The main thoroughfare from the gate led us into the heart of the city, past shops and taverns and bathhouses. The air was thick with the scents of spiced meats, fresh bread, perfumed nobles, unwashed commoners, and the ever-present undertone of sewage that defined all cities. People shouted offers of goods and services, children darted between legs playing elaborate games, and slaves hurried on errands for unseen masters.
Slaves. They were everywhere once I began to notice – carrying burdens, attending nobles, sweeping streets. Their ironcollars gleamed in the sunlight, a constant reminder of what we’d escaped. What we risked returning to.
“We need somewhere to stay,” Livia said quietly as we paused in a small square dominated by a fountain. “And a plan. I... I hadn’t thought past getting here.”
The admission surprised me. Livia, always so certain, now looked as lost as I felt. I realized that the enormity of what she’d undertaken was finally sinking in. This wasn’t the simple revenge fantasy she’d described during our flight – find the Emperor and kill him. He would be in the palace of course, guarded day and night with no way of getting to him. Perhaps she would start to see now that her plan was impossible.
“First, we need somewhere to sleep,” I said. “And for that we need coin.”
“How do you propose we get that? We have maybe 5 bronze between us.” asked Tarshi.
I grinned at the creature. “Because there’s a lot of people here, and where there’s people, there’s entertainment. Fancy a fight?”
The basement tavern reeked of sweat, blood, and cheap wine. Torch smoke hung thick in the air, stinging my eyes as I stood at the edge of the makeshift fighting ring — nothing more than a circle of packed dirt surrounded by wooden benches and the stamping feet of spectators.
“This is a mistake,” Tarshi muttered, as we waited for the current match to end. Two burly men grappled in the centre, faces streaked with blood, the crowd roaring with each blow.
“We need the money,” I replied, wrapping my hands with strips of linen. “And this, this we can do. Look at them. It’ll be easy.”“Not too easy,” Livia said, her voice low. “We want them to bet against you, not for you. Tarshi, you’re up.”
The match had ended with one fighter unconscious, blood pooling beneath his nose. The winner raised his arms, accepting the cheers and a small pouch of coins from the tavern keeper who organized the fights.
“Half-breed!” the man shouted, pointing at Tarshi. “You’re next. Name?”
“Wolf,” Tarshi replied, the pseudonym we’d agreed upon.
Tarshi climbed into the ring as his opponent was announced — “The Butcher,” a slab-muscled man with a shaved head and hands like hammers. The crowd jeered at Tarshi, hurling the typical insults about his mixed heritage. It felt different to the provinces, here he wasn’t feared, only reviled.
“Five silvers on the half-breed,” someone nearby said with a laugh. “Easy money when the Butcher crushes him.”
I kept my expression neutral even as satisfaction curled through me. Good. Let them underestimate him. Our meagre betting money would multiply nicely when he won.
The fight began without ceremony, just a shout from the tavern keeper. The Butcher charged immediately, clearly hoping to end things quickly with his superior size. Tarshi sidestepped with the fluid grace I’d seen countless times in the arena, letting his opponent’s momentum carry him past.
I had to admit, however grudgingly, that Tarshi was impressive to watch. Where the Butcher fought with brute force and rage, Tarshi moved like water — flowing around attacks, striking with precision rather than power. He fought smart, conserving energy, using his opponent’s size against him.
The crowd’s mood shifted gradually as the match progressed. Initial jeers faded into interested murmurs, then scattered cheers as Tarshi landed a particularly well-timed blow to the Butcher’s kidney.
Three minutes in, it was clear who would win. The Butcher’s breaths came in gasps, his movements slowing. Tarshi, barely winded, circled patiently, waiting for the opening he needed.
It came when the Butcher attempted a desperate lunge. Tarshi stepped inside the man’s reach, delivered a sharp uppercut to his jaw, then swept his legs in a move I recognized from our arena training. The Butcher hit the ground hard, tried to rise, then fell back as consciousness left him.
The tavern erupted in a mixture of cheers and curses. Money changed hands rapidly as bets were settled. Tarshi accepted his winnings with a modest nod, then made his way back to me, a thin trickle of blood running from a split eyebrow but otherwise unharmed.
“Your turn,” he said quietly, pressing a damp cloth to his brow.
My opponent was already in the ring — younger than the Butcher, leaner, with the quick, restless movements of someone used to street fights. The tavern keeper beckoned impatiently.
“Name?” he asked as I stepped into the circle.
“Snake,” I replied.
Fighting without weapons felt strange after so long training with sword and shield. My body remembered other movements, though — from childhood scraps, from training sessions when our weapons were confiscated as punishment. I flexed my hands, centring myself as I had before a hundred arena matches.
Unlike Tarshi’s fight, mine was neither elegant nor prolonged. My opponent was quick but untrained, relying on instinct rather than technique. I took two glancing blows to the ribs before finding my rhythm, then ended things with a brutal combination I’d learned from a Nardic gladiator — a feint to draw the guard high, followed by a devastating strike to the solar plexus.
The young man folded, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. I stepped back, allowing him to recover rather than pressing the advantage. This wasn’t the arena. No one needed to die tonight.
The tavern keeper declared me the winner, pressing a small leather pouch into my palm. The weight of it was reassuring — enough coin for several days if we were careful.
