The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter IV

Just as Anakreon had said, the 'young snot' showed up with his father and a small company of men‑at‑arms, more, I think, to protect himself than to fight us. The boy himself, twenty years old if he was a day. was every bit as unattractive as Kenui had said, a big, hulking oaf whose unlovely appearance was made even more so by the presence of a nasal organ resembling a diced beet right in the middle of his face, thanks to Kenui's fist. His father, whom I had met before, seemed ashamed of the entire matter.

Anakreon and Kenui spoke to them, and I couldn't hear what was said, but after they left‑‑with Kenui spitting Sen‑Chiunese obscenities after them‑‑we were told that we would be leaving within the week.

"Which," said Anakreon later to the captains, "plays merry hell with our schedule. I had planned to leave in two days. Now we may as well wait out the week."

"Why?" asked Mourner. As a Master Swordsman as well as assistant to Sored and Quinquius, he was an officer of the troop. But that didn't mean that Anakreon would put up with any impertinence from him.

A one‑eyed, icy glare was leveled at him with no apparent effect. Anakreon gave up and said, "Because, Swordsman, we'll look like cowards if we leave early, and you can't have that in this business. I don't want anyone to think we're afraid." He paused, with the sort of expression on his face that clearly said, 'are you satisfied now?'

"Ha!" said Kenui. "What fool would think we were afraid of that young lout and his fish‑faced father? You jump at shadows." And he looked up and met Anakreon's suddenly angry stare.

Anakreon's glare narrowed slightly. "The world is full of fools, Kenui," he said. "You of all men should know that."

"You mean, of course, that I am a fool," Kenui said.

"Precisely," said Anakreon, slapping his gloves against his leg and locking gazes with Kenui.

It was time to intervene before they came to blows, which had happened once or twice before. Kenui was afraid of no one and nothing except, maybe, the ache within him. Before I could speak, though, Mourner spoke up. "The week will give us time to provision Praecas' group and arrange communications with Blogg."

Petronius Praecas pursed his lips and whistled soundlessly. He hadn't thought of that. No one had. He nodded. "That's not a bad idea," he said. "We'll have time to make an inventory..."

"Best think who you'll be taking as well," said Quinquius. "But not the new ones: they stay with us."

"Unfortunately," said Kenui, taking a swig from his private flask. His eyes were still flashing with anger.

** ** **

So we prepared the inventory and cataloged the supplies, Sored, Mourner and I. Praecas contented himself with having thought of the inventory and left the work to us. It took a while, too, with me being the slowest one in the group. I was notching sticks, as usual, and although Mourner wasn't saying anything, I could tell that Sored was growing impatient.

Quinquius and Praecas came on the second afternoon to look things over, and they caught me notching a stick. Mourner was sitting to one side behind the door, sharpening a reed pen, and Sored was beside me, making notations and swearing under his breath.

Quinquius laughed at me and Praecas frowned at the sticks. "Am I supposed to carry a bundle of those match sticks with me?" he demanded. "Oh come now, Oristides! You must be joking!"

In point of fact, he wasn't . Mourner or Sored would take the notches and convert them to notations on a conventional sheet of parchment, and Praecas knew that. He was just trying to make me look stupid. "No one said you had to do that!" I objected, collecting my thoughts.

"No one had to," said Praecas. "We know all about it. And what if someone makes a fire out of them?" He gestured scornfully toward the pile.

I never liked Petronius Praecas, and I was very glad when Anakreon sacked him. He seemed to hold me in complete contempt mixed with a share of jealousy, feeling, I guess, that I held the place in the troop that was rightfully his. Patent nonsense, of course: men like Quinquius and Kenui and Sored had seniority. Also, he was a blue‑blood, or so he told us, and he took a dim view of someone like me, who was a mere weaver's son.

"So it burns," I said, frowning. "So what?"

"So there go your records, Oristides," said Praecas. "Your precious records. All those notches, carved at the expense of God alone knows how many cut fingers and splinters under the nails. It's stupid!" The last two words were said in a hissing tone so full of contempt that I lifted my head and prepared to answer him in kind.

I was spared the trouble. Mourner looked up, flicked the extra ink from the tip of his pen, and said, "I don't need to remind you that paper and parchment burn, Praecas, and much more quickly than wood. Nor do I need to tell you that anyone fool enough to place important records anywhere near a fire deserves what he gets. And I'm surprised to have to remind you, Praecas, that the Emperor of Rome, Valerius himself, has his records carved onto wooden tablets and stored in the temple of Calixus on the Campus Martius. As a Roman, Praecas, and of the high birth you claim for yourself, you surely should have known that." The words were as sudden as they were coldly incisive.

Praecas whirled upon Mourner whom, I'm certain, he hadn't seen. Since he could think of no reply, he resorted to insult.

"And as a Belgican, Master Swordsman, I'm certain you need not be reminded of the might of the Roman fighting forces!"

But Mourner smiled and took up his pen once more. "Hardly, Praecas," he said. "Especially considering that I was Crown Prince Kirien's Standard‑Bearer at the battle of the ValianPass thirteen years ago. I remember it well. Especially the graves we had to dig to accommodate them all."

Rome's two finest legions were slaughtered at the Valian pass by the cavalry of Kirien, Crown Prince of Belgica and Duke of Ainhault. Quinquius stared: he had been there, I knew.

Praecas turned a dull red, choked out an oath, and strode from the room. Sored looked up, raised his eyebrows, and looked at Mourner with new respect.

Quinquius sat down. "Standard‑bearer, eh?" he said. "I led the first cohort of the twentieth legion under the command of Gaius Regulus, God rest him! Gods, but the fighting was fierce that day!" He held out his hand, and Mourner gripped it, laughing.