?”

Hurek returned Junior’s touching with his own, but it was a genuine half-hug and Junior recoiled. “I’ve missed you too, Junior,” Hurek replied.

“Leave him be, Junior,” Marcellus said, coming to Hurek’s defense. “He ripped a man’s face off last week.”

Junior continued his lecture, this time to one of the younger boys, but obviously using Hurek as a cautionary tale of how a wrestler can lose his principles if he seeks glory and coin. Hurek chuckled.

As Junior lectured the younger wrestlers, Hurek took in the familiar sights and smells of the gymnasia courtyard. The acrid smoke from the nearby metalworking shops drifted over the walls, mingling with the salty tang of sweat that hung in the air. It created a unique scent - part industrial, part human exertion - that Hurek associated with countless hours of training.

The smoke stung his nostrils slightly, reminding him of the proximity to the forges and smithies just beyond the gymnasia walls. But underneath was the unmistakable musk of bodies grappling in the dust, the sharp bite of sweat, and the earthy scent of the olive oil the wrestlers used to slick their skin. Despite the nostalgia, another taste lingered on his tongue. The irony after-taste of Atia’s tonic.

He watched as pairs of wrestlers circled each other on the packed dirt, their oiled bodies gleaming in the sunlight. Nearby, a trainer barked instructions at a group of youths doing squats and lunges. Beyond them, was a lifting corner with stones and an ox-cart laden with weights. It was used primarily for back-muscles, but Hurek had spent years trying different positions to develop his arms and legs. The record for most stones—each one about the weight of a man—was set by none other than Jiri in his youth at four stones, ten times. One of the lifting requirements for graduating the wrestling school was to lift at least one stones, ten times.

Hurek wandered over to the wooden cart, running his hand along the smooth handles, now recently wrapped in a leather grip. Junior was at least making some good changes around here, Hurek thought. He glanced over at the usual weight of a single stone.

“Boy,” Hurek called to a youth doing some strange breathing exercise in the corner. “Are you free?”

The boy shrugged.

“Bring me another stone,” Hurek commanded as he tested the one stone. He could lift the cart without feeling any strain at all. Strange. He must have gotten stronger than before.

Hurek let down the cart and waited as the young student rolled another stone, almost half his size, over to him in a wheelbarrow—which he tipped over the edge onto the oxcart using a metal lever. While boys couldn’t use this oxcart at all, it was an exercise itself to fill it up.

“Hmph!” Hurek grunted, expecting to strain at the weight, but the cart lifted as if it was just carrying some dry crane-brakes and some fodder. Hurek let down the cart with a single hand, looking around nervously. The boy had noticed the ease at which Hurek had lifted the cart and gestured to his friends. “Something’s wrong,” Hurek muttered. He could feel a familiar dread creep up on him, but also with it came an anger he didn’t recognize. “Bring me another, it’s not enough,” Hurek told the boys.

They brought over another stone, joined by a few others and the small crowd watched Hurek lift the three stones, ten times, and let them down feeling nothing but a slight tug on his shoulders. “I don’t understand,” Hurek growled under his breath. He blinked at the onlookers, who were watching him excitedly as if he was giving them a show. “Bring me another!”

It wasn’t possible to do this so easily. He’d barely been able to reach Jiri’s record without collapsing, but now he was lifting three stones like it was nothing but Cicero’s laundry bag. Hurek glanced over to the courtyard entrance, hoping the biographer would be there to gesture him back. It was empty.

“Bring me another,” Hurek snapped as they lowered the third stone, and the first boy stared back at him, confused at the anger seeping into Hurek’s voice. “Just do it.”

Marcellus and Junior had come over now, Junior no doubt thinking Hurek was trying to show off to the new joiners. But Hurek had nothing on his mind but anger. Why was he so angry about this? It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was. He’d somehow gained strength training under Cicero, but there had to be a clear explanation. He thought back to the tournament and the person he’d become when fighting Shams. “No,” Hurek whispered, “I’m still human.”

But with a soft grunt, he lifted the four stones with terrifying ease. He held the cart’s handle high above his shoulders, expecting his muscles to strain under the prolonged burden, but the four stones felt the same as a single stone had when Hurek had been training full days at the gymnasia.

“More!” Hurek barked as the entire courtyard had joined him, to his annoyance. Marcellus was egging on the young boys, telling them this was something they could learn from, but what was there to learn? That Hurek was turning into a mindless, killing brute with the strength of ten men?

"I think that’s enough,” Junior said, breaking through the crowd and stalking up to the Hurek as if he was going to do anything. Hurek faced him, this time with something in his eyes that made the wrestling coach stop in his tracks. “I said more,” Hurek replied quietly.

By the time the boys had filled the cart to his liking, it teetered with ten stones, its wooden frame, although wrapped in iron, cracked and strained under the heavy load. Junior stared wide-eyed at the attempt, fully expecting Hurek to break his back. Marcellus had grown quiet.

Hurek had to use his entire body this time, which was a welcome sign, his shoulders strained, a few muscles stinging as if he was about to pull them, and the cart creaked as he raised it, threatening to rip itself apart in two and spill the weight of ten men.

Hurek raised the handles high above his head and kept them there for three breaths. They came horrifyingly easy. The cart finally felt heavy, but his chest still had the space to breath under it all. He lowered the cart gently, and for a moment the courtyard was silent save for Hurek’s panting. With a snarl, he lifted the cart again, faster this time and brought it back down to complete a rep. He did this ten times, all the while glaring the sky which had taken on a dark hue, and the clouds parted to reveal a ring of fire with a center so black, it seemed to absorb the sunlight. Hurek’s vision receded until the ring was all he saw. By the time he lifted the ten stones for the tenth time, he’d forgotten his own name.