Through the steep gorge, the noisy River of Uruk rumbled downstream and split.
The Aztak traversed vertically, rushing to its estuary on the southeast tip of Renania; whereas the Lesotho coursed calmly across Exonia from west to east, then through the fertile steppe of Turis before meeting the North Sea.
About five hundred feet above the roaring water on the crest of the dam, Julius Pompeius Gaius fiddled with a scroll holder with thin leather straps used to bond to the dragon hawk's talon. Only the size of his thumb, the cylinder chiseled out of cypress felt weightless. On its exterior were whittled the exquisite glyphs of House Gaius and their sigil of a hurdling manticore. Julius flipped open the top lid and tapped out a minuscule scroll from his father, which he had read countless times. His hand coiled into a fist.
Leaning over the crenelated edge, he looked into the distance at the lofty mountain range. Capped in perpetual snow that flouted seasons, their peaks jagged in and out of spiraling wicks of clouds. High up in altitude where air ran thin and froze, all lives gripped to persist, and the harsh wilderness of the north humbled the boy he once was. Unlike his father, who claimed to himself all the credit, Julius credited the men who followed him.
From cement to concrete, and from right angles to arches, he knew he wouldn't have led the way to discoveries of unparalleled ways to hold unimaginable weights without the men doing his bidding. He promoted them to ranks that befitted their undertakings despite their birth. As history would remember the names, the names, in return, remembered the man who had them consecrated. With steadfast loyalty and the staunch walls up in the clouds, many saw his position in the north as unassailable as the magnificent crags rising from both sides. Yet he dare not slight, for all fortifications could be slighted. Unassailability was make-believe carefully concocted by enemies. The frenzy across the capital, of the people enamored of him, as told in his father's message, reeked of such make-believe. He could smell it through the thin air from hundreds of miles away.
Conveniently, someone among the first-class citizens of the top echelon nominated the Underdog from the Scipios' pugilists. Designed for the Triumvirate and all the leading families branched out from them to profit, the Pyrrhic Battles also asserted the Praetor's dominance, for there was no winning betting against the Scipios' pugilists. The Favorite, the Gods' select, would always win. The Triumviri named the Favorite in turn to yield the most return every year, and it was his father's turn this year. But if the Underdog was indeed picked from the pugilist – Julius gritted his teeth – Father would have to choose a Favorite from the outliers. They had been cornered to pit against the Scipios' League which symbolized the unison of the Triumvirate. And if they withdrew, there would be no game this year, nor the gold it was meant to make. Worse still, the Triumvirate would appear to be falling apart. Either way, they would have imposed themselves as a threat to Marcus Uranus and his Praetorship.
Someone has thrown down the gauntlet, but for what ends? He brooded on the possible feuds his house might have over the years. Too many friends came to his mind, all willing to turn foes. An exasperated sigh whistled in his nose.
Amidst the rumbling water, he heard a swish of steps on creaky woods and looked to the staircase on the south of the crest. His adjutant strode up to him.
"General," said the young man Julius' own age. Standing astride, he reared his head, his back straightened, right hand resting on the pommel of a saber girded on a worn leather belt. "Lord Domitian Gordianus Uranus has arrived."
Julius pursed his lips. Knocking his knuckles on the concrete crenel, he narrowed his gaze at the roaring Uruk River. It charged to the mountains afar and kinked out of sight. The river never knew what lay ahead behind each turn, he thought. But it rushed forward nonetheless, and as should he. Not knowing what awaited him shouldn't stop him from steering.
He uncoiled his hand, the papyrus scroll flattened in his palm.
His lord father wanted him to invite the Praetor's bastard over to celebrate the end of his exile and finish him off with an accident. He had done the first half. Now, he wasn't sure if or how he should proceed with the second.
"How many men has he brought?" Julius asked, his eyes still on the roaring river.
"A cavalry of about fifty riders and two infantry cohorts minding the cargos." his adjutant reported. "All in blue and white livery."
Exonians.
Julius snorted.
When he invited Domitian, he implied the perils that awaited him in Pethens. Knowing that his brother-in-law had billeted with the Exonians, Julius advised him to gain at least some military support from his host before making his grand return. On top of that, Julius also hinted that his wife wished to mend the feud, that as family, they should hold up together against Laelia Euphrates, their real nemesis.
He lied, of course.
When Father's letter first arrived, and he told his wife about it, she remained quiet for a moment the length of a sigh.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" she asked. "And the first thing you said to me?" Her feline, hazel eyes flickered in the shadow of the brazier by their bed.
Absorbed in those eyes altering between a hue of green and amber, he tried to smile.
