My son was barely six when he'd written his first words. And I was furious.

It'd taken me a long time to reconcile my feelings for that seemingly blasphemous act. "Scriba Lepidus" he'd chalked on the walls of our bedchamber. He'd done it in my image, Scriba Cicero, as I was employed as a marsupial clerk at the time. He wanted to be just like me, and every inch of my body rebelled at that thought. No, I told him, he must be a soldier. A man of muscle and brawn and power.

I'd handed him a short-sword, sent him off to an officer's school in Capua and had him knee-deep in the mud for much of his youth. So many years I'd regretted that. I knew I had low self-esteem and didn't think much of my profession. To become a biographer was to become an observer; to read and write the deeds of greater men. I feared that I'd internalized that weakness and expelled it onto my son and pushed him into a dangerous path for my own peace of mind.

But I was right to do that, wasn't I? It felt good to kill.

I'm not sure how long I watched Suetonius' oddly still body, devoid of breath and meaning, as dead as the stone beneath him. I'd seen carnage in the arena, but to be an agent of Hades myself? My hands did this. My will and power did this. I'd snatched the man's soul and cast it into Tartarus for his sins.

For Lepidus. Yes, for my son. I did this for my son. So if vengeance was within my power, why did I still serve Nero? My cold chest now slowly filled with the possibilities.

"Hearken unto me, Nero," I whispered to the shivering palm leaves above. "For my heart bleeds black."

***

The garden was filled with laughter and I strode up to Atia's seat without a care in the world. Images of Lepidus being stoned to death played in my mind and I let them. Every thought of him sent a jolt of anger and despair in my body that left me with nothing to lose. And a man with nothing to lose carried no fear.

But what were they laughing at? It was an odd thing to see them all with amused smiles. Except for Baba Haza, who stared grimly at Jirikoy in the center. Jirikoy! I thought guiltily, having completely forgotten the Nokchi man and Hurek's friend. He stumbled in the middle of the yard, pulling soap out of his box and holding it up for everyone to see. "Lilac and jasmine," he announced proudly, holding an oddly shaped purple egg in his oversized fists.

Atia and the patricians giggled and Shams was openly laughing. Jirikoy's smile faltered but he kept going, adding the purple egg to his display and reaching in for more.

"Honestly, Flamma, you've out done yourself with this," Atia said cheerfully, as she patted Flamma on the head and I realized the champion was sitting on my footstool. What's more, he held Atia's leg on his knees and was gently massaging her feet.

"That wasn't my intention, but... I am glad it makes you happy, my dear lady," he said.

"Oh you wanted us to become business partners with a fist fighting prole?" she asked.

Flamma laughed nervously and avoided my eyes, "No, no... of course not. That's silly." He put his head down and ran his hands up Atia's leg and she moaned slightly, laying her head back.

"Cicero!" she cried, "good man, what did Suetonius say?"

The other lords leaned in to hear my announcement but I bowed to Atia only, "Suetonius has Hurek versus Shams, and Haza will be fighting Ibn Ghassan," I lied. My voice was steady and I realized my fear of Atia was like a pebble in the ocean that was my chest right now. Before she could reply, I raised my arms to the other patricians as well, "Hurek versus Shams, and Haza versus Ibn Ghassan."

"Baba Haza," the Persian corrected.

"Whatever," I said, noticing Shams was still giggling at Jirikoy's soap display and Ibn Ghassan was already measuring Baba Haza up and down.

"I contest it," Baba Haza replied. "I do not accept. Tiridates does not accept."

Atia sighed, "A hundred denarii that you do?"

I was shocked at how quickly and openly the parleying had kicked off, and I saw Haza was seriously mulling it over. How important was it for the Persian to climb the ranks? He glanced over at Ibn Ghassan, gave him a once-over, perhaps deciding it was an easier match than facing Hurek again, and turned back to Atia grim-faced. "Five hundred denarii... and that tiara."

Atia smiled, "Zero denarii, and only the tiara," she took Layla's tiara off of her head and rolled it around in her finger in front of the Persian, who'd immediately realized his mistake. But there was no taking it back now.

"Fine," he replied. He made to get up but Atia held up her hand and instead gave the head-dress to me. "You will get it from Cicero after the bout."

Baba Haza was livid, he worked his mouth for a reply but none came. What could he really say? Without another word, he snatched up his sword and marched out of the yard. As he strode past Jirikoy, the former-gladiator looked desperately between the remaining patricians.

"Please, my lords and ladies," Jirikoy began in his accented Latin, "I must show you-"

"Oh, shut it you oaf," Shams snapped.

"But Master Flamma said that you would consider?"

"But, but, but!" Shams mocked the Nokchi man, showing his juvenile humor. He glanced at us for approval, but Flamma was clearly too embarrassed about the turn of events and Atia was bored, now that Haza had left.

"I didn't take you for a spineless weasel," I whispered to Flamma as he stayed with his head down, rubbing Atia's calves dexterously. I thought he would strike back at me, but he only gave me a warning glare. Spineless, indeed.

"Come now, Shams," Atia drawled, "you insult one of Julius' veteran fighters."

"You take this fat ass to be my equal?" he snapped, and I wondered what Atia was trying to start now.

"He has many victories under his belt," Atia replied as Jirikoy stood with his arms full of soap that he was beginning to put back into his box. He looked between Shams and Atia, realizing he might be caught between a cross-fire. "You, however, are an upstart dog who became ranked by beating an aging Coptic."

Shams' face turned red and he snapped orders to his attendant. He was calling for his weapons.

"What are you doing," I said to Atia and she hushed me immediately. "Giving you a chance to study the competition, Cicero."

"I can do that well enough at the barracks," I hissed but Atia had already snapped for her servant, a sickly-looking boy who stared hungrily at the breakfast table. "Go get Jirikoy's gear from the cellar."

"But my lady, I really must return to my wife," Jirikoy pleaded.

"What did you use to fight with, Jiri?" Atia asked, "Quick, now. I'll give you the hundred denarii if you can beat this runt."

That made Jirikoy drop his soap and stare open-mouthed at the Priestess. "I..." he gulped, "I fought with a club, my lady."

Perhaps I could have done something to stop this. Said something. I could run to Hurek, even, and get his aid to stop this madness. But I must admit, the thought of seeing Shams beat to a pulp awoke a bloodthirst in me I barely recognized.

Flamma cleared his throat, "I assume that Shams will also win that coin if he wins?"

Atia waved him off, "Yes, yes of course. Get the boy geared and ready. About time we have some action in this dreary day. Maybe the noise will finally wake Suetonius from his eternal slumber."

I snorted, "I doubt that."

***