by Brad Beals
Part III
Empty Hands
Though Joshua had never been there before, his brother William had, and because William liked to tell the story—William enjoyed telling any story—Joshua felt as though he'd been to the castle himself. For here was the iron gate and the great white steps leading up to the heavy door. And here was the path winding around the castle. And just as William had described, and very nearly as Joshua had imagined it, here was the stable, at the back of which there stood a door, a small door that would take him into the presence of the King himself.
But it was not quite as Joshua had envisioned it, for it was not the quiet, empty stable that his brother had described; rather, it was packed full of men, soldiers answering the summons, each waiting his turn to duck into the little door at the back.
Joshua hitched Miriam to a cherry tree at the roadside and took his place in what he hoped was the end of the line, though it was hard to judge exactly since the whole mass of warriors moved toward the same place.
Suddenly, a large man put the reigns of a horse into Joshua's hands. "She'll take oats and water, boy," he shouted above the noise. "And see that she gets a thorough rubbing as we've come clear from the northern sea."
Then he flipped a coin into the air, which Joshua caught but held right back out to him, saying, "I'm not a stable boy, sir."
"Then what are ya?" The man looked at him sideways.
"I'm a soldier, and I've come to join the King." Without a sword or a single piece of armor, he felt a little foolish saying the word soldier.
The man laughed. And not only did he laugh, but he slapped the back of the man next to him and pointed to Joshua. "Here's a soldier for you, Harry! Maybe the King's promising milk and cookies now, eh?"
Harry replied to the first man with something just as clever, and then it spread to the men around them, and each tried to out clever the last, until some and then most and then all had moved on to being clever about entirely different things, and Joshua was alone again. Or, at least, he was left unnoticed.
During this time the crowd had continued to move deeper into the stable, the hot, sweaty mass slowly narrowing to a point. Joshua wondered how far he was from the door, and since he could not see over the shoulders of the men around him, he ducked down to peak through their legs. And it was then as he was looking for the door that he caught a glimpse of something that made what little courage he had left to pour out of him as though his heart had sprung a leak. One of the soldiers had a shield slung low and to his side. It was polished so that it shone as much as poor steel could shine. And in the flat of it, Joshua could see himself, crouched amid the soldiers’ legs. A boy scurrying about at the feet of men. He saw himself now as the others did, and as the girl with the broomstick did, and that was that. He was at the end of himself and there was not a scrap of desire left to push him on.
There was, however, an army pushing him in. The press of men around him was very near the door, and when Joshua tried to jostle his way out, the other soldiers thinking that he was being impatient only stiffened their hips and arms. And soon, despite his grief and despair, Joshua found himself ducking through the door and marching blindly down a dark passage with one heavily armed man in front and one behind.
Darkness. A clamor of stamping boots on stone. Winding steps, a flicker, and then brilliant light. And just like that, blinking and squinting with the rest, Joshua was in the throne room of the King. Arena would be a better word, for around the floor on which the throne sat, row after row of benches rose up in ever-widening circles. They rose so high that the men sitting on the topmost had to mind their heads about the ceiling beams.
But Joshua did not stop to wonder at this. He could not stop because the soldiers kept coming from behind and pushing everyone farther in. Soon he found himself standing behind the throne, which was raised and at the center of the room. It was just high enough that he could see the one sitting on it, but it was not until then that he realized he was looking at the King himself, and for the very first time. Well, he was looking up at the back of his crowned head, to be precise. He could see the King turn to his left, and then to his right, to nod to this soldier, or to smile at that one. And at one lucky soldier, the King nodded and smiled both as though the soldier were a friend of his.
The ebb of the crowd had nearly stopped, and Joshua could see that the flow of men from the door across the room had slowed to a trickle. And then gradually, the room began to quiet. Joshua watched those around him. To a man, the soldiers all carried swords. Some were fine. Some were tarnished, even rusty. For the most part, all were armored, though here and there were helmetless heads or backs without shields.
He had been looking at the soldiers nearest to him, but when a glint of sunlight off a breastplate higher up caught his eye, he looked to the crowd above the floor of the room. And he was immediately struck with the difference, for the swords of those above seemed to belong to a different army. Joshua turned to look at the men in the stands higher up, and his young sharp eyes jumped from sword hilt to sword hilt. Some of them had theirs drawn and were leaning on the pommels, points against the ground. They were King's swords, every one.
In the commotion of being flung into this place, and in the wonder of seeing it all, Joshua had forgotten that he was naked—at least as soldiers go—but he remembered it now. He was the only one here who had come unprepared. And he was the only boy, as far as he could see, in this army of men. He had never in his life felt more out of place.
He looked quickly around the room for another door, a window, a set of stairs, but there were no such things. He glanced behind him to the seats above, but nothing connected the higher levels to this one. There was not so much as a cupboard to hide in. There was only the King, whose gaze seemed to be wandering farther and farther out as though he were looking for someone he knew.
In an instant, the room went silent. The King had stood and was now walking down the steps, taking one at a time, slowly, his eyes fixed on the men around him.
He defies description, but to leave you with none whatsoever would be unfair, so I'll do what I can. His age was somewhere between 30 and 60. As for height, he had some of it. His hair was long and depending on the sun's angle and brightness could be black or auburn or, up close, gray. His look was bracing, and his voice effectual (if he intended for you to listen, you did so eagerly; and if he were being funny you laughed like a child). Expressive were his features. Strong were his hands. And deadly was his sword.
