Chapter Four
You asked me to teach you chess and I've done that. It's a useful mental exercise.
Through the years many thinkers have been fascinated by it, but I don't enjoy playing.
Do you know why not?
Because it was a game that was born during a brutal age when life counted for little
and everyone believed some people were worth more than others.
Kings and pawns.
Aramis was allowed to stay in the room with them, much to his relief. He slept on blankets before the fire with Casilla and Mendez taking turns on a chaise longue. There was always one on watch. Romero retreated each night to a bed in the next room and left them to it.
Their days were spent playing cards and dice. Casilla and Mendez went out to scout the grounds, collect firewood and hunt. Romero often stood looking out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Aramis watched all the activity from his pile of blankets. Occasionally he shuffled to the table to join a game, but his bruised and aching legs made it difficult.
Thus far Romero had treated him with kindness, bringing food and water, more or less making sure he was comfortable. Aramis had expected an interrogation as soon as he revealed he was a musketeer, but Romero hadn't pushed him. Perhaps the light touch was in deference to his weakened condition. Aramis could not blame Romero for causing it, the blows were well deserved.
They spoke in Spanish with the truth having been revealed. Aramis found himself slipping comfortably into using the language. He hadn't spoken it regularly since leaving home, on the odd occasion it came in useful for a mission, and sometimes a few curse words slipped out. It was still there when he needed it.
He watched Romero standing quietly at the window. The sun was going down, he wouldn't have much light left to see by soon.
Aramis cleared his throat. "What are you looking at?"
"A pair of magpies, but I suspect you mean to ask what I am looking for." Romero turned with a furtive smile on his face.
Aramis dipped his head.
"Lucero. He is long overdue. If you've been listening to our conversations, you'll know where he went."
To find the passage through the mountains...
"What will you do?"
"Wait."
At that moment Casilla came in with an arm full of firewood. He set it down and retreated to the table, shuffling the deck of cards. "Will you play, Romero?"
"Mendez will be back soon, you can play with him."
Casilla shrugged and reached for a book instead. There was a small library in the mansion. Many of the books were missing or ruined, but there was more than enough to occupy them.
Romero came to sit in a chair by the fire and indicated that Aramis should build it up. The light was beginning to wane and the temperature would soon be dropping.
When he was done Romero patted the seat next to him. "Come sit with me, Aramis."
He did as he was asked. Romero seemed to study him for a moment.
"Now, tell me, how does a musketeer become a monk?"
Aramis stared at the fire, momentarily absorbed by the rising flames as he considered his answer.
"A promise to God as I sat imprisoned, waiting for my death sentence to be carried out."
Romero frowned at hearing that. "You were sentenced to death? What for?"
The ghost of a smile crossed Aramis' lips as the fire danced in his eyes. "Would you like to know a secret?"
"Go on."
"The Dauphin is my son."
A grin spread across Romero's face. "And Casilla here is the queen's mother."
"It's the truth."
Romero looked at him uncertainly for a moment.
"I made a mistake… many mistakes." Aramis corrected. "It all started when we took the queen to bathe at Bourbon-les-eaux."
And so the whole sorry tale came out.
Romero's jaw was nearly on the floor by the end of it. "You mean to tell me that you are the father of the future king of France?"
"Indeed."
"The future king of France is a bastard half commoner!" He laughed. "Now there's a thought, and a happy one at that. Though I suppose he will be raised to think himself one of them, we can but hope that blood will out eventually."
"You do not care much for the nobility." It was a statement more than a question.
"And why should I? They care nothing for us. We are but pawns in a great game of chess."
"The pawns have more freedom than the king." Aramis pointed out wryly.
"And the queen runs rings around them all." Romero gave Aramis a knowing look. "But we fall and there is no consequence. Line after line of men left bleeding in the dirt, cut to pieces, while they hide in the back." Something darkened Romero's features as he stared at the fire. "Look at us... both soldiers in somebody else's war."
Aramis cleared his throat quietly. "I am not a soldier any more."
