Straw Man

On the back of the garron, Anthony primmed his mouth.

Drusilla's hair tickled.

He turned to his shoulder so as not to sneeze and gazed up at the darkening east. A storm had gathered, looming behind thick yarns of clouds. Gripping his legs, he dandled the halter rope. The garron cocked its head to the west, its hooves squelching on damp soil. They stopped before a deserted hut stacked of slates halfway up a meandering ridge. In the distance on their left below, tufts of campfires licked the four corners of a quadrangle where Pyrrhic pugilists of the Scipios' League were kept and trained. Two men on sentry were walking their rounds on the crenelated parapet.

Anthony vaulted off their steed and offered Drusilla his hand. She snorted, however, swinging herself off and scampered to the hut.

"We got it on the first try!" Her voice jingled as the door grated ajar.

Clucking his tongue, Anthony shook his head. He tied the reins to a ramshackle fence, then followed inside.

An indigo shaft of moonlight slanted upon the slated floor. Before a sooty wall stood a man over six feet tall, broad of shoulder and corded of muscles. He wore a roughspun, sleeveless and stained with blood. Unclasped and unstrapped was his leather cuirass, left atop a stack of straws. He had his arms about the chest and his head low, shoulder-length ash blond hair falling in strands over those almond-shaped eyes, deep-set like gaping emeralds. Glancing at the door, he tilted his lips to an easy smile, his diamond-cut face pale in wispy shadows.

Anthony returned a smile that didn't feel quite as easy. He raised his head, leaning for a half hug. "You look terrible."

"Fuck you." Xeator chuckled. Clapping his back, he cut to the chase, "Let me see the amulet."

Waggling a forefinger, Anthony groped under his tunic with the other hand. A platinum chain unfurled, slitting across the dark as if a meteor. He uncoiled his fingers. In his palm sat an oval plate of gilded jade, with intricate openwork of the three-headed eagle, the Praetor's sigil. A beautiful piece, perhaps the most beautiful Anthony had ever beheld. When the weight was lifted from his hand as Xeator took it, his heart sank.

Xeator sized up the amulet, his emerald eyes narrowing. "Looks like we'll have to tweak our plan."

Anthony glanced sideways as he exchanged a frown with Drusilla. "But why?" he asked. "Now we've got the amulet, we can go in and out of the capital at will!"

"Of course," Xeator favored him with a nod. "But it'd also be a waste if we didn't avail ourselves of its other properties." He gave the amulet a shake. "Noticed the Praetor's sigil?"

Anthony scowled at the plate. "What about it? Don't all first-class amulets look like this? Jade plate emblazoned with the three-headed eagle?"

"Yes, emblazon. But what we have here is an openwork with tracery only a few craftsmen could master," the blond man paused for a scoff, his lips lopsided. "This doesn't belong to any first-class citizen but the very top echelon."

Leaves rustled over the thin roof, amplifying the silence inside.

"The boy is a close kin to the Triumvirate?" Anthony ventured a guess, his heart in his throat.

Xeator shrugged. "Or, a Uranus," he crooned, his voice smaller than a whisper as if suspicious of the mice slinking between the humps of gnarls, or the birds perching over the eroded eaves, could take his words to unfriendly ears.

"Do you know about this?" Anthony whirled to Drusilla.

She shook her head with force. "While I was the dance girl at the League, I've seen plenty of those Petheian brats who came here to rave and avoid acquaintances or prying eyes at home. They all had the same air about them I can't quite put into words, as did the boy, and when I saw him at the stable earlier, I just had a hunch. I wouldn't have picked him if I knew..." Her brow furrowed while her voice trailed off.

Lightning spiked across the night, followed by thunder rolling from afar. She flinched away from the hole in the wall. Over the foliage, clouds swarmed and tumbled.

Xeator put a hand on her shoulder, lowering his head as he met her in the eye. "Good hunch," he reassured her with his smile, that easy, suave smile, then, straightened his back. "Now, tell me everything," he continued, regarding his accomplices in turn. "Where exactly in the forum did you find the boy? Was he alone? Any chance you know why he's there and where he's going afterward?"

"Who cares?" Anthony grumbled at the fusillade of questions that made him ball his hands, his tassel belt shadowing his wrists like shackles. "Haven't we got what we want already? Why not move on with our plan?"

Xeator cocked a quizzical brow at him. "We have got the amulet, yes. We haven't, however, quite got away with it."

