Julius' Justice

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. 

"Sir," 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 Maximus, 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." 

Domitian returned a well-mannered smile. 

"I see you've taken my advice," Julius continued, flicking his eyes at the men Domitian had brought while he put a hand on his in-law's round shoulder. 

"Isn't advice just easier to give than take?" the portly man taunted, his drab eyes rolling like a stranded fish. "Do you have any idea how these men …" He stopped himself short, spurting a sigh. 

Wise enough not to piss on the men you want to command in their presence. 

Gales skirled through the deep gullies of mountains, ruffling the sod. Julius called it the caterwaul of the valley. Straining his cheeks to keep the smile, he sketched to his yurt. "Shall we proceed inside?"

The portly man nodded, tucking the cloak around his barrel chest, a piece of deep blue velvet inlaid with smooth pearls from the south. 

Inside the yak skins, flame swayed atop a thistle brazier, puffing warm breaths; lattice walls creaked to the wind. 

"Atrocious weather," Domitian tsked. "Don't you have summer up here at all?" 

"We're having it now," Julius shrugged airily, looking over his shoulder. "Wait till the sun comes out. It can be quite searing at noon."

His in-law pouted, bobbing his head, then turned to a large hanging of a map behind the mahogany desk. "This can't be right." He circled his fingers around the bank of Lesto where Julius had circled out locations for encampments. "This kind of deployment clearly conflicts with the teaching of the Book of A Militant. You should never camp along rivers." 

Julius entertained the chance of stupidity clad in panache. Too many high lords he had met such as his in-law, might they have never reddened a blade, they seldom shied from giving him a word or two on how he should wield his sword. He glimpsed Domitian, amused by how a man could have lived all the many years in exile yet still understood little to nothing off the books. He knew that Marcus Uranus had been covertly sending him gold with the Legidus' help. While the gold had ensured Domitian a decent life, it seemed to have denied him the chance of ever becoming a man. 

Listening to his in-law regurgitating strategies never quite so the case when tested in a different setting, he grabbed a bottle of liquor from his mahogany desk and sat next to the brazier. It beguiled what seemed insufferable a few gulps ago. 

Ariadne had been spot on with her half-brother, Julius thought while he drank. Like every other entitled underachiever who tried too hard in their own ways to establish themselves, this one did so by showing off. Small wonder, given his birth. But the more eager he was to show, especially when he had nothing to show for, the more vexing a man he came across. 

Know thy enemy; know thyself. 

Those were Consul Cladius' words, and Julius found himself thinking about the man he used to call uncle of late. He frowned, compelling his focus to the present. Narrowing his gaze at Domitian as he harangued about his meetings with this or that important name he met over the years, Julius brooded his motives.

Other than treachery, greed, or even cowardice that drove Domitian into betraying the trust of Lady Anatolia, it was, perhaps, the want of being around those he had fancied himself as. When Laelia Euphrates offered him the overtures of an alliance, she must have made him feel as worthy as he was not. Of the very few apt to dance with the phoenix, Domitian must have believed himself to be among them. All she needed to sway his allegiance was to give him a taste of his own fancy. 

Such as the vice of hope as it justifies the cruelty of men. 

Julius took another gulp. "I've heard many times that my brother is a polymath. And always, I value the opinions of a learned man like yourself. I had many problems while building this dam, and many times, believe me, I've thought of seeking your advice. Unfortunately, we both know that's impossible as it'd disrespect the Praetor's decree." He paused to measure the content fermenting in the other man's heavy breaths. 

"Once your banishment was lifted, however, I invited you forthwith." He raised the bottle lengthwise a little over his head. "Drink?"

"Not forthwith," Domitian corrected him, couldn't withhold at the trivia even when it risked missing the forest for the trees. "But since you're the first who pledged me your allegiance, I'll look past it." Padding to the brazier, he stopped before Julius and narrowed his gaze, one brow spiking over the other. "No stein or chalice?"

Julius quaffed more. "I'd ask my adjutant to fetch you a wine cup if you have to drink with a pinky. But I wouldn't recommend it." He wiped the spill off his chin with the back of a hand. "When you ride south, you want to appear as a man capable of commanding the Exonian military with the support of my legion. You have to. And to appear so, you need their respect. But here is the tricky part with respect: no one can hand it to you." Rising to his feet, he rammed the bottle at Domitian's chest. "You earn it."

Domitian reeled back a step, holding the bottle in both hands. His eyes twitched, not knowing where to look. "Where is my sister, by the way?" He changed the subject. "How isn't she here to welcome me?"

Took you long enough to notice her absence.

"She's gone to the nearby town with servants to restock sundries for your stay. She should be back by nightfall." 

