Felix Nipius tumbled out of a tent outside the Scipios' Castle. Two brass pails tailed him, clanging as they flew out through the gap between the wall flaps.
"Fetch some bloody water!" Cried a laughing voice from inside.
Scratching his pate, Felix looked over his shoulder. "Fuck you, Tatius!" He booted the pails and scuffed his feet.
When Felix found his name among the finalists, he bounced off the wall. Besides all the gold that awaited, he loved fighting – the agile movements, the unequivocal force, the beauty in the finality of win or lose – and to be good at what he loved was enough of a reward. But his buoyancy didn't last for long. On the second day since they had arrived in Pethens arrived also the news: Lord Augustus Gaius would also pick the Favorite from them this year. The reunion with which he wanted to surprise Moon Xeator never happened, and the next time they saw each other, they would be drawing swords from either end of the arena. Had he anticipated the outcome, he brooded, would he have lost a few fights on purpose as Xeator had suggested so as to shirk from getting into the finals? It took him aback how fast he gave both answers, and neither told the truth. Puffing his cheeks, he sighed and gave one of the pails another boot.
"Something troubling you, my lad?" asked a voice.
Felix skewed his neck around. At the heel of a wall sat a man on crossed legs. Garbed in a threadbare black cloak, he hid half his face behind a hood, revealing only his lips above a cleft chin. Beside him, roses climbed and rambled over the trunk of a eucalyptus tree.
"You're a pugilist of the League," the voice went on. "And to be able to camp out here, you must have been a good one. That said," the lips stretched to resemble a grin. "All fighters who have come this far are good ones. Must be nerve-racking, I can only imagine."
Felix swooped up the pails and tucked them under either arm. Craning his neck, he turned to the man in his black cloak. "Who're you?"
"I'm a prophet."
Felix laughed. "Every pauper thinks he's a prophet these days! Let me tell you something, prophet. Me and my brothers can punch you to a pulp in a heartbeat. Bet you didn't see that coming, eh?"
"Brothers, you said?" The lips stretched thin, tipping upward on either corner. "What brothers? You Pyrrhic pugilists are bound to be loners. Brothers, wife, children, you'll have none since the moment you made the bloody oath. The best you could do is to brave a heroic death before you're thirty and too old."
Felix hurled the pails at the dirt. Grabbing the man's neck, he pushed him against the wall. "At least I get to die like a hero! Unlike you! Beg for it, and I'll make it quick!"
"No, lad," the man chuckled while he choked. "I said a heroic death is the best you could. But with a head like yours, you might as well count the following days as your last!"
Felix squeezed his hand. Veins swelled up the other man's neck as though crawling tendrils all the way up into his eyes.
Pressing both arms on the wall, the man rasped with laughter. "That's it," he croaked. "Kill me now with your rage, for rage is all you'll have left when that brother of yours slaughters you!"
"Moon wouldn't!"
"Wouldn't he? Think, you bloody fool!"
Felix buckled and loosened his grip. Lurching to a side, he slammed a hand at the eucalyptus tree.
Would he?
The thorns of roses pricked the callus on his palm and made him wince.
The man harrumphed, levering himself on an elbow against the dirt, his other hand about his neck. "That Moon Xeator, he stops at nothing to get what he wants, and you're a fool to trust him."
Felix jolted around, "I'm a fool to trust you!"
The man concurred with a few nods, his mouth a mocking pout. "But what if I tell you what this Moon Xeator will do at the showdown?" With a tinkle of a chain, the man pulled out a bronze plate from under his cloak and shook it before Felix. "Do you recognize this?"
Felix strained his eyes. "An amulet. So?"
The man flicked the pin, and the diminutive karambit spun off, clawing into the dirt next to Felix's feet.
Felix gawked.
"This is the Underdog's secret." The threadbare man closed his eyes, his head leaning against the wall. "Call him a brother if you will, but if this is the kind of man you keep as a brother, boy, I don't dare imagine what you have for an enemy."
"How did you know about this?"
"I told you, I'm a bloody prophet!"
Felix squinted. Wrinkling his nose, he scuffed his heel on the dirt. Why must people be so complicated? Why couldn't they talk like they fight? A punch meant a punch. No questions asked. He grunted.
The man opened his eyes with a crooked smile. "I can also tell you this, lad, that you'll be named the Favorite."
"I will?"
"This will perhaps be the biggest honor of your life," the man went forth, ignoring his question. "And you'd better honor it. Take this amulet with you on the day of the last fight. Either you win or lose the card game; remember, the Underdog will be wearing his special plate, and there is nothing wrong with you having your extra protection."
"Why are you helping me?" Felix raised a brow, glancing sidelong over his shoulder.
"Because I want something from you," the man snickered, turning his head to the west where the sun had started to set, dying the sky the color of camelia. "Regardless of the result, I need you to chant the name of General Julius Gaius at the end of the fight. Can you do that?"
Felix darted another glance at the man, trying to wrap his head around that cryptic smile. "Why?"
"Well, think about it, the Renanians are enamored with the young General. Those who place their dennies on the Favorite, on you, they're cheering for him. You'll be remembered for having honored their hero!"
Felix plucked the karambit from the dirt. It felt heavier than any weapon he had wielded in the fourteen short years of his life.
***
After the boy left with the pails under his arms, Anthony knocked the back of his head against the wall. Wondering if he was as stupid to Xeator as the boy was to him, he huffed a long, despondent sigh and got to his feet.
Across the cambered street where a varnished wagon was stabled, he rapped under the sandalwood window.
"So, you've made my decision without even consulting me?" Lord Augustus didn't sound pleased.
Anthony put on the hood, keeping his eyes low. "Apologies, m'lord. But that boy is our safest bet."
"Our safest bet?" Augustus chuckled. "You ask me to put down all the gold on an imbecile! Be careful what you say next because they might be your last words."
"The boy is a fool, no doubt, and you will pick him, m'lord, not because of who he is, but what he is to the Underdog."
"And what's that?"
Anthony gulped, taking a moment of pause. In that moment, he remembered the first time he met Xeator in the squalid street of Volos where Xeator gave him all his dennies for rent, and the moment lasted the length of a breath.
"A brother," he replied.