"How so?" asked Drusilla this time. "How else would we be standing here if we hadn't got away already?"

Xeator plopped on the stack of straws. "Say, if I were the boy, I would know it was you once I realized my amulet was gone with all my dennies. What would I do?"

"Report it?" Anthony blurted.

"I had no amulet to prove myself. Nor the dennies for bribes. Who'd believe me?"

"Is that why you asked me to steal his dennies too?" Drusilla smacked her lips. "So he couldn't afford anything?"

Xeator nodded and shook his head. He plucked a stalk, swinging it laterally on his lips as he looked up through the hole in the wall at the night sky. "It'd also be suspicious if we only got the amulet. Taking his dennies would dissemble our true purpose."

"But if he isn't able to do anything or go anywhere," Anthony persevered, his voice louder than he had intended. "Why, then, does it matter who he is or where he's going?" As he saw Drusilla sitting cross-legged on the floor before Xeator, he took his seat next to her as if by doing so, he'd have her on his side. But she only sought the blond man with those storm-gray eyes.

Xeator spat out the straw. "Very likely the boy will go to his kin in Volos. And if he does, a warrant for a search will be issued, followed by a lockdown. Unless he means to keep his whereabouts a secret. But we can't risk the small chance of the unless. You two must leave Volos by midday. And before that, I have another request."

Anthony huffed a long sigh, bafflement chafing his patience. He gave the blond man a quick nod.

"I need you to make a straw man."

"What straw man?"

Sweeping his ash blond hair up from his face, Xeator rose to his feet. "Every year, a triumvir, or members of his clan, get to name five candidates for the Underdog from the outliers based on their performance at tournaments," he replied, sauntering over to the hole in the wall, his tone uninflected. "I need you to see Magistrate Paccius and nominate me with this amulet as a candidate for the Underdog."

Restive and roiled, Anthony shot up from the floor. The sack in his lap fell and thudded by his feet. "Have you lost your bloody mind?" he blustered, grabbing the blond man's shoulders as he spun him around. "Even if I nominated you as the Underdog, the nomination would be forfeited if no one placed the initial bet on you! So, why bother? Why not stick with the old plan? We go to Pethens and start a riot, demanding for you to be the Underdog! And once you win all the gold, the same people that nominated you will take to the streets again, pressing for land privatization so we can finally own our business! Isn't that what this is all about? Why change now?"

Xeator regarded him, narrowing his gaze. "So, you want a riot." He dusted off Anthony's hands.

"No! That's not what I—" Hastening to deny, Anthony glowered. Many nights he had dreamed of leading a riot, of streets thronging with men under his command. "Well, yes!" he growled. "Why not when we can be more in charge of things? And we can be more in charge with the old plan!"

"Old plans often seem better on account of their familiarity," Xeator deadpanned, his emerald eyes lingering on him. "As familiarity renders them comprehensible. But what's comprehensible doesn't necessarily make it better. You want a riot. There will be one. But wait till I get to the part. Can you do that?"

Gritting his teeth, Anthony begrudged a nod.

"Once you arrive in Pethens, I need you to see Ennius Tobius. Any—"

"The capital's newsman? What business do we have with him?"

A glimpse of amusement flashed in the blond man's emerald eyes bordering disdain. "Any first-class citizen can pay to make an announcement," he resumed, ignoring the questions in even cadences. "As for whose message gets to be announced, that'll have to depend on who's the higher bidder. The straw man at our disposal will have to make a bribe." He shook the amulet in his hand; the platinum chain snaked down his wrist. "A hundred gold pieces for Tobius."

"A hundred?" Anthony yelped, as did Drusilla.

"Objection?"

"Yes, objection! Do you hear yourself?"

Xeator shrugged. "Gold is only deadweight, liable to burglaries and taxes if we can't turn it into a mine."

"How the fuck will giving away a hundred gold pieces turn it into a bloody mine?" Anthony retorted, an unnamed rage coming to a boil. "And how is a mine immune to burglaries?"

"What I mean by a mine is a network that binds enemies' interests to ours," the blond man continued in his even tone. "Despite all the wrangles and discrepancies, everyone implicated in the business eventually benefits from it. Say, a man such as Tobius. If we can allow him to yield personally from our gains, he will shill for us and turn a blind eye when it's convenient or necessary. If we can infiltrate the authority this way, we'll eventually have the Praetor's guards at our disposal. Who, then, will dare rob us? And that, my friend, is how we will fight those we can't beat head-on."

