Unlike the grand courtyards designed by the Gaius, Lorenzo's residence in Volos boasted austerity. No carvings on the planks or frescos on the walls, and the flagstones were bare without varnish. Had it not been for its sheer size reminding visitors of its distinction, it might well be mistaken for a plebian abode. And it was such simplicity Lorenzo had labored to affect that helped quell public discontent whenever the Legidus raised taxes.
But a Turisian envoy was not to be quelled. Before he arrived in Volos, Lorenzo had ordered the men to build a patio. Flanked by east and west wings and ringed with dogwood, it received a panoramic view of the sky while being kept away from inquisitive eyes. By the third hour at night, anyone who sat in the rattan chairs would find themselves right under the Ursa Major facing the North Star, the national emblem of Turis. If they lowered their gaze, they would be looking at a brazier held by the Legidus' sigil of leaping panthers on three legs forged of bronze.
Lorenzo prided himself on the design but never permitted a word of his pride. It took a tongue to tell many words and a brain to keep it quiet. Lorenzo opted for the latter. Sitting in the rattan chair with Ulpius Attianus on his right and Moon Xeator behind him, he smiled halfheartedly at the Turisian envoy named Omari Ahmed, who smiled upon the stars.
"Words on the street that Lord Lorenzo of the House Legidous is a miser with no taste. What nonsense!" Ahmed rasped with laughter and raised a brass stein. "To your taste, your health, and our pending fellowship!"
Sharing no such gaiety, Lorenzo raised his stein nonetheless. He surveyed his guest: a stout man with a furrowed brow and a delicate mustache upon a thick beard that concealed the outline of his jaws. His eyes were small and obsidian, rolling in the depth of their sockets like black beads.
The Turisian put aside the stein and dabbed his lips with the back of his hand. "King Mormón has long intended to make your acquaintance. Had it not been for the hunting season back home, he would have made a personal visit rather than sending me in his stead. Apologies on behalf of his grace." Clamping a palm to his chest, he bowed his head.
Ulpius Attianus scoffed. "Word on the street should have told you that Lord Lorenzo is a man of pragmatism. So long as we can have a deal for bilateral benefits, King Mormón can send a lizard in his stead."
Omari Ahmed cackled, throwing back his head.
Lorenzo glowered at Ulpius, a gesture for him to quiet. Then, he turned to the Turisian. "King Mormón is a busy man. I'm honored to make his acquaintance and be at his assistance. However, like you with your hunt, we have our own game season afoot. Requests for a loan are surging from all sides, and I regret to say the Legidus cannot fulfill all the demands."
"Pardon me, my lord, but I'm afraid you've misunderstood his grace," the Turisian smirked. "We are here to make no such a request but to offer a favor."
"Is that so?" Ulpius squawked. "Is this what a request is called now, a favor?"
"If your tongue is as quick as your mind, old man," Ahmed gibed. "You should allow me to finish." Then, flicking his eyes at Xeator behind flapping drapes of paisley, he asked, "Is this the unlikely candidate for the Underdog we've been hearing about?"
Lorenzo nodded, waggling a wrist as he signaled Xeator to come forward.
Accoutered in a suit of enameled scales Lorenzo had picked out, Moon Xeator clattered into the light.
"Have you, my lord, decided what to do with him?" asked the Turisian, a timbre of amusement ringing in his voice.
Lorenzo narrowed his gaze, suspecting the question to be only rhetorical.
The Turisian confirmed his suspicion. "If everyone walks away, the nomination will be forfeited, and ideally, both the Scipios and the Gaius could avoid bankruptcy. However," stroking his mustache, he teased with a chuckle. "This man is a pugilist of the Scipios' League, after all. That you, or any lord, would rather bet on an outlier than a bona fide pugilist called into question your faith in the League, hence the unity of the Triumvirate and his Praetorship. Who, then, I ask, will still bet on the Favorite even if everything goes back to normal? And if no one does, how will you profit?"
"And what if I don't walk away?" Lorenzo asked, all the while knowing the answer.
"You pledge to Praetor Uranus your staunch loyalty and secure his trust, of course." Ahmed raised the stein and quaffed.
"Is that so?" Lorenzo mocked, a dry snort hissing through his nose. "What does your king propose?"