"You would like to think that. But you will always be a soldier, it is what they made of you. They took a young lad and fashioned him into a weapon. No wonder you felt the thrill of the fight. But tell me, of all the men you have killed on the battlefield how many did you actually want to kill? If you met them in a distant street half a world away, with no armies, no banners, no kings or queens, would you still leap forwards to slit their throat?"
Aramis hesitated. "I… I cannot say that I would."
"Why do you fight, Aramis?"
"For honour, for duty."
"No, that is the lie. That is what every leader tells their men so that they believe they fight on the side of the righteous - It is honourable. To die in battle is honourable… pah! It is foolish. To give your life in exchange for another man's vanity. Many wars begin because some high born fool takes offence from another, because he fancies expanding his borders or because of a difference in beliefs. Duty is just doing what these people tell you to do. We are worse than the basest of animals in that. Wild animals will kill to defend their lives or feed themselves. We fight and slaughter because other men tell us to, it is a most unnatural thing. Examine your reasons and tell me again: why do you fight, Aramis?"
The more Aramis thought about it, the more sense it made. He was given a gun and became quite good with it. In his youth he didn't particularly think or care much about the machinations that happened far above his head. Fighting brought him to life, it set his blood on fire, and so he cut men down at his commander's behest.
"Because I was told to."
He was given orders, and followed them. Aramis' own words suddenly came back to haunt him. We follow our orders, no matter where they lead, even to death. Twenty two men followed Treville's orders, and Treville followed the king's orders. The result was two left alive, and too many wives and children left bereft. It was a few words for the king, simple words formed between a pair of lips and a tongue. They were the deadliest weapons of all.
"And why do you fight, Romero?" After all, they both sat here as soldiers.
"The same reason as you. I was made into a weapon, long ago now. I have killed for my country for so long I know no other way of life. I may realise the foolishness of what I do, but I still do it. It is what I am good at. They tell me to come here and kill Frenchmen, so I come here and kill Frenchmen." Romero let out a long sigh. "We all march in lines like lambs to the slaughter, I cannot change that. I can at least turn my sword against your nobility, even if I cannot touch my own."
They were both trapped in systems of madness it seemed.
Romero continued. "I am at least blessed to serve under a man who has as little regard for their ilk as I do. The mission he has sent me on will strike at the heart of the French command, it will take them out directly rather than plough through lines of the undeserving. Perhaps the men will see sense and surrender when not pressed forwards by those from above." Something in his voice changed, he seemed to stare at the fire and become strangely distant. "They hold so much power, those that sit on thrones and those that surround them. Yet they are so far removed from what we do. I sometimes wonder if they see war as a game they play, like innocent children. They push us around as pieces on a board, not knowing or comprehending what actually happens. It's either that, or they know, and they don't care. I don't know which is worse."
Aramis gave a small smile as he thought of Louis. The comparison to a child was not far off the mark. But all this talk of the nobility brought another man to mind.
"I was friends with a Comte once."
Romero turned to give him a pitying look. "He was not your friend, not really."
Something in Aramis bristled at that. "I counted him as a brother, he had renounced his title. He wanted nothing to do with his lands or his people. He was one of us."
"And what happened to his people?"
"They…" Aramis tailed off at recalling their time in Pinon. He had meant to defend Athos, but that story would not cover him in glory. "They were preyed upon by another Baron. Their crops were destroyed… They suffered."
"See, the high born are selfish, the lot of them. Your Comte neglected his responsibility to those people, he abandoned them. He left them defenceless against the selfish desires of another of his kind. He failed his people and he would have failed you sooner or later."
"But he fought alongside me. He was another solider, like us." Aramis couldn't help but feel he was grasping at straws.
"They wear whichever mask suits their purpose. Have no doubt that he would have dropped you the moment it suited him. You're better off without him, believe me. And where is he now, this Comte? I doubt he is fighting alongside the soldiers in the dirt now war has broken out."
"He was made captain just as I left for the monastery." Aramis turned his downcast eyes on the fire and recalled the moment his brothers rode after him. Athos was demure as ever. It was left to Porthos to excitedly break the news of his captaincy.