Another lightning bolt cleft the sky much closer than the last one. Thunder roared, heralding a storm. Anthony shut his eyes. He remembered the time during a tempestuous summer afternoon when he was still a little boy, sitting on the floor in the corner of his father's workshop. Father was making bows for the Imperial Guards before they changed appellation to Praetor's Guards. Carving black locusts on a stone lathe, he asked Anthony riddles.

How to make a rope shorter without cutting or winding it?

Anthony knew he had it. He knew he would have to think beyond the rope. He wanted to impress his old man so badly. But like taking a shit, the faster he wanted it to be over with, the more he felt his brain freeze.

You find a longer rope and compare them!

Braying with laughter, his father looked over his shoulder and winked.

In the rumbling thunder, Anthony could almost hear the cackles of his old man. He popped open his eyes. Like the little boy he once was, he refused to be the shorter rope.

Twilight scumbled the outer layer of clouds with a lilac hue. Rain pelted, pattering the thatched roof.

"What do you want me to say to the newsman?" he asked at length.

Xeator stroked his chin, his smile an enigma. "One is to inform him that an Underdog has been named among the pugilists this year. You'll show him the stub of your nomination. This is the first time a nomination is made against the Scipios. If I lose as the Underdog, the defeat will likely knock them into bankruptcy. But if I win, it will be their biggest triumph, as well for whoever declares the initial bet on me. Either way, it will threaten the balance between the triumvirs and the Praetor, fermenting rumors of their rifts."

Anthony felt his stomach clench. While he understood every word he heard, he grasped nothing. "And two?" he grunted.

"The second one goes a little longer." Xeator darted a glance at him. "You did remember to bring a pen, some ink, and papyrus, I hope?"

Anthony rummaged from the sack and handed the blond man what he asked for.

Flattening the papyrus on the floor as he sat down, in the dim twilight and intermittent lightning, Xeator scribbled in willful handwriting a daring message to the newsman.

"General Julius Pompeius Gaius? Triumvir Augustus' son?" Anthony stared aghast. "All the trouble to turn him into some kind of demigod? For what?"

"Riot," the blond man intoned, looking up from the floor.

Drusilla took the papyrus; her brow corrugated as she read. "How will this blarney start a riot? And if the whole country is in love with the Renanian daydream you've made of him, why would they riot against him?"

Lightning struck down again like an immense cobweb of silver, casting the blond man's diamond-cut face in a chiaroscuro. "The Renanians love the Gaius because of what they've built. Their roads, bridges, and waterways have indeed made life easier," he replied, thunder backdropping his voice. "But the Gaius aren't saints. Why else would they throw themselves in debt to build this and that had the roads, the bridges, or the waterways not been some kind of their immortality projects?"

"Immortality projects?" he and Drusilla asked in chorus.

Xeator shrugged. "The carvings of stones and cement and alabasters in bridges and roads and waterways, those are the things that persist while all lives perish. By controlling the land, great men such as the Gaius could accomplish as many such immortality projects that would outlive any of us. And it's exactly because of the Gaius, plebs will never be able to own lands. How would they react upon discovering that their heroes, their saints, their demigods, are just another piece of shit galvanized in gold?" He chuckled, his eyes a glint of mockery. "Strip them of their glitters, and you'll have a riot."

"Let's see if I get it right," Drusilla brooded with her arms tight around her chest. "By affecting Julius Gaius' overwhelming popularity with the people, you mean to center the Gaius to the Praetor's suspicion first. And then, we expose them for who they are and turn public opinion against them. By the end of the Pyrrhic finals, it would appear to the Praetor that the Gaius have tried but failed at manipulating the populace against him, and to snuff them out becomes inevitable?"

Xeator nodded with a broader smile. "The Praetor will not approve of the riot, of course. But he is a suspicious man, after all. While he owes his victory of the civil war to Augustus' betrayal, he fears in the marrow of his bones that the same could be done to him. Knowing he could avail himself of the riot to pluck out the Gaius like a thorn reduces our danger to a minimum. That is," he turned his eyes to Anthony, his smile gone. "Even if you or any rioters are caught, you're caught with a right cause, and your allegiance is with our Praetor. They'd locked you away for a few days and let you out like nothing happened."

