The Spoils of War

Author's Note: Revised 4/25/05

How quickly cheers turn into moans. How quickly moans become silent. Victory can turn into defeat just as quickly. For Mathias, the cheers of those who live to fight another day serve as the overture for the silence of those who will not. Always after a battle the lucky soldiers wish to celebrate their good fortune. However a solemn few carry out the duty of securing the corpses of the fallen. Attended to by squires and servants, Mathias observed how they picked up the deceased with equal care. With the battle over there were no longer any differences between the fallen. With no differences to separate them, warriors on both sides could now rest in peace. In the end, did they not journey to meet the same creator?

The sun had finally set. The burning heat of day had been replaced by the coolness of night. Suddenly Mathias felt at home once more. Cool, dark…night. As he strolled through the streets of the town, he observed the sand. It was now tinted the color of blood of the many deceased. How he tired of the sight of blood. At times he thought he would never be able to remove the stench of it from his person. Blood had dried into his hands. It had stained his face and had washed his sword many times this past year. How he longed to put it all behind him. His mind then supplied him with the one image that kept him sane. Elisabetha. He had not seen her for a year now. It obviously seemed much longer than that. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night, fearful that he had forgotten her voice or her face. How could he forget what he loved so much? Could death ever make the image of her pale beauty fade from his mind? He rejected the thought instantly. Stopping in his tracks, he closed his eyes and remembered. His thoughts focused on Elisabetha. Her long golden hair was soft to the touch. Many mornings he lay in bed and buried his face in it. Her skin was smooth always and he delighted in holding her hand or her gentle caresses. She was the gentlest soul he had ever encountered. He loved her more than life itself.

After walking some distance further, he entered the encampment that his army had made near the entrance of the town. Tents filled with boisterous soldiers were lined up beside one another on either side. Many of the men were drinking. All of them were happy and counting their blessing that they were alive. Laughter, belches, and oaths mingled in the night air only to become a distorted symphony. As Mathias strode through the middle he smiled and nodded to his men. The knights paused their drunken racket to acknowledge their passing sovereign. Many raised their glasses high above their alcohol stained crosses in salute.

The clamor of his victory happy soldiers died away as he came upon a quieter section in camp. His ears were suddenly met with the soft moans of the wounded. Surgeons did their best as they worked on lacerated arms and legs. Some of the wounded looked as if they had adopted the turbans worn by many Arabs. In fact they were bandages trying to hide the head wound that had cracked the skull open like an egg. Mathias stopped and entered several of the tents. He held a few hands and prayed with those that he considered the bravest of his knights.

His walk brought him to the entrance of the town. The bodies of the dead from both sides lay spread out on the desert plain waiting to be buried. While a few worked on bringing and placing the bodies, one worked on digging the holes. Mathias recognized the figure and approached him from behind.

"You do not celebrate with the others?"

The figure turned, and for once Mathias gazed upon the man's face. His skin was red from the sun, evidently not used to the heavy exposure. His blonde hair was sweaty and stained with the desert's sand. His blue eyes were level with Mathias'. When he responded he spoke in the tongue that Mathias had recognized before.

"I feel uncomfortable celebrating with strangers."

Mathias nodded. "Surely, you feel comfortable with men from your own company?"

"They are good fighters. But they are not good friends. They do not know of honor, duty, and loyalty."

"And whom do you honor?"

"God."

"What is your duty?"

"To secure the tomb of Christ, our Lord. To serve and protect in his name."

"And to whom are you loyal?"

"Those who I give my service to."

Mathias nodded his head and studied his responses. Finally he said, "tomorrow morning, come to my tent. I would converse with you further." He turned and began to walk away. As he walked he yelled back, "what is your name?"

"Leon." He answered shouting. "Belmont."