"Ah, of course. I'm sure he's safe behind the lines watching his men get slaughtered. That's if he's on the battlefield at all. He's probably in some far away tent sipping wine. They always find their way to power, his sort. How many other deserving men were looked over I wonder? What of yourself?"
"I was gone when the appointment was made."
"What about before then? Who gave the orders? Who took command?"
"It was… Athos." Aramis hadn't really considered it before but now he thought about it he realised how effortlessly Athos seemed to slip into that role. "He hadn't any rank above the rest of us, but we all looked to him. I had served longer than him as well, longer than most of them in fact."
The more Aramis thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
"Then why were you not under consideration for captain? Why were you not the one they looked to?"
Aramis hesitated in his answer. "Perhaps I was just not made to lead..."
"Nonsense, what made this Athos any better than you? Was he a paragon of virtue? Some flawless warrior of renown?"
"No, he was renowned only for his drunkenness, and though he was a skilled swordsman, I could outshoot every man in the regiment."
"Then nothing put him above you, apart from the circumstance of his noble birth. I tell you, his sort always seek power. Like dogs scenting a rabbit they go after it relentlessly, you didn't stand a chance."
"Our captain was made minister for war, I suppose he'll be next in line for that position too." Aramis uttered with a hollow laugh.
"Too true, my friend. They are not like us. Whatever he told you, whatever he pretended to be, he could never be one of us."
Aramis gave a sad smile and rubbed at his eyes.
"Get some rest. I need to see where Mendez has got to." As Romero rose he clapped a companionable hand on Aramis' shoulder.
Aramis watched the Spaniard leave before he went to his pile of blankets and settled down to sleep. He closed his eyes, but as he drifted away his thoughts circled around Athos and how he might not have been what he seemed…
~oOo~
Once the bruises had faded and Aramis was able to walk without limping he was allowed to accompany the others outside. Although he was doing nothing more important than collecting firewood most of the time, it showed Romero trusted him, and something in Aramis was pleased at that.
Aramis enjoyed being out in the fresh air. It was a world away from that small, dark cellar. Though he did his best to put it to the back of his mind, that place lurked like a shadow just out of sight. Aramis found that he kept glancing up at the sky, a habit which his companions eventually noticed and laughed at. It gave him a sense of peace though. If he could see the sky he knew he was far away from the dark hole he had been trapped in. The clouds passing lazily by held his attention, and he envied the freedom of the birds flying overhead. His favourite time came just as evening fell and the light started to fail. Countless birds took to the skies and returned from the fields to roost in the surrounding trees. The sky nearly turned black with them. Their cries entwined into one desperate discord, but Aramis didn't find the cacophony grating. It was wondrous to behold.
And there he would stand until Casilla or Mendez called him in.
He stood there now, just waiting for the birds to take flight. It was a little early yet, but they would come. Casilla's derisive voice telling him to collect wood faded into the background as he took his vigil. Soon enough a bird appeared, joined by another, and then another. More and more followed on their heels until the sky was painted with a flurry of feathers. Their calls reached a crescendo, and then Aramis felt a presence beside him.
He looked around to find Romero.
There was a hint of a smile on his face. "Casilla tells me you refuse to work."
"How can you look at the ground and pick at wood when there is this to behold up above?" Aramis held his arms wide and raised them to the sky.
"The birds will not keep you warm at night."
"The birds remind me that I'm still alive." He turned his attention back to the display across the heavens.
"I could have told you that if you wanted me to."
Aramis was quiet as his mind drifted along with the birds. Then his voice took on a detached dreamlike quality. "I once stepped on a bird when I was younger. It was a mercy killing. The poor creature was injured beyond saving. But I couldn't sleep for a week afterwards. I kept feeling its bones breaking beneath my feet."
And some part of him began to wonder, in a snow touched scene, surrounded by ravens, whether they had come for revenge…
"So you were not always filled with bloodlust." Romero's hand found his shoulder. "It is something to hold onto, a reminder you were not born like this, but made like this."
"I think you might be right."
"About what?"
