The Trampling Boots of Battle - Part 2

Part 2

I stood towards the outside of the encampment, well away from my mother's tent, and polished my spearhead with oil taken off a fallen knight's saddlebag. The stuff was high quality without a doubt, a fine, light liquid that nonetheless protected the metal without needing frequent re-application. I took my time, running the oily rag over its surface in smooth, steady strokes. It was something of a pleasure of mine, sitting alone and polishing my weapons and armor.

Of course, there were always distractions at hand to disturb my peace. This time, it was the deep, rumbling voice of my older brother, Maher, "Belus, you put too much oil on that thing."

I didn't stop or turn to look at him, "When I want your advice, believe me, I will ask you. Until then, you can safely figure I don't want to hear it."

"Too much oil just attracts dust and brings ruin to the blade."

At least that was progress: at one point he would have mocked me for bothering with fine oil on a spear. A spear that could easily be broken in the heat of a melee, even as the result of a successful thrust. Ruined polearms were a common feature of any real battlefield, their long shafts giving them reach, but sacrificing durability. As such, it was rare to find quality metal in a spearhead. They were usually fashioned out of the blacksmith's scavenger pile, with shafts built from discarded wood around the encampment. I knew I must have seemed mad to the rest of the company to put so much care into mine, but that didn't mean I wanted to hear about it and let my older brother know as much.

Maher moved beside me and sat under one leg with the other bent in a kneel. He slowly brought his flanged mace around across his knee, balancing it delicately, "Got anymore oil?"

"Will you stop talking if I do?" I asked him irritably.

He smiled, "No," and continued staring at his weapon. It was a brutal looking thing, the eight flanges spread about the head evenly, each with the shape of an "A," and all coming to slightly dulled points. Most likely they'd once been sharp, but Maher didn't bother with seeing the blacksmith about it. He didn't need to, really: he was easily two heads taller than me and probably half-again as wide, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with skin darker than any of us had seen before and eyes that looked like endless back pools.

I passed the oil over to him, watching him pour the precious liquid onto his own rag and begin to apply it raggedly to the full surface of his mace. While not nearly as fastidious in the care of his armament, Maher was no one's fool and did his level best to ensure it would function in the thickest, most intense melee. And for good reason too: on the battlefield, he acted as if a herald of Death himself, striding into the enemy's ranks, swinging that heavy mace with one hand and raising a double-thick shield with the other. He wore in the same lamellar the rest of us clad ourselves, but his set was dyed in a very vivid blood red rather than the light orange on grey, making him stand out from everyone around him. When seen in combination with the dark hue of his flesh, the armor made Maher look the part of otherworldly evil.

We were brothers, but I was nowhere his equal when it came to size or battle, my own ruddy complexion and green eyes light enough there were more than a few who claimed we were not brothers at all. Whereas Maher was exceptionally tall and stout even in the company of stout men, I was merely a bit taller than typical and slender, my body built for contents of endurance and speed, rather than raw strength. I couldn't effectively wield Maher's mace; the unbalanced weapon would drag me out of position with every miss or parry, leaving me vulnerable to a killing blow from my foe. So I settled on a spear, developing my fleetness and technique, picking my strikes carefully as to avoid overextending and having the shaft broken.

I stopped polishing my spearhead and put the oily rag down, dragging a finger across the bindings in the shaft. Picking at them, prodding them, making sure they were still plenty tight and free of any fraying. My brother didn't even need to lift his head, "Belus, stop fiddling with it. It's fine."

"How do you know?"

"Because it was fine yesterday. And the yesterday before. And all the yesterdays prior, ever since you picked that thing up. Don't put a name on a hummingbird. That spear won't last forever."

"Neither will your mace!" My voice rose with irritation as I turned my head to reply.

Maher's shoulders lifted and dropped, their immensity making mockery of the idea of shrugging, "So? I'll pick up another. There are plenty more." He finally turned his head to look at me as well, the whites of his eyes contrasting with his dark skin that was further blackened by the sun, "Just like hummingbirds."

