Bookworm Gladiator

My mind raced a hundred words per bag of Egyptian rice entering Rome on a hot, sunny day.

Hurek had resumed his dice game, clattering bones across the table and occasionally heaving a deep sigh that procured a cloud of dust between us. Possessed? Was he really possessed?

I gulped and looked around the room. Perhaps I was looking around for a Fury, the ones that used to haunt me after my wife’s death. Or maybe I was just spiraling into a panic. For a man of the pen, my mind was irritatingly prone to superstition; ever watchful of vengeful gods.

Hurek believed what he saw and felt, that much was clear. And after the strange drink he’d been by Atia, and her own suspicious connection to Temple rituals that people spoke of—in hushed voices—I had to be very careful on how to proceed. Black magic was real, and it could be at work here.

Footsteps alerted me to a couple entering the barracks. I expected them to the be Temple spearmen, but to my surprise, it was Hurek’s family: Ollia, late Jirikoy’s pregnant wife, and her brother Lucius of the Nokchi.

“Sister Ollia,” I began, “how on earth did you get past the guards?”

Ollia was already rushing to Hurek’s side, “oh, Hurek!” she cried, and began fussing over his bandages and the wound in his gut.

“I’m… I’m sorry about Septimus,” Hurek said, “Olly, I tried, I really tried and—”

Ollia had wrapped her arms around Hurek before he could finish and begun crying into his shoulder at Septimus’ name. Lucius, the mild-mannered middle brother of the family, stopped short and watched the dirt floor with a quietness I recognized.

“My condolences, Lucius,” I said. “If there is anything I can do for you and yours, just say it.”

“Master Cicero,” Lucius replied, “you have treated our family with respect and dignity. Something I did not expect from someone like you.” He was remarkably well-spoken. Much more than any of the Nokchi men I’d met so far. He’s Paco’s father, isn’t he? He must have married a Latin woman.

“I will take you up on the offer, if you are sincere about your wishes,” Lucius finished.

“I… yes, of course.” What else was there to say? The man was asking if I really did care for Hurek and his family. The answer to that was a resounding yes, and with that in mind, I had to be willing to back my promises and words to them. This wasn’t a conversation with Matanai or Atia or some other flower-mouthed patrician. This was a conversation between two men and their integrity. “Whatever you need, Lucius.”

Lucius nodded, and stepped forward to lay a hand on Hurek’s shoulder. “Come, cousin, let’s get you home.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “you can’t possibly take Hurek to the slums... er, I mean, across the town, in this condition.”

“He needs to be with us, Master, please,” Ollia said. Lucius seemed to be on the fence but he didn’t say a word, only stared at Hurek’s condition with worry. They must’ve sneaked in the palace somehow, but dragging a large gladiator through the streets would be a slow and visible process. I wondered how far the rioting had gone, and whether it would last through the night. The nobles had rushed as quickly as possible to their compounds and locked themselves inside. The Persian nobles would do the same, unless they had other, more nefarious plans.

That left the commoners and Bedouins and the slaves, all who seemed to be rioting or looting out in the field. That chaos surely had to have spread inside the walls. “It’s not safe,” I finally said, as gently as possible. “You should stay, maybe have some dinner?”

Before they could reply, merciful Merula entered the barracks, skipping along with a satchel thrown over her shoulder—it was almost as large as her.

“Ah, the bandages!” I said quickly, “thank you, child.” I took the bag from the beaming girl and began emptying the bandages, needles, honey and resin and other tools. Halfway through, Ollia—ever the caretaker—let go of her escape plan and immediately laid down her shawl on the dirt for Hurek. In her hands, the large Nokchi was not as stoic as he was prone to be with me. With Lucius’ help, he lowered himself on the cloth and laid down, a few grunts of pain escaping his lips.

“It didn’t hit anything vital, Master?” Ollia asked me, as she traced her hand on the wound that Shams’ scimitar had made in the last few moments of the fight.

“He wouldn’t be awake if it had,” I replied. With little to no medical experience, I wasn’t the best person to be doing this. Where’s a damned physician when you need one? “Lucius, my boy, can you please fetch us some warm water?”

The Nokchi nodded and jogged off. I shouted after him, “tell the guards you’re with me if they bother you!” He disappeared out the door and into the garden, leaving me a little worried—what with all the fuss tonight. There was a chance the guards might mistake him for an intruder. Hopefully, they recognized him as Hurek’s kin.

The sun had set outside; the last bit of its glow escaped into the night, and slowly, our shadows came alive, flickering in the candle-light. Ollia rose to light some more candles, and I finally noticed her ragged state. Her chiton was muddy and torn, the waist-belt long since fallen and lost. Or did pregnant women not wear waist-belts? Either way, her cream-colored dress flowed in the night breeze—and she drifted around the room, from candle to brazier. “Do we have any kindling?” she said, pausing at the brazier. I shrugged.

Ollia’s hair was a mess, too. She wiped it away from her face and—frizzy from the heat—it stood in the air every which way. She sniffed, wiping her hands and face on a hand-towel she procured from the leather bag they’d brought with them. “We might have some water, here too,” she said in her soft, accented Latin. “Yes!” she said, and pulled out a lamb-skin pouch.

She smiled, and offered me a drink first. I was speechless. Here was a woman who’d lost two of her closest family members in the past month. Her eyes were bloodshot; she was physically disabled; and yet, she’d found the strength to run across the town in the chaos and come to Hurek’s aid. This is true strength.

“Please,” I said, “you should drink.”

“We can use it, on Hurek, too?” she asked.

“It’s best not to,” I replied, hesitant to call her water-skin dirty. But Hurek needed the cleanest water possible. Preferably from a flowing source. The Palace kitchens filled barrels of fresh water from the southern oasis spring every morning and night. “Let’s wait for Lucius.”

