Bookworm Gladiator

Were goats allowed in the amphitheater? They filtered in with the wave of equally smelling commoners. They hopped over and about the benches, squatted on them as if they were about to shit themselves. The goats were more reserved.

“Too many,” I whispered under my breath. “It’s not sustainable.” I looked up at Hurek to see if he shared my horror, but the Nokchi only smiled at the invading force. He bent over to pet one of the creatures, and winced slightly as he did so. Most of his wounds had miraculously healed over the past few days, except for the stab wound in his gut, which was slowly knitting itself back together but still blackened. I remembered Atia boasting about Hurek’s healing after prescribing more of that energy tonic.

Layla’s blood… A pang of guilt and shame shot through me. I had done nothing to stop him from drinking more of that putrid drink. It was making him stronger, and heal faster, and a part of me was wretched enough to value that over my own integrity and all things holy. Atia was the sorceress weaving this magic, but I was now the enabler. Which of gods had imbued this magic into the drink? It had to be the moon god, I thought. Better it be a god than some unholy demon that Hurek seemed to believe.

I distracted myself from the miserable state of my integrity, and instead watched the growing crowd around us, locals of all colors and station filed into the semi-circled auditorium, the front of which was adorned with banners and plants with just as much diversity as the guests. Actors rushed about carrying their props into position, led by the theatre Dominus, an ugly man in jarringly contrasting shawls draped over his person, the man I presumed would be the one to call on me at some point during the performances. Fabulous Fabula was his stage name. His real name was no doubt just as ridiculous, who but a mother could love such a face, but a Roman father would know that names have power. And a powerful name could not be given to that face. He looks like a Verres.

My private chuckles were interrupted by a group of youngsters and a woman I presumed to be their mother. They gathered around us, and I grew protective of the empty seat beside me. “Someone’s sitting there,” I lied to the ten-year old boy who began eyeing it.

“Who?” he squeaked.

“My friend,” I replied, “I’m saving it for him.”

Another snot-nosed boy, an older brother from the looks of it, elbowed his way forward. “I want to sit at the front!” he yelled.

“None of you can, because my friend will be here any second,” I said, and spread my legs a bit to cover more space on the stone bench. “Away with you, shoo!”

I’d been offered a spear-guard to escort me as part of the governor’s retinue, especially since I was to speak from the authority of the palace, and make some comments on recent events for the locals. But with Hurek beside me, I’d felt safe enough and denied Captain Yaresh’s offer. If I’d known I would be wrestling little shit-flies for comfortable seating, a few pointy spears wouldn’t have hurt my chances.

Thankfully, the boys were distracted by Hurek as the fist-fighter rose out of his seat, his eyes scanning the blue sky for something I couldn’t see. As his shadow fell over us, the youngest pointed up and exclaimed, “It’s Hurek!”

A murmur spread around us, especially amongst the youngsters, and the mother who was with them whipped around in shock. She was a fan too, apparently, and gracefully joined her sons at Hurek’s side.

“Bless you, my son,” she said, reaching up to pat the fist-fighter’s shoulder. The touch broke Hurek out of his strange meditation, and he lowered his head. His eyes seemed glazed over, as if he’d just woken from deep sleep. He blinked in confusion at all the hands, young and small, groping his muscles and trying to touch his calloused face.

I was afraid he’d get violent, and begin slapping the intrusive folk away, but all credit to him, for the man had patience. He bowed, gently grasped the hands in a friendly shake, and pushed them back to their owners. All the while nodding awkwardly and muttering his thanks in broken Latin.

The two boys, my enemies, bombarded the Nokchi with questions he didn’t have the time or will to answer. One of which was especially graphic, and to come from the ten-year-old lad! He asked Hurek how it felt ripping the Syrian’s face. His mother laughed and shook her head, as if the boy was just asking an innocent, albeit funny, question.

Hurek must have understood the question, for he grimaced. I quickly intervened, stepping up to wave a strip of my loose toga as a deterrent, “alright, that’s enough,” I said. My whipping cloth forced the boys to retreat. The mother scowled, as my toga accidently smacked the belligerent child in the face.