The first time they met was at Lady Anatolia's execution, not exactly how Julius would picture it. Up on the rickety gallows, Lady Anatolia seemed tranquil at her fate. Until she saw in the mob her daughter, as petite as she was, trying to push her way to the gallows through the folds of burly men and busty women. "Go back to your father, Ariadne!" the lady screamed. "Somebody take her away!" When no one did what she asked, and the onlookers turned their foul smiles to the girl yet fourteen, Anatolia wailed and crumbled at the last straw. "You've promised me you'll take care of our girl! Blight you, Marcus, you swine of a man! Blight you! And all the Gods who see you to power! Blight you all!"
To stop her spewing more offense against the Praetor Magnum, the commanding guard nodded at his subordinates.
Having glimpsed the gesture of finality, Julius spun on his heel. He cleaved through the field, shoving away the men with his sword in sheath, his elbow his shield. In the same breath the planks sundered beneath Lady Anatolia's feet, he grabbed hold of Ariadne, cradling her head in his arm, and said, "Close your eyes!"
Eleven years had passed since then. Julius still remembered the smell of camellia in her auburn hair that day, and the taste of those eyes, a mixture of hate and spunk. Not much had changed. The floral smell of her hair, or the taste of her eyes. Lowering his head, he held her, her head next to his chest like the first time they met.
"Only if you still want him dead," he whispered.
She nodded, then shook her head, raising her chin while her eyes looked for his. "I do. But that's the problem," she spoke those words so softly, her voice like silk on the skin. "Laelia knows this. She knows you wouldn't turn down the request."
That, too, he knew, as did Father. But Laelia had a point neither he nor Father could look past: the Gaius had already become a subject of suspicion. Killing Domitian at this point would be as good as screaming to the world that they indeed meant for a coup d'état, and nobody could be that stupid. By doing exactly that which was too obvious, they'd appear framed. The question of who framed them should suffice to vindicate them, turning the Praetor's suspicion in their favor.
Likewise, Laelia wouldn't want Domitian back for obvious reasons. Their too-obvious a position against Marcus' bastard had forged an alliance despite themselves. But just like how they found themselves in the same boat overnight at the whim of the Praetor, so, too, could their shared interest disappear out of the blue. Their alliance, if built, would be as staunch in appearance as tenuous in nature.
"You know I always keep my promise, eh?" Boring into his wife's hazel eyes, he held her oval face in his hand, gently, carefully, lest his calloused palm would leave even the slightest scratch on her supple skin. He promised her vengeance. Be it Marcus, or Domitian, one day, he would bring her their heads. And he meant to keep his promise, except now wasn't the right time.
But when should the time be right anyway? He squeezed his hand, wadding the papyrus, nails digging at his callous palms. While it wasn't out of his design, he had gained the support of the people many had courted but failed. All the years he had spent, grappling with the harsh conditions in solitude, away from the luxuries of the capital to which he was entitled; he built bridges, roads, and waterways that pumped life to every nook and cranny of the country with unprecedented efficiency. Didn't he deserve to be loved by the people he had served? And even if it was bait for him to take, why couldn't he outsmart the enemy? Why shouldn't he take the chance and ride the tide when it rose in his favor? Why wouldn't he make an exception?
He heaved, white breath escaping his mouth like a shaft of a feather. Whirling to the stairs and followed by his adjutant, they trekked along the precarious pathways that traced narrow strands across the limestone of the mountains. About half a mile up through the ragged valley, the craggy peaks suddenly gave way to the open sky. On a rolling steppe, the northern legion billeted in yak yurts crisscrossing like warps and wefts.
A little to the south, over a rectangular battle ring on the south tip of his campsite, lined two columns of riders liveried in blue and white. At the front of each column mounted two men in charge. They wore helms crested with panache, their ebony destriers caparisoned in golden bridles. Their armors were decked out in iridescent labradorite, bountiful in their lands. About the same age in their thirties, the one on the left looked half a head taller on horseback. He had olive-colored skin and deep blue eyes, his whiskers a pair of auburn swirls. The short one on the right was also thinner and freckled under sunburn, with eyes the color of slate hooded by thick strokes of dark brows.
Julius regarded them with a brief nod, then directed his eyes to the wagon between them. A servant trotted to it and dropped on all fours, using his back as a stepping stool.
"M'lord," he called upon his master.
A pudgy hand poked out from the horsehide, and out came Domitian Gordianus Uranus.
Stocky and pale, he looked as though kneaded out of a sloppy dough with wobbling jowls, a protruded stomach, and a general puffiness much unfitting to his age. His downturned eyes flanked a bulbous nose dented in the ridge on a rather long face, reminding Julius of bad carvings on a shoehorn.
Both being Uranus, Julius thought, his in-law was every bit as ugly as his wife was beautiful. The Gods are indeed a cruel lot.
"Brother," he said, mouth stretching just wide enough to pass for a smile. "Welcome."