The last thing Xeator remembered was Tacitus' oblong face.
The healer fed him juice so bitter it nearly made him retch. Then, as he dozed off, lying supine on the straws gathered by the brazier, he saw shadows of men fade in and out like wraiths. Somnambulant in a void, he scrambled in his sleep and sank with every step he took. His legs flailed as if in midair, desperate for a hold. Groping at random, he reached out his hands and missed. Chill stung and bit, perforating his pore, penetrating his bones, his marrow frosting. Over a distance, he heard a splash and turned to the sound. The empty socket on his left glowed green, and through the ghoulish light, he saw himself floundering in the roaring water of Uruk. He was drowning, as he realized, not in Uruk but in the frigidity of his own mind.
Help. He opened his mouth. The word hung on his lips but wouldn't come out.
Help! He screamed. This time, it escaped in bubbles and steam.
What's your name? A muffled voice asked from above.
Moon Xeator.
What's your name? It asked again
Moon Xeator. He repeated.
Who's Moon Xeator?
I am.
Who is this I?
I?
Aye.
I'm Cato Duilius Claudius!
***
Julius slumped behind the mahogany table, considering the man on the stack of straws before the brazier. His hand hung upon the armrest; the ceramic amphora glugged in his hand.
Leaning to the side, he raised his chin and sipped. Arteries throbbed in the back of his head and drummed, waking up a sealed past. His vision blurred, foreshortening the crackling fire as it was layered on top by the memory of swaying torchlights on the old castle walls of House Gaius.
It hadn't been long since he celebrated his fourteenth name day, he remembered, a warm night in the late spring. The air was sweet, inebriated on the nectar of life. Morning glories in the gardens blared the prelude of summer through their lilac blooms shaped like many a trumpet. He got out of bed to use the latrine. Elbowing along the marble corridor, he heard a deep rumbling, and the floor trembled under his feet. About ten yards ahead at the end of the corridor before the alabaster Father made of himself, a slab of round flagstone split, sliding to either side in a semicircle. Shadows of flame scrawled on the sides of a shaft stabbing deep beneath the castle. Julius rubbed his eyes.
Affixing his back to the marble wall, he edged toward the trap door belching out drafts. He balked, pricking up his ears. Down below the stone stairs whose each step jutted from the curve of walls, voices spiraled up. One was of a woman. Julius had walked in on Father with his mistresses before. He knew better than to make his presence known in such a situation. Frantically he looked for retreats and measured the time to either run back to his bedchamber or the latrine. He decided to risk, bolting forward not a moment too soon, and hid behind the alabaster of his father.
Flattening himself against the sculpture's leg like a gecko, he peered through the glabrous stone armpit.
His lord father was leading the way, holding a firebrand. Behind him followed a woman with crimped tresses that cascaded to her waist, and her sapphire blue eyes were mesmerizing. Their shadows wrung on the wall beside them and grew large as they continued their ascent.
Julius ducked, his cheek clamping to the shoulder, his eyes squinting.
"Snuff out Claudius," – the woman's voice, sweet as honey – "and the entire Renanian landscape will be yours to design."
Father returned a breathy harrumph.
Julius waited behind the sculpture for a long time, long after the flame of the firebrand faded out from the other end of the corridor.
The next day, he went to look for his friend. But when he squeezed his shoulder, Julius realized that he didn't know what to tell him. Anything he said, he could put his own family in danger.
Be careful, he mumbled at length.
His friend quirked his brows, then laughed it off as he scampered away.
It was the last time he saw Cato Duilius Claudius.
He swigged more, upturning the amphora at his throat.
The official announcement said the boy died in the melee. But no one ever found his body. Julius never dared ask his father; nor had he allowed himself to ponder the what if. He reiterated to himself what Father had told him, that he'd be better off without a rival.
The last drop of liquor rolled from the neck of the amphora, splashing on his lips. He thudded the empty vessel on the table and rose to his feet; his eyes lingered upon the straws. Never had he told anyone, not even Ariadne, that he missed having his rival.
Pacing before the blond man convulsing in delirium, he asked, "What's your name?"