Actors were ushering the guests up to the stands, now that the front rows were full, so I had a couple aids help me pull the crowd away from Hurek before it could grow any further. This was something I should have anticipated, I thought. With every win in front of the city, Hurek was gaining in popularity. He wasn’t a nameless brawler in the palace’s retinue anymore. But with recognition came both good and the bad. Hurek had mostly defeated champions who, while popular, weren’t especially known or beloved by the people. What would happen when he faced Flamma? Or Nero himself if Atia had her way? Palmyra’s own streets might not be safe for him anymore. On the other hand, a commoner’s love might just be as deranged as his spite.

Fabulous Fabula clapped his hands for everyone’s attention, “Shut your mouths every one… you too!” he shrieked at a drover who was busy talking with his friend. “And gather your goats, man! It’s not yet time for the copulating.”

“Did he say copulating?” I muttered to Hurek, who had thankfully shaken his odd mood and was smiling now, eagerly waiting for the show to start. The fist-fighter leaned closer and replied softly, “goat sex.”

“Yes, thank you for whispering that into my ear,” I said. What was this crazy playwright sniffing? I figured it was an inside joke, and strained my ear to hear what Fabula was yelling about. Years of shouting over crowds had given him a scratchy, but booming voice that echoed around the amphitheater, over the rowdy farmers and drovers near the front, to the families with loud children and crying babies, and the wealthier locals watching stiffly from the highest benches. The air was thick with spices, smoke, and Hurek’s favorite, roasted nuts. I made a mental note to get a cornet for him before we left.

“—but first, in music to justice, lest we forget… Prima Persia! The Lady of Woe!” Fabula clapped, and in a flourish of shawls he exited the stage as a dozen dancers in purple skirts rushed in. They waved ribbons to the tune of the flutist, who was joined by a drummer. The heavy rhythm gave the performance a foreboding tone, and coupled with the title of the play, I was genuinely intrigued by what it was about.

The dancers moved with energy, their skirts spinning like whirling tops, and their ribbons followed the increasing tension of the flutist until it was suddenly drowned out by the drummer’s heavy beats that came slow and measured. An actor in warrior’s clothing, a dark cloak wrapped around like armor, and a cotton helmet, stepped out of the curtains in the back. He had a tall frame, bronze skin, and he raised his painted wooden sword in the air. The crowd immediately recognized him and cheered.

I, on the other hand, was thoroughly confused. Wasn’t the play about a woman? And how come there is a popular warrior in Palmyra that I don’t know of? It wasn’t until I heard someone whisper behind me that all of it clicked together. “Baba Haza,” a voice said excitedly.

My heart dropped at the reveal. This was a play about Baba Haza, and from what I suspected, Layla would be the Lady of Woe.

I sat back on my bench, suddenly feeling the uncomfortable stone digging into my back and numbing my ass. “Despicable,” I muttered as, sure enough, a woman in a flowing gold and white cloak wandered onto the stage. While she wore the colors of a Priestess of Yarhibol, her mask had an evil stare that studied the hushed crowd. A few boos rang out, punctured by some crude remarks.

I wasn’t sure what came over me, but my body could no longer sit still. With my joints crying out in pain, I bolted out of my seat and stalked up to the stage. “That’s enough, this stops.” I knew where this was headed—to Layla’s execution. I didn’t care that a hundred eyes watched me as I stood next to the stage, waving my arms for the actors get lost and stop this nonsense. Most continued their dance, and while the flutist faltered, he continued his rhythm while giving me a side-eye.

It wasn’t until Hurek stood over my shoulder, hands on hip, that the stage came to a standstill. The dancers, most barely adults, gasped at the gladiator, and Hurek in turn put on his best angry, and disappointed look. “He said stop,” he bellowed.

The crowd had begun usual insults at my attempt, but with Hurek backing me up, there was an audible hush where only toddlers and screaming goats could be heard. A few people began slipping out of the exit as quickly as they had come, no doubt expecting some kind of brawl seeing Hurek.

“What is this?” Fabula hissed. I heard his voice but couldn’t see where it came from, not until I craned my neck and saw his god-forsaken face peering out of a window above the stage.

“I’d like to speak, now,” I said with as much gravitas as I could muster. “I am Master Cicero, here on Gaius Julius’ account and his mistress Atia.” Some brave men had begun throwing tomatoes at us, and one hit Hurek in the back, exploding in a red gore. The Nokchi felt the juices on his shoulder and licked his fingers.

It took a moment for Fabula to rush down the stairs and enter the stage. He began shooing away the actors and dancers, and quickly gestured for me to approach. “Oh, quit your whining!” Fabula snarled at the irritable people. “You’ll get your show. But first, a few words from our governor’s ambassador and representative, Dominus Cicero!”