"How nice of her," said Domitian with a smudge of a smirk in his drab eyes. "I'm glad she seemed to have come to her senses. Her mother was only holding her as a hostage. I gave away Anatolia to save her. It's all part of my plan! And look at her now, happily married to you! What would have become of her had it not been for me? Father would have disowned her. And without Father's gold, she'd probably have to open her legs for bread like some peasant girl!" 

Julius cracked his knuckles, stifling the urge to add another dent in the man's bulbous nose. 

The wind whipped through the wall flaps as his adjutant dipped in his head. 

He didn't say a word but only gestured with a nod. 

Julius returned a smile and directed his gaze back to his in-law. "Forget about Ariadne," he said airily. "We have more important issues to discuss, man to man." He had to pause for a breath lest his dripping contempt would seep through his pretense. "When I sent you my invitation, I meant every word. I want to help you claim what's yours in the capital. Laelia Euphrates is our common enemy. And to crush her, we must focus our attack. A hand punches better when it's a fist. That's why I'll help you earn the respect of the Exonian troops." 

Domitian quirked his brows incredulously. "How?"

"Come. I want to show you the Dam. And you can impress us with your advice on how to maintain it." As he spoke, he glanced at the bottle gripped still in Domitian's pudgy hand. "And drink up. It'll be windier up there."

Tucking at his velvet cloak, Domitian acquiesced. An unbidden scowl wrung his face like a grease-sodden rag. He put down the bottle on the mahogany desk and tailed Julius outside. 

There awaited the two Exonian riders who were at the head of each column. The one with an auburn whisker, Sir Caeso Cassia, Julius observed, and the shortie, Sir Rufus Severan. He turned to Domitian. "Will you honor me, brother, and introduce our guests?"

As did Domitian, he gave each man in turn a meaningful nod. Having left them to his adjutant's care, he led Domitian back to the dam. 

"Caeso and Rufus are my subordinates," said his in-law.

"So?"

"So, why did you have to leave them behind?"

Julius exhaled a long sigh. Swiveling to Domitian, he smiled with only his lips. "What I'm showing you is perhaps our most important infrastructure that controls three major waterways. With it, we control the Exonians and the Turisians. We control them now as we control the source of their water. Do you still want to ask me why I wouldn't let them accompany us to the Dam?"

"Then why did you ask me to bring the Exonian force?" Domitian rounded on. "I need them for my security! And how will your men respect me when I can't even take my guards where I go?"

Julius doubled his fists, his lips primmed. "Many brothers have died building this dam so we can have unprecedented leverage in the north," he intoned at length. "If you want their allegiance, you'd better at least act as if you care what they give their life for. Understood?" 

Furrowing his brow, Domitian opened his mouth. Besides wet puffs of heavy breaths, nothing else came out. 

"Good," Julius gave him a backhanded slap on the chest and walked ahead. 

Through a narrow track cut deep in the rocks, with only a smudge of endless sierra at their horizon, they arrived at the stairs spiraling into height and began their ascend. Amidst the creaks of rungs, the thumping steps, and the roaring water many feet below came Domitian's wheezing. 

Julius had to stop and wait every few steps. He reminded himself never to underestimate a fool. 

Useless a fool might be, he could still trip you. It's up to you whether the fool should be your stumbling block or stepping stone. 

The words came to him again unbidden. 

He rubbed his brow as if that would wipe the voice out of his head but only seemed to have it amplified. He shut his eyes and saw for a moment the length of a pulse a bee hive hanging on a large sycamore. 

His eyes popped open. 

As they reached the crest of the dam, with Domitian lagging behind him, huffing and puffing, Lextus Marcellus Fronius came to meet them from the other side. In his late thirties, the man was Julius' chief engineer and the mind behind many if not all the projects that meant to challenge even the wills of Gods. He had an enormous forehead, plowed by years of frowning and framed by ruffled hair the color of sand. Under the brow bones, his dark eyes situated deep in the sockets, divulging little. Clean-shaved and relatively chubby, his cheeks, however, retained a suppleness that rendered an otherwise cranky face somewhat placid. 

Fronius wasn't an athletic man; nor was he eloquent. Quite irascible, he shot words with little regard for consequences. He had offended many men, important men, and the more he had offended, the closer he drove himself up to a cul-de-sac. Until he met Julius. Who believed that all men had their flaws, and flaws cut. The more fatal a flaw in a man, the more angular he grew, turning him iridescent like a gemstone. Fronius was flawed with brilliance. 

