“It’s just brass, all polished up,” Bram agreed. “He can’t have any gold.
“You can stay with us until you find your unit again,” Wilh spoke, dismissive of the talk of gold.
“If any of us ever get to see our units again,” Bram interjected.
“What do you mean?” Marco asked.
“They’re probably going to kill us all,” Bram answered.
“We lost; half the army got away and left. A bunch more died; we’re all that’s left. No one wants us, no one’s going to rescue us, these folks don’t have any reason to keep us alive,” Bram gloomily explained.
“There’s still the prince, Ellersby, and his traveling court,” Wilh responded.
“What about him?” Bram asked.
“He’s taken prisoner too. And he’s royalty. They won’t just slaughter him – he’s the king’s own grandson. When they release Ellersby, they’ll have to give him some soldiers to escort him home,” Wilh explained.
“That’s right,” another man nearby agreed.
“There’s no way the Barcelonans will give Ellersby an army. They’d be afraid he’ll attack again,” another man nearby dissented.
“Ellersby will have no good generals – the good ones all got away. And he’s got no sorcerers; after Iamblichus was killed the other sorcerers were all wiped out by that witch from Ophiuchus. Ellersby won’t have an army; he’ll just have a bunch of soldiers and some courtiers who got more than they bargained for,” Wilh explained.
There were mumbled comments of agreement and disagreement, but the dispirited prisoners had little desire to argue further over the matter. And just then there was a bell’s discordant clang, indicating that dinner was to be served. Marco joined the others in line and received a half a loaf of bread. He ate his meal sitting with his back against a wall, next to Wilh and Bram, and when the sun set not long after, he slept on the ground, without a cover in the warm air of late summer.
The next morning, all the prisoners were fed a bowl of gruel, then lined up as an officer of the Marseals army came to address them.
“You men are going to be released this afternoon,” the officer spoke loudly. “There are three ships assigned to carry all Docleatae prisoners south to Tripool. You will be escorted to the docks; do not make any attempt to escape or engage in hostilities.
“If everything goes smoothly you will be aboard ships and out at sea by nightfall. You will each have to first pledge to not engage in any hostilities against the cities of the old empire of Clovis, not to harm any of our citizens or interests,” he concluded.
The prisoners dispersed until an hour later, when they were told to line up. One-by-one they advanced to stand before a man who acted as a judge, sitting at a makeshift desk, guards standing on either side of him, administering an oath to each person who came before him.
Marco watched with little interest as the line advanced, and his opportunity to take the pledge to be a non-combatant drew closer, until the line was interrupted as a small party of people were escorted from the outside, and allowed to move to the front of the line. The group was less than a dozen people, with three women among them, and half the men dressed in rich, luxurious clothes, while the others were dressed as soldiers.
“It’s the prince himself,” the man behind Marco said hoarsely. “And his courtiers. Looks like we’ll be in good company on the way to where ever we go.”
The high-ranking officials mumbled their pledges and were quickly gone, and a few minutes later, Marco was standing in front of the man who was administering the oaths to the prisoners.
“Sir,” a man called from the gateway to the side, “we need a couple of bearers to carry some goods for the nobles.” The two spoke in the language of the northern lands, but Marco was able to decipher their words.
“Here, take this one,” the judge motioned towards Marco.
With a glance of momentary surprise and confusion, Marco followed as the interrupting guard beckoned for him to leave the temporary courtroom. He followed the man outside.
“The nobles need to have their belongings loaded on the ship. You’re going to be the one to do that. I hope your back’s in better shape than your head,” he motioned to the slice across Marco’s scalp and temple.
“If my head was better, I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Marco lamely tried to joke, then walked in silence through the city streets behind his guide. He looked around; his arms and legs were unbound – he could run.
But he wore a black uniform in a city where there were no other such uniforms walking freely. He could perhaps quickly find clothes to change into, but he had no place to run to, no place in this city of people who spoke a different language. He wouldn’t get very far at all, and there would be consequences to pay when he was eventually caught, he realized.
So he kept walking, and only a few minutes later he reached the harbor front, a crowded set of piers that each had multiple vessels moored against their stone and wood.
“Here,” the guard who was leading him pointed to a large pile of crates and barrels. “Move that onto that ship. Find someone on board who can tell you where everything goes. They’ll,” he pointed to a pair of guards in green uniforms that stood very nearby watching the pile of belongings, “ keep an eye on you. Just stay here when you’re done and we’ll take care of you.”
He didn’t think it was likely he’d be done anytime soon, Marco estimated sourly as he looked at the daunting pile of materiel. He bent and lifted the first crate, then carried it up the gangplank. A glance over his shoulder showed that the two guards who were supposed to watch him were in fact doing so.
“This belongs to the prince’s party,” Marco spoke to the first officer he saw on the deck, a man who appeared to be in a hurry and wanting to pass by him quickly. “Where should I leave it?”
“You can throw it into the harbor for all that I care,” the man spoke crisply, as he slowed down while passing Marco.