Ollia nodded, and instead of pouring the water on Hurek’s wound, she held the water-skin against his lips. Hurek craned his neck and took a few sips before letting his head fall back. Watching them, I wasn’t sure who was more tired, both emotionally and physically.

“You were there?” I asked. Septimus’ death had been a chaotic event and I couldn’t quite remember Ollia being there. Or at all, to be honest.

Ollia shook her head, wiping at her face with the hand-towel again. “No, I don’t go.”

“Must be painful, waiting at home,” I continued, “I’m so sorry, Ollia.”

She nodded, and blew her nose into the cloth. Hurek grabbed Ollia’s hand and she squeezed back. I felt I was intruding on a sensitive family moment, but to my surprise, Ollia reached out and placed her other hand on mine. And together, we sat in silence.

Lucius returned sometime after with a bucket of water. Merula skipped in after him, and immediately ran to the table to roll the dice. Her bone-dice clattering across the table were the only noise in the dusty barn-like barracks. We busied ourselves with quietly cutting off Hurek’s old bandages and applying clean water to wash the wound. Thankfully, there was no more blood flowing out of the gash as it had congealed. The rest of the cuts across his torso could be covered until the bloody physician could apply some proper stitches.

Lucius, aware of being a couple hands too many, waited on the side while Ollia and I worked. He was a disciplined man; mild-mannered like Hurek, but more serious… almost grave. His physical stature matched Brutus’: stout and barrel-chested. There was a collection of scars across his hairy chest.

He wore a simple hemp-sewn tunic, with short sleeves that showed off his biceps; which reminded me of his preferred weapon on the field, a two-handed club wrapped in iron. A little different from Jiri’s that Hurek now wielded. Perfect against heavy armor, I thought.

Despite my tiredness, and desire to put the tournament out of my mind for now, I couldn’t help but think of the next bracket. With Suetonius dead, and I speaking in his stead, I could surely continue to suggest matches to the collegiate academy. Brutus would no doubt want a crack at fighting an actual ranked opponent next time, but perhaps I could oblige him and let him fight Hurek, or Lucius. Yes, the perfect match to incite Hurek’s rage, once more!

Surprisingly, my excitement fizzled out as soon as I heard Ollia sniff, wipe her face on the towel, and continued washing Hurek’s wound with careful and tender hands.

I admit, I was a little disgusted at myself. It hadn’t even been a full day, and I was already planning to throw the Nokchi family at another target; at the same who’d just murdered their kin, in fact. But what else was there to do? How else would there be any justice for Septimus?

Murder in Rome had always been a private matter. The Senate or Emperor didn’t bother prosecuting citizens for murdering each other unless the victim’s own family consilium made the murder a public issue. But for a murdered slave… that would require that their owner push for prosecution. Atia or her uncle Matanai would have to make a motion in the Senate to charge Brutus for murder. Or at the very least, property damage. Septimus had been a valuable slave who worked at the kiln after all. Even if Brutus wasn’t thrown in jail, some fine could be procured at this death.

Jirikoy’s murder at the hands of Shams, on the other hand, had been unfortunate, purely because Jiri had been a freed-slave. Which meant that neither Atia nor Matanai’s clan were obligated to pursue justice. It was solely up to Ollia, and the poor woman— widowed and pregnant—had absolutely no resources to spare in trying to get payment for Jiri’s death. Shams was dead now, anyways. The matter would be seen as resolved in everyone’s eyes. Ollia will have to live with the pain.

I sighed, dipping the last of Hurek’s new bandages in honey. Lucius understood his role again; for without a word or signal, he rushed to help raise Hurek so that Ollia and I could wrap the new cloth.

“What happened, after?” Ollia asked. I figured she meant the riot that had ended the second bracket.

“We ran to the north gate, some spearmen rushed past us but—

“No,” Ollia interrupted, “after Hurek fight.”

“Oh,” I said, leaving some honey on my chin as I scratched. “Well, the last fight happened, with Haza and Ghassan.”

“The Persian?” she asked, “with the red cloak?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” I nodded, wondering why she was so interested. “Something on your mind, Ollia?”

“No,” Ollia replied quietly, then bit her lip. “Did he win?”

Lucius guided Hurek back to the floor as I tied the last knot around his stomach and wiped the extra bit of honey around the edges. “He did win, yes,” I replied and found Ollia waiting for my answer with baited breath.

“Good,” she said softly, “good.”

I didn’t bother investigating her investigating. I just wanted to sleep.

Lucius turned to Ollia, “Should he go with us, now?”

Ollia had to realize the answer was no. But that did not stop her from thinking it through, perhaps hoping they could find some wagon to plop the large Nokchi on. After all the trouble we’d gone for fresh bandages, Hurek should lay as still as possible and rest. But for some reason, she seemed to be uncomfortable with leaving him here.

“How about this,” I said, before she could decide on anything, “you stay here, with Hurek.”

“Us? But… Paco and,” Ollia began, looking up at Lucius, and the middle brother laid a hand on her shoulder.

“He is with Gaius and Clara,” Lucius said. “He will be fine, for tonight.”

“Great, I’ll get us some dinner and we’ll stay with Hurek!” I clapped as if it was decided and got up to my feet.

“I can cook something,” Ollia said.

“Nonsense,” I replied, “you’re my guest. I’m sure the kitchen will have something.”

Both Ollia and Lucius stared at me uncomfortably, and I realized my words were probably a very strange thing to hear a Roman say to a family of slaves. I looked to Merula, who was clearly a little bored. How was she not tired yet? I could practically feel my heart slow down.

“Merula will help me,” I said, “come, child, let’s get some dinner.”

***