Accompanying the brilliant man was Quirinus Lorentius Silvius. Tall and handsome with pale blue eyes, he was deft in his own way quite different than Fronius. A baseborn he might be, he was the best warrior in the north, capable of taking down a century himself. And Julius had made him Tribune of the west flank. 

Julius regarded both men in turn with a nod. At the gesture, Fronius began introducing his design. 

"Unlike the usual embankment dam that requires a great abundance of materials to have the width from abutment to crest, the dam of Uruk curves upstream in the plane," the man intoned, his shoulders back, his voice almost too high-pitched for a man his age. "Utilizing hydrostatic pressure, it could be remarkably thin in cross-section with a base-to-height ratio below zero point two. Hence, it's able to take up less than half of the cement and gravel it'd otherwise require." 

Julius smiled. Never had the brilliant man needed any advice on how to marshal his genius. He turned to Domitian with a straight face. "What do you think, brother? You've mentioned earlier that you had studied under Master Aelius Albus at the Lyceum. Will you honor us with your insight?" 

Domitian raised his doubled chin, his drab eyes incredulous. 

To spur him on in the wrong direction, Julius lowered to his hear. "Everyone here listens to Fronius, including myself," he added. "Imagine the kind of man Fronius will listen to. It can't be anyone lesser than the true heir of House Uranus." 

His in-law took the bait, harping again on his experience and arduous academic pursuit despite the wrongful hardship he had to endure. Then, finally, when he felt he had talked enough about his qualifications, he turned to the crenulated fence. "While I salute you, Fronius, for having used less than half of the cement and gravel it would otherwise require, the cost-efficiency was at the cost of a majestic air this dam could have struck."

Fronius shot him a side-eye. 

"My father, the Praetor Maximus, has paid a great deal for this, and like you've said," Domitian continued, turning to Julius, "this dam has earned us leverage in the north. But as a Renanian facade, I have to say, it's rather unimpressive."

"This is not some vanity project the Praetor would have for and about himself," Fronius retorted with a quaver in his voice. Balling his hands as he whirled,  he would have pounced on the bastard had Quirinus Silvius not stayed him. 

"By no means," Domitian seconded with a shrug, impervious to his audience. "But one ought to expect gravitas emanating from a civil project as important as the Dam of Uruk! One of many things I've garnered from Master Aelius Albus' remarkable lectures is that not everything is supposed to do what they appear for. A dam is to control water, yes. But remember, its presence should also inspire fear, and fear alone would suffice as a deterrent!"

Julius refrained from a snort, while Quirinus tuck his chin at his shoulder. "Small wonder the Exonians are wusses, and the twat takes their word for it," he muttered to Julius. 

Wusses or not, the Exonian master did have a point. Julius thought. Not everything is supposed to do what they appear for. But if everything works only as a facade, deprived of any substance, for how long can it deceive? Drawing in his chin, he lifted his eyes at his in-law. "Enlighten us, my dear brother," he said, his eyes smiling, his smile perfunctory. "What should we do now so gravitas should, well, emanate from this dam?" 

And so Domitian pontificated, regurgitating everything he had learned and prided himself on. The wind skirled, voicing a shrill cry of complaints as if even the rocks of mountains were bored. 

Julius nearly chuckled. 

"It's all very well said," He knitted his brows, bobbing his head. "But understand this, it's the men who do the work—"

"Of course it's the men who did the work!" Domitian bristled, slighted at what wasn't meant as an insult. "How can I not understand something so basic?

Julius hoisted the corners of his mouth. "You're among those who hold my highest regard, dear brother." Divulging no aversion or disdain, he favored the other man with what he longed to hear the most, his voice amiable. "I only meant to ask if you would like to share your insight with the rest of the men. What you've suggested, after all, would require us to split a mountain and all the rocks. The tremendous amount of work aside, it would be sacrilege to the sierras. You see, brother, when your life depends on the surroundings, we learn to make peace with it. In exchange for a safe project, our men have vowed to Horus and Hera that we'd do the mountains no harm. Perchance you could change their minds?"

"If you only want me to speak to the men, why did you have to bring me up here?" Tucking his velvet cloak inlaid with southern pearls, he whirled to the stairs, leaving his host behind. 

"Is he bloody serious thinking he can advise on our dam without having to see it first with his own eyes?" Quirinus gibed in a whisper. "A sissy like that you usually wouldn't expect such balls!" 

Even the irascible Fronius chuckled. 

Julius tapped both men on the shoulders, gesturing for them to quiet. 

When they returned to the campsite, all men had gathered in formation under the command of Sergius Naevius Valerius, Tribune of the east flank. Lean and tall, he was known by his obsidian eyes sitting deep in either socket and the aquiline nose, shadowing over thin lips. A mean-looking man punished by his look, he was ostracized and marginalized at court, but he was a great warrior nonetheless, and he had found his place in the north. 