"One more question," asked Drusilla.

"Shoot."

"Whom do you intend to place the initial bet on you as the Underdog?"

The blond man pursed his lips. "Just do the part I've asked," he crooned. "And leave the rest to me."

"That's not an answer," she contested. "Don't we deserve to know?"

Pivoting on his heel, Xeator swung around and stooped before her. "For a better chance at success, each part of the plan needs to work together while being independent. So, even if a part fails, the rest may still work."

"And what about the part that fails? Discard like a pawn?" she japed, lifting her eyes to find his; a sneer perched upon her lips.

He faltered, his eyes a squint. "What about a pawn?" cocking a brow at her, he asked in reply. "Even a pawn can get to the other side of the board and become a Queen." Then, groping under his tunic, he produced two bronze amulets. "I've got you both a present."

"How's it a present while you're just returning our amulets?" Drusilla teased as she snatched up hers from his hand.

"I've enhanced them a little." He tossed the other one at Anthony.

Who caught it backhanded. "Look just the same to me."

"Come here, both of you." The blond man beckoned them over. Leveling their arms at the door, he moved their thumbs to the bail that clasped the chains and flicked.

Anthony gawked.

Ejected from each bronze plate was a diminutive sickle that whizzed across the dark and bit into the wonky door.

"Gods blight, what did you do?" Drusilla whistled a cry. Bounding up to the front, she wrenched out the curling blades. "And what are these?"

"Karambit," Xeator answered.

Drusilla looked down at her amulet, her brows clasping. "Do you know why our amulets are stamped with a different serial number, whereas the first-class patricians, their amulets are of the same design?" she asked, turning to the blond man.

Anthony squeezed his bronze plate, so disconcerted by how she had left him out of the question that he had no answer to it anyway was beside the point. Staring down at his feet, he hoped Xeator would have no answer either. No, he thought, looking up to find the other man's emerald eyes, deep-set and delusive. Hope was an understatement. He was begging, screaming, praying to the blighted gods that the other man wouldn't have to beat him at every turn so they could still be brothers.

To his profound dismay, the blond man replied.

"The numbers on our plates are to identify." Padding back and forth before the stack of straws, he kept his head low, his arms about his chest. "Who purloins, evades levies, or commits murders, it'd be easier to hold us accountable as an individual. The more insulated we are, the easier it is to curtail. And curtailed of means, we grow more self-seeking, heeding only to where our next meal and burrow would be, and unaware that it'd only further our insulation, turning us all the more powerless.

"While ours are to identify, amulets of the first class unify and fortify a circle where most resources are shared by only a few. Remember the analogy of the mine?" He regarded them each in turn, one brow jutting above the other. "Their status is their mine, a shared network where their interests and crimes are all entwined that taking down any individual of any branch threatens to scuttle the whole ship. Thus, they look out for each other, and in so doing, strengthen their unity.

"But they've missed out on one crucial factor," he paused for a scoff, his head tilting. "At the end of the day, all men are but self-seeking, and the biggest threat to their unity is themselves. The Triumvirate may seem formidable, but they're also too big to respond timely to the shifts in dynamics as a whole. Our advantage resides precisely in our smallness. It gives us the agility to address changes."

Drusilla narrowed her eyes, her thumb twiddling the serial number embossed on the bronze of her amulet. "So, what makes them powerful also lulls them?"

Xeator smiled more. "If the Gods have a decree, it's everything that rises must always come to a fall. Everything." He lowered his gaze, ash blond locks flopping. "We can't lose when the Gods are on our side."

"Shall we drink to it?" Drusilla suggested, grinning as she wheeled around at Anthony. "We have wine!"

Anthony let out a grunt as he fumbled the wineskin from his sack. He unscrewed the cord. A bouquet he didn't remember to be as pungent rushed up and made him wince. He quaffed, then thrust the skin at Xeator.

Who took and passed it on to Drusilla, a streak of lightning limning their smiles.

Anthony humphed. "It's very nice and all, but what exactly are we supposed to do with the flying blades?"

"Keep it hidden," replied the blond man. "Don't use it unless it's life or death, especially you." He swiveled to Anthony, ramming the jade plate in his hand. "From now on, you own only one amulet, and it belongs to the top rank of the first class. Act like it."

