Chapter 1: The Man of Two Masters
It was just going to be one of those days.
It took some considerable effort to stifle a yawn, but Janus Castorius' conditioning stopped him from giving in to the temptation to just let it come—not when he was standing at attention. His eye caught a young, pretty girl with thick chestnut hair standing among the gathering crowd, and he found himself inadvertently smiling at her. The girl met his gaze but quickly looked away, doubtless afraid to let her eyes linger on a man of his position.
Castorius sighed quietly. He was not used to being regarded in that fashion.
The morning had broken sunny and clear, and looked to turn out precisely how he generally liked them. A clear sky loomed above, and the balmy summer breeze gently tousled his curly flaxen hair. Had he been free to pick his present conditions, he would have doubtless chosen to start the day slow, waking early yet lingering in bed for a good long while. Perhaps, if he'd had company, he would've gone for a little tussle, or, if he were by himself, enjoyed the simple pleasure of stretching his long limbs on the comfy bed, letting the sleep of the night slowly ebb away until finally rising to do some exercises.
Then he would saunter off to the kitchen and break his fast with perhaps some fresh bacon—fried crispy—accompanied by a couple of fried eggs—sunny side up or perhaps just over easy—before he would embark outdoors on a leisurely walk in the fresh mountain air.
By no means were those typical conditions for a man of his profession, but Castorius had learned long ago that a man's own will and determination to forward his own position made all the difference in the world as to where in it, and in what sort of position, he'd find himself. A man simply had to take what he rightfully knew belonged to him, and take whatever risk needed to accomplish that—an attitude which, Castorius could testify, demanded the sufficient strength of nature to accept the possibility of coming up with zero in the aftermath.
And yet he had never considered himself a gambling man.
All the same, as it was, he'd not had those kinds of luxuries today, but had instead been torn up from his hard bed all too early in the cold, artless confines of The Castle Dour—an apt name if there ever was one—and for his breakfast had had to settle for some gray slop of a porridge, more water than it was grain, and a measly piece of stale bread—the kind of feed all too familiar to anyone like himself, serving in the Imperial armed forces.
The morning's program wasn't particularly to his liking, either. He found these barbaric assemblages distasteful—to put the matter diplomatically—and though they aroused his earnest disdain at the best of times, it was today's proceedings in particular that really threatened to cramp his style.
Castorius sighed, more loudly this time. He stood in a stern pose, hands behind his back, and surveyed the plebs slowly gathering in the plaza. All of them eager for a reminder of their own mortality, no doubt, while at the same time reveling in the sweet comfort of the fact that today was not their turn. One needed, Castorius supposed, the occasional evidence of the misery of others as reminder of one's own fortune.
Such as it was.
The expression he wore conformed to the last detail to the polished professional countenance of soldierly wariness, but in his case it contained a fair sprinkle of genuine misgiving as well. He switched his attention from the loathsome throng to the comrades in arms standing around him, hands similarly tugged behind them and, like him, their faces seasoned with grim. He caught the eye of Roggvir, perhaps his best friend in Solitude, who quickly averted his gaze. This was no moment for a show of camaraderie, it seemed.
Soon the audience was looking like a full assembly; faces at once curious, eager, and somewhat fearful all around. Armed imperial soldiers stood around at the sidelines, keeping order, eyeing the crowd with assertive suspicion. The steel shield of one them caught the light of the morning sun crept up low in the eastern sky, and reflected it straight into Castorius' eyes, forcing him to squint. He wished he could have just freed his hand to block the nuisance, but kept his pose as rigid as ever. In this he was well practiced.
Captain Aldis, the Guard Captain of the city guard, stood to his left, his cheek muscles clenched underneath the thick, dark beard. Now there was a man Castorius both admired and hated. Admired him for his firm resolution, the tendency and ability to do what he thought right, to choose his path and follow it until the end, never backing down or flinching. As it happened, those were exactly the same qualities Castorius could not stand about the man. Talk about pig-headed stubbornness, complete inability to judge each situation by its own measure, and change approaches accordingly. For Castorius himself, were it not for his uncanny ability to pick a course according to need and to assume a different approach each time the rules of the game changed, he would have never achieved the things that he had.
For better or for worse.
