Bookworm Gladiator

Merula offered me a banana that was days old; blackened and mushy with sugary syrup. "Not now, you eat it," I said. Why was the child following me around? Shouldn't she be back at the palace?

I'd been running back and forth across the maydan for the past half-hour, trying to negotiate a release of the Nokchi, or at least for Hurek so he could take the field against Shams. The crowd was getting agitated, Baba Haza was nowhere to be found. We could've have had cavalry games if the horses had been properly warmed. Why in this plane of hell did horses need to be warmed up?

The field lay empty to the mounting frustration of the people. Save for me; a sweaty, bald scholar running up and down between the collegiate scribes, the militia holding Hurek in chains, and then finally to Atia to sign the release papers.

We'd agreed on ten denarii per head as a fine for trying to infiltrate the arena during a bout. In reality, it was all just a bribe for Cato the city-master, who commanded the city militia as well as the Vigil slave-hunters.

I could taste the sweat gathering on my lips as I slowed to a crawl, panting and spitting in front of a group of Bedouins. One of them waved a goat's leg in my direction, hurling slurs between rabid bites. I was about to yell back some obscenities about his swine filled lineage but I held my tongue on Merula's account. "Come," I took the servant girl by the hand. "Let's get brother Hurek out of-

Chains. They'd left red marks on Hurek's wrist, and a faint memory of helplessness, rage, and the despair that came with loss. Hurek had emptied these feelings into the fire and entered the arena field with an empty mind. The people's jeers and insults washed over him like water. But he felt nothing. Not anymore.

The fire had taken everything, even his hatred of Shams. The young, self-proclaimed prince of Damascus bounced on his feet eagerly across the plain. His gait was swift and graceful, and his dual scimitars twinkled in the afternoon sun, occasionally in a flurry to the delight of the crowd. Hurek ignored his taunting too. Instead, he stared at the beautiful clouds above, moving ever so slowly to the winds. There weren't many clouds to find above Palmyra, but the ones that did show were delicate wisps of white, painted across the sky in confident brushstrokes.

And they moved so slowly. So patiently. They let the wind guide their movement, with full trust in their pre-determined destination. Hurek was to be the cloud, and his senses would guide him through the physicality of it all. Hurek only thought of living to see his brethren again. And to bury-

Septimus. I needed to bring up the elder Nokchi's death to re-kindle Hurek's rage. Or was that too much? Was I being an insensitive pig? A selfish patrician looking to profit off a slave's back? There was truth to it, yes. But I could also still taste Flamma's fat, sour fingers in my mouth. I could still see Atia's cruel eyes judging me head to foot... did she think I was a bumbling fool destined to fail?

I threw aside the Nokchi tent to find Hurek alone in the center, staring at the fire pit. The flames flickered - the only movement in the quiet room - lighting Hurek's rugged features in a dim glow. The shadows under his eyes chilled my bones. Fire worshippers. That's what I had heard of Zoroastrians. Or was that just a Roman stereotype? "Greetings, Hurek," I called.

The man didn't reply.

I cleared my throat, "Greetings, Hurek?"

He was still, almost tricking my eyes to think I was staring at a statue. His club and book-shield lay beside him, and a jug containing some strange liquid that had spilled on the floor. I gingerly picked up the jug and gave it a good sniff. It was milky red with a strong irony scent. Must be the energy tonic that gladiators drank before their fight; Atia had a pot of it made late last night in the kitchens, and I'd yet to approve it for Hurek but it seemed she'd given it to him either way.

And he'd drunken most of it.

The man remained calm and uninterested in my presence, though. But he wasn't entirely calm, was he? He couldn't possibly be. Just hours ago he'd crashed into the field, flinging bodies and breaking bones after Septimus' death. I'd been worried recently... about Hurek's reliance on reflexes to defend against Shams. For days we'd ingrained specific movements and coordination in Hurek's pace. We'd increased his muscle memory, thinking that maybe it would prevent what happened to Jirikoy. Shams had been setting up traps and the Nokchi had fallen for every single one.

And so I'd set up Hurek for a defensive strategy, one reliant completely on reflexes and form. But seeing Hurek's rage from earlier... I couldn't deny that aggression was everything we needed to complete the picture. And for that, I would have to do something. To say something-

Faint whispers played in Hurek's mind. Between the thumping of crowd and the thousands of voices calling his name, there was a whisper that cut through it all. A familiar voice.

But Hurek pushed it away. He imagined the fire pit in front of him, eating up his feelings. Every single one.