“Take it down to one of the starboard cabins,” he directed after a further moment of consideration, then resumed his pace and left Marco little better informed than he had been before. Marco looked to find the stairs that led to the deck below, and he proceeded to carry the crate down, hunched low to fit in the uncomfortably short space of the compressed level as he stopped a sailor to ask where the starboard cabins were.
With directions to the other side of the ship, Marco stumbled through the dim passageways, then selected a cabin at random and sat the box down on the floor in the cramped, narrow space. He placed his own pack and sword in the cabin as well, to keep them out of his way as he worked.
He wended his way back to the deck, then back to the pile of freight. That’s one done, he thought to himself with resignation as he looked at the daunting amount of belongings that sat waiting to be carried. His right hand felt slightly uncomfortable, as though the muscles under the skin were tightening up, on the verge of a cramp; he stared at the hand as he flexed it, but felt nothing get better or worse. Marco sighed, then picked up another crate, and carried it to the same cabin.
He repeated the journey several times during the next two hours, relocating bundles and boxes and sacks to the variety of cabins along the narrow passageway of the ship’s upper deck. As he returned to the pile of waiting goods, a pile that had shrunk to a quarter of its original size, he recognized a group of noble men and women approaching, the same group that he had seen taking the vow of non-combat earlier in the day. Some of the men wore uniforms, and the other men, including the one who he was told was the prince, wore fine clothing instead. There were only a pair of perfunctory guards with them wearing the green of their conquerors.
“Boy,” one of the noblemen shouted, “haven’t you finished that job yet? What have you been doing all day?”
“Argen, leave him alone,” one of the officers said mildly. “He’s already lost a war for us, so you can’t expect him to be proficient at anything else, can you?”
Argen laughed mildly a
t the joke, looked dismissively at Marco, then led the others up the gangplank onto the ship.
“Captain, where are our cabins?” Argen shouted at a group of officers standing on the poop deck elevated above the rest of the ship.
The captain spoke briefly to a lieutenant, who hurried down to meet the guests as Marco carried a rolled-up tapestry onto the ship, and stopped to stand behind the nobles, who blocked his progress.
“Your highness,” the lieutenant spoke to the prince, “we have a number of cabins reserved for you and your companions. Please follow me,” he spoke deferentially, then turned and led the way down to the passage that Marco knew so well.
“These are unacceptable!” Argen shouted loudly a minute later, as the group crowded into the hall and looked into the small berths they were allocated. “It will take three of these cabins just for one of us; you’ll have to do better.”
“Sir, this ship has nothing better. Our officers are being removed from these cabins that are usually theirs in order to provide them to the prince’s companions,” the lieutenant spoke with a firmness that Marco admired as he stood near the stairs, waiting for the nobles to make room for him to get through.
Satisfied that he had carried out his duty, the naval officer departed, and the unhappy members of the conquered army leadership stood at a momentary loss, until Argen spotted Marco standing behind them. “Look at that lazy rogue, standing there instead of working. And these berths are a disgrace; he’s mixed the pile up completely wrong.
“Every one of these will have to be emptied, and then the packages placed in the proper cabins,” he shouted at Marco and he pressed around his companions to reach the boy.
“There was no direction on which ones were to go in which cabins,” Marco observed.
“Are you talking back to me? This is intolerable! Colonel Varsen, have this lout flogged!” Argen’s voice rose to a shrill level.
“The boy did the best he could,” Prince Ellersby spoke up unexpectedly in Marco’s defense. “We’ve all been defeated enough; look at the slice on his head. There’s no reason to flog him this time,” the prince pronounced, as Marco was acutely aware of all eyes turned towards him during the dispute. “We’ll all go up on deck, and someone can direct him on how to sort the items out into the appropriate cabins.”
The prince turned his back wearily on the situation, and walked away. The women and most of the men automatically began to follow.
“You,” Colonel Varsen spoke to a lower-ranked officer, “Captain Fyld, stay and direct the boy to get the job done right, and promptly.” With that order, the colonel also began to walk away.
Count Argen remained glowering at Marco a moment longer. “You’re lucky the prince is so soft-hearted,” he snapped at Marco in a low voice, then he shoved his hand rudely into Marco’s chest for a measure of abuse that seemed to make the surly man feel better, and he too left the passageway.
Marco and the captain found themselves the only two remaining in the passage.
The officer looked at Marco appraisingly. “Put that down, and get over here,” he commanded.
Marco automatically obeyed, and the captain set him to work. The air in the hallway and cabins was warm and unmoving; Marco had already worked up a sweat from his labors. He took a deep breath as he listened to the officer speak.
“The boxes that have a red number 1 on them are the prince’s,” the captain explained. “We’ll put them in this cabin,” he thumped the flat of his hand on a cabin door. “It looks to be the biggest of the ones we’ve got.
“Start moving everything out of this cabin. I’ll look through the others and find the crates that belong to the prince so that you can get them loaded in his cabin,” the captain told Marco. “We’ll take care of him first, then you can bring the rest of the things in off the dock, and I’ll figure out the rest of the cabins, which will be a thankless job, believe me,” he spoke to himself though he was addressing Marco.