Anthony felt a mixture of chills and thrills rushing up and down his spine as he reclaimed the symbol of everything he ever coveted from the other man. "Easy for you to say," he harrumphed at length. "Just because I act like a first-class doesn't mean those street rats will believe me when I tell them what this amulet means! Gods blight, we didn't even realize what we actually stole until moments ago!"

"Tell them something they don't know," Xeator observed. "Then show them what you can do."

"Like what?"

"I know!" Drusilla piped, her eyes widening. "Plant a dead rabbit or whatever in a hole under a wall, and a gold nugget in the rabbit. Tell them when and where to look, and once they find the nugget, bugger me, they'll see you like a prophet!"

"That's it?" Anthony flicked his eyes to Xeator, whose easy smile bespoke approval. "That's all?"

"That's a start." The blond man swiveled to pat his arm. "Once you've established your authority, you'll feed them."

Bemused and in dread, Anthony felt his jaw moving side to side.

"Take them to dine, wine, and whore. Let them roister. Use my gold for it." Xeator took a wad of stubs from an inner pocket and rammed it at Anthony's chest.

"Legidus' debt receipts?" Anthony scowled. "You've never claimed any of the gold we won?"

"Each receipt is for a hundred dennies," the blond man went forth, skipping the question. "Once you're in the capital, find the Legidus' trading hub, and there you should be able to convert it. Take out only the amount you need at a time to avoid drawing attention to yourself. With the gold, you should be able to feed those mendicants. Keep their stomachs full, and their hope up. Once you've led them to come to their own conclusion that you're a prophet and a messiah sent for their deliverance, they'll listen to you and do your bidding.

"As for you, little lady," he paused, whirling to Drusilla. "The stolen amulet can only allow in one man at a time. Taking you as an entourage would require other documents."

"Why wouldn't you let her take the amulet?" Anthony spurted, each timbre of his voice trembling for a heroic moment to call his. "Give her the amulet, and I'll try to sneak in at night!"

"Day or night, you can't," Xeator crooned, huffing a frazzled sigh. "The walls of Pethens are called impregnable for a reason. And even if you could fly across the walls, what would it look like when a young woman rides to the city, alone? Only members of the top four Houses carry the amulet of this design, remember? And in no circumstance should a high-born lady be seen outside the walls on horseback without an entourage. Do you not think the guards would report her on the off chance there's a runaway daughter?"

The wind rose, shrieking over the thatched roof. The front door squeaked. Leaving Anthony at a loss, he turned to Drusilla. "I'm sure you know the Scipios recruit new talents for their theaters around this time of the year."

She nodded.

"Sign up."

"That's nut!" Anthony bawled.

"It is," Xeator seconded. "And I know we've only just got you out of the Scipios'. So, if you want to walk away, now is the time."

She shook her head. A strand of hay-colored hair sprung from her warrior's braid and fell before her face. "I have nowhere else to go," she said, her storm-gray eyes brimming with spunk.

"Very well," Xeator continued. "Once you're in the city, sing poorly, dance on clumsy feet, whatever you do, don't get picked again. Don't make another oath. The recruitment is held outside the Scipios' castle in the district of the Third Hour. North of it should be a large mural fountain. You'll meet Anthony there on the fifth night upon arriving."

"Why the fifth?"

"It'd give you both the time to familiarize yourself. Besides, the Scipios always announce results on the sixth day and send out those they don't want. Meet Anthony before they do the headcount and send you out again."

She nodded, pinching her lips.

Having soaked through the thatched roof, the rain splashed on Anthony's forehead and made him sulk.

Xeator turned to him, his easy smile as prickling as the drop of the rain. "Be more thoughtful, you know," he lowered his head to his ear, his voice barely audible, his eyes flicking over the shoulder at Drusilla. "Girls like that."

"What's that?" asked Drusilla, craning her neck.

Xeator chuckled as he swung up the wineskin left on the floor. "That's between us men."

Anthony snatched the skin from him and swilled. An acetic tang singed his throat, stinging his stomach. Part of him wanted Xeator to like Drusilla. At least that way, it wouldn't feel as insulting as if he had lost a race where he was the only contestant.

They parted ways again at the break of dawn when the storm petered out to a drizzle. Xeator hugged them both in either arm. "Be safe," he hummed.

Anthony nodded and helped Drusilla mount. Clutching the reins, he turned the garron and doubled back the ridge.

Be safe. The words nagged him. Safety meant nothing when possessed. Never had he wished to be safe in another man's game.