Bookworm Gladiator

Atticus stalked the colonnade with renewed vigor. Not for any particular purpose but for his own sake. And of course, some vegetables that Cecilia had wanted for dinner.

Once upon a time, he’d shopped the fresh goods in the Latin sector, not far from the Governor’s palace and the amphitheater, but recent times had driven Atticus to make do with the poor farmers who came in from the eastern gate every morning with their harvest. The caravanners would go straight for the rich agoras—having exclusive access—and the farmers would be forced to park their wagons and carts all along the colonnade.

It had become a real hazard in spring and most of summer, what with the increasing Bedouin presence, the constant land grants to migrating Greeks by the Mattabol dominated senate, and now the tournament bringing in a constant influx of travelers and pilgrims from the west.

Atticus stopped by a pudgy Arab called Lulu, a farmer from Emesa who travelled all the way to Palmyra with his sons. He’d become popular for his olives and figs.

“Still around, Lulu?” Atticus asked the man, who was bent over a crate. When he turned around, there was an instant frown at Atticus’ milita uniform, but the expression thankfully softened as he recognized Atticus.

“Ah, master Attaqoos, how wife?” he said in accented Latin.

“Good,” Atticus replied. He reached into his coin purse, grabbing the remaining ten sesterce he had. “The usual bag, my friend.”

As soon as the silver dropped into Lulu’s palm, his lips pursed and he looked up at Atticus apologetically. “Twenty-five silver, master. Very sorry, olive price up.” He pointed his finger to the sky, “Very up.”

“That’s all I have,” Atticus replied and his voice lowered despite himself. The energy he had felt leaving the popina dissipated, and he felt the burden of Lucifer’s rock on his shoulders.

Another customer, a maidservant behind Atticus huffed at the delay and shook her bag full of silver over his shoulder. “Bag please!” she cried.

The Arab merchant wasn’t having it, however, and he snapped at the girl, “Uf! Show respect,” he then gestured to Atticus, “show respect this man.”

“Whatever you can give me, Lulu,” Atticus said quickly. He didn’t care much for the frustration of the customers behind him, he just didn’t want to think about coin anymore.

Lulu made a new bag, but only put in a measly five olives in it, some of them smaller than usual, and handed it to Atticus with the same apologetic smile.

It is what it is, Atticus thought and took the bag with a curt nod. “Salve,” he said and stalked out of the crowded stall. The servants got out of his way but a gruff looking man in leathers didn’t bother moving, blocking his path with his sweaty shoulders.

Atticus refused to move around him and simply glared—a well-practiced look he had developed when he’d stared down men on the opposite side of a shield-wall in his past life.

The thug licked his lips, and his eyes flickered. Atticus didn’t say anything, just stared at him until he felt the man’s will break and he slinked away, pretending the crowd had simply carried him off, clearing Atticus’ path.

***

A familiar voice interrupted Atticus’ brooding as he turned the corner to the Latin quarter; a line of newly built villas from Palmyra’s own brick kilns. The neighborhood pushed into Palmyra’s eastern oasis, ending with a large spring in the north where children played most of the day. Only rich Latin and Mattabol families were allowed in this sector, and they had their own footmen guarding the entrances to this semi-walled off corner of Palmyra. Atticus had been allowed to buy a villa here due to his pure heritage, though he was easily the poorest resident.

Two boys and a girl were laughing together by a cantina, bottles in hand and clearly a little drunk. Atticus’ son, Marcus, was among them. His face fell when he noticed his father.

His friend Drusus, a warrior-dancer from the Temple of Belshamin, nudged his priestess sister and they backed off, leaving Marcus to face Atticus in private. Marcus sighed, and refused to meet his father’s eyes. He even took another sip from his bottle rebelliously.

“What’s in that?” Atticus asked.

“Wine, you want some?” Marcus replied.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in your studies? I thought I’d paid—”

“I sent the scribe home, I had to help mama out with some chores.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Atticus snapped, his anger seeping through finally. He quickly took a deep breath, and calmed himself down.