It did not help that Aldis was quite easy on the eye, what with his ruggedly even features, strong jaw, and eyes of firm determination spiced with a sort of sensitive intelligence; and though his own appearance was not exactly prone to scare away small children either, Castorius nonetheless found himself envying the man's good looks.
By contrast, the man standing next to Aldis might have descended headlong all the way from the top of The Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel, taking each bump and bounce with his face. Ahtar, the headsman of Solitude, was a man every bit the picture of his trade. The Redguard's dark face was crisscrossed by stripes of lighter pigmentation, and his nose did not only appear to have been broken, but positively bashed in several times over. And, had Castorius not known better, he might have thought those hard black eyes knew nothing but hard justice.
He was under no confusion, though, about the man simply playing his role. Many a time you saw the town executioner cowering behind a cowl, but Ahtar had a way of turning his face itself into a mask, one which betrayed nothing of the big man's true character. The normally soft-spoken man became a hunk of stone, whose professed silence was itself near deafening.
In front of Ahtar, the execution block eagerly awaited fresh blood. The heavy slab of wood was wrought with dents and welts from previous guests, whose gore had been permanently absorbed into its fiber. Castorius thought the thing might have stood in that place from the very conception of Solitude, and since then Skyrim had known a tumultuous past of unrest and warfare.
Now that the audience was more or less fully assembled, an anticipatory silence descended upon it. It turned out to be a popular event, at least a couple dozen attendants; the word of the morning's entertainment must have gotten out to the close-by towns as well. People of shorter stature at the back had to crane their necks for a full view, and Castorius sneered at the bloodthirstiness of the mob. He sought out the fair-skinned girl he'd seen earlier, and was damned if there wasn't a glimmer of anticipation in those otherwise unassuming pale eyes.
Despite himself, he aired out another vexed exhale. Nothing like these macabre chop-off parties to further fracture his already brittle sense of trust in the loftier qualities of his fellow man. Not that he'd ever been much of a philanthropist to start with. But this was one too many times he'd have to attend this sort of sinister revelry, and having served in the city guard for some time, he'd attended them plenty.
Of course, it was no coincidence today's proceedings boasted a particular popularity. This wasn't to be your usual execution, but owed its special nature to at least two reasons. For instance, it was the first time a beheading would stem from solely political reasons, unlike usually when this sort of punishment befell the usual sort of cases: murderers, rapists, even, in some cases, common thieves. But the display today was to be a "swift and harsh punishment" on account of a proclaimed "outrageous and callous act of treason".
The plebs, of course, had been spared from any particulars on what it was exactly that comprised such a despicable act, but Castorius suspected that even if they had been let in on the details, they would have paid little attention anyway. Simple law, simple justice, simple punishments: that was the only language the masses understood.
The fellows-at-arms around Castorius prepared for something to change. As one, they switched the position of their hands from behind their backs to their sides. Castorius did not follow suit. He could not, for a thick rope kept his wrists together about the small of his back.
For the other way in which today's execution stood out from any previous ones he'd witnessed was that today it was to be his head on that chopping block.
That thought in mind, he gazed anew upon the less-than-inviting podium of honor. He'd rested his head on more becoming pillows. A flash of an image of a well-proportioned feminine bosom sprung to mind. He felt his head already sitting loose on his shoulders as he let his eyes rest on the blade of the executioner's axe by Ahtar's hip—so sharp it felt as if you could nick your eye by the sheer act of looking at it.
Everybody's attention was taken by Captain Aldis, who now stepped up and cleared his throat. He unfolded a piece of paper, but when he spoke, he never once looked at it. "Citizens of Solitude, and of Skyrim; and all those visiting," he started. His voice was level and clear, but not very loud. Castorius could see people cocking their heads to hear better. Perhaps it was his thick Nord accent. "We are about to execute a traitor to the Empire," he continued, "the first time ever we've had to resort to such extreme measures. Let this be a lesson to those others possibly harboring rebellious sentiments!" His matter-of-fact tone did little to visibly intimidate anyone, though his words certainly resonated within Castorius.
Aldis turned around, and afforded him a level look. The man's eyes were hard and unfeeling, no clue of their past camaraderie could be read therein—his ever the way of a determinate professional. He addressed Castorius then; gave him a brief but detailed account of his crimes.
