"In these games, I am wary of everyone," Miros said without looking up. "That is why I wrap my knees."

"Perhaps it is the year that The Knife will chop down The-Tree-That-Would-Not-Fall," Plinates said.

Miros looked up quickly. If Plinates had not been the head of the Council of Elders and the best friend of Ms late father, he would have told the older man to leave the tent. But that would be disrespectful. He looked back down and resumed wrapping his left knee.

"Perhaps you are not ready," Plinates said.

"Not ready?" Miros said. It almost seemed as if Plinates was taunting him. "Not ready? Today, Plinates, I could wrestle the world and win. Not ready?" He laughed, a heavy, deep laugh that filled his barrel chest with air.

"That is too bad," Plinates said.

Miros looked up in surprise, dropping his linen wrappings to the dirt of the tent floor,

"Because today you are going to lose," the older man said. His pale blue eyes stared calmly at Miros, and the wrestler searched them for the sign of the

4

jest he was sure must come. But there was no jest. Plinates was serious.

"What are you talking about?" Miros said.

"You are going to lose today. The Council of Elders has decreed it."

"Fortunately," Miros said, "the council's ways are not my ways and council edicts have very little to do with wrestling."

"That is true," Plinates said. "This edict has nothing to do with wrestling. It has to do with government and with war. You will lose."

"But why?" Miros asked. He still did not understand. "So Ottonius of Kuristes is strong. And he is young. But he is also arrogant and foolish and he spends his life loosely on women and wine. He will never beat me."

"True enough," Plinates said. "But nevertheless he will win."

"How?" Miros asked.

"Because you will let him," Plinates said.