“Drusus came over so—”

“Don’t rub shoulders with these two,” Atticus said, pointing to the two siblings, who could clearly hear him. They didn’t dare glare back, though. “They will lead you astray.”

“Astray from what? What are you even talking about!” Marcus yelled back, his voice cracking with emotion. Atticus was disappointed, but he didn’t want to get into this now out on the street.

He’d paid so much to afford the best tutors for Marcus, hopefully setting him up for a respectable literary career. Instead, his son wanted to do nothing but spend time in the streets with commoners and scoundrels like Drusus. The dancer turned fighter had enlisted himself in the tournament and even fought in the first bracket. Marcus had clearly been taken with Drusus’ lifestyle, and probably had feelings for his sister, Canary, who was little more than a stripper for temple ceremonies.

Atticus had been so disappointed in Marcus lately. He’d wanted him to grow into a literate, principled man of esteem and repute. So far, Atticus only saw a street boy of weak mental fortitude. Seeing his son filled him with shame, and then the sorrow crept in.

“You are neglecting what I assigned for you, Marcus,” Atticus continued. But before he could continue, Marcus threw his bottle against the wall in a rage, and it shattered into a hundred pieces, the glass flying every which way.

“At least I’m doing things for us!” he said.

“You must reflect on this anger, and—”

“Fuck!” Marcus threw his hands, “I give up.”

He stormed off, and was quickly joined by his friends. The girl, Canary, looked back apologetically, but eventually put an arm around Marcus in comfort. And just like that, they carried him off, leaving Atticus standing alone amidst the shattered glass.

***

Close to the spring where children played, a rainbow hung in the air, and beyond it stretched green gardens and palm trees of the eastern oasis. Migrating birds still nestled there, adding to the chirps and squeaks of the children below. It wasn’t that long ago that Atticus would have come home to find a younger Marcus still running around in that playground.

In fact, Atticus had built the stone fence around the deep spring with his own hands to protect the clumsy younglings. To protect Marcus. The boy had grown up to be a different man than Atticus had envisioned, and some aspects of his Atticus truly admired, like his ability to make friends and get knee deep in people’s businesses—something Atticus had trained out of himself long ago.

There were strengths to gathering influence in the community, given the right means, but Atticus believed a man should mind his own business. Politics often lacked honest virtue.

Atticus’ rational mind told him that Marcus was on his way to a life of street thuggery, considering the friends he kept and his tastes in activities. Or even a soldier, which Atticus dreaded. So, is it rationality or fear that bids me? Atticus thought.

Atticus stopped in front of his villa, hesitating to push past the iron gates. The house wasn’t as big as the others on this road, nor had its own vegetable garden to harvest or livestock to maintain. It didn’t even have servants save for a kitchen-maid. And yet it had been everyone’s envy once built, as it was the closest to the spring and opened into the lush oasis that expanded northward, untouched. When Atticus had leased the land and built the house—with his life savings—he’d been the target of many senatorial complaints from Mattabol nobles that his house was built on public land. One stern veto from Cato had shut everyone up.

With a sigh, he creaked open the iron gate, and made a mental note to buy some oil for the rusty metal hinges. He heard Cecilia’s voice coming from the side entrance, from the kitchen entrance, so he wandered around to find the maid Junia cleaning a gutter with Cecilia preceding over her. They seemed to be having a good time. Junia loved to tell funny stories as she worked, mostly of her eccentric uncle, and Cecilia chuckled along between giving her instructions.

But Atticus’ wife’s smile vanished quickly as he approached. His hand tightened on his pouch of olives, which was now looking to become a meager offering of peace. But what’s wrong? Atticus’ thought, mind racing with anything he might have said or done this morning.

“Good afternoon, master,” Junia was the first speak, as Atticus paused in front of them awkwardly.

“Salve, dear Junia,” Atticus said. He avoided his wife’s glare, hoping it had nothing to do with him. But her lips pursed as he glanced back.

“Patrol going well?” Cecilia asked. “What brings you home?”