Lies, every single line of it.
Castorius grit his teeth, and let the accusation flow over him. He did not need to hear it; it hadn't slipped his mind. He'd read the confession, written supposedly by his own hand. The only part of it originating from him, however, was his name, signed underneath the supposedly accurate recounting. He'd given it on the spot.
And now, coming to the part where Aldis asked him if he in any way contradicted the claims made, he simply shook his head, drawing a rowdy reaction from the crowd.
"Traitor!" somebody yelled.
Yeah, sure. Why not.
"Stormcloak!" yelled another: a short, barren-featured man, who, judging by the look of him, doubtless busted his back in the fields every day of his life for a meager and largely joyless living, just to be able to satisfy the rapacious hunger of his beloved Empire. His face contorted with anger as he yelled out his accusation, dealt out like a dearly-treasured babe finally sent out into the world, as if the taunt itself were the most heinous insult he could possibly have dreamed up.
Well, perhaps a Stormcloak wouldn't have been quite the most heinous thing out there a man could be. Castorius could easily think of one or two worse, and he'd known those types of people. In fact, he might have been one of those types. Perhaps he still was.
Maybe he deserved this, after all.
But this self-deluding pleb moron and his ilk, with their righteous anger and lithe political sensibilities, and their petty slogans and slights, couldn't have been more wrong. The man they now so eagerly crucified with their loathing looks, had never, ever, had any political affiliations. None whatsoever.
No, Janus Castorius had only ever served two masters. The first and foremost of them was his stomach. And his stomach, as it turned out, demanded a due filling on regular bases, otherwise proving to be a quarrelsome master indeed. Sure, soldiers got fed regularly, but the unfortunate fact was, Castorius' stomach had developed far too refined a taste for any military gruel to satisfy. In this, it had a staunch follower and a fiercely loyal right-hand man named Palate, whose critical discernment was always to ensure no inferior denizens populated the realm on a more than strictly necessary basis.
For though obvious it was that every man had to eat, for Castorius, a man's measure lay not in the necessities of his existence, but rather in the fashion in which he chose to succumb to them. He may not be able to choose the conditions of his surroundings, or the nature of his needs, but he could damn well decide how he was going to live with them, what quality of satisfactions he was to seek. Would he simply capitulate, and accept the limitations of his externals—settle for what was afforded to him—or would he stand for himself, and make the best of his situation? Would he, in other words, be willing to take what he wanted, even if it meant putting his own safety a risk?
In Castorius' mind, a true man—an authentic man—would without exception always pick the latter option. Such was his unwavering conviction. And this is where it had landed him.
No regrets.
As if to offer its own account, his stomach growled. Castorius ignored it, instead reflexively tracking down the young girl in the crowd. He saw her looking straight at him now with quite unbashful forwardness. She gave him a shy but knowing smile, verging on the sort of soft cruelty only accessible to those innocent.
Yes, regrets . . .
Deep sigh—once more.
For it was Castorius' second lord and master, holding his court just a few inches below the first, who did—and brothers did he ever ever—make the former look like a beggar monk in comparison. Castorius, in other words, loved—had always loved—the ladies. Though, to be perfectly honest, he could not readily say if it was he himself who loved them, or was it him, this second master of his.
Well, nevertheless. It was a tough contest which one of the two masters was more prone to get Castorius in trouble, but the bottom line nonetheless stood: both had found out long ago that the absolutely best way to keep in whatever it was they desired the most was gold. Status came right in its wake. And the more of either two, the better.
The problem was, however, that the pay of the run-of-the-mill soldier was not much to pen home about. Sure, it was possible even for a non-ranking soldier to occasionally get to enjoy more savory dishes than the usual diet of porridge, cabbages, and, on good days, salted meat. It also had to be admitted that the uniform itself was certainly an incentive to many women, especially when it was carried by a tall, fairly comely man such as Castorius. The fact that being from Cyrodiil made him exotic and exciting in Skyrim also helped. Not that he'd experienced too much difficulty back home, either.
The fact remained, however, that the joys thus acquired were either sporadic in nature, or simply subject to waning due to the obvious fact that time waited for no man. Castorius was going to get older, and if he could not find a way to rise in his social and economic stature, he would not be able to satisfy all of his needs indefinitely. So that had been his foremost objective for the past year. It scarcely needed to be pointed out that it had proved to be less than perfect a success. Not only had he not managed to make any headway, he would soon have no head to make any way with.
