A Royal Affair

by John Wiltshire

  We pored over the map for the rest of the night. I showed him as best I could what I had meant. I was no tactician. I had only led braves on small skirmishes, but the principal was the same, as far as I could see. We had once used dead soldiers to trick others that their fort had not been taken. We propped them up on the battlements, and our intended victims had ridden into our trap in all innocence. Aleksey’s main worry was exposing the old men and the boys to the danger of the initial attack, until we could bring in our forces from the rear. I showed him, by sketching them, some of the things he could use to slow up the horses. They looked like tangles of briars and thorns, which is what we had used when we had them available. When not, we had fashioned them from twine and sharp sticks. Pits were easy to dig, of course, in the soft, sandy soil of the colonies. I did not know how many it would be possible to dig here in the frozen ground. I did not even know if Aleksey’s army carried spades. He assured me that they did but had no idea how many. All these things needed to be planned, and for that he needed all his officers back once more. He agreed to my basic plan, however: move decoys into the valley, allow an attack, which would be slowed where possible, and then attack in turn from the rear with heavy cavalry. His infantry would attack the static enemy blocking the valley.

  I wanted him to rest, but I knew he would not. He was young. He was in his element, and he could go for many days on the excitement that was coursing through his body. I was exhausted, but I was determined to be on hand if needed. He called all the key officers back into the tent, and the real planning began.

  AFTER A few hours, it became clear where the problem with the plan lay: communication. In the static battles they were used to fighting, everyone knew what was happening, for the enemy was in front in plain sight. You responded to a drum or a bugle telling you which maneuver you were to perform. In a fluid battle such as Aleksey was planning, each element had to work in concert, but no one would be able to see the other group or move in a coordinated pattern. He could not see how the cavalry would know when to attack at exactly the right moment—before the enemy could descend upon our unarmed boys and old men, yet after they had actually committed to the sweep off their position on the hills.

  I did have a suggestion, but I was loath to make it to Aleksey in such company and put him in the position, yet again, of appearing to favor my ideas. Officers in an army, I had observed, were often extremely possessive of their commanding officer. Aleksey had an allure about him that made men want to be in his company, in his favor, and these men were no different. Each wanted his attention, like a schoolboy does a favorite master. I had my own reasons, of course, to keep Aleksey’s attention off me somewhat. His eyes now had a habit of drifting toward me to see what I was doing. A smile was sometimes on his face before he looked for me, which was worse. I could read these signals like I could read a page in a book, for he was thinking what I was thinking and remembering what I was remembering.

  Finally, therefore, I nudged Colonel Johan to one side and outlined my plan to him. I expected him to scoff at it and laugh at me, but he nodded slowly, asked one or two more details, and then returned to the table. I had told him to put the plan as if it were his. Aleksey, of course, understood its provenance. To my knowledge, the colonel had never been in the Americas and seen Powponi communicate through smoke, so it was obvious to Aleksey who had made the suggestion. Surprisingly, everyone thought it an excellent idea. After all, they often navigated to a new encampment by observing the smoke from the campfires, so the idea was not entirely novel to them. It was another thing, though, which Aleksey had to organize. Fires didn’t light themselves. No one was trained to carry fire-starting materials or know when to light them or to send up the correct signal at the correct time. Apparently, everything in these armies had to be trained for before it could be considered possible. I had lived a life where everything was just done by anyone who happened to be available, and I did not recall being trained to anything specifically.

  By now, dawn was creeping over the hills to the east, bringing a sense of menace dawn had never held for me before. The camp was broken, and we were on the move again. Aleksey and his officers continued planning as they rode. No games now. It was all war.

