Baba Haza, or "Father Fortune" in the common tongue, was the lankiest and tallest Persian warrior I'd ever seen. He strode into the palace hall with resplendent red robes that stretched after him. An excessive amount of silver bracelets adorned his arms up to his biceps, and he had a servant boy carrying his weapon; A long two-handed blade. Double-edged.

The boy raised it over his shoulders with great effort, but held it proudly.

I glanced nervously at Hurek, who was too distracted by the steaming pile of shawarma on the buffet table to notice the auspicious arrival of his first "official" tournament opponent. I wanted to get his attention, but the scribes around me shuffled in closer, flinging paperwork and milling around like ants caught off-guard. "Master Cicero, I don't think you can sign off on Baba Haza's admittance," a young scribe commented, standing over my shoulder.

He was right. I was practically in the corner of Hurek, if not outright advising him during his bouts. But before I could get up and leave, Baba Haza stepped up to the bench and with a silky smooth voice addressed us all, "Dear scribes of Palmyra, I am here." He held up his hands, as if welcoming us into his own presence.

"Greetings Baba Haza," I said, standing up to meet his eyes but he still towered above me despite my raised platform. "I am Master Cicero, the Chief Biographer here and-"

"So you're the snake my wife spoke of," Baba Haza said, raising his jeweled finger at me, "You like groping women?"

The scribes shifted uncomfortably, and Hurek was still too busy trying to sneak the meat off the guest table.

"I have honestly no idea what you are talking about, Haza."

"Baba Haza," he snapped.

"Sorry, uh, Baba Haza. I have never met your wife, much less tried to touch her."

Bead curtains clattered and a woman rushed into the hall, "You're here!"

The Persian warrior beamed at her as she rushed past me, a plump woman with curly black hair who looked oddly familiar... Layla! The Priestess of Yarhibol.

"Is this the man?" Haza nodded in my direction. Layla judged me up and down, clearly putting on an act for everyone. She pouted uncharacteristically, "Yes, he was trying to get to us as we bathed. He even tried to grab the High Priestess' ear!"

Several scribes gasped, muttering that my hands should have been cut for such an affront. In less than a moment, I'd lost what little respect I was given by my new colleagues. The young scribe immediately shoved me off my chair and pointed away from the bench, "Away with you, now!"

Luckily, Hurek came to my aid before the others could get too handsy and I straightened my robes, trying to regain some composure. I almost fell off the platform too had the large man not steadied me.

"You apologize," Hurek demanded of the young scribe before I could think of what to say. My relationship with Atia was that of a professional patron, but she'd seemed to enjoy pushing the boundaries that night. I couldn't really deny Layla's accusations for being false, but they were highly disingenuous.

"You like ears, old man?" Baba Haza interrupted, wiggling his earlobes at me and together with his wife, began a ripple of nervous laughter that quickly spread around the table.

"That is not what happened," I said, feeling my face burn. Either I didn't care or felt a little braver with Hurek beside me, as I pointed to the woman, "She lies."

"Don't you point at Layla, heathen," Baba Haza replied. He stood with his chest out, as if protecting her from great evil. For the first time, Hurek and him faced each other. Or rather, mostly Baba Haza as Hurek was already losing interest and I could sense him stealing glances at the shawarma again.

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Layla leaned over to Baba Haza and whispered something in his ear that immediately lightened the warrior's mood. His eyes fell to my crotch and he giggled like a child, "Go away little scribe," he said, shooing me away as if I was no longer worth his time.

"I do something to him?" Hurek whispered to me.

"No, not now," I said shortly and without another glance at the hostile crowd, marched out of the palace as quickly as I could. Hurek stopped by the guest table and shamelessly snatched up the entire plate of shawarma. I didn't bother stopping him, though, having full intention of digging into it myself.

***

I stood on the barracks balcony early next morning, watching Baba Haza spar below with a growing resentment and rage I hadn't felt since... well, years now that I think about it. Or ever?

There are some moments in your life that bring you to face your cold and dead heart. That make you realize how dreamless, careless, or without purpose you've been and never really had the self-awareness to notice you were no longer living.

To feel so small and helpless. To be so hated in such a short time, while fearing the smile of a woman who could have you thrown into a fucking monkey pit at a moment's notice. The torrent of emotion had bubbled up and was now spilling out of me. All of it now directed towards one man. Baba Haza.

I should feel guilty for giving into such a petty squabble. I was above such peasant rage, wasn't I? I was a mature man of pedigree, of composure. A scholar with a higher purpose.

And yet, knowing that I could have the chance to publicly slaughter Baba Haza like a pig... I felt alive.

A little disgusted by myself, but alive nonetheless.

"Doing some research?" A voice called and I realized it was Layla, Baba Haza's wife. She sauntered over, her hand tracing the balcony railing as she came to stand beside me. A tiara embedded with a blue sapphire stone sparkled on her forehead. Her eyes were following her husband below, though, who fought off several wards with wooden shields and sicas.

"Yes," I answered shortly.

Layla chuckled, "You're not still angry with me are you?"

Baba Haza roared triumphantly as he kicked a ward who'd given his back, sending the boy hurdling face down in the mud. Layla continued, "It was nothing personal. Just a little fun to get the people talking about our match."

What was she trying to do? Perhaps ensure some sort of mercy for her husband should Hurek triumph? "Are you afraid, Lady Layla?" I asked, but found the priestess smiling sadly at her husband.

"He was a shy child, you know," she said, and I assumed she was talking about Baba Haza. Had they grown up together?

"But he was always fighting in the streets, with other orphans, over food and coin and girls," Layla said fondly. Then she looked at me with a serious glare. Her curly hair falling around her round face gave the impression of a disappointed lion. "He has clawed his way to the top, Master Cicero," she said. "From urchin to slave-soldier to esteemed hero of his hometown. I hope you understand the honor code amongst the top gladiators?"

"Honor code?" I asked, trying not to sound too doubtful but it seemed she was just making it up.

"Yes," she insisted. "the only way the best gladiators stay at the top is with mutual respect. I understand Hurek is only a regional fighter, but he will understand this too I hope. Professional gladiators avoid the killing blow unless forced by the host or audience. You may be doing this out of self-interest, with no harm to you, but this is a way of life for my husband and I."

Hurek had no intention of killing, albeit for personal reasons. And I must admit, with Layla speaking with me in a direct and honest manner, I was a little taken with the Persian woman. My previous rage cooled a little but I could still feel the burn of their insults from earlier. "We will keep this civil, I assure you," was all I could manage to say.

"Good," Layla said cheerfully, returning to her usual self but not as obnoxious. Or at least she stayed quiet and let me pore over my journal. Baba Haza had just ended his spar and was dripping with sweat. He glanced up at us as Layla waved.

"O' scribe!" Baba Haza yelled for the entire barracks to hear, "Keep your hands away from my wife's ears!"

Layla snorted and left me standing there red-faced as she rushed down to meet him. I buried myself in my journal to avoid the awkward stares and realized I had quite a bit to work with.

Baba Haza's weakness included a tendency to expose his body with exaggerated overhead strikes. He was sloppy with his lunges, taking too long to pull back. Excellent reflexes but that is all he relied on; a scrappy way of dealing with range and parries and pacing. Hurek had much better defense and overall strength.

But words on a page meant little compared to the real thing. I had never fought a man in my life, so all my theory and note-taking could be useless come tomorrow.

Time would tell.

***

"Does it matter what I think of Layla? I cannot let Hurek be merciful to Haza for the sake of mercy itself. No, I couldn't let emotion stay my hand. Or rather, Hurek's."

- Cicero, Personal Journal