"About everything." Aramis tore his eyes away from the sky and looked to Romero. "I was once part of a mission which saw twenty musketeers dead. They were slaughtered all around me, half while they slept. We did not stand a chance. I suffered long afterwards, from injuries and nightmares. Often I wondered why I had been spared, often I wished I hadn't…" Romero's hand tightened, and Aramis struggled to hold his grief at bay. The grief soon gave way to anger. "Our position was given to the men who attacked us. Our own captain had passed it on. The King ordered him to, so he considered it his duty."
Aramis swallowed heavily around the lump in his throat. "I was the one left keeping my dead brothers company for days. I was the one left wishing I had joined them. And their wives were left without their husbands, children were left without fathers. Families were broken apart. We suffered for the sake of orders, and the King knows nothing of it. I doubt he would care even if he knew. What is our suffering to him?"
"Nothing." Romero answered simply. "I am afraid it counts little to a man such as him. It is his own family he cares for, his own suffering matters, and nothing else."
Aramis smiled sadly. "It was all done to save the King's sister. All due to politics and plots so far removed from those dead men in the snow… I forgave him. Our captain. I killed a friend to save him and said over the poor man's grave 'we follow our orders, no matter where they lead, even to death.' I was blind! How could I have been so blind?"
"But now you see. Come on, come inside. Let's get by the fire." Romero pulled at Aramis' arm gently and led him away.
Once they were settled inside Romero joined Aramis in front of the hearth.
"You never told me how you came to know Spanish."
"My grandparents were Spanish, on my mother's side. I learned the language from them, my mother and I used to speak it at home all the time." Aramis had slipped so easily into speaking Spanish with Romero and the others, he had almost forgotten he wasn't using French. There was something homely and comforting about it. It brought back the feeling of his youth.
"Ah, you have a similar story to mine. My father was Spanish, but my mother was French. We lived in these parts when I was young. When my mother died my father took my brothers and I back to Spain. So we are both part mongrels." A faint smile graced Romero's face. "We are both part traitors to our cause."
Aramis huffed a laugh. "It doesn't make much sense does it? Our parents loved each other, and we kill each other."
"No, it does not." Romero said quietly.
They spent a reflective moment in silence. It let Aramis' mind drift back to the shadows of Savoy and every other battle he had the misfortune to live through. His thoughts kept circling around the past, and the injustice Romero had brought to light. Aramis' eyes shone in the firelight, grief and bitterness caused his throat to catch with each breath.
"They can't know…" Aramis shuddered in a breath and started again. "I've been thinking. You're right. They can't know what it is to be one of us. The King has never walked a battlefield strewn with corpses. He does not know that terrible moment when the guns cease firing and the swords are laid down - terrible because that is the moment you have to find out which of your friends still live, which are dead, and which are beyond saving. He has not seen men walk like ghosts amongst a field of bodies. He has not trudged through churned up mud, nor felt it pull at his boots as he wipes the dirt from a face he needs to identify. He hasn't felt his fingers brush over rigid features that smiled at you before the charge. He cannot imagine the sickening scent of blood that hangs over the scene, or the blood spattered faces that men walk past because they're too caught up in their own tragedy. The bodies are left lying there… just lying, as if they might wake up and walk again."
Aramis paused a moment to take in a couple of harsh breaths.
"And he will never know the terror that next time it might be you."
Romero simply reached out a hand to Aramis' arm. That contact said enough - Here was a man who knew such terror. The rush of blood might give a fleeting sense of euphoria, but close behind it followed the hollowness of death.
"You are right. They are not like us. Not at all."
The hand squeezed a little tighter, and Aramis didn't even spare the thought that Romero was becoming more companion than captor. He did not pay it any attention because it did not feel strange, but natural.
"Stay with me, Aramis. Together we will make them pay."
I don't think that anyone is worth more than anyone else.
I don't envy you for the decisions you're going to have to make.
And one day I'll be gone, and you'll have no one to talk to.
But if you remember nothing else, please remember this:
Chess is just a game, real people aren't pieces.
And you can't assign more value to some of them than to others.
Not to me. Not to anyone.
People are not a thing you can sacrifice.
The lesson is, that anyone who looks on the world as if it was a game of chess deserves to lose.