  I SAW Aleksey almost every minute of every day but at the same time saw nothing of him that I wanted at all. We hardly had a minute of talk together that was not about the plan. My role had changed somewhat in Aleksey’s army. I was no longer the doctor. I was to lead the charge from the hills into the back of the enemy lines. No one challenged this position. They all knew I was the best placed to ride alongside the general. The first thing I did when I heard of this appointment was to forbid the use of the horse traps. I could not trust the soldiers to put them in a pattern that we could learn and thus avoid them. I was not going to have Xavier plunging into a pit and breaking his leg or neck, and Aleksey too, of course—I was not putting the welfare of my horse above his. Without the traps, we had to find other means to slow the enemy’s initial speed of attack, something that would not then impede our progress as we swept down upon them from the rear. That was when I had the idea about the gunpowder. It made me smile. I had quite enjoyed the chaos and confusion I had caused the Saxefalians. Also, they’d tried to hang me and had battered my face so Aleksey could not kiss me. They owed me.

  I outlined my idea to Aleksey as he rode that afternoon with the veterans, discussing their part of the plan. Their addition to their general’s plan was to suggest that they should be armed, and the boys with them. Thus, not only would the ruse appear more real, they would form a defensive wall when attacked, which would trap the enemy between them and us. Aleksey loved the idea, and so did the little boys. Most of them were too small to even lift a pike, but they loved the lances and swords that were procured for them, and they swaggered around like little princes—until given a swift rebuke by Colonel Johan. Aleksey saw me riding up and left the veterans’ wagon he was riding in.

  I was dismayed by his appearance. “When did you last eat?”

  He didn’t fling back my inquiry with a flirtatious remark about what he preferred in his mouth. This worried me almost as much as his exhausted appearance.

  I took hold of his horse’s rein, hardly protocol for your general and your prince, and pulled him toward the mess wagon. There was a flicker of a smile at this unorthodox treatment, and I was very glad to see it.

  As he was munching the bread and cheese I procured for him, I told him what I had planned for the delay of the horses. He was more interested in the food, and I could tell he was not listening until I concluded my sentence, “… trenches with gunpowder.”

  “Gunpowder?”

  I laughed at the glint of mischief in his green eyes. “I plan to lay the powder in the trenches in front of their charge. It would take one man to light it at the right moment, and boom”—I made a suitable gesture with my hands that made him grin—“they will be entirely routed. Imagine it—smoke, bangs, flame hopefully. But—and this is the brilliance of the plan—by the time we charge down the hill it will all be gone. What?”

  He’d slumped in the saddle, the piece of bread held loosely in his hand forgotten. “I don’t have time to organize it, Niko. It would take—”

  “Who are those young men with enormous plumes who cluster around you as you lead this magnificent army, Aleksey?”

  “Huh?” Staring at the piece of cheese wasn’t going to help his tired brain. I took pity on him. “The captains? Your trusting young officers? They are desperate for glory. Delegate! Give one the entire task of putting this plan into action and think no more on it.” I mimicked the way his father, the king, had waved at his minion the day I had been awarded my commission, and raised the pitch of my voice. “Captain. A trench. Do it.”

  Aleksey smirked, clearly recognizing the subject of the mimicry. After a moment, he said slyly, “Their plumes aren’t that big. Trust me—I’ve seen them.”

  It was an invitation, and I accepted.

  We were
approaching another forest, and the line was condensing to move along the narrower track. I leaned over and took his reins once more, easing him to a halt. When the last wagon passed us, I took him deeper into the concealment of the trees. I dismounted and led his horse toward a small stream, which was icy at the edges. He slid off and let his animal drink, as Xavier was doing, then took my face in his hands and inspected it. “Why is it still so bruised, Niko?”

  “Because they hit me very hard.” I pulled him into my arms. “I’ve missed you.”

  He smelled of horse and stale, unwashed uniform, and I had never smelled anything so good. I breathed him deeply. He was kissing my neck, where he could find skin that did not hurt me to be touched. His face had no damage, and so I took my fill of it: my lips on his eyes and cheeks and across the freckles on his nose. Our passion rose between us. I glanced around and pushed him back to a tree, grinding against him as we kissed. He closed his eyes. “Stop. I cannot afford to… My uniform….”

