Arshak, Layla’s childhood friend. Arshak, Layla’s husband. Arshak, Layla’s warrior of fortune.

Arshak, Layla’s…

Layla cleared her mind of all the thoughts that had been hanging just out of sight, like a cloud of gnats fluttering and gnawing her with emotions that did little to help her perform. Her husband, nineteenth ranked gladiator in the realm, was just days away from Palmyra now. Days away from taking the field against Atia’s champion to open the long-awaited tournament.

Layla remembered the way Arshak used to look up at her, or towards the terrace where her and other slave-girls would be practicing their verses and singing praises of their master. Arshak's quiet gaze reflected the Babylonian sun and when she leaned over to smile down at this shy street urchin, he would jump and scurry away like a squirrel.

Layla liked to think she remembered exactly how he was, but as much as she liked to romanticize the past, her thoughts really were simple back then. and her pleasures even simpler. Arshak, or at least the child he used to be, had become an idol of the past for her. And the grown man today was a testament of her sin... A reminder of the cage she had constructed for themselves. She'd felt freer as a slave than she did now, trying to climb the ladder of ambition at the Temple of Baal. When was the last time her smile had been an honest one? When had it last touched her eyes?

Layla cursed Atia and her politics under her breath. What had seemed a wondrous opportunity long ago to join a prestigious priesthood, had become nothing but days of catering to petulant socialites and playing spy for different patrons across the city. Her target of investigation was more often than not the High Priestess herself, and the decadent practices of her inner circle. The closest she'd come was to attain a rank among the Priestesses of the Sun God Yaribul. But that wasn't enough to be a part of Atia's secretive night cult that worshipped Aglibol, the Moon deity also shared by the Bedouins and some very strange groups in this desert city. A part of Layla felt Babylon, as expansive as it was, had a simpler life. But that's usually what everyone thinks of their childhood home, isn't it?

One thing was clear here, though. The Temple was becoming too difficult to navigate alone. Layla would have to use the upcoming tournament to gain influence outside of the Temple. If Atia wouldn't let her in the inner circle, she'd bring the throngs of Palmyra come banging on her Palace gates. She already had the most important tool in her hands - The Great Baba Haza! Her husband Arshak was a competitive gladiator already earning gold in regional competitions. A tournament sponsored by Rome itself would finally be the platform they deserved.

With practiced determination, Layla's fingers wrapped around the soft quill as it touched the rough paper. Her oiled finger slipped along the feather pen's smooth edge, though, sliding down to its point and she adjusted again and again to no avail. The point trembled, creating a smudge of ink at the beginning of the page.

She'd decided to draft a letter for her husband, something short and swift. A letter of greeting before he stepped through the Damascus gate and into Palmyra. His performance would begin, and his real self must not show. If it still existed, Layla thought guiltily.

This letter was most of all a warning, then. Palmyra had a way of stripping down a person to their most vulnerable and then picking at those weaknesses. From the bureaucracy to the corrupt priesthood and the blood thirsty militias, Palmyra was feeding on its own flesh and Layla had become a part of that cannibalistic entwined serpent eating it's own tail. She must alert Arshak to be his most charming self. Just as they'd practiced.

Layla took a deep breath and picked the perfect greeting:

Dear husband...

No, that seemed too emotional; as if Layla would want to encourage such sentiment as soon as he entered this city. He was coming for war and performance, not to just unite with his lover. How must she address him? As Arshak? Her warrior of fortune? Layla made a note at the corner of the page and continued the message:

How are you? I miss you.

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Layla smacked her lips. What a terrible way to start. She needed to avert his attention from her and to Hurek, his first opponent. And most importantly, to Cicero, the tutor that Atia had assigned to her fighter. Hurek had a fearsome reputation, sure, as a fist fighter in private events but who knows how well he would perform in a gladiatorial arena with professional fighters. It was this man from Rome, this Cicero the biographer, that meant Atia had other secretive goals beyond just glory. Why else assign a stranger to town as her champion's personal guide? She was planning something that no one in Palmyra, at least not anyone of note, was to be trusted with. Was it related to her midnight cult?

