Bookworm Gladiator

Ollia liked everything in it's proper place. The utensils, the tools, the little things in life they were slowly collecting as freed people for once. The linen would always be folded and in the same color piles. Their only place was the bed and she would always get mad at Jiri whenever he'd leave his clothes lying somewhere else. They were saving up for a closet.

Even now, as Ollia sat at Jiri's grave, she arranged the scattered wildflower petals into a neat pile in front of the gravestone. She tried not to look at the stone - with the engraved names and messages from all the Merkov brothers and Hurek. It was one of the triggers that brought on incontrollable sobbing and crying, and the baby would start kicking, and then she would be a complete mess... No, it was better for her mind to think Jiri was still back home, sitting by the cooking pit, melting his strange soap goo that made Ollia sneeze and-

Suddenly, the loss hit Ollia hard, and she curled up, hopeless against the mounting grief as her heart seemed to drown in its own blood. She pressed her face into the hot dirt, letting her tears wet the dry grass. She hoped no one was around to hear her wails. Even the sun's warm embrace over her shoulders made her cover her face in shame. Oh, what a mess she had become!

What would Jiri think if he saw her like this? She'd always kept her hair braided and tied together with a scarf in Nokchi fashion - just as her mother did in her memories. But now it was loose, knotted and torn, catching dirt as she lay motionless on her husband's grave.

Sleep had been her only refuge, but she dared not sleep now. How could she, while her brothers fought for their lives this very moment? The arena had been set up in the maydan - the cavalry fields. She couldn't see much from the northern burial ground, except for the tents and the raised platforms. The crowd was like ants milling around their hill, and the occasional cheer drifted towards her in the wind.

The gust that blew around her scattered the wildflowers once more, fluttering around her for a moment before rising up and up further, flashing their colors in the afternoon sun before drifting to their own final destination. Ollia wondered if she could find them - bring them together once again, just as they had been before...

Is that what it was like having a family? We'd have moments together that seemed to extend into infinity, making us feel as if nothing would change and we'd would be together forever. And when death blew its kiss, it scattered us like petals in the wind.

Ollia noticed one of the petals had landed in her outstretched hand; a delicate soft purple, smooth against her skin. Slowly, she closed her fingers around it and brought it close. She held it against her bosom protectively. "I still have you," she whispered.

***

Ollia awoke to footsteps crunching dead leaves. She wiped her dirt-smeared face, sniffed away the last bits of despair still clinging to her heart and took a deep breath of the hot, humid afternoon. She hadn't been asleep for too long, she hoped, taking a peek at the approaching stranger.

A tall Persian-looking warrior with a red-cloak picked his way through the burial ground. His head was lowered, eyes hidden behind fluffy black curls.

Ollia watched him arrive at a large tombstone, much larger than Jiri's. Most stones belonged to civilised society in this burial ground. Ollia had spent most of their savings buying her way into this gravesight, rather than cremate Jiri like most Roman commoners. She could never stand the thought of someone fading into the ashen winds. Lucius had agreed with her but Septimus warned her to think of the baby's future. But the past was all that existed for her these days.

The Persian knelt before his loved one's grave. It belonged to a Priestess, as shown by the symbol of Baal engraved across the stone-top and the nymph circlets of green vines. He pressed his forehead against the stone, much like she had done so many times, and although it was too far for her to notice, she imagined his shoulders shake as well as he cried.

Ollia realised she was walking towards him, like a moth drawn to lamplight in the night. What am I doing... she thought. But she couldn't stop, not until she stood over him, and realized he wasn't really crying. His eyes were swollen, brimmed with tears, but his face was stone. Why was it so hard for men to cry?

"I'm sorry," Ollia whispered. "I shouldn't be here... but I don't want to be... just..."

The warrior stood, about to take his leave but Ollia reached out to grab his elbow. "Don't go... please don't leave," Ollia muttered, ending in a half-cry that made her feel like a child and her cheeks burned red. But she didn't care anymore. Here was someone else that mirrored what she felt. All of Palmyra was cold as stone to her, but there was this person here, perhaps sharing an ounce of what she was going through.

The man obliged, sitting back down with her in front of the grave. Why didn't he speak? Was he mute?

She read the name on the stone, "Layla, Priestess of Baal, servant of Bel-Shaamin, slave of Balash." Much lower, almost as if someone else had engraved it later, read the words, "wife of Arshak."

"Are you Arshak?" Ollia asked him.

The man didn't reply for quite a while. He was younger than her, the same age as Hurek she figured. He looked down on the ground before him, and Ollia wondered if she was still dreaming. But he smelled of pine and sweat, and when he finally spoke, it wasn't something she could have dreamt, "I have no birth name," he said, "But that is what she called me."

"Your wife, Layla?"

Arshak nodded.

"My husband gave me my name too, Ollia," she replied. "When we were friends as children. My birth name is Aliyanat,"

Ollia watched Arshak's eyes flicker to and fro, as if thinking of something to say but nothing came. He avoided her gaze, so without thinking - as she'd done many times with Jiri - she cupped his chin and lifted his face to hers. "I'm sorry I'm here, and I'm sorry you have to say something. You don't, Arshak, you don't have to say anything. You-"

Arshak closed his eyes and tears spilled into Ollia's palm. Instinctively, she let him rest his head on her shoulder as he cried. And she found herself crying with him. Could she dare think he was another petal come to rest in her life? She had no idea who he was, a stranger, alone among the dead with her. And yet she could not let herself pull away.

Not until he finally pulled away, back to his stone-faced expression, eyes blood-shot with tears and a flash of anger. Ollia hoped it wasn't for her, but she found him looking over her shoulder to the maydan far away.

"I must go," he said, quickly wiping his face and taking a few ragged breaths to compose himself. Ollia wanted to ask him to stay with her longer, but this had already gone far for two strangers meeting.

"You are Jiri's wife," Arshak said suddenly and Ollia breath caught in her throat. A ball of panic, or dread, spread across her, mind-racing. Did she know him? Was he one of Atia's men? Of Flamma, or even...

"Please, take this," Arshak continued, pulling out a beautiful tiara with a sapphire bead at the forehead. Ollia was speechless... she didn't know what to say. Did it belong to his late wife?

"Don't say anything," Arshak said, "just take it. Sell it if you must."

"I won't ever do such a thing," Ollia said breathlessly and Arshak frowned. "Unless I need to," she added quickly.

The Persian warrior hesitated, and his next words were cryptic, "Go home and lock your door. The town won't be safe tonight." And then sparing a curt bow, he quickly picked his way through the grounds. He was many steps away before Ollia found the courage to yell after him. "Arshak!" she cried.

He paused.

"Promise me we'll meet again."

Arshak studied her quietly, his cloak billowing around him as the wind rustled the dead leaves and grass between them. Ollia - perhaps imagining it again - thought she saw a small nod before he turned. Her dread returned as she watched him hike his way back towards the cavalry grounds. The arena shimmered in the blistering heat like a mirage that threatened to swallow her entire world. One flower at a time.

***