Marco gave a grunt, and started emptying out the cabin, which could only be described as big in relation to the size of the other tiny spaces. Once empty, he found that the captain had added enough packages to the hallway to fill the prince’s cabin so full that there was room for one person to edge in sideways and fall into the bunk, and not much else.
Marco started making the trips back and forth to retrieve the rest of the packages as the sun began to set in the west. Other paroled prisoners of war began to troop onto the ship, but none were required to carry any of the packages.
The captain showed Marco the colored marks that identified the owners of the materiel, and had placed a few of the pieces of freight in every room to identify which pieces would be stored in each cabin. He helped Marco make a few arrangements, then departed.
“I’ll go tell everyone they’ve got a cabin assigned. I’d finish up in a hurry if I were you and get away from here before they all come down here and find a need to take their outrage out on you,” he warned Marco, then started on his way down the passage.
The man had been fair, Marco thought, as he tried to hasten. He forced his tired legs and aching back to cooperate in moving the last pieces into place. The sound of steps on the stairs reached his ears, a sign that he had only the thinnest of margins as he thrust the final crate atop a pile of others, then retrieved his own belongings, the sword and the battered leather pack.
The ship gave a gentle lurch, as it began its departure from the city’s harbor. Marco backed out of the room, and flung the door shut, then started walking rapidly towards his left, away from the stairs and the arriving party. He was dripping with sweat and his muscles ached from the hours of effort that he had exerted.
“This isn’t right!” he heard Count Argen speak loudly.
“You, boy, get back here you incompetent bumbler! You’ve done it all wrong again,” Argen’s raised voice followed Marco down the hall.
Marco stopped, and let his head roll back on his shoulders in an acknowledgement of defeat. He turned and walked back, to where the Docleatean leaders stood in a line along the wall of the hallway.
“You’ll have to fix this immediately. I cannot be expected to be restricted to a cabin this small. This is all wrong; put things in the right place,” Argen blustered at Marco.
“Which cabin is the right one for you?” Marco asked quietly.
“I don’t care; you find a place and put my things there,” Argen screeched.
Marco gave a half smile, as he thought of the places he’d like to put the bullying nobleman’s belongings – over the side of the ship, or up among the sails that hung from the top masts. He quickly wiped the smile away.
“Shall I move the prince out of his cabin for you sir?” Marco asked as he heard the footsteps of someone approaching from behind him.
And with that Argen swung his fist angrily, catching Marco unprepared as he received the nobleman’s hard punch in the stomach.
Marco fell against the wall as he doubled over in pain.
“What is going on here?” Marco faintly heard the voice of the captain who had directed him to place the crates in the cabins.
“This cretin is being insolent towards his betters, and he received a small reminder about the need for good manners,” Argen said pompously.
“So what’s the problem?” the captain repeated.
“Captain,” Colonel Varsen stepped into the fray. “The count merely expressed his disappointment in the smallness of his cabin, and the boy was surly.”
“The count has the third largest cabin, sir,” the captain quickly said. “Only the prince and you have larger cabins. Shall we rearrange things sir?” the junior officer asked quickly.
Marco raised his head up as he caught his breath and the pain receded. He looked at Argen with murderous eyes; he wanted to face the nobleman somewhere where no one would interrupt them while Marco took out his own frustration on Argen, though he knew no such event was going to happen except in his imagination.
“Sir, there are no larger cab
ins to offer the count,” Captain Fyld repeated the facts. “This boy didn’t do anything wrong; he’s just spent the past several hours moving all the belongings that all the rest of us are taking home.”
There was the sound of steps on the stairs, and the prince and one of the women arrived, dimly visible in the filtered light of the hallway.
“We’ve left Athens,” the prince dully noted.
“But we’ll be back sir,” Colonel Varsen stoutly said.
“Perhaps someone will colonel, but I doubt I’ll be the one,” the prince answered with melancholy.
“’Twasn’t your fault the sorcerers fell all to pieces on us sir,” Argen spoke up in the prince’s defense. “Who knew they had forces strong enough to fight against ours; we should have had stronger.”
“Other than Itterati, there weren’t any stronger than Iamblichus, not since Iago fell,” Varsen answered.
“And we didn’t think that so many cities would put their forces together against us,” the prince said.
“And we’re so far from home father,” added the girl who had come down the stairs with the prince. Marco noticed her for the first time, the thick, wavy hair that fell to her shoulders. She didn’t look beautiful in a classic way, but she looked sincere and earnest and friendly. Marco felt a split second of something twisting and clicking into place somewhere in his head, or his body, or his soul; he wasn’t sure what it was, but the sound of the girl’s voice had triggered something.
“The princess has a point,” Varsen said. “Our lines of supply were dreadful.”
“Shall we dismiss the boy, and let everyone enter their rooms?” Captain Fyld spoke up for the first time since the prince had arrived. “The officers of the ship have invited us to have dinner with them tonight, so the ladies may wish to freshen up.”
“Thank you captain,” the prince said. “Send the boy away,” the prince agreed.
“What’s your name, son?” the captain asked Marco.
He answered with his name after a moment’s pause. “My name’s Marco, sir,”
The Southern Trail (Book 4) Page 5
