The Banquet
Shifting in his seat, Lorenzo Legidus clasped his hands under his chin.
Assorted viands whittled with gold in impressive details glowed in the candlelight upon an impressive oval table of lacquered mahogany at least twenty meters long. Before him and every other guest, their empty plates glinted in mockery. Arrayed at the head of the table upon a dais was a gold chaise lounge upholstered with red velvet of dyed silk. Marcus Cornelius Uranus was lying on his side in the lounge. His jowl jiggled as he masticated, insulting his guests by making them watch. His wrinkled face glistened while his drab eyes dimmed.
Lorenzo recognized that look in those eyes, one of resignation, of an ire so fierce it burned out, having used up all the air in one breath. It was the look of grief he remembered when Mother died. It bowled him over to find his condolence for the fat man more heartfelt than feigned.
The Marcus Uranus he remembered was once a general who had, by fire, by swords, and by conquests, commanded a formidable legion. And his men, enamored with his strength, his appetite, his victorious feasts, and wanton womanizing, would follow him unto battles in all rough terrains, even death. But now all that swashbuckler had left were the insatiable pit in his stomach and his Lady Consort in his rear, surveying him and the table from behind the thin veil of black silk over her face.
Having done with the last plate at length, Marcus belched for all the world to listen and dabbed his thin lips with the back of a hand. "How do you like the feast?" he gibed, squinting at the expansive mosaic of Amphitrite with an arm reaching for the sea. "I thought the flamingo tongues were splendid!"
Lorenzo snuck a glance at Augustus Gaius seated near the front. Bowing his head, Augustus clamped an open palm to his chest. "A state banquet is always to be remembered, your grace," he said in his macho voice. "I propose that we use the gold at the table tonight to mint coins with the profile of Lord Domitian and spread them to the people at the Pyrrhic finals. For one, it'll commemorate Lord Domitian's departure from us into eternal life. It'll also send a message that the realm is in no way under any threat by men or gods! That we have plenty of wealth at our disposal, and you, my lord, are benevolent as you're munificent to share with his citizens!"
Let others talk. Lorenzo frowned, reflecting on Xeator's words. And the more cerebral they sound, the more it shall prove they have come prepared, while you, my lord, you'll be too grief-stricken with Domitian's tragic demise. He flicked his sad eyes to the talking man.
"Since we're all here today," Augustus went on. "I'd also like us to address the issues with the Pyrrhic finals this year. As we know, the Favorite and the Underdog are named by members of the Triumvirate based on candidates' performance, with the Favorite being named among the pugilists from the League, and the Underdog brought from the outside. But it all has changed as someone nominated a pugilist as the Underdog." Rising to his feet, he sauntered along the mahogany table. His caligae clacked across the floor behind each guest. "Someone has the balls to throw down the gauntlet, and I say, we take it up!" The clacking halted behind Lorenzo, as did the voice.
"Instead of bringing in outsiders like before." The voice resumed, but not the pacing. He hunched behind Lorenzo and squeezed his shoulders.
Even over the toga, Lorenzo could feel the callus on his hands. He kept his eyes forward, his lips primmed, cold sweat prickling his skin.
"Let's keep the fight between the pugilists this year." Augustus' voice continued behind him. "I'd like to propose that we also name the Favorite from Scipio's league, sending the message loud and clear to whoever means us harm that the League will be the biggest winner either way, and there is no winning when you bet against the Praetor Maximus and his Triumvirate!"
In a spectacular collapse, Lorenzo's mental ramparts burst asunder. If Marcus nodded at this proposal, all his investments in hiring the sellswords went down the drain! Must he have been played! By the little cunt! That Underdog! Stifling a shudder, he slowly turned to the gold chaise longue on the dais.
Marcus had pushed himself up. His drab eyes looked over a small heap of plates at his guests. His bullous nose broadened as he wheezed. "We bring in fighters from the outside so the people would think they can voice their bloody grievance, rewrite their fate, and challenge the authority the League has embodied. If it ends with a fight between the pugilists as you suggest, what's there for them to watch?"
Augustus' grip loosened and slipped away from Lorenzo's shoulders. He swiveled to the front. "But remember, your grace," he said. "The purpose of the Pyrrhic Battles has always meant for a diversion, showcasing the kind of power they thirst for but could never possess. So long as the fight is violent and grisly enough, it makes no difference who shall be in the fight." Taking a strategic lull for his words to register, "Besides," he resumed. "I'd also like to propose a card game before the fight."
"A card game?" Marcus leaned forward, propping an elbow upon his lap. He bobbed his heavy head, gesturing for Augustus to elaborate.
Proceeding to the front, Augustus stood sidelong between the chaise longue and the table of guests with his hands behind him.
"In the game, the Favorite and the Underdog will each be given a set of four cards. The Favorite will have three Fighter cards and one Favorite in his set, whereas the Underdog will have three Fighters and one Underdog. Favorite beats Fighter beats Underdog that beats Favorite."
"But the odds for the Favorite to win are much bigger." Across the mahogany table, Romulus Scipio objected, stroking the folds of his chin with his pudgy fingers adorned with rings.
Augustus seemed to have smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Of course, my dear Romulus. The chance for the Favorite to win is much higher. That's why the game will have ten rounds. The Favorite will have to win five times to declare victory, whereas the Underdog will do with just once."
