by Vox Day
The loud buzz of conversation filling the crowded wooden stands abruptly stopped as a herald wearing the royal crimson stepped out onto the red dirt track that served as the arena sands and blew a fanfare. To the Amorrans’ mystified amazement, the herald was followed by a strange little man wearing a bizarrely colorful outfit and a strange green-and-yellow hat who first capered stupidly about, then abruptly bent over and exposed his bottom at the crowd.
This provoked a gale of laughter from the Savondese around them, and the two young officers, astonished, looked at each other, wondering what the northerners could possibly find so funny. The little man wiggled his bottom, then stood up and capered off, which met with further cheers and applause.
“Either there is something we’re missing or they are a very stupid people,” Trebonius concluded. Marcus wasn’t so sure. He’d seen what passed for humor in the Amorran arena, and at least the Savondese version was considerably less bloody and cruel.
An official-looking personage now stepped out onto the track. He was holding a staff with a bit of ribbon tied to the end, although neither Marcus nor Trebonius understood what it signified. He turned to one gladiator and raised it; after the gesture was acknowledged by the dipping of the massive lance, he turned and saluted the other rider. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as he then stepped back from the track, away from the pavilion and raised it a third time.
The people in the stands erupted when the staff struck the earth, followed by the slow thudding of the hooves as the knights urged their steeds forward and the giant horses gradually built up speed. The beasts were ponderous, and they were far from quick off the mark, but they were big, powerful creatures, and soon the thudding transformed into rhythmic thunder. And just as they were hitting their full speed, the two gladiators came together with violent force.
Encased in metal or not, there were most certainly brave men inside those shining turtle shells, Marcus found himself thinking. Neither gladiator slowed, and each man aimed his lance at the breastplate of his onrushing opponent. There was a tremendous metallic crash, accompanied by a sharp crack like a tree falling, and then the warrior who had been riding from the left reeled and fell heavily to the ground like a knight pierced through the skull by a crossbow bolt. The other gladiator swayed a little as the other’s lance struck his painted shield and shattered, but he managed to stay in the saddle and gallop on.
Somewhat to his surprise, Marcus found himself on his feet and shouting, although he wasn’t entirely sure for what, or for whom, he was shouting. Trebonius was standing right beside him, one fist raised, screaming in triumph as if they were in Amorr, watching an underdog score an unexpected kill.
“Damn, but that was better than the arena!” one of the knights behind them enthused.
“Can’t feel good hitting the ground that hard.”
“Ah, he’s fine. He’s fine! Look, he’s getting up already.” True enough, several young men had come out to help the downed gladiator get back on his feet in his heavy armor as another man caught his riderless horse and passed its reins to the assistant who had come galloping down on a much smaller horse. The crowd cheered politely as the defeated man raised a hand to them, but they cheered much more loudly as the victor rode past in returning to his starting place and dipped his lance to them.
The crowd noise mostly subsided, but now its blood was up, the discussions were louder and more animated, and the sense of energy and anticipation filling it was palpable to the Amorrans. Marcus found himself wishing he’d had the foresight to bring a skin of wine with him, or even water, as he had the impression that his throat was going to be well-parched by the end of the day’s games.
“Say, isn’t that lord high-and-mighty’s boy?” Trebonius pointed to a young man wearing the prince’s red, who looked vaguely familiar. He was walking down along the front of the stands, peering up into it as if he was looking for someone.
“That’s His Royal High-and-Mighty to you, viscomte,” Marcus corrected him. Neither of them had found themselves overly impressed with Étienne-Henri or his courtiers on the long ride to Lutèce. The Red Prince was sharp enough, and he could be amusingly witty at times, but his sly arrogance and pompous bearing grew quickly grew tiresome.
“Think he might be looking for us?” Trebonius glanced down at what they were wearing. In an attempt not to stand out, they were both dressed in tunics and pantalons cut in the Savondese style that one of the prince’s men had given them. They also wore ridiculous blue floppy hats made out of a strange, soft material that were apparently now in fashion, although they only did so under advisement, to protect themselves from the hot spring sun.
“Get his attention and see.”
Trebonius dutifully stood up and waved his hat, prompting the young man to gesture to them that they should come down from the stands. They left the three knights where they were, with strict admonitions not to get drunk, not to pursue any woman whose virtue was not for sale, and not to start any fights.
“Shouldn’t you have told them not to get into any fights?” he asked Trebonius.
The tribune grinned. “And you’re worried they won’t trust us if we gamble? They’re soldiers in a strange city on a festival day. Chances are one in three that some fools will attempt to start something with them. You can’t tell them not to defend themselves.” He reconsidered. “Well, you can tell them, but they won’t listen. Didn’t your father say to never give an order you know won’t be obeyed?”
Marcus had to agree that Trebonius had the right of it.
The prince’s man greeted them. “Seigneur Valerius, Viscomte de Lechaire, did you not know you are guests in the royal box?”
The two Amorrans looked at each other. “No,” Marcus answered. “The prince suggested that we should see the combats, so we made our way here after breakfast.”
The young man was too polite to say anything about their faux pas, but he did blink several times and stare at them with a fixed smile before managing to decide what to say. “His Royal Highness will be pleased to have you join him now, I’m sure. If you will come with me?”