There was silence between us for a long few seconds as the wind picked up and passed over the encampment's temporary wooden walls. Neither of us wanted to look away first, but I knew Maher: he was patient enough when he had to be and didn't back down from disputes. Eventually, my own will to continue faltered and I resumed my examination of my spear's bindings.

"Doing this every day won't change what we are." Maher spoke slowly.

I stopped and stared at the shaft, my eyes losing focus with the arrival of my heated anger, "Doesn't mean I have to hear it."

"It's home, Belus."

"It's a fucking whorehouse!"

"Still home. Come, mother is probably finished with dinner anyway." He didn't cajole me further or reach down to drag me away. My older brother simply rose from his half-kneeling squat and stood, hefting his mace over his shoulder and walking away at a surprisingly brisk pace for someone his size. I let him get far enough away he couldn't hear my footsteps then stood, breathing deep to calm myself before following behind him.

---

They called us "hummingbirds," children born of the camp followers or simply orphans who fell into the march column in hopes of wheedling food, water and shelter. The life was far from easy though and so many died, most of them going unmourned. They were the children of the dead and embittered, mere detritus of man's commitment to wage violence upon his fellow man.

Myself and my siblings weren't orphans by half; we knew who our mother was. The question remained only for our fathers, definitely more than one as we varied so much in appearance and our mother was a camp-whore who'd never dare enforce a claim of paternity lest she be laughed outside the walls. We went without being named for years, earning the privilege of a title other than "whore's boy" when we could keep up on the march with our own two feet. It stung, being treated as simply a sort of animal who trailed the soldiers. Other than Maher, there was also Inanna, our younger sister. She was a beauty in any land, possessed of sandy skin and sleepy-looking eyes half-covered by hoods of skin, along with a full head of rich, glossy black hair that fell to her back and framed a face of soft features.

Each of us was a veritable personal history of our mother's travels, Maher being born of the time when she was captured and taken from her home in the fertile lands and escaped, finding herself desperate enough to accept employment as an officer's campaign wife. She'd been young and pretty, she claimed, pretty enough that when her belly swelled with Maher, the officer offered to take her as a concubine. But he died of a fever when besieging a walled city along the river and she was cast out of the officer's quarters.

Maher was born shortly thereafter, which forced her to take the humiliating work of a whore in a mercenary company. Men of every strip met her and bedded her, all of them filled with lust and none of them caring when she'd grown pregnant once more. Mother told me my father was a reedy man from the fertile lands near enough to where she was born, although too far for her to have known him. He too, died, puking his insides out after an arrow wound grew infected and she'd spat on his grave once they buried him.

Inanna was born of a caravan guard from the far eastern reaches, carrying signs of her exotic, foreign heritage all across her face and body. It actually worried Maher and I at times; all over the camp there were men and the fastest way to part a man from his scruples was to hand him a weapon and let him experience battles. Mother hadn't agreed, of course, figuring Inanna would follow in her footsteps and become a whore -- granted, a higher class of whore, but a whore nonetheless. It was something Maher wasn't enthusiastic about and I outright refused to acknowledge.

Years earlier, when we were passing through the merchant city of Uloy, taken her in the dead of night and given her over to an orphanage there, paying half of what I'd managed to make in the campaign (from scavenging and chores around camp; I was too young to fight then) for them to take her in. I remember the solemn and pious faces of the matron and her family who ran the orphanage, their unblinking vow to look after my sister.

I also remember how, a few months later, she came back, having been sold to a brothel as a serving girl and escaped. Maher laughed at me then, especially when she'd presented a sack full of foreign coins that represented a full night's income for the house of pleasure. My own shock was overcome with laughter when she -- with her small voice that barely went above a whisper -- mentioned it was best if she never returned to that city.

But that meant she was stuck in the bawdy, rough-and-tumble world of professional soldiery, men who made their living killing other men and rarely had respect for anyone who didn't. Stuck in the whore's tent where our mother worked and resided. I knew what was going to happen, what I was going to see when I stepped inside there, but Maher had been right: it was home for me. As much as I might want to forget it, it wouldn't change.