"Then what? What does it have to do with the fight?" asked Marcus, raising his eyes. From afar at where Lorenzo sat, it looked as if his pupils had disappeared altogether, leaving only the murky white under those heavy lids.
"The winner gets to fight with whatever weapon he chooses; the loser, however, has to do with a blunt blade."
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Two guards flanked Xeator, gripping his shoulders as they shoved him against a sidewall in the moonlit courtyard fronting Lorenzo's residence. Their scabbard crossed before his neck, throttling him like a garrotte. He could feel the chill of steel blades behind the leather.
"Are you a mole?" Lorenzo asked; his eyes narrowed, drilling at his subject. "Was it Augustus that old snake who planted you in the League? Was he also the one who nominated you as the Underdog?"
Locks of hair straggled before his eyes. Xeator looked up at the gibbous moon half hidden behind a single tuft of cloud. "Would you believe it even if I told the truth?"
"When I ask, you answer!"
Feeling more strain around his neck, Xeator rasped with a chuckle, "Let your guards draw their swords and be done with me if it pleases you, my lord." Pressing the crown of his head against the wall, he shut his eyes. "But that really will be the end of all your investments!"
He felt the grips loosen. Caligae clacked the flagstones while the guards fell back behind Lorenzo. He snapped open his eyes, his hand about his neck. "Even if the Praetor has agreed to the card game, a game as meticulous reeks of wiles. The more he dwells on the details, the more fervent his suspicion will grow. Just give it time."
Lorenzo only regarded him without a stir in those large green eyes.
"When Lord Romulus Scipio objected to the game, saying the odds for the Favorite to win are much bigger, what did Lord Gaius reply?" Xeator went forth. "Aw, that the Favorite will have to win five times to declare victory. Sounds like he's doing the Underdog a favor, isn't he? Except the math is all wrong."
"How?"
Upturning his sword, Xeator scrawled on the sand with the pommel. "A favorite beats a fighter that beats an underdog that beats a favorite," he intoned, pointing at the sand.
Knitting his brows, Lorenzo squinted at where the hilt tipped.
"Set I: III Fighter & I Fav
Set II: III Fighter & I UD
Fav to win:
I. Fighter > UD: ¾ x ¼ = 18.75%
II. Fav > Fighter: ¼ x ¾ = 18.75%
Total: 37.5%
UD to win:
I. UD > Fav: ¼ x ¼ = 6.25%
Total: 6.25%
37.5%÷6.25%=6
"The Favorite has a total of thirty-seven point five percent the chance to win," Xeator explained. "Whereas for the Underdog, the chance is only six point twenty-five percent. And there you have the chance for me to lose in each round, which is exactly six times higher. In other words, the Favorite should be required to win six times out of the ten rounds to make it fair." Tipping his head to the shoulder as he glimpsed Lorenzo sideways, he thudded the hilt by his feet. "Lord Augustus must have done the math or have the math done for him. While his proposal with the card game will indeed make the fight more interesting, it has been months since I was nominated the Underdog, and why didn't he bring it earlier? Another cue for the Praetor's suspicion."
Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Lorenzo's gaze fraught with the same suspicion of which he tried to rid himself. The chill of the night rustled fallen leaves. Suspicion, he thought, like the dead leaves, while they might take off the ground for a few breaths, once fallen, they could never return to the trees. He couldn't reverse Lorenzo's suspicion; he could, however, correct his ill-fated investments. Parrying for time to think, he asked, "Pardon me for asking, my lord, but did you confirm that Lord Augustus had indeed proposed to mint the coins with the profile of Domitian Uranus?"
Lorenzo snorted, "You heard what I said."
"And the goldsmiths you have kindly commissioned?"
"What about them?"
"What if it isn't Lord Domitian's profile?" Xeator allowed a small chuckle as he urged on, his eyes riveted on the lord. "What if it's the profile of Julius Gaius, their beloved Commander General?"
Wind dispersed the tuft of cloud, revealing the moon that cast Lorenzo in a pale glow.
"What about all the denarii I've placed on the mercenaries?"
"You'll still have use for them." Gnawing his bottom lip, Xeator smiled. "Winning the bet has never been your true objective, my lord. When the time comes for you to ride north and take out Julius Gaius, you'll be fighting in his territory. You need the mercenaries who know the terrains and weather, who have come across Julius' men in the past and know their habits. Everything has fallen into our plan, and you've wasted nothing."
"Haven't I?" Lorenzo cocked a brow. Nothing moved except the slithering draft, billowing their garments, and the Legidus' banner snapped atop the parapets around the courtyards.
"You're still concerned about the chance I'll end with a blunt blade," Xeator chuckled. "I beg of you, my lord, do not raise any objection to the Praetor."
"Why?"
"For one, your grief for his loss needs to be consistent, and you must keep mourning for Lord Domitian as if it was your only priority now."
"And two, playing the fool shall keep Lord Gaius in a false sense of security so no more plots will be devised against you. As for how I shall win with a blunt blade."
He uncinched his amulet and pointed it sidelong at a nearby tree. At the flick of a thumb, a pin sprung off, thrusting forward a diminutive karambit. The blade scythed across the night and dug into the trunk. "No rule says no amulet."
"Tell me, lad," said Lorenzo, his large green eyes didn't take a moment off him. "When the time comes for you to kill one of your brothers, will you be able to flick off the pin?"
"Brothers?" Xeator risked a wider smile. "I'm a single child, my lord."