Trebonius chuckled and Marcus shook his head. They’d argued over whether the Red Prince’s suggestion had been an invitation or not, and it appeared Trebonius had been correct. They made their way towards the center of the stands, and right in the middle was an elevated area large enough for twenty or thirty people, accessible by a wooden staircase that was guarded by no less than ten armed guards wearing the king’s livery.
“You can hardly expect me to have assumed we were to sit here,” Marcus muttered in a low voice.
“My mother always told me patricians had beautiful manners and I must emulate them if I was to advance myself. I rather look forward to returning to Amorr one day and disabusing her of the notion.”
“You do recall the fate of my dear cousin?”
“Even he never spurned a prince’s invitation,” Trebonius pointed out accurately.
Fortunately, Étienne-Henri was in far too festive spirits to mind, or even notice, that they were attending upon him. He greeted them effusively, with kisses on both cheeks, his dark eyes sparkling with good humor. Marcus did his best to smile broadly as he tried to surreptitiously wipe his cheeks dry with the back of his hand.
“My friends, my friends, how pleased I am to see you are here after all! Have you seen the jousts before?”
When Marcus admitted they had not, the prince cheerfully launched into an explanation that was sufficiently detailed to reveal that he was not merely an enthusiast, but had taken part in what was apparently called “the lists” from time to time himself.
“Today, however, I do not ride. As the combats are being given in the honor of my victory—what do I say, I mean, of course, to say our mutual victory—over the miserable verdards, it would not be proper for me to take up the lance this day.”
Marcus found himself forced to silently re-evaluate the arrogant heir to the Savondese throne. He might not be worth a
damn as a general or much inclined to take the field, that much Marcus had gleaned from their conversations on the road, but it was clear he was no coward. Armor or no armor, there was no man alive who could ride headlong towards a lance aimed at his chest without possessing an ample quantity of courage. Marcus certainly had no intention of trying it himself, as it seemed a good way to break one’s back even if one escaped impalement.
The fanfare blew and the herald announced that one sieur whose name Marcus didn’t catch was riding against another sieur whose name meant absolutely nothing to him. He did, however, now grasp that these riders were no slaves nor even common soldiers, but equestrians, and even lords, and he gathered that the king himself had been a champion of the lists in his day.
Bets were flying back and forth between the various men in the room, and even some of the ladies were getting involved, wagering kisses against gold, or in one case, a silver necklace against a fine dagger. Trebonius looked at him with pleading eyes; it hadn’t escaped Marcus’s attention that this was very nearly the last place they needed to worry about their knights seeing anything they did.
“If you must, viscomte,” he said, laying particular stress on the tribune’s strange foreign title.
Trebonius beamed and immediately stuck his head out the open side of the structure, attempting to survey the two knights, although how he was going to make a determination between the one and the other, Marcus could not imagine. Did the size of the horse matter? Was it the size or the skill of the man that counted more, and how could the latter be ascertained? One could hardly come to a conclusion based on the way the men sat their mounts; he had seen stuffed saddlebags that rode a horse more easily than the heavily armored knights.
It wasn’t long before the crowd was roaring and the two horsemen were galloping towards each other, lances high. This time, both men stayed upright following their collision, although one shattered his lance while the other merely broke the tip of his. Marcus was a little confused by the shouts of triumph and disappointment, until one of the prince’s men explained that there were bets on broken lances as well as certain desirable strikes of one sort or another.
Then three women entered the already-crowded box, and Marcus caught his breath. All three of the women were fair, but the tallest one, the second to enter, had skin so pale and unblemished that she might have been a half-elf. Not since Caitlys had departed for Elebrion had he seen female beauty that struck him so hard.
She wore a dark blue dress that was striking against her fair skin, and when she glanced at him, he saw that it very nearly matched the color of her eyes. Her cheekbones were high, but her face was wider than an elf’s, and her jaw was shorter and stronger. Her deep-set eyes were wide and her pale lips were full and slightly parted. She was nearly as tall as Caitlys, but her shoulders were broader and her breasts were larger than the elf maiden’s, although smaller and higher than most of the bovine Savondese women who serviced the legionaries.
Her eyes passed over him, unseeing. Then she must have seen someone for whom she was looking, for her eyes all but disappeared as she smiled broadly in unaffected pleasure. Marcus whipped his head around to see who she was so happy to see, and he felt a cold hand of jealousy grip his heart as he saw that the beautiful fair-haired girl was looking at the prince. What was she to him? Was she one of Étienne-Henri’s lovers? Or worse, his mistress?
Marcus tried not to watch as the tall girl made her way to the prince’s side, and courtiers and nobles alike parted before her like water under a proud keel. Étienne-Henri favored her with a nod and a wry smile; Marcus relaxed a little at the prince’s seeming indifference to her.
An elbow dug into his ribs.
“Are you crazy? Stop staring at her like a starving dog!”
“Who is she?” Marcus ignored Trebonius’s hissed demand. “She’s beautiful!”
“She’s the northern girl, the one they call the Wolf Princess. That’s the prince’s future bride!”