"Trust is good, but it shouldn't be the endgame," the Turisian crowed. "What's good in trust if it doesn't yield substantial benefits? His Grace believes that you should bet only if you can win." He darted another glance at Xeator. "The lad isn't bad. I've seen him. But that alone does not guarantee."
Straining his cheeks to a smile, Lorenzo narrowed his gaze.
"If you want so overwhelming a win to bankrupt your rivals," Ahmed went forth. "You need the Underdog to lose enough battles to appear as a risky bet while keeping his score just enough to qualify for the final. Meanwhile, the Favorite, whoever that might be, must keep a crushing record, slaying opponents in every battle to have enough scores. But this, my lord, seems an exogenous development even for you to affect. And lastly, despite the Favorite being as formidable as the Underdog questionable, the Underdog must beat the Favorite in the final, of course. You sure your boy here can pull it all off alone?" As if waiting for his word to register, he took another draft of the wine.
Lorenzo curled his lips, his hands wringing under his chin. "King Mormón sure has paid close heed to our business. I'd be a fool not to take his counsel."
Stroking his mustache, the Turisian cackled. "General Julius Pompeius Gaius has quite the mind and heart of a first-class general. He hasn't just spent these years building roads and dams and bridges but also his connections. The Gaius have been on good terms with mercenaries everywhere. Rest assured they will cast them as outliers for the Battles and pick the Favorite from those. If you're to win, you need to be sure that whoever the Gaius pick, the man is actually yours. And that, my lord, is what the gold is for."
"That's no less than a handsome amount you ask."
"But for the cause, a fair amount."
Lorenzo had his gaze fastened on his guest. "And what good is there for you?"
The big man from the north quirked his mouth, in his obsidian eyes a mirthless smile. "General Julius' ambition has posed quite a threat to us, too. We need an army of mercenaries under our command beyond our southern border. And this army shall, in turn, ensure your winning the bet. In exchange for making you rich enough to crush a country, we only ask for no charge of interest. As has your prophet said, it's all bilateral." He rose to his feet and nodded at the servant he brought with him. The servant scuttled forward and kneeled before Lorenzo, holding above his head two goblets stubbed with gemstones on an oval salver chased with gold.
"Let's drink to our shared future, shall we?"
"What's in the drink?"
"Falcon blood, my lord," Ahmed smiled, raising a goblet to the north star as paying his obeisance to his king. "Falcons are our guardians. Once we share falcon blood with a man, the man becomes our blood brother."
Lorenzo refrained from a shudder. His stomach churned as he looked into the goblet. An eye, appearing to be of the falcon, floated half-submerged in the glistening blood. "And the eye?" He gulped.
Ahmed hooted with cachinnation; his barrel chest rose and fell. "We swallow it with the blood, so the guardian watches out for the both of us, ensuring our loyalty to one another."
Lorenzo stiffened, clutching the armrests. The order tangled on the root of his tongue to have the brazen foreigner executed here and now. Before he could channel the words he knew he would regret, Xeator strode up front and snatched the goblet from the Turisian. Wrenching back his head, he poured it down in one draft, his diamond-cut face as sullen and graceful as though a bust of the dead.
"You have only the rank to drink with me, blood brother," he croaked, stooping to the Turisian's eye level. "Tell King Mormón, my master shall drink with him when the time comes, and he shall receive the gold when my master says so." He upended the goblet. A few drops of red dangled, drooping from the rim like slime. Swinging his wrist as he tossed the empty goblet at the salver, he clawed up the other and thrust it at the Turisian. "Your turn," he intoned, smiling with only his blood-sodden lips.
"And you suppose we're of the same rank?" Ahmed impugned, his voice mocking.
"Have I supposed wrong?" Xeator tilted his head at Lorenzo, who leaned on an elbow against his lap. It took the blond man only a few breaths to succeed in promoting himself. Lorenzo sniggered. Turning to the Turisian, "You're drinking with my advisor and the Underdog who will leave his name in the history of Pyrrhic Battles," he pronounced.
Omari Ahmed looked between Lorenzo and the blond man; his small eyes narrowed. He snatched the goblet. Blood dribbled from the thicket of his beard. "I look forward to seeing more of you, Underdog." He sketched a quick bow to Lorenzo and whirled for the exit, his servant tailing behind.