When I turned to face the audience, my throat clenched tight. I wasn’t staring at only a hundred people, but possibly a thousand. The amphitheater expanded higher, farther and wider than I’d been able to judge from within the crowd. But now that I stood on the stage, facing the colorful and diverse crowd, I might as well have been confronting all of Palmyra.

My father Scipio had once called theater the “senate of the masses”. Of course, he’d meant it in a derisive way, but seeing the eyes of the commonfolk fixated on me and willing to hear my words, it gave me a sense of… something. It was a strange feeling. My blood ran cold, my tongue faltered, and my throat felt dry and tight. But through it all, I felt a sense of import. My words would be heard by many, many common people in the next few moments.

I’d given speeches to senators, held consiliums, and even instructed young scribes on rhetoric. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken to people who weren’t employing me in some way. People who were listening to me because they had to. Because I represented power, even if borrowed.

“I… uh… condolences to Cataline and the Mattabol clan and to the Basilica for our hearts are united in the loss of Cato our city master and Gaius Julius has been informed, well we sent a letter to Constantinople so…” I paused to gulp, and realized I was out of breath. My words had been very loud but also a jumble, stumbling over each other as I blurted out what I’d been preparing to say slowly and with poignant pauses.

I dabbed my forehead lightly with a handkerchief, and my eyes fell on Hurek. He shot me a thumbs up. Somewhere in the crowd, a goat screamed in despair.

Perform, you old fart. Perform, don’t just speak. I pretended I was a senator and this was my grand moment, and quickly changed my tone to a more casual, conversational one. Atia had wanted me to condemn the Persian camp, to call out Tiridates and his harboring of Baba Haza, the man who had dared raise a weapon against the High Priestess.

Instead of my prepared speech, I spoke as if to a friend, “Today, Tiridates has not come down from his perch,” I bellowed, and pointed east in the general direction of the Persian neighborhood. “Why? Perhaps he is celebrating a birthday feast.” That drew a few chuckles from the higher benches. “Oh, the abominable profligacy of the man!” I continued, throwing my hands helplessly and shaking my head. I saw some confused faces at the front but didn’t regret my choice of words. This was theater, after all. “Oh, how intolerable is his impudence, his debauchery, and his lust!”

I had no idea where I was going with this. But a woman’s gasp and some angry mutters spurred me on. “Can a man, a chief of the senate, a man of coin and prestige, abstain from virtue and consult the rage of an exotic barbarian?”

“No!” many yelled back to my utterly inane question.

“NO,” I replied. “As we all know, anger is the beginning of madness. And the Persians have nothing but anger in their hearts for our republic.”

I lowered my arms, and my head, looking away in feigned sadness. Then with a whip of my arm, I saluted up to the sky, “But by the sky god and the sun god, order shall remain in their realm. The tournament will continue unsullied and the traitors must pay with their blood!”

The obvious loyalists in the upper benches were already clapping, along with some senators and priests. The commoners were louder and more supportive, pointing fingers and sending curses to Tiridates. Some of the Persians in the crowd looked understandably uncomfortable at my speech. But it was the gist of what Atia had wanted, and to an extent, I shared some of her anger towards Tiridates and Haza. A few feet to the left and Baba Haza’s sword would have impaled me too.

Regardless, the cheers warmed my heart, and I felt the power of moving people with my words—as melodramatic and absurd as some of them may have been. “This is what I need,” I said to myself. This is what Atia could not control. The masses held up the board where she played her chess, and if triggered, they might just flip it for me.

“Thank you to our dear guest,” Fabula yelled over the noise, “We pray for Gaius Julius’ safe return,” then the man had the gall to add under his breath, “if he still remembers his way back to Palmyra.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He wasn’t wrong. Fabulous Fabula continued, “And now, since everyone is in such a great mood already, we’ll just skip to our favorite performance, for now.”

Favorite performance? I paused at the edge of the stage, my curiosity piquing. Hurek offered me a hand down but I looked back, waiting for the reveal or a glimpse of the next actor behind the curtain. A tale of pretext would be a nice change of pace. Maybe I was getting a little homesick, but I’d definitely worked up my appetite to an honest to Jupiter, stoic, Latin drama. A true classic this far from home would be a respite.

“Bring up the goats!” Fabula screeched, and the crowd erupted with joy.