Marcus bit back the curse that very nearly leaped from his mouth. The beautiful girl—surely she was half-elven—was affianced to the little Savondese princeling? For the first time in his life, he understood the purpose of the Ninth Commandment; hitherto he had felt no more need to be cautioned against coveting wives than against coveting oxen or donkeys. He shook his head, though whether it was in disgust, dismay, or simply denial, he did not know.
“Did you not see her last night?”
“No!” Marcus wondered how he could have missed her, and then he remembered he had left before the dancing, being concerned to ensure that the chests of silver he’d received from the king were safely secured and placed under legionary guard. The queen had been absent during the banquet as well, so presumably the princess would have entered with her, after his departure.
He shook his head regretfully; while the evening had been well-spent in the company of three Michelards from L’École Militaire, who had answered many of his questions relating to the battlefield tactics and maneuvers he could expect to see from the orcs, he would have liked to have had the opportunity to be properly presented to the lovely northern girl. Then he laughed. Who was he, once very nearly a priest, now a soldier who lived like one, to moon over another man’s promised?
He did his best to put her out of his mind, which was somewhat easier than it might have been given the excitement of the spectacle before him. Trebonius lost his first bet when a knight wearing yellow and black was adjudicated the loser for reasons that neither of the two Amorrans understood, but he collected both a silver coin and a kiss from a pretty red-haired young woman when a knight with three wolves heads painted on his shield managed to unhorse a knight whose sigil was a blue rose.
“What sort of soldier goes into battle under the symbol of a flower?” a jubilant Trebonius demanded. “It only stands to reason that the wolf-rider would defeat him!”
The unruly young nobles found their new viscomte’s enthusiasm for the lists to be amusing, and the obvious fact of their being strangers seemed to pique the interest of some of the ladies as well. Marcus had to extricate himself politely, but firmly, from the embrace of one plump young woman, who, as near as he could tell, was under the impression that Amorr was located to the west and was comprised of a collection of barbarian tribes.
He was somewhat relieved to be called over by the prince, whose face betrayed his irritation at the importunities of a young man with the appearance of a messenger. However, not even the obvious royal displeasure was sufficient to dissuade the young man, as he was clearly unmoved with the Red Prince’s protests.
“My dear general, it seems your presence is demanded elsewhere. At once, if I am given to understand this ill-mannered messenger boy of the Maréchal correctly.”
“Has the main body of the orcs been spotted?”
“No, nothing like that.” Étienne-Henri sipped at his silver goblet and shook his head. “I expect he wants to discuss with you what level of supplies and so forth you’ll be able to bring back to the marches with you. It’s not like you and your men are going to carry it all in your saddlebags, after all. I told him to arrange the wagons and drivers you’ll be needing the day we arrived here.”
Marcus stifled a smile. He knew the prince was not entirely unaware of the importance of logistics, but he had never expected to be anticipated on the subject.
“I shall be sorry to miss the bouts to come, but as you know, it is a matter of some import.” He turned to the messenger. “Where am I to meet Monseigneur le Maréchal?”
“He said I should bring you to Notre Dame des Eaux, on the Rue du Divin, at your soonest convenience.”
Marcus looked at the prince, who spread his hands and shrugged indifferently. He thought quickly. If there was a plot unfolding, it seemed improbable that Étienne-Henri was involved, as the prince could have had him and his men killed at any time during their travels here. Or, if he so desired, he could simply poison Marcus’s goblet or have one of his courtiers slip a dagger into him ri
ght here at the games. The press inside the royal box was such that even a murder might well escape notice until one or more bouts had passed.
In any event, making eyes at the prince’s betrothed was sure to be the fastest way to find himself on the wrong end of a sword. Marcus had no wish to upset the young man who was his most important ally in the kingdom, and furthermore, the beautiful northern girl’s presence was too unsettling to permit him to concentrate on, much less enjoy, the spectacle. He decided to take his chances and assume the meeting was nothing more than it seemed.
“Will you excuse me, then, your Royal Highness?” He fished into his unfamiliar vestments and withdrew a small purse half-filled with silver and shook it. “By your leave, I shall leave this with my tribune to place wagers on my behalf.”
Étienne-Henri smiled, amused, and looking rather like a hungry predator suddenly scenting crippled prey. “You are too kind, Légat. Let us pray La Fortune will favor your man! Go to de Beaumille, see what the old man requires, and in the meantime, rest assured we shall watch over the dear comte like a shepherd with his most cherished sheep.”
Marcus smiled back, knowing full well the chances of Trebonius returning to the palace with so much as a single copper coin were negligible. He did not care if the sheep was well-shorn, so long as it remained in good health. It was a small price to pay for bonhomie.
Marcus bowed, made his excuses to the courtiers and ladies in his immediate vicinity, whispered instructions to Trebonius, and followed the messenger out the box and down the wooden steps. Judging by the excited stir that followed his passing the purse of coins he’d given to Trebonius, any bad feelings that might have been caused by his abrupt exit appeared to have been preemptively allayed. By the time he’d reached the exit, the prince’s lordlings and petty parasites were already eyeing the remaining Amorran like weasels staring at an unaccompanied chick.