  I separated our bodies, then whispered in his ear, “Good seed should be scattered upon the ground. Does not your Bible tell you so?”

  He hissed at the blasphemy but did not object when I unlaced him and exposed his swollen member to the cold daylight. My mouth watered with need to taste him, but it was too dangerous. I worked him, gripping him tightly as I knew he would like. He groaned, pushing into my hand more. I returned my lips to his ear, nuzzling it, whispering things I suspect he had not heard before, for I felt his cock twitch higher and stiffen more. He was getting close. I moved my lips to his soft ones, and he opened his mouth to greet my tongue. As we touched there, he completed, crying out and staggering, his pent-up release sent high and long to fall as loud splashes upon the frozen leaves. I held him up, running my free hand through his hair, my other bringing him down gently. I was shocked to discover that he fell asleep standing up in my arms. I shook him gently awake and tucked him away. He slapped himself, angry that he was so tired.

  His hand went to me, but I held him off. “Later. I wanted only to give you a moment’s pleasure away from the war. I can wait.”

  “This would give me pleasure.”

  “Good. I will hold you to that, but we must go, or suspicions will be roused.”

  He nodded reluctantly, and I was very glad that we acted as we did. As we were mounting the horses, one of the little runners found us with a message from the front of the line.

  I had achieved what I wanted, though. Aleksey was relieved and happier, and when he returned to the front of the column, I saw him beckon to one of the captains.

  He delegated.

  CHAPTER 21

  I DO not know what is worse in battle, the fear that you are going to be killed or the fear that you are not.

  As we thundered down off the ridgeline in perfect formation, pristine and gleaming in the sunshine, there was no fear at all. I was swollen with pride at being there in that fleeting moment of perfect glory.

  As we engaged the enemy, I did not want to die. I was immortal, a god, with death my prerogative to unleash upon others.

  As we entangled, however, and became ragged, mired in mud, with sight obscured in sweat-stung eyes, deafened by the screaming and shouting, I prayed death would come quickly if it did. I saw trampled men suffocate when they could not rise from the sucking mud. I saw horses with their eyes pierced and blinded, stumbling to find respite that would not come for them. I watched men hack at other men and inflict such injuries as would maim for life—teeth smashed, jaws detached, knees and elbows mashed to pulp.

  I knew I would rather die than live a broken shadow of what I was.

  The gunpowder failed to ignite. The captain charged with this critical task was never found. I do not think he quailed in the face of massed cavalry charging down upon him. Gunpowder had not lit for me once, and I believed him to be one of the trampled we found later. It was impossible to tell. No features remain upon a man who has been trampled by warhorses.

  There was such momentum upon the ridgeline, such pent-up energy, that we charged anyway, pursuing the enemy as they approached our phantom lines. To our eyes the ruse looked so obvious that we were amazed they did not suspect it, but we knew—we saw only little boys, their arms barely poking from their sleeves, old men whose courage was not matched by their strength.

  And the enemy then did see our army for what it was and knew they had been tricked, and they tried to turn, and then I saw them know their doom. A thousand warhorses descending upon them and they could not even turn their horses in time to face us. They created their own chaos, and we partook of it greedily.

  Only the rear of their line met us face to face. The rest we ploughed into and took men down with pikes and swords to backs as they tried desperately to find room to turn, their horses sagging back onto collapsing legs and staggering, throwing riders who were swiftly trampled into the blood-soaked mud.

  All battlefields turn to mud. Once the mud arrives to take its part in the destruction, a battleground is a very different place. No glory or honor in mud. No fine uniforms then. Mud turned the battle visceral as I wheeled my exhausted horse, hooves mired then sucking free, hacking at face or neck.

  I caused hearts to quail long before I raised my sword. I had painted my face, a fearful handprint of black across my broken features, and on my naked chest I had drawn ribs flared in red and white, as if my body were already split and spread—these sacrileges a challenge, a ward, a thing to quail even the bravest heart.

  Hacking, stabbing, trampling, I lost sight of Aleksey in the first engagement. I trusted him to his God and concentrated on sending other men to theirs.

