12.

Lorenzo settled behind a trestle desk, unsettled. Every voice raced in volume under the rumbling roof of yak skins, raving for his attention. 

"I can vouch for him!" Marius Ectorius bawled, pointing at a lithe man with flaxen curls and smiling amber eyes. "He's the first infiltrator to the north! Had it not been for the tidings he'd provided, things wouldn't have gone as smoothly as we planned! It's the prophet who's been lying!" He shot his glaring eyes at Ulpius Attianus. 

Who threw his arms in the air. "Me?" Ulpius cried, turning to Lorenzo as he dropped to his knees. "My lord! I've served you for half of my life! And may all the gods be my witnesses that I've only been loyal! But this wicked man, as vile a rogue ever lived, who seeks to sow discord, and whose reason for accusation isn't dialectical but diabolical!" 

Lorenzo rubbed his furrowed brow. Behind him, Omari Ahmed hovered and cackled like a vulture, his constant snorting another source of exasperation. Atop a brazier on three cabriole legs, the fire sputtered, donning a ruddy glow on every face that glistened as though melting tallow.

"Come forward, lad," He flicked his gaze at the lithe man with blond curls.

The young man obliged. 

"Name?"

"Cyprian Mamecus, m'lord." 

"Cyprian." Lorenzo nodded. "Tell us what you have been told about the mole."

"Not much, lest I get caught and interrogated. Only the names of men Lord Attianus had recruited of late. Two stable boys and three kitchen crews. And we know it's Pollux because, well, Lord Attianus told me so."Cyprian bowed his head, his eyes up, flashing in them a teasing smile, which Lorenzo disliked. 

"You've tricked me!" Ulpius Attianus jabbed an arm at Cyprian, his forefinger wobbling. "You and your…"

"Silence!" Lorenzo slammed his palm on the trestle desk as he lurched to his feet. Feeling his knees buckle, he propped on both hands. The first time he met the prophet almost half a lifetime ago, Ulpius Attianus was still a debonair young man, who wore fine silk treaded with silver and inlaid with gems. Now he was but a wizened, old fool, who centered no one but himself and saw nothing beyond the short radius from what he believed to be the focal point. 

But haven't we all erred in the same narrowness?  

Lorenzo scoffed, huffing a long sigh. 

The molten lust he had for the prophet had long hardened to dull rocks, and so too, ironically, had been Ulpius' position in House Legidus. He had grown privy to too many private anecdotes that involved too many important names. And as he had sidled up and slunk his way deep into a throbbing web of interests that bound every thread to the same fate, it became impossible to rid him, provisionally or otherwise. Ulpius knew it and played it to his advantage, all the while taking to a patrician life at ease. For years, Lorenzo had sought reasons to slough him off. Now that reason had fallen into his lap, and Ulpius dropped it himself! 

Lorenzo threw back his head and laughed, his arms folding about his chest. "Pardon me," he broke his laugh, then sat down again. "Just thought of a really funny joke." He resumed his usual demeanor. 

Ahmed's vexing cackle sounded again from behind. "Care to share, m'lord? We can all use a laugh, eh? Let's…"

Daylight thrust in through the wall flaps before the Turisian could finish. Lorenzo's squire trotted in. 

"M'lord!" cried the squire. "The first northern legion has sent an envoy!" he panted, brown eyes widening under the iron helm, his nostrils flaring. 

Air thickened between tense eyes. Lorenzo lowered, clenching his hands. Something must have gone askew. Did the infiltrators blow it? "Send him in," he said in a voice as measured as his nerves would permit.

"Bu, but," the squire stuttered. "H-he insists he'd wait for you outside."

Lorenzo cocked a brow, turning to Marius. "Watch the snitch." He flicked his eyes at the floor where Ulpius kneeled. 

Marius stood astride and bowed. He snatched up Ulpius by the arm, dragging him to the side of the trestle desk. 

Groveling on his knees, Ulpius groped for Lorenzo's sleeve, his cataract eyes imploring. "I've only wanted to serve you, my lord!" he wailed. "You must believe me! For I tell the truth! What good is there for me to betray you? My lord!" 

Lorenzo didn't spare him another glance as he headed out. Out of sight but not quite out of mind, he found himself brooding over Ulpius' plea. What good was there for him? The answer, or rather the lack of it, nipped him. Infinite wheels whirled within one another, squeaking indefinitely. He felt sick in the stomach. 

Hissing with a sigh, he lifted the wall flaps and dipped out his head. The wind screeched, threatening to lynch him. He gazed up, his palm shading over his eyes. Under the somber spires mantled in gleaming snow, a great forest of pine trees slanted up, cresting to a higher terrace shielded from his view. He withdrew his gaze to the head of his encampment. The envoy had dismounted, waiting by a snapping banner of the three-headed eagle. 

A burly man with a barrel chest, he wore riding leather and silvered mail under a flapping tabard trimmed with the Gaius' sigil of a hurdling manticore. His hands were gloved, his eyes gleaming from a broad face framed by a crimped beard the color of burnished flint. 

"Lord Lorenzo," said the envoy as he bowed. "You've traveled a long and treacherous road. On behalf of General Julius, I wish you good health." 

