When the boy saw the poster, he had to stop and look at it.
It was a new edition to the notice board. The boy had walked down this dingy corridor so many times he couldn't count them and he'd never seen it before. None of the other children would've noticed, but this boy paid strict attention to detail, whether it mattered or not. But it wasn't just the fact that it was new. It was the subject matter that really dragged him in.
The poster was particularly large and was pinned right in the middle of the notice board. It was obviously intended to grab the attention of any passers-by. Fat chance of that; none of the others would so much as give that board a passing glance, never mind read any of the announcements posted on it. Some of them weren't even tall enough to reach it. Not that this would be a problem for this boy; he was tall for his age. His mother, who was a perfectionist of the highest order, would've said he was too tall, but he liked the height his long legs gave him. The only time he ever felt worthy was when he could look down on those around him, and at his height, that was an easy accomplishment. He was just the right size to look directly at the symbol in the centre of that poster; a soldier's helmet. Written above this helmet, in great bold letters, was:
Serve your country!
Consider a career in the Parthenian Military!
Below it was the address of the local barracks.
The boy kept on looking at the poster. His hand, which contained a note he was supposed to be delivering to the nurse, dropped to his side. At this point, he wouldn't have noticed if the walls crashed down around him.
This boy remembered the soldiers particularly well. They'd marched through the centre of town once, as part of a parade of some sort. He'd been eight; his sister Barbara had been three. They'd been right at the front of the crowd, in perfect position to watch the soldiers. It had probably been more for show than anything else; the boy's father was an accountant, so they had no business with the military. His mother, however, was so desperate to gain popularity among the upper-class that she'd insisted that they were right there, supporting their country. They certainly hadn't intended it to be a treat for their son. But that didn't matter to him; he'd been entranced, watching the men stride past in their magnificent uniforms with the deep reverence of someone who'd encountered a god. All he had been able to think about were soldiers after that. He thought this obsession had faded away but now, at fourteen, it was creeping back up again.
He smiled at the memory... and winced. There was an enormous bruise on the left side of his face. He'd got it just over an hour ago, after he accidentally screwed up a game of Aniseed Ball and was punished accordingly by his teammates. He'd tried to fight back – he always did – but he'd been outnumbered and, at some point, he'd tripped over his own feet. The others had taken advantage of that immediately, and the bruise on his face certainly wasn't the only one they'd given him. They probably wouldn't have stopped if one of the teachers hadn't happened to pass by. They'd sent the boy to the nurse's office, permission slip in hand, but there was no sympathy. The attackers would not get punished. This school believed in letting the boys sort out their differences among themselves; they thought it would give them some backbone.
The boy fumed at the injustice of it. He wasn't cut out for sport, and he knew it; he was too awkward, and he never showed as much enthusiasm as the others did. Sport just didn't interest him. There were things that did interest him, and he was actually good at some of them – history and sketching were particular hobbies of his – but such interests apparently made him a "sissy" and only resulted in him getting beaten up some more. He was always taught it was good to be intelligent. His fellow pupils obviously disagreed. His parents hadn't been much help on the matter, either.
"Just stop getting into fights," his mother insisted when he told her. "That uniform costs more than your dinner! I'm not having you messing it up, especially when anyone could see you walking around! You have to learn to keep up appearances, Robert!"
His father, as usual, had said nothing at all. His sister, as usual, was the only one who actually seemed to care about him. But what could she do? She was only nine. It was his job to protect her.
He kept looking at the poster, and he remembered something else. No one had walked in front of those soldiers as they marched through the centre of town. No one would dare kick a soldier around just because he hadn't quite managed to kick a ball properly. Not only that, but – and he realised this now – those soldiers had all looked the same. That meant no discrimination. No one in the army would ever call another soldier "beanpole" or mutter about him being a "filthy swot" when he answered a question correctly. It seemed to this boy that the military was the only place in the whole kingdom where respect even existed. He remembered everything he'd ever read, everything he'd ever seen. Soldiers gained respect. They were not only respected by the civilians, but they were respected by their peers. Officers were respected most of all, and they didn't reach their ranks because they were popular; they did so because they were qualified.
That's what I'll be, the boy decided, an officer. A general, if I can get that far.
Why not? He wouldn't do too badly at it. He was smart enough, he could follow orders and although he wasn't good at team sports, he could walk for hours without getting tired. Maybe that was it; he wasn't born to play sports, but he was born for soldiering. That would explain a lot.
But, whether he was born for it or not, he was not yet old enough to enlist. He was still a boy; a tall, awkward, teenage boy in a messy uniform. Right now, his body was aching.
With a small sigh of regret, he turned away from the poster and continued his journey to the nurse's office. Within five seconds, he was sitting on a chair and watching her as she scanned the register.
"You don't look too badly damaged," she was saying in a brash voice, "but it won't hurt to make sure... what was your name again?"
"Mint," said the boy.