The banquet took place on a colossal raft built by the Gaius on Nemi Lacus, a man-made lake atop a hill inside the Imperial Palazzo.
Towed by four smaller vessels fore and aft on either side and flanked by ten banks of oars, the raft was a floating mansion of over four-hundred feet in length. Up on the vast cardinal hull ablaze with gold fittings and jewels, marble stairs leaned majestically to the second deck housing a pentagon climbed with vines. At its bow, Marcus Cornelius Uranus, sculpted in a hundred-foot-tall alabaster, gleamed in the flickering light of water under the gibbous moon.
In the brooding shadow of the raft, Xeator squinted, gazing up at the statue of Marcus Uranus, the crimps of his hair whittled around his head, and the dead eyes looking over the living. He closed his eyes. Like a peat bog, the past tugged at his feet before sloughing off into an abyss. His father's voice rose from the unfathomable pit.
"What is it with you and putting me into stones?" he asked. "So that everyone in the city can watch birds shit on me while I bake under the sun?"
"A sculpture would outlive us all, my lord," a different voice answered.
"I hate to disagree with you, Augustus, but a sculpture never has a life to begin with. So how can something that has never lived outlive us? And so what if you make a stone of me and put it up on the walls? Anyone can chop off the head the next day, chuck it to the moat, and replace it with the bust of another man. If anything lives on, it's the memory of us. The people would remember us for what we have done, things that avail, and how such things have made them feel."
Xeator snapped open his eyes. Images of the men shattered into the wind. And between what was now and that which was, he found nothing. Only nameless sounds of men, women, old and young, in shrill giggles and loud cries, droned and drummed between his ears. He clutched his sword and gasped, reeling away from the raft. Whether he closed or opened his eyes, his vision prickled like hitting nails in his head.
"Who goes there?" A voice called out at him. "Halt!"
Gnawing his bottom lip, he raised both hands. "I came with Lord Lorenzo Legidus," he said. "I can show you my pass and amulet if I may put down my hands."
"Moon Xeator?" A slender youth emerged from the shadow of the raft.
"Lord Uranus."
The young lord whisked a wrist. "Call me Dracus, I insist." Primped and trimmed, his ringlets neatly framed his oval face; his beige tunic, tailored and satiny, was sewn with gold tassel epaulets. Unlike the day when Xeator first met him, bedraggled in tatters, the young lord dressed in a patrician fashion. But oddly enough, it was when in mud and gore he carried himself with an air of aplomb that truly befitted a lord.
"What're you doing here anyway?" he asked. "Aren't you supposed to accompany Lord Lorenzo to the banquet?"
"Lord Lorenzo is my patron, and I'm obliged to go wherever he needs me," Xeator replied. "But I'm not his bodyguard."
"So what are you?"
"I'm a Pyrrhic fighter."
"And you said Lorenzo is your patron?" Dracus raised a brow. "So, you're the Underdog. And technically, you're still a pugilist of the League, a Scipios' man, and it wouldn't be appropriate for you to accompany Lorenzo when the Scipios are also present." The young lord regarded Xeator for a moment before his gaze went adrift.
"You seem disappointed."
"Do I?" Dracus chuckled, turning on his heel. "Why would I care? And even if I did, what could I do anyway?" Folding his hands behind him, he gazed up at the moon. "Everyone calls me a lord. But I'm just a pawn, like everyone else, trading for a space to breathe behind these walls." Smacking his lips, he glanced over his shoulder. "So, Underdog, I don't recall seeing you in the finals before. Is this your first year?"
He nodded.
"Then how did you get picked?"
"It's a mystery to me, too, your grace."
Bobbing his head, Dracus sauntered back to him. "I assume this is your first time in Pethens. What do you think of the Garden Capital?"
"Majestic."
"You're not much of a talker, are you?"
"Words spawn havoc."
"Terse," the young lord snorted, pouting his mouth. "But I like it."
"Pardon me for asking, my lord," Xeator changed the subject. "But aren't you expected at the banquet?"
"I was," Dracus hissed with a sigh, raising his eyes at the raft. "Then, I was excused, dispatched to the children's table, if you will, with real viands, while the big men continued, um, spawning havoc," he japed.
Xeator only pursed his lips.
"By the way," the young lord continued. "I've never thanked you properly for saving me and my friend that day."