Saluting Julius, he thrust forward his right arm. 

Julius returned the salute. With an easy gait, he whirled and bounded to a rectangular platform stacked with pinewoods before the battle ring. 

"Today," he proclaimed, turning to the men Sergius had gathered. "we have the honor to host Lord Domitian Gordianus of House Uranus! A blood of your Lady Ariadne! My brother!"

All men chanted at once. 

Julius continued, "Erudite and experienced, Lord Domitian has valuable advice on the dam many of our brothers have died for. Grace us with your thoughts, brother!" He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to Domitian. "Enlighten us all!" 

The portly man looked to his Exonian guards. Sir Caeso Cassia gave him the approval with a brisk nod. His auburn whisker flailed about his mouth. Only then did Domitian waddle up the pinewood stairs. 

Julius clinched his in-law. "Remember," he muttered to his ear. "You earn your respect." 

And so Domitian spoke up again about how he thought the dam ought to be. Swinging his arm lengthwise to his back at Fronius, he concluded, "The dullard had it all wrong! He has led you in the wrong direction from the outset! He has failed you, and you have failed my father, the Praetor Maximus, Marcus Cornelius Uranus!" 

Fronius glared, marshaling his thoughts. He looked between the men and Julius as if searching for a fulcrum to lift the weight of unwarranted charge upon him. But all he had assembled in words was a terrible stammer. Veins spasmed around his temples, his hands tightening into fists. 

Pleased with Fronius' reaction, Domitian gloated. "You're judged by the company you keep, General Julius, and look at your company! Your judgment on whom to keep lacks in a sense of justice that worries me, I must say." 

No one spoke or moved. Only the caterwaul of the valley screeched and howled, pennons and banners snapping as did cloaks. The discipline of the Northern Legion was no joke. All soldiers, despite ranks, wore their composure without a crack. Julius felt his smile reaching his eyes at the sight. 

"Lextus Marcellus Fronius, what can you tell me about him?" he hollered, regarding the formation at large while throwing an arm at Fronius. "An inventor? An engineer? An architect? No, he is all of them. Does anyone object?" Winds shrieked, undulating the sod to striations of shadows like lapping waves. Julius went forth, "And what has this inventor, engineer, and architect done in the last ten years to deserve all his titles? Has he bivouacked with horses as a military man? Yes. Has he voiced a word of complaint? No. Has his use of the arch saved us the time and gold that would otherwise cost? Yes. But in doing so, he has also reduced the majesty of our construction. A dam as important as the Dam of Uruk should have the height and width enough to hold up a palace to deserve the grace of our Praetor Maximus, said his son, Lord Domitian!"

Between gusts of gale came intermittent laughs while no one appeared to be laughing. 

"Are you mocking me?" Domitian glowered. "Are you questioning my honor?"

"You're a son of Praetor Maximus, my dear brother," said Julius, regarding the other man, his eyes earnest. "I would never dare question you or your honor!" Then, turning to Fronius, he sauntered over to the man and asked, "Do you, Lextus Marcellus Fronius, understand the severity of your offense?" 

Fronius squinted, his face drawn, lips hanging apart. Even Quirinus scowled, cocking a bewildered brow. 

Julius lowered his head next to the brilliant man. "Trust me," he murmured without moving his mouth, then raised his voice again as he swiveled back to the men. "To settle this, I announce Lextus Marcellus Fronius to a duel with Lord Domitian. Effective immediately."

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" Domitian snatched at Julius' arm. 

Feigning confusion, Julius asked, "I don't understand, brother. Wasn't it justice you seek?" 

"You call a duel justice?"

"What can be more just than a duel?" he deadpanned, his hands folding on his back. Over the jagged spires covered in white, the first strike of lightning cleaved down from the gathering clouds. Julius looked to sky, "Even the Gods seem eager," he continued. "You wouldn't wish to decline the Gods' wish, would you, my dear brother?"

"Julius Pompeius Gaius!" the portly man piped. "How dare you threaten me!" 

Julius put up his hands. "I wouldn't dare, your grace," he japed, then, gripping his in-law's rounded shoulder, he leaned to Domitian's ear. "Look at him! The man's a spastic! Hasn't fired a crossbow once in his life! You can take him out with a blindfold over your eyes! I'll help you."

"How?"

"You'll have the windward ground." 

Domitian looked aside, scanning Julius' profile as if for traces of cunning. 

The face, however, betrayed nothing. 

"I can't hand you men's respect," Julius added in a whisper, "But I'm handing you the chance to earn it."