You'll have to fill in the gaps yourself. The men were arrayed around the enormous room in a great, thick circle. A space of ten or twelve feet between the men and the throne had opened up, for the King had a fearsome look in his eyes. He began to walk clockwise around the throne. The crowd of men on the floor numbered well into the hundreds and were twenty deep all the way round. But still, the King looked at each one.
Joshua's heart thumped like a fist against a door. And as he watched the King draw nearer, he could see how this humiliation would end. The King, inspecting his troops, would see him, pull him from the crowd, set those fiery eyes on him, and then...and then...well, there wouldn't need to be any more than that; no, those eyes would be enough.
Then he had a thought. If he were quick about it, he might slip away now while the King was still a distance off, and keeping the throne between them, duck into the legs of the soldiers across the room and disappear through the small door. Everyone but the King would see him, of course, but would they stop him? Would they even dare to speak and break this silence? He had nothing to lose.
Joshua was five or six back in the crowd, so it was no small matter maneuvering to the front, but as no one was willing to make a scene over it, he managed. And just in time, for the King was just far enough away that he probably would not have caught him out of the corner of his eye. I say probably because we'll never know how it might have played out, for just as Joshua began his dash for the door, a hand reached out of the crowd, grabbed him by the c
ollar, and yanked him back. It was the peddler, the man who'd handed him the summons so many weeks ago.
"Too late," he whispered close to his ear, "much too late for that sort of thing."
Whether Joshua had chosen to stand now or whether he saw that the King was too close, no one knows. And it matters little, because he did stay, and what would happen in just a moment would forever eclipse the almost and the nearly and the what if.
The King was not a dozen men distant, his eyes still searching, still looking closely at each man in the ragtag army. It occurred to Joshua now that the King was doing more than just inspecting his men. He was looking for something or someone.
Eight men away. The peddler put his hand at Joshua's back and said, "easy does it." Joshua was shaking.
Five men. And then the King spoke. His words sent a ripple of surprise through the crowd as though someone had dropped a tray of pots. "Make a way there," he said, and the men parted, all except a young man at the very back, almost huddled against the wall and frightened as a caged rabbit. His clothes were ragged, and he was without shoes. He had a battered shield on his back, a short sword in his hand, but carried nothing else. The King stared at him for a moment and then shook his head, and as he moved on the men closed up the ranks again.
Three men. Joshua could hear his own heart beating, the breathing of the men around him, and the peddler's fingers nervously thumping against his shield.
And then there were no men between them, only the space of an outstretched arm. The King looked at Joshua just as he had the rest. He looked down at him, at his feet, his hands, his head and every part of him. And just as Joshua had feared, the King's eyes did not move on to the next man, nor to the peddler standing behind him. They remained fixed on his own.
"Did you not hear the summons?" said the King, and again, at the first word, a kind of shock went through the crowd.
Joshua swallowed once. His throat hurt. "Yes…Yes, lord...I did." He whispered this, but in the stillness, even those highest up could hear.
"Then why have you no weapons? No armor?"
His eyes so intense upon the boy, and his voice so clear and strong, the King left no room for anything but truth. So Joshua told him, and in the simplest terms, that he had left his helmet behind in shame, lost his shield to pride, and traded away his sword, his most valued possession, for simple vanity.
"And now you are here empty handed," replied the King
"Forgive me. I was a fool to call myself a soldier."
"Forgive you for what?"
It did not occur to Joshua that this might be a real question, but only that the King wanted a confession from him. He gladly gave it. "For failing you."
The King crossed his arms. "What is your name?" he asked.
"I am Joshua."
"Can you tell me what the summons said?"
Joshua nodded as he thought through the words, then he said them: "Come, any who calls himself my soldier, come, and be prepared for war."
"Come. And be prepared for war," repeated the King. "I have been looking these many days since the call went out for just one who would hear my words and act on them in faith. You may have failed your king in other matters, but not in this."
Now the King took his eyes off of Joshua and turned them on the crowd of men all around him. Something in his look made him seem even taller, and every man in the room, even those in the gallery above, shrank back just a little.
"Come! And be prepared for war!" he shouted, and dust from the beams high above fell gently over the room.
The King pulled a sword off the back of the man next to Joshua. "But how will you fight for me when the weapons you bring shatter at the first clash?" He swung the sword at the ground, breaking it into countless slivers of old iron. The King walked farther along the ranks of the men, stopping in front of a wide, fierce looking, red-bearded fellow. He plucked the breastplate from the man's chest as though it were a piece of ribbon and held it up. "And how will you serve me when your armor gives way at the first blow?" Then he torn it in two as one tears a sheet of paper down the middle.
"Come! And be prepared for war!"
And now, off the backs of the men, the King began to pull swords from their scabbards, dashing them against the throne itself. Shields plucked from backs he flung, and helmets lifted right off shocked heads he threw against the foot of the throne, so that there was soon a great pile of armor, a heap of old, weak steel.
"Empty hands!" The King thundered, and his voice seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. "If you come to me with empty hands, I will give you swords that are sharp and strong. I will give you armor that won't fail!" The King was angry, and no one there could be wrong on that point, but it was the kind of anger that flamed even brighter for love's sake. It shamed so that it might build up. And it bruised so that it might heal.
Soon the soldiers felt their hearts start to burn in their chests, and they began throwing down their own swords and armor, tearing scabbards and breastplates and helmets from themselves as though they were painful to wear. And when the last piece had been flung into the great pile at the foot of the throne, the King walked back to Joshua, stood squarely in front of him and said in the same rumbling voice, "well done."
"But Lord," Joshua shook his head. "I didn't come with empty—"
The King stopped him with a look and said firmly, "Well done, Joshua."