"I only did what I should." Xeator mimed a smile. "If I may, your grace, who was that friend of yours? And how did you get into trouble with him?"
"A nobody," Dracus shrugged, humming the words. "Who happened to have saved me on a few occasions while I ran away."
"You ran away?"
The young lord turned to Nemi Lacus. Squatting on haunches by the plank road that ringed the lake, he plucked at the blades of grass stabbing through the crevices and held them out in his palm. "I did," he hummed. A breath of wind hoisted the blades of grass, taking them for a spin. They gyrated and merged with the undulating shimmer. "If grass can grow through rocks and woods, why can't wheat?" he mused, his voice distraught. "You know the scanty yield of wheat on our land because of our saline soil? I ran away to sample dirt and weed. It's my hope that one day, we can grow salt-tolerant wheat." Propping his elbows on his laps while he held his chin in both hands, he narrowed his gaze at the city afar, where tufts of light, from braziers and torches, candles and bonfires, yawned like rheumy eyes. "Salt-tolerant wheat," he scoffed, shaking his head. "What a joke, right? You can laugh if you want."
Xeator frowned. Despite himself, memory crept in like mold seeping through a stucco wall. He had a more or less similar conversation before. Nearly sixteen years ago, his father took him and Julius Gaius to the northern border where they camped up in the steep gorge by the River of Uruk for two weeks. It was Father's hope the boys would learn from the harsh nature no man could teach. Sore and bone-weary, he and Julius sprawled in their tent head against head. Julius swore that one day, he would conquer the gorge, and even the river would be at his command.
He huffed a long sigh, his hands clenching. Edging toward the young lord, he crouched down a few feet beside him. "I don't think it's a joke," he crooned, smiling. "I think you should push it."
Dracus laughed. "Just when I thought I had heard flattery of all kinds! Well, go on then, what else you got?"
"It's no flattery, my lord," Xeator shook his head. "I think you should push it, not necessarily in terms of changing the nature of wheat, but looking for ways to control the conditions of our fields. That's more attainable, wouldn't you say?" As the young lord looked lengthwise at him, he looked ahead over the lake. "For sure, it'd still be no easy feat. But nobody thought the Dam of Uruk was possible, and yet General Julius pushed it, bringing it to life, and tamed the river, so to speak. I think you should leave the city, get away from the venomous whispers, and go after what might actually be worth the fight. The week of Pyrrhic finals is your chance. All the guards will be too busy checking the inbound crowds. It should be easy for you to sneak out." He winced, biting his lip in regret. He'd talked way too much.
"Have we met before?" Musing on him, Dracus asked with a frowning smile. "I mean before the last time at the Port."
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Why do you ask?"
"A hunch?" The young lord shook his head. "You're the first man who asks me to do that which is good for me."
Xeator fumbled around his feet for a small pebble and skipped it on the lake. "No, my lord," he said, watching the stone splash in the shape of many a parasol in a chain. "I've only urged you to do that which is good for us all. Knowing what you do is good for all of us, even your archenemy has to find ways to spare you, won't he?"
"I have an archenemy?" The young lord fell on his hip. Propping on both palms behind him, he kicked out his legs and looked up at the clear sky sequined with stars, and the moon verging on a full disk. "I guess I do, huh? And more than just one, I'm sure." A rueful smile flattened his lips. "Hey, Underdog," he said, his voice taut with unease. "Is there any way you can skip the finals and leave the city too?"
"Not in one piece."
Dracus turned to face Xeator. The sapphire blue of his eyes gleamed. He parted his lips, his jaw moving side to side. A swish of steps drew close. Two Praetor's guards marched in their direction. He leaped to his feet. Grabbing Xeator's shoulder, he bored into his eyes. "Be careful," he said before leaving with the guards.
Xeator savored the two words. His head pounded. The last person who told him to be careful, was it Mother? Father? No, it was Julius Gaius. After the last game of chess with Father, he scampered his way down from the garret and bumped into Julius. In the tall hallway, Julius grabbed his shoulders. His cerulean eyes, quite resembling the young lord's, drilled into his, and he, too, told him to be careful.
Falling to his knees, Xeator banged a fist at the gravel soon stained with his blood. The world blurred before his eyes while his teeth dug deep into his lip. He stopped the banging, but the tremor endured. Uncoiling his fingers, he pressed the palm to the earth – as foreign as familiar.
I'm home.