"I'd be in perfect health had the General not tried to put a permanent end to it," he jested. 

"Friendship grows out of unexpected places, such as an excellent exchange of blows." The envoy beamed. "General Julius has good faith in his pending rapport with you."

"Pending rapport?" Lorenzo chortled. "Many things are pending from where I look, but rapport isn't among them." 

The envoy glimpsed at the guards flanking the front of the tent behind. His lips quirked, first into a half smile, then, a sudden grimace. With a cry of pain, he dropped to the snow-patched ground, his eyes pleading. "Can you give me a hand, m'lord? I've hurt my legs of late. And the cold air isn't doing it any favor." As he spoke, he held up a hand, a small scroll peering through his crooked fingers. 

Lorenzo squinted, surveying his surroundings out of the corner of his eyes. He grabbed the envoy's hand, clawing into his palm as he pulled him to his feet. 

"Thank you, m'lord," said the envoy, his lips curling skywards again. "It's unfortunate that you don't feel as strongly about our future friendship. I shall return and be sure that General Julius gets the message." He took another bow and whirled to his mount. Keeping his act consistent, he pretended to clamber on top his mount. Hooves clopped, sending up slush. 

Lorenzo uncoiled his hand with his back to the guards. The willful handwriting he recognized unfolded before his eyes. His brows clasped. He felt cold, as though his feet had frosted to a plinth of ice. Digesting the words, he swiveled back to the tent. A gush of warmth swaddled him the moment he lifted the wall flaps, calling him home. Never had he thought that such necessity as warmth could wear down the will of a man as would luxury. How he ached for the tender humidity of Pethens and the cradles of young men. Padding back to the brazier, he scanned everyone in the snaking shadows of the sputtering fire. 

The Turisian looked bored. Clapping his cheek, he yawned. "What does the General boy want?" He sounded indifferent, his ebony eyes rolling like beads. 

Lorenzo balled his hands on his back. "The infiltrators had burned Julius' granary to the ground." he lied with a pleased, half smile. "Of course, such victory is earned at a great cost. Three of our men were dead, and the rest were taken hostage. Julius sent the envoy to negotiate the terms on which they should be returned. But I declined."

"You can't just leave them, m'lord!" The lucky centurion hopped forward. "Others, others may think that you'll desert them too when it's convenient! It can't be good for morale!" 

Lorenzo glimpsed him, his hand squeezing the papyrus. If Marius objects, tell him this - "Veni, vidi, vici, and you'll have to trust me on this, Marius." He recited, flabbergasted at how the words worked like a rune on the man. 

Marius gaped and bowed his head. 

"But you're right, lad," favoring him with a half smile, Lorenzo continued. "About the morale, we'll hold a seance before the battle. The prophet will beg the gods on behalf of all our men taken hostage for their access to the second life – lest the worst shall come to them – and promise the rest that they, too, shall gain such access if they brave a glorious death." Casting a downward glance at Ulpius quivering on the floor, he snorted, "Looks like you've just got yourself a chance to redeem yourself." 

"You Renanians are dull as old nans' tits!" Ahmed grunted. "Hold your rite or whatever. I've got better things to entertain." Stretching his lips for another hideous yawn, he sauntered out. 

Marius tailed him with a furious stare. "Should we let him wander around like that? And why a seance? Pardon me, m'lord, why should the snitch deserve a second chance?" He swiveled to Ulpius, his eyes brimming with spite.

"What do you think that we do, so can the Turisians understand?" Lorenzo asked in reply. "Our food? The horsemen spit on our diets. Our values? They'd trample on them with horseshoes if they could." Shaking his head, he contemplated the crackling fire. "No," he resumed. "Men do not share their pain or joy. What could mean the world to one means little to another. And yet we understand each other. We sympathize. How? Well, we all share the same fear of death. It is with the fear of death, we learn to fear nothingness, of having nothing, and of becoming nothing. That's how we understand the pain of losing, be it to lose a friend or a son, wealth or health, our dignity or pride, and the joy of gaining them. But all these, the feelings we've consecrated as our humanity, trace back to the animalistic fear of death, which really isn't anything divine at all." 

Smiling almost regretfully, he wheeled himself around to Marius. "The Turisians understand our fear of death as they too fear it. The smug one outside may regard our seance as craven, but despite his contempt, he wouldn't object because covertly, he too yearns for the promise of our religion. Not to mention how it'll wear off his suspicion." 

"Suspicion of what?" 

"That we're delaying attacks on purpose."

"But why?" Marius demurred, his thick eyebrows wriggling into an arch. "We're in the enemy's territory. If we're to take out Julius, we should strike fast!"

"Do not delay attacks when in enemy's territory," Lorenzo mused, nodding. "That's indeed what we learn and teach in strategies. But the best kind of strategist always changes plans according to what's given and keeps his moves unexpected." Glancing cautiously at the prophet, he turned to the brazier. His hand uncoiled. The papyrus spun, caught in the tongues of flame, and charred to oblivion.

"Be patient, lad," he said, glancing at Marius. "Victory is seldom earned on the battleground but in its setup."