He let his mind drift in the spar; in the dance with Shams. The man closed the distance, and Hurek turtled - book-shield protecting his body, club held out front to deflect Shams' twin blades.

But the prince twitched in odd ways, forcing Hurek to react and flinch, only to feel like a fool when nothing came. Shams chuckled, and Hurek thought they'd reset into a position, but the young man invaded his space with ease. Almost as if he'd already been a step away without Hurek realising? The blade cut into Hurek's shoulder even as he deflected with his book-shield.

The right-handed scimitar slashed to his body, but when Hurek pulled his club down to meet it, Shams redirected up to his face. The blade missed his neck by inches. The steel managed to cut his cheek though, and his helmet's leather strap almost tore free.

Hurek was reacting just in time, only to become prey at the last moment. His stamina kept up to his form, but that is exactly what Shams was using to entrap him. Throw him off balance at critical moments, using Hurek's own reflexes to make him flinch before changing direction of his attacks at critical points.

Was he so predictable? Hurek thought. There was one major issue with his meditative state that he'd learned from his father. It prevented him from paying attention to his pain. Only the hot wetness of his blood dripping down his body alerted him to the many wounds he'd suffered already. And just as he noticed them, they screamed with-

"Pain!" I hissed in the Nokchi's ear, "You have to focus on the pain."

I was careful not to touch Hurek. He was clearly in some kind of meditation, staring intensely at the fire pit before him. So I let the man continue in silence, placing myself behind him just out of view. My voice would have to be enough, I hoped. "Let the pain set you free. You have suffered so much, Hurek. So, so much..."

I spared a peek around to his face. Unreadable. Where was the emotion? The anger? "But how I much are you willing to suffer at the hands of lesser men?" I continued, "They prod and bite you like an animal, and you take it as if you've accepted your death already. But that is not-

how a man dies, Hurek! Not a man like you, the whisper said. The voice brushed his right ear like a gust of wind. It almost made Hurek look over his shoulder and miss the moment that Shams stepped a few critical inches into Hurek's right guard and stick his blade clean into his side. Hurek felt a rib crack under the thrust.

"Argh!" Hurek snarled as he snapped a hook into Shams' face, but the young warrior had already twisted away - twirling on his feet swiftly. Dance-like.

"Bravo!" Flamma yelled from the stands, followed by polite applause from the patrician folk. The clapping reminded Hurek of clattering beetles on cattle dung. It cut through Hurek's calm like pelted stones. The commoner crowds around the field were much more rowdy, but the distance made their noise just a constant buzz. It was the laughter of the nobles that struck a painful cord in Hurek's mind. Shams' constant little jabs and slashes punctured by their gleeful gasps. It was just entertainment for them. Septimus death had also been just a show.

When the horn blew, marking the end of the first round, Hurek stood still. Shams flicked his steel clean of blood and sauntered over to his rest bench, where Flamma stood waiting with a cold towel and bucket. Cicero yelled for Hurek to come quickly as well but he dared not move a step in any direction.

The bench meant rest, and rest meant intrusive thoughts. Cicero's jabbering about strategy and movement and who knows what else. Instead, Hurek searched for the slow moving clouds above and to his disappointment, they were gone. The late afternoon sky was empty, save for the sun pressing against Hurek's face with it's heat. He thought of the drover and the goats and simple movements of life that were happening beyond his experience. Beyond his presence. He felt so sm-

He coughed, which sent a sharp pain coursing across his chest and fractured ribs.

And at that pain, something stirred inside him. It began with his heart - which dropped to an abyss - and just when Hurek felt as if he'd faint with the failing blood pressure, his chest burst with another presence that threated to consume him. Like a fire burning with-

"Hunger," I whispered into Hurek's ear. "You don't have to feel anything if you don't want to. But don't deny yourself the hunger for justice. The hunger to set things right for the sake of your family. For your brothers. For-"

For blood, Hurek thought. He wanted to blood. The milky, iron-tainted blood tonic he'd been tasting before the fight came back to his tongue. He worked his mouth, feeling the after-taste around his gums and he sucked in his teeth to the fresh blood that dripped from his ruined cheeks. He'd barely noticed Shams coming for him again. Was it the second round again?

Shams pounced, re-invigorated with his rest, moving quickly and decisively. Hurek felt helpless and confused at the onslaught. Hadn't Cicero trained him well? Hurek could see every thrust and react to it with the perfect timing, only to be caught unaware by a stealthy jab to his ribs.

And when Shams flicked for another body shot, Hurek flinched, trying to protect his bruised ribs. But the prince had only used the feint to move in closer, and try an uppercut cut straight under his chin. Hurek weaved his head out of the way just in time, and Shams resigned himself for a sharp kick to Hurek's thigh.