As we stepped inside the tent, we were immediately assailed with the almost oppressive stench of sweat, sex and incense burning. The girls put up beaded curtains or carpets to shield themselves from prying eyes, but they did nothing for the smell -- or the sound. Everyone my head turned, I heard the sounds of whores plying their trade: the distinct slapping of flesh meeting flesh, the moans of pleasure and pain, the cry of one nearing their release, the slurp of a whore preparing the next man to be serviced.

There were a cluster of men huddled by the door, playing a game of dice and cards. My face twisted into a snarl. I never liked gambling, seeing it as it rightfully was, a tax on fools and drunkards. They caught my expression, their bodies half-turning and glares meeting mine. I didn't like the look of them as they stared up at us. "Hoy, hoy, it's the whore's own hummingbirds! Looking for your mama?"

I didn't like the sound of them either.

Maher, as usual, kept his head about him and simply stomped right through, treading on their cards and kicking one of the dice across the tent. The men said nothing and I sneered at them before doing the same as my brother, one of the cards adhering to my boot as I walked over to mother's place. Her decorations were distinct among all the others, Maher having provided well for her with niceties, some of them decorated in the blood red of his armor, others representing the looted goods of foes. As I pulled through her beads, I saw Maher already sitting down, a steaming hot bowl of stew in his hands and mother laughing at something he said. Probably a bad joke of some sort.

But there was something missing as I looked around, "Where's Inanna."

Mother looked up at me, her dark hair and green eyes matching mine in color, framing her gently wrinkled and pale face as it twisted into a slight frown. "She's working Belus. Leave her be."

I opened my mouth to say something but one of Maher's hands grabbed my wrist tight. He looked up to me and shook his head before tilting an ear towards the stew. I knew neither of them liked my outbursts; I didn't like them either. Yet I liked my sister being a whore even less and wanted anyone who knew me to be aware of that fact, lest they begin to tell stories about their time spent with her around the fire and I commit the cardinal offense of striking another man in the company inside of camp walls.

That was a hanging, in most cases.

The tension left our mother's place as Inanna popped inside quickly, her lithe frame displayed for any leering eyes present by the tight, yet insubstantial binding over her breasts that left her belly and shoulders bare. It was obvious she'd just finished man, as she reached up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Stew again?"

Mother held a cup of cheap wine towards her and Inanna accepted it. She tilted the cup back and filled her mouth with wine, gargling it for a few seconds before swallowing it, "Thank you mother. Men's taste spoils my appetite."

I couldn't bear to hear her talk in such a way and tried to ignore it. But mother picked up where my sister had left off, "It wouldn't be as difficult if you would learn to serve them in other ways, child."

My sister put her hand on her hip haughtily and gave mother a look. She was far from a child in her own estimated and resented when mother addressed her as such. Still, mother scooped a ladle's worth of stew into her bowl right after mine and we all settled down to eat, the intruding sounds of pleasure falling away as we all talked.

This was the easy life, as easy as it ever got in service the king and coin.

When we finished, Inanna reached into her lockbox and pulled out a set of cards, shuffling them in her hands and asking quietly, "Does anyone want to play?"

I rolled my eyes, but mother and Maher nodded, quickly scooting over into a triangle. I knew the game by heart, a game of fortune-changing. It was a silly local superstition of one war-ravaged place or another and Inanna's bad fortune to live in such a place when she was impressionable. The rules were simple -- every card had its counter, played in order in such a way to counter all your opponent's cards in turn. Swords beat axes beat spears beat swords. Sunlight was conquered by darkness which was conquered by moonlight and conquered in turn by sunlight. Piety was displace by prosperity which was vanquished by decadence. Death ended life but was in turn defeated by birth. Strength overcame cunning, but lost to intellect. The trick was to string them all together, throwing your cards down appropriately in order to have your final card unable to be countered and thereby give yourself a better fortune. For some that meant not holding Death. I always figured Piety was a worse one to hold, but the churchmen frowned on that sentiment.