The other man wrenched free from his grip, his lips tightening to a gash. He waggled a hand. His servant went forward, bowing below the pinewood platform. 

"Bring me my crossbow," Domitian commanded, his voice taut and manic. 

The servant obliged, retreating on backsteps before he whirled and trotted away. When he returned, he brought Domitian's crossbow. A majestic piece, Julius observed, of emerald bronze limb and barrel. On the lever were chiseled the Praetor's glyphs while the sigil of House Uranus, the three-headed eagle, perched on the end of the handlebar in gold. 

With a last smile at his in-law, Julius wheeled himself to face the soldiers who stood tall between heavens and earth. "The Northern Legion under my command!" he thundered. "Retreat!"

All men thumped their feet in unison. Splitting in formation, they withdrew to either length of the battle ring. Their armors clanged amidst the caterwaul of the valley. 

Julius beckoned his adjutant with his eyes. 

His adjutant loped forward. "This way, Lord Domitian." Leaning to an arm at the battle ring, he ushered Domitian to his position on the west end.

As they left, Julius turned back to Fronius. 

"How could you?" the man snapped with a visible shudder, his voice a skirl raw with what must feel like an utter betrayal. 

Julius did not comment. "On your mark, Lextus Marcellus Fronius," he pronounced. "Or shall I execute you myself?" 

"This is absurd!" Quirinus protested, the colors in his face high. "Lextus isn't a fighting man, General!"

"Neither is Lord Domitian."

"You can't be serious!"

But Julius only turned his back on both men, looking afar at the defile. Presided by a sullen battlement, the deep cut between two jagged peaks was joined by a staunch bridge of weathered stones that withstood the screeching wind. Measuring in his head the distance and the scale of the wind, he calculated the time and where he should stand. 

Fronius said nothing. He patted Quirinus on the shoulder and threw on the dirt the papyrus scrolls of his designs, his life's works. Rearing his head, he marched to his fate awaiting at the east end of the battle ring.

Despite the chill, Julius felt the burning glare from Quirinus on his back. He took his own crossbow, an ebon piece made with black locust, and instructed his adjutant to follow him to the north side of the halfway line. 

"By the Code of Honor," the adjutant bellowed, announcing the rules, "General Julius shall fire at the sky, informing the Gods of the duel when the bugle sounded the second time. On three, each contestant shall draw weapons. May the fastest and bravest man live!" As his voice fell, a soldier marched forth carrying a bugle on his shoulder. 

Julius looked again to the north at the defile through which the wind whipped, then to the east at which the clouds tumbled. Rolling his shoulders, he shook his arms at the first blare, the call of life and death in one. When the bungle blasted the second time, he whirled to the north, turning his back to the battle ring, and aimed diagonally against where the wind blew. All the while, he observed Domitian from the corner of his eyes. Just as he had predicted, Domitian skewed around, drawing his crossbow at Fronius, who was still waiting for the last blare. Julius fired his shot northwest into the gale-force wind. The bolt caromed, slashing sidelong with a swoosh through Domitian's larynx, it impaled his neck with a spurt of blood. Domitian reeled a few steps. His majestic crossbow quivered in his hand and hit the ground before he dropped headlong. 

The last sound of the bungle never came. Only the caterwaul of the valley shrieked. Fronius spun around, too nonplussed to breathe a word. He looked to Julius, who gave his crossbow to the adjutant and padded between the lines of soldiers. "Looks like the Gods haven't been too happy with the Praetor's son, have they?" he boomed, looking to either shoulder. "As I informed them of the duel according to the Code of Honor, the wind directed my shot. It was by the Gods' will that Domitian Gordanius Uranus died today. Are you my witness?"

"Aye!" all men raised their head and chanted as one; their spears glinted in chorus, as did their helms. 

"Proud men of the Northern Legion! My brothers! You kneel or bow to no one that isn't us for as long as you stand! Are you with me?"

"Aye!"

"Who are we?"

"Men of the Northern Legion!" 

Julius smiled and halted his feet before Fronius. "I told you to trust me, didn't I?" 

"General, I …" Fronius shivered at a loss. 

Julius clapped him on the side of his arm. A lightning bolt cracked through the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. A drop of rain splashed on Julius' silver pauldron. He pedaled back a step and sketched a brow at Fronius before raising his voice again. "None of what we have built would have been built without you. And I bow to you, Lextus Marcellus Fronius, my chief engineer, inventor, and architect."

As his voice fell, all men dropped to one knee. Fronius gaped while tears welled in his eyes. Only then did Julius know that the long day was finally over, and he had retained what no artillery would conquer nor gold could buy.

The rain pelted.