A death blow, Hurek thought. That was an execution. Shams had been trying to impale Hurek straight in his throat and up into his skull.

They're not your cubs to play with Hurek. They are trying to kill you! But you mustn't let fear enter your heart. When you enter the field, you should be hungry for-

Blood, Hurek thought. He couldn't get the taste out of his mouth, and the desire slowly built in his chest until he felt cold. Almost as if he couldn't feel his body anymore. The cold spread from his chest and into his arms, and finally it crept up his neck; into his skull. The cold came with the presence of a Fiend, a demonic presence that took control of his mind and his thoughts. Is this how a man dies? Hurek thought as he felt his consciousness drift out of his body until he stared himself from above, and the Fiend took control of every limb and finger.

The Fiend filled Hurek's senses with a predatory glance, a predatory smell, a predatory lick of his lips as he watched Shams' sweaty face bounce in front of him. The young man was grinning, and his cheek's dimpled deliciously. It tugged at the Fiend's mind until it was all he could think about.

The Fiend could practically hear Shams' veins pump with blood. The stretch of his flesh and the pattern of his pouncing. The Fiend was watching his prey and finally understood it's every movement. How could he have been so blind?

The Fiend blinked, watching Shams shift his weight to right, even as he thrust with his left. But the Fiend wasn't defensive anymore, he was the hunter this time. He dropped the book-shield and stepped into the weak thrust, which buried into the Fiend's ribs. It was nothing. A distraction.

The real thrust came from Shams' right, and the Fiend caught the scimitar instantly between his fingers and palm, careful not to let the edge cut into his flesh.

Shams' smile faltered. He paused uncharacteristically, staring at his caught blade. The way his cheeks flushed with shock and anger, it made the Fiend's heart jump with anticipation.

I couldn't believe what I seeing. Hurek had caught the scimitar with his bare hands. He'd dropped his book-shield and even his club, and held Shams' blade locked into his vice-like grip. Slowly, the large man straightened, coming out of his usual boxing stance.

Hurek towered over the increasingly fearful prince, staring down at him with an odd expression I'd never seen on the gentle Nokchi. He cocked his head down at the struggling warrior, watching the man squirm as he tried to pry his blade free from Hurek's grip.

Flamma was yelling quick instructions to his protégé, and our eyes met for a moment. Flamma licked his lips, quickly avoiding my stare. I felt giddy laughter rising in my throat watching the doubt and fear that quickly spread around the royal bleachers. Atia, however, stared intensely down at the strange display. She was at the edge of her seat and her forehead glistened with sweat. She didn't bother wiping it. Instead, her lips moved in some quiet prayer she muttered under her breath.

When I turned back to Shams again, I nearly laughed at the ridiculous scene. The young prince had dropped his other blade and was trying to pull free his weapon from Hurek with both hands. His feet kicked, arms straining. Hurek's forearm muscles twitched against the effort, but otherwise the giant Nokchi was calm, undisturbed. He stared down at Shams like a boy observing a new species of insect.

"Your club, Hurek! Your club!" I yelled. This was his chance to-

Hurek lifted his other hand, slowly, and closed it around Shams' face. His meaty fingers closed around the warrior's temples, nails digging into his cheeks. By Jupiter... what is he doing? "Hurek, listen to me!" I realised my voice echoed across the field. Everyone had quieted, watching the strange display, entranced by Hurek's actions. The Nokchi towered over the young warrior, dark blood glistening across his body as it had in his bout with Haza. But this time, Hurek wasn't panting with tiredness, or crumbling under the pain and the wounds. He stood just as fresh and untroubled as if he was eating his morning bowl of nuts.

Hurek licked his dry lips as Shams' muffled cries filled the quiet arena. Even the commoners were silent.

"Hurek," I whispered, watching with an increasing awe myself. What had come over the man? Hurek's grip tightened on Shams' face, and the warrior had given up all pretense of fighting. He clawed at Hurek's hands, trying to free his face from the Nokchi's claw.

I thought Hurek would let him go. I thought he would throw him back, disarmed and humiliated. The collegiate referee had raised the horn to his lips, and only a few seconds could have remained. So what else was there to do? Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in the next moment.

As the horn blew, Hurek's fingers cut deeper into Shams' cheeks.

And just as a butcher would tug at the hide of a hanging carcass, Hurek tore at the man's face - ripping it clean off his skull with a sickening rip.

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BOOKWORM GLADIATOR RETURNING IN MAY!