Of course, I'd once asked Inanna how could she know that the fortunes were being changed and not just showing what fortune was already destined. She'd just been entering the age of impudence and womanhood then and threw her hands up, shouting, "That isn't how it works!"

I'd smiled and told her I would play until my fortune was changed for the worst, right on the eve of battle and see if her cards held any special powers. She fumed and refused and I laughed some more. Then the next day we'd taken the field and routed the enemy. I was insufferable and Inanna couldn't bear the sight of me for a fortnight afterwards, with mother trying to get me to apologize for making light of Inanna's religion.

"Mother, it isn't a religion. It's a card game."

My mockery turned to distaste when mother and Maher began playing it with her, passing the time thinking endless combinations and strategies. I suspected Inanna sometimes gambled what little money she had to spare, but if so, she was remarkably circumspect about losing and never betrayed a bad night of cards by weeping over her fortunes lost. Mother seemed to take the game seriously while claiming to not believe in the underlying mysticism. Maher said he didn't like the cards because there was no mace but gleefully joined in whenever the others played together.

I watched the three of them play one hand while helping myself to a second helping of stew. It went quickly, with Inanna ending the winner while holding the Axe card. The irony of it was just a bit obvious and I said as much, "About the only time you'll ever see Inanna winning anything with an axe in her hand."

Maher and I laughed loudly together but Inanna and mother gave us both dirty looks, which cut my mirth short. Not Maher though; nothing could make him stop laughing until he no longer thought something was funny. Despite that, mother looked to me, "Stop japing your sister. For that, you draw a card."

I sat up on my elbow from where I lay, "I don't want to draw a card --"

"I'm not asking you what is wanted. I'm telling you what is going to be done." The last of her words were nearly overcome by the sound of the girl in the adjacent place being pummeled by what must've been a very large man, her moans turning to screams and echoing about the tent. Mother acted as if she couldn't hear the noise and continued, "Inanna, shuffle the cards and deal Belus."

"Don't deal me."

"Inanna." Mother's voice was firm and she stared right at me as she spoke. I sat up on my knees, holding back any further comment. My sister shuffled the cards quickly, looking first at me then to mother and finally back again, throwing down six cards my way. A six card draw would go fast, so there was at least some consideration within her.

She spoke softly, "Pick two, discard two and leave two face down."

"I know how the game is played." My voice was irritable and, even though it wasn't really aimed at her, she frowned slightly before turning to deal mother, Maher and herself last. Mother sat up straighter than before, a surefire tell she'd received a good hand. My older brother's face betrayed nothing but quiet intensity. Inanna's eyes shifted, her hand hovering as she waffled on deciding which two to leave face down -- unknown even to the holder.

My own hand wasn't much: Sword and Harvest, with Death and Moon going to the discard pile visible to all and whatever the two face down cards were. It didn't matter much; the only strategy I'd ever hit upon was to hold all three cards in a suite and burn them in sequence. It was ridiculously amateurish and Inanna inevitably chastised me for such child-like play.

All the same, I didn't care much, letting Maher knock down both of mother's free hand and force her to play her unknown blind against Inanna. It scarcely could've worked and in exchange, my sister forced her to fold, taking mother's discard pile for her own. It was a carefully calculated play, I could tell, knowing our brother would go for the kill so early with only six cards in hand and trusting her own cards enough to weather the storm should he have chosen her for his first victim. As she'd folded mother, Inanna went again, folding Maher in turn and taking his discard pile as well.

With a handful of cards, I could scarcely play aggressively and so I played cautiously. I dealt my Sword to remove her most dangerous suite from play while praying the two face down cards I still held contained either Prosperity or Intellect. I knew Inanna would play Strength if she could and she did, at which point I flipped my face down cards, expecting something stupid like Piety and Cunning. No one was more shocked than I was when my last three cards were Harvest, Intellect and Prosperity. Every one of her suites were countered, with my hand growing unassailable as the last three rounds played out.

The cards had not been kind to Inanna and I was left holding Prosperity.

"Well played Belus. You've changed your fortune." Mother's voice held a hint of smug self-satisfaction. "Do you see know the appeal of the cards?"

Continued in Part 3

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