13.

Julius hunkered over the massive mahogany table in the back of his yurt. Before him were spread the maps of the north, whose every ridge and indentation he knew like the back of his hand. He knitted his brows, his forefinger flitting across the ink drawing of sierra surrounding his campsite. 

The blond man was right, he thought, rapping his knuckles on the map. The Turisians wouldn't sneak in using the mountain routes bristled with traps his men had set. The horsemen excelled fighting on open grounds where they could be flexible. He and Lorenzo must work together should they lure the enemy to their disadvantage. 

"Sit up!" 

The gruff voice jolted Julius out of his thoughts. He glanced up. 

Sergius Valerius prodded the blond man in his back with the pommel of his sword, sending him to sink to his knees. The shackle clunked around his hands. 

"I don't feel too well, Julius," the blond man japed in ragged breaths. 

"How dare you call the General by his name?" Valerius hauled him up from the floor, gripping his neck. 

Julius frowned. "Put him down."

"But General," Valerius protested. "The lad has been so presumptuous he asks for a lesson!" 

"I said put him down!" Julius loped to the brazier. He considered the disheveled man, then turned to Valerius. "Find Master Tacitus and bring him here." 

"But Master Tacitus is your personal healer!" 

"So?" 

Stumped for a reply, Valerius grumbled an apology. He shoved the captive to the floor and snapped away in his armor. His caligae clacked as he shuffled to a cacophony of creaking wheels amidst the skirling wind. 

Julius plopped in a seat across the brazier. Musing on the blond man, he asked, "Do you know me?" 

The blond man coughed and wheezed, leaning sidelong against the leg of an oak chair. "Who doesn't?" he rasped with a chuckle. "You're the youngest Commander General in Renanian history, our hero."

Julius scoffed. Tugging the pelt draping from the back of his seat, he hurled it over the brazier. "And how long have you known me?" Like a fishing net, the pelt swooped down on the blond man. 

Who squirmed, tucking himself under the pelt, his mouth an upward curve, squeezing out a dimple under the eyepatch. "Long enough to know that frigid weather never bothers you." 

Julius raised his gaze, his head low. He hunched forward, leaning on the elbows against his lap. "Do I know you?"

"Gods blight," the blond man chortled. "How else would we be talking?" 

"Have we met before?" 

Rustling under the pelt, he didn't reply. His ash blond hair fell in strands, silhouetting his profile.

"Have we met before?"

"No." 

"You don't sound too sure."

"General, you've agreed not to–"

"... to ask you who you are. I haven't." 

He laughed more, shaking under the pelt. "Fair play."

"Turn around and look at me when you answer," Julius asked again. "Have we met before?" His throat felt dry, his tongue clinging to the roof of his jaws; ineffable nerves prickled his skin.

The blond man slowly sat up. Iron clanged as he shifted to face him. "No," he pronounced, his voice unswerving. "And since you aren't going to let it go, I'll tell you. My name is Moon Xeator. In case you haven't heard, I'm the Underdog who lost an eye at the Pyrrhic finals this year. And I've never met you, General Julius, until this morning." He met Julius's gaze, his one eye an emerald glint. 

"Moon Xeator," Julius mused, jutting out his chin. "You're right. I've never met a man with such a name. But who were you before you became this Moon Xeator?" He clapped his thigh and wiggled a forefinger. "Aw, I've agreed not to ask you who you are. Again, I haven't. I asked you who you were."

The blond man sat still. "Every man has a past, General," he crooned. "But the past is the past, isn't it? Doesn't matter now, does it?" 

"Hmm," Julius shrugged, nodding, his eyes fastened on the other, whose outlines bobbled behind the fire fizzling atop the thistle brazier. Leaning to his left, he snatched from the floor a ceramic amphora coated with the painting of the hurdling manticore. Clutching its neck, he tipped the mouth of the vessel at his lips. "But you aren't just any man." He dabbed his mouth with the back of his wrist. "You came here to wreak havoc. But upon learning Ahmed's ulterior intent, you immediately jettisoned your plan even when it'd likely be at the cost of your own life. This leaves out the possibility that you're working with or for the Turisians. So, what will it make you? Someone with a vengeance, perchance? If so, you would be a man of the past, and not just of any past, but the past that threatens the legitimacy of the present. So, you tell me, does it matter?"

The blond man stared emptily across the fire. His lower lip hung detached from the upper as though holding the weight of words that had long submerged. He strained his face to mime a smile. "May I have a drink?"

Julius guffawed, wrenching back his head. "Will it help you spill the truth?" He took another swig that doused his mirthless guffaw. 

A chute of daylight thrust through the wall flaps and ushered in Sergius Valerius. Behind him followed a man garbed in layers of beige toga draped with a heavy cloak spun of wool. Slinging across his shoulder was a sandalwood box. He lifted his hood, revealing an oblong face and a head of fawn locks in a warrior braid. Foiled by an aquiline nose, his bright eyes were ever watchful. He bowed, crooking one arm before his chest. "General," he said, his voice clear and even like a flowing spring. 

Julius put down the amphora as he rose to greet the man. "Master Tacitus," he said. "Apologies for having troubled you. If treating the enemy is indeed something you despise, please say so." 

Tacitus shook his head. Tapping on the sandalwood box on his side. "All men are but the same before death." 

Julius leaned out a hand, gesturing to the blond man on the floor. "Do keep him alive, Master. He holds strategic value to us." 

The healer nodded and crouched before his patient. 

Standing before them, Julius narrowed his gaze to a half smile. "A baseborn? A relative?" he scoffed. "I don't know who you're exactly, but you must have something to do with the civil war over thirteen years ago. And it shouldn't be Lorenzo or my wife but with you, I shall start my bargain with Pethens."

Seized by a paroxysm of cough, the blond man dropped to his side. Huddling himself in a fetal position, he croaked, "So be it."