  If I could bottle what comes over a man in battle and use it on people under my doctor’s knife, I would be a very rich man.

  I didn’t feel the lance that pierced my side, although I watched as the blood-tinged point entered my naked flesh. I felt more the strain of muscle as I hacked off the arm that held the lance, my sword now bone-blunt so I had to chop and chop and scream with frustration until I was hoarse.

  I didn’t feel the sword that tried to do the same to me—aiming to take my arm but slicing through my thigh. I saw a vast and instant well of blood but felt no pain and put the point of my sword through the throat of the man who had wounded me. He hung, wide-eyed and terrified and dying, inches from my face, but all I wanted was to disengage my sword so I could kill again, and again, and again.

  There is no glory to be had in turning a man to mud.

  I did not even feel the cold, despite my half-naked state. I heard the screams and cries as I had once heard gulls on a ride to the coast with Aleksey: as vague, unheeded accompaniment to the activity of killing.

  The killing went on for a very long time.

  I don’t know when the battle ended.

  Suddenly there was only scarlet in the world, the blue turned to mud and blood beneath Xavier’s hooves.

  I saw that the enemy were fleeing—men on foot staggering toward the end of the valley, mounted officers forcing exhausted horses to last desperate spurts of speed.

  I swung Xavier and kicked him to pursuit, and another figure detached from the place of mud with me.

  It was Aleksey.

  He lifted in his saddle and pointed his sword. His cry of, “Charge!” was lost beneath the dreadful screaming of the dying horses and men, but he took flight and was followed, and we descended as a massed and bloodied mob upon the fleeing men.

  They had nowhere to go, for Aleksey’s infantry commanded the neck of the valley, and so the enemy remnant was cut down between cavalry and foot, and then there was no blue left at all.

  We took no prisoners.

  It was the custom.

  I THINK Aleksey’s true courage and genius only became clear to me at the end of this battle. His officers were gathering around him, congratulating him, all flutter and excitement and heightened delight, when he told them it was not yet over, that we had now the opportunity to destroy their army for good. We must attack the troops se
nt to the peninsula as deception. He was beyond exhausted, we all were, but he rallied them to his cause, took them with him in spirit—and we rode.

  We rode as massed cavalry, the infantry forced-marching behind, slower but inevitable, like a great wave of death heading east. We, on horses, rode hard, not eating or sleeping or sparing the beasts. We vastly outnumbered the remnant of the enemy army that had never expected to have to engage us at all. They were the deception. When we appeared on the hill above the valley into which they had moved after the fire, we must have looked as death might look to a man breathing his last tired breaths. We swept down upon them with no mercy, sparing neither man nor boy, woman nor horse. All were slaughtered. To be fair to Aleksey and his army, and I suppose to me, anyone who has not been in such a rout, such a terrible place of death, should not comment upon what takes place to those who have. To think that we might stop and compare one person with another, decide fate carefully and weigh value of life, is wholly unrealistic, and we did not do it. If it moved, we hunted it down and killed it. If it made sound, it was trampled. For my part, I did not kill any of the horses, but I hardly hold this up as an example of my great generosity of spirit. It is only that I prefer horses to most men I have met and had no grudge against them at all.

  When the killing was done, we had entirely destroyed the massed armies of the Saxefalian state. It was ours for the taking.

  Aleksey and I must have deconstructed that war a thousand times after the event. In every conversation I would declare that it had been nothing but chaos and confusion—the signal fires lighting but sending up no smoke, the gunpowder trenches failing—and he would always point out that war was inevitably chaotic and every war was fogged by confusion. In that case, I argued, why bother to plan at all, and he would patiently explain, once more, that if we had not done all that planning, what we did achieve would have been lost along with what we failed to win. And he always won our arguments by asking slyly who won the war, Niko? To which I had to reply we did. For we did. Saxefalia surrendered its captured territory to Hesse-Davia, and we forced them to make war reparations as well.