But he was no traitor. After all, how could one be a traitor when one had no loyalties? His own cause he certainly had not betrayed. If there was a call for any proof of that, his current situation should well suffice. Clearly he was a man willing to perish for his beliefs. Or lack thereof.
Yet, he still could not really lend any credibility to any of what was happening. That was part of the reason why he'd never denied the accusations made against him—even when they'd made it perfectly clear the punishment for his alleged crimes was to be death. He had not conceded.
Let them try, he'd thought.
Even to Castorius himself that had seemed absolutely foolish. Why he'd chosen that approach, he could not say. He did not understand it himself. But it was an unmistakable certainty in his gut that they could not kill him.
Was it not him who was delusional?
Why not.
"Prisoner, step forward!" Captain Aldis commanded. Castorius did as told. He stood next to the block, looked down on the red-stained thing as upon a mere curiosity. All felt as if in a dream.
"Let's see if Ulfric can save you now!" somebody jeered, drawing a halfhearted tide of chuckles.
Ulfric had promised him gold. That was about it. All he'd asked.
"Lay your head down," Aldis said almost gently. Behind Castorius, Ahtar stirred, readying his time-tested killing-axe.
Castorius knelt, laid his neck in the depression in the block, and closed his eyes. At times like these, people tended to pray, he knew. Castorius had no one to pray to, and nothing to say. He thought of Elisif, the young wife of the High King, and felt something akin to an ache. This is for you, he thought, surprised himself by the near-genuine sentiment.
"Have you any last words?" asked Aldis. He might have brought that up while Castorius was still upright.
Still, he said nothing, trusting the silence would speak for itself.
"Alright," Aldis finally said. Castorius braced himself. Would it hurt? He'd heard the head was able to see for a few minutes after it had been detached, and as it rolled off the chopping block. He hoped that was not true, as he was prone to motion sickness.
Would there be something on the other side? He wasn't sure if he'd wish for it or not.
For some reason, he thought of a song sung to him as child by his mother, a woman whose face or voice he could not presently bring to mind. Not that he remembered the lyrics of the song either. He though he might have had a specter of a recollection of what the melody might had been.
Strange, the things that went on in a man's head as his imminent death fast approached.
Though it did seem to take forever. What was the holdup?
Castorius then heard Ahtar's deep inhale, and found himself flexing his neck muscles, as if they could somehow stop the blade.
This was it.
"Stormcloaks!" somebody yelled.
Yes, yes, Castorius thought impatiently. We all heard that the first time, and it's not—
Wait, this time it had been in plural.
The blow did not come, but the crowd started babbling.
When after a few seconds the axe still had not landed and the commotion in its stead kept picking up, Castorius dared to open his eyes. He turned his neck around on the block to get a look at Ahtar, who stood hanging the axe loose in his hand, his eyes directed towards the crowd. Castorius followed his gaze.
A minor commotion had transpired at the gate where some guards huddled together, parleying with evident agitation. The plebs moved about nervously, babbling among themselves, "attack" being the only word Castorius could clearly discern. Then, a flustered-looking imperial soldier burst through the gate. He stared open-mouthed at the guards for a few seconds, drained of all color. "Stormcloaks," he said then, and all around both guards and soldiers automatically drew swords.
A near panic broke loose among the crowd, everybody tying to out-cry each other. "Ulfric has declared war!" somebody yelled.
"They've come to set their comrade free!" said another.
Yes, surely.
Castorius wasn't sure what to expect next. Would he still be executed? Or would he be expected to take up arms? He might be able to flee with all the commotion . . .
But a strong hand tore him to his feet. Captain Aldis. He held firmly onto Castorius' arm, and motioned for Roggvir to join him. Roggie, as Castorius called him, took the other arm. "Let's get him out of here," Aldis said. He addressed Castorius. "You've lucked out," he said, with no evident emotion. "For now."
And—without giving him further explanations, or responding to any of his queries—his two former friends wordlessly hauled Castorius through the disoriented multitudes and back into his cell.
He couldn't say he'd missed it, but was glad to be going back.