Arshak had to target Cicero in some way. To destabilize the partnership. As for Hurek... well, fighting was not Layla's domain. She'd let Arshak train for it as he saw fit, with her as political support of sorts. She'd find a way to get at this biographer before the match. Target Cicero to attack Atia. It was a simple enough target and one Layla was ready to exploit.

She wet her dry pen once more and placed it gingerly on the paper, letting her thoughts return to Arshak and what she wanted to say...

I miss you so much.

Layla paused at her repetitive words. Why couldn't she focus? Why did she sound like such a love-sick girl on paper? She wanted to be honest but that was ruining her focus. Her dark room flickered with dying candles, melted completely in their trays and threatening to snuff out what little light they offered. Soon the Temple would empty of both worshippers and patrons and she would be asked to leave as well by nymph servants who'd follow her around at Atia's behest. They watched her every move and notified the guards if she was still here when Aglibol's rituals began and whatever else Atia did with her sisters deep into the night. The truth was, she had no intentions of staying. There was no point in getting caught as a spy when she already had no friends to begin with. Granted, some senators unfriendly with Atia had sponsored Layla's invitation into the Temple. And while she reported to them almost daily, they would not support her one bit. Not if she was blatantly caught in Atia's claws. Layla was nothing to anyone. And no one was anything to her.

Layla returned to her letter with a desire to express her thoughts honestly. At least for a little bit more...

At night, I sometimes wonder how many steps are between us. I count them, every single one that I can imagine. I wish I'd taken numbers in my tutorship. What good is poetry when you're alone? I could play you a tune too, when you're here. But until then I play alone. Actually, I lie. I don't play at all. I do nothing but listen and smile, listen and laugh, listen and lie... That's all my days consist of here.

Layla's breath shuddered as she re-read her words. Arshak could not possibly be allowed to read this. It would ruin his focus. Completely.

How much further the road stretches before you? Until me. Until you can meet me. Until you can save me. I'm alone, Arshak. I'm so alone.

No, she had to stop writing this. He had to see her as strong. He was too soft-hearted to see her pain and still be able to perform. And yet, as the pen continued its scratching across the letter seemingly of its own desire, it tore out her own.

I would tell you not to come. But I need you to save me.

The point dug deeper into the paper, creating rips and tears as both ink and Layla's own tears wet the surface.

Save me, Arshak. Save me... Save me! Save me! Save me!

***

Layla sniffed. A silken chiton draped over her shoulders, waiting to be clipped along her arms and tied at the waist with a golden belt marking her as the Sun Priestess. Layla stared at her reflection in the bronze mirror; a round face stretched by the dents in the metal, frazzled hair hanging in ridiculous ways in the bent reflection. Layla tried to make out her eyes, which she was sure were bloodshot and puffed from the embarrassing breakdown moments ago. She could only see the dried tears that streaked make-up across her cheeks.

Slowly, Layla clipped her chiton and lifted her belt that hung beside the mirror. She tied it tightly under her chest and began preparing her hair for the coming Witness. Part of her duties as a Priestess of Yaribol were to oversee contracts and important ceremonies. It was a chance to study the local practices and meet with important aristocrats from time to time. Today, however, she witnessed the sale of some goats. At least Atia had finally invited her to the bathing pond; a sign that perhaps she was making progress assimilating.

Layla sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and opening her jewelry box. Her fingers traced her most prized possession; a golden tiara with a bright blue sapphire. It was a gift from Arshak, from his very first winnings as a professional prize fighter. Holding it atop her head like a crown, she lowered it onto her soft, black curls and admired its reflection in the bronze mirror. Ten years, Layla thought wistfully. That's how long they'd been together now, and their first meeting seemed like another lifetime now.

A soft wrap of knuckles on the wooden door prevented Layla from falling into another abyss of memories and heart-ache. "Who is it?" she called, clearing her throat.

"Mistress," a shy voice replied, "it's time. The High Priestess expects you at the baths this evening."

Layla quickly wiped her face with a wet towel and took one last glance at the torn letter on her desk. Crossing the room quickly, she snatched up the remains and discarded them into the trash on her way out.