20.

The second snow of the year. 

Julius thought, looking up as the flurry drifted from the clouds. He lowered his gaze at the man he thought had died nearly fourteen years ago. 

"You've always been ambitious, that's no news," the blond man continued, chuckling after a fit of cough. "What's new to me is how you've humbled over the years while taking the hard road, gaining first-hand battle skills by pitching camps away from the luxury of the capital. You've become the general both once aspired to. At least one of us made it. I'm happy for you." He turned to him with a smile. 

Julius felt at a loss. Moments of the past resurfaced, of the littlest things, the forgettable things, of laughter and them giving each other a hard time. But it wasn't until now did he realize how these trivial moments had carried the weight of meaning down the years than they should. Words hung on his tongue in knobs. He shook his head, willing his thoughts to put aside the past and make room for the present. "If you've planned all along for Lorenzo to take down Marcus," he remarked after a lull. "Why bother suggesting I leverage Ariadne with Pethens for my autonomy?"

"Timing," the blond man replied tersely. Seeing Julius quirk his brows, he went on, "While I suspect that your wife isn't the biggest fan of our Praetor, she is his daughter after all, and I wasn't sure how she would react to the suggestion of you taking down her own father. Better for me to wait and say during her absence. And whatever you decide, it'll be between you and her. 

"In addition," He paused to catch his breath. "Lorenzo may have the appetite, he won't have the guts to act on it but continue staging his fealty to Pethens until the time is right. Nobody knew until moments ago that you shall fight alongside him as allies. You, of all people, and your legion, are labeled by Pethens as rebels. What will it say about our Praetor after the so-called rebels drive off the Turisian invasion? However disturbed and disturbing a man Lorenzo may be, he is no oaf. He probably has already tumbled to what I've just said, that the time for him to act has arrived." Seized by another paroxysm of cough, he bent forward and stooped. 

"We should go inside," Julius grabbed his arm. But the blond man shook him off. "You've seen how the trenches work. Now go inside before the cold kills you!" Julius commanded. 

"Let me finish," protesting in a ragged breath, he glanced up sideways, his hands clutching either knee, his grin boyishly willful and dismissive. "The primal concern then was to keep your wife safe from Ahmed and the assassins he sent." He straightened his back, sweeping tousled strands to the crown of his head; his head reared, as did his arrow-straight nose, red on the tip from the cold and all the sneezing. "But now, you need to keep her safe from Lorenzo. As he realized that his time had come to topple Pethens, your wife no longer holds any strategic value to him. She must leave. Now."

"Weren't you the one who said it's too late for an escape?" Julius grunted. The cold irony made a return in his voice, dousing out any warmth he had gleaned toward the other man. Everything he detested about him loomed still over his head. 

"And if I remember correctly, you agreed. No?" 

"I did only because it's true!"

"So, what's the problem?"

"How is it any less dangerous now?" he spat. Did his anger fester because he resented the blond man for his treacherous plans? Or was it because he had fallen in stride behind those plans, desperate to catch up? 

Has it always been like this since we were boys? 

The blond man coughed more and clapped his own chest. "The change of focus," he answered, displaying a sneer, impatient but proud, like a stallion too far ahead in a race. "Back then, both the Turisian and Lorenzo only had to think about you and how to intercept your wife. But now, each side has more than they can stomach as they prepare for battle, and Ariadne falls out of the focal point as a result." 

Through the back of the arsenal, ten men-at-arms hauled and shoved the frame of a trebuchet on creaking wheels. Over a short distance, Lextus Frontius stuttered, requiring a heavier counterweight to be replaced. Julius balled his fists, torn by a hodgepodge of frustration, jitters, and rage, for which he found no explanation or outlet. 

Engrossed in thoughts, the blond man paid his distress no heed. "As for Lorenzo," he went forth. "After the war, he could be quite a nuisance if not a plight. You need to negotiate terms with him on how to share the victory before the fighting begins–"

"What victory?" Julius cut him short. He looked daggers. "Did you actually think the Turisians would dare come to our borders had it not been for the scheming and plotting we've hatched against ourselves? No, it isn't the Turisians, or the Exonians, or the Senecans that destroy us! Our kleptocracy does! We destroy us! Shouldn't you be thinking about how to actually earn the victory before you plot to make use of it?"

The blond man quieted for a long time. Slowly turning toward Julius, he dropped to one knee. "I wouldn't recommend that which I respect you for, but I respect you for it," he said, his voice earnest, his head bowed. "I've told you, I only want to fight alongside you this time, General." 

As his voice fell, the flurry stopped. Clouds scattered, revealing the moon. 

Julius pulled him up. "On your feet, Claudius. You kneel to no one. Don't you forget it!"

The other man said nothing, his lips primmed, ash blond locks straggling over the diamond cut face sullen and thin. His eye faltered at the sound of the name that must have struck deep. 

Julius loosed his grip and clapped his shoulder. It was their way of saying forget it. "Moon Xeator," he chuckled. "What were you thinking when you came up with such an alias?"

The blond man tempted a smile. "You know my old man always said, all warfare is based on deceptions, like– "

"The theater." 

They both chuckled. 

"And Moon?"

"I was looking at the moon when I met a friend. After I fled Pethens, he was the first to ask for my name." The smile he had only a moment ago frosted. "It's about time Lorenzo holds the seance." He changed the subject. "Shall we check on the trebuchet?" 

Julius nodded. Surveying the man from the corner of his eyes, he tried to imagine what these years had done to him. When this was over, could they still cuff arms like before? Then, he thought of his own father, who must be rotting in a squalid dungeon cell. He thought of the decapitated head of Quirinus with the gaping mouth. His surroundings churned to a roaring maelstrom while all his hope fled.

No. 

Falling behind the blond man, he shut his eyes. 

We can't go back now.