She had a sweet voice, once. Now it was a poison dipped dagger that slipped into any and every chink of his armor. And although the woman still had her youthful complexion, even after all these years, her eyes had lines and Atticus couldn’t remember the last time her brow wasn’t furrowed in his direction. She knows, Atticus thought and his heart skipped a beat.

“I…” he took a moment to clear his throat, “I was passing by, and thought I should drop this off.” He held up the olives.

“So, you weren’t planning on hosting then,” Cecilia said, and left him, rushing back into the kitchens as Atticus followed desperately.

“Hosting?” he called after her, but froze halfway into the kitchen. With rising dread, he recalled today’s date. Cecilia’s parents, his in-laws, were visiting Palmyra sometime this month. Was today their arrival?

“Is Pater in town?” Atticus asked from the door. Cecilia paced around the counter, attending to her stewing pot and barely glanced at him.

“He’s here,” she said shortly. “We just had lunch and he’s resting in the atrium.”

Cecilia’s father, Pater, was the closest thing to a family patriarch that Atticus had. He’d called on Atticus several times during family consiliums in Emesa. A proud republican and senator, he had looked down on Atticus’ roguish background, seeing him unsuitable for his favorite daughter. He had said so clearly on many occasions.

“Is he expecting me?” Atticus asked. He still stood with only one foot in the kitchen, holding the door open. Cecilia finally paused what she was doing and set down her ladle. Then she stared back at him, hands on her hip.

“I told him that you were on patrol,” she said, with a sarcastic twist at the end.

“Is there something you want to say?” Atticus asked plainly. But that only soured Cecilia’s mood further.

“Really?” Cecilia snapped, “What I have to say?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”

Cecilia ignored him, lips pulled back in anger now as she practically shrieked at him, “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to hear from your friends about your husband’s unemployment?”

Atticus blood ran cold, and he struggled to find his words. “I… that’s not what—

“I even defended you like a fool!” Cecilia said, stepping up to him. “But it’s true, isn’t it?”

Atticus didn’t reply, but Cecilia didn’t let the silence get to her. She stood there as well, challenging him to speak a word. But all he could really say was the truth. He had tried his best to make the situation bearable for his family, but fate—as always—seemed to play its most brutal card.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Atticus said finally, his voice low and uncharacteristically pleading. He never felt so vulnerable as he often did in front of Cecilia.

“Who do you think you are?” Cecilia hissed, “shouldering burdens for everyone and falling on the sword for every little thing?”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Atticus said, scrambling to defend himself.

“Even now you can’t say a single honest thing from the heart,” Cecilia said, then she punched Atticus on the shoulder. “Go on, say that hurt.”

“Stop, Ceci, that’s enough.”

She punched him again. “Tell me that hurt, Atticus,” she cried, her fists now raining down on his chest and face as he struggled to enter the kitchen and close the door behind him.

“No, no!” Cecilia struggled against him, twisting her wrist trying escape his grasp.

“Stop, Pater will hear,” Atticus snapped.

Cecilia freed a hand, and this time it came down on Atticus’ face with a hard slap. His immediate reaction was to growl in anger and shove her, hard.

“That’s enough!” he snarled, raising his own fist as she cowered on the floor. But he stopped short of returning her blows, and quickly regained control. He closed his eyes, forcing his breath to come slow and steady despite his trembling body.

When he opened his eyes again, Cecilia was still on the floor, sniffing into her shawl. He couldn’t imagine this was the same woman who used to run after him with flowers when he went on campaign back in the legion. The same woman who’d fought her entire family for a chance to become his.

Cecilia picked herself up as Atticus didn’t bother helping her. Without looking him in the eye, she spoke again, her voice now strained and tired. “If Pater finds out, he will demand divorce and also my dowry. You must find work before that happens.”

“Just tell me you understand that I…” Atticus began but Cecilia ignored him. Instead, she called on Junia, and the young girl rushed inside the kitchen the next moment. She was no doubt leaning against the door eavesdropping.

Atticus’ wife continued her work and pretended he no longer existed. And so, with her hand still stinging his cheek, he steeled himself to go greet her father.