Part 5 – A Road of Thorns
Polites (III)
Polites sat nervously atop the roan horse requisitioned from the Ala Milliaria of Gauls. He had ridden before, mostly on ponies and donkeys. Unpleasant experiences, swaying to and fro as the beasts moved; no proper saddle to help keep his arse in one spot, clutching so hard with his thighs to stay aright that they soon started to burn and cramp. This ride promised to be much less painful than all the others, what with an actual saddle and the new 'stirrups' all the rage with the auxiliary Alarii and Sagittari. No, his anxiety rested mainly on where he was going and who he was going with, stuck in the middle of a cohors waiting the signal to march out of the castra and head off to the unknown of Rex Hercules' King's Landing.
The Buccinator's call lifted into the morning air, reflecting off nothing but blue sky above, till the sound of the stomping feet of the Second Cohors drowned out the echo. Finally the horses in front of him started moving, carrying forward the Rex and the Tribunus. He fumbled with his reins and tried to dig his heels into the side of the beast to get it moving, just like he'd seen the drunken, stinking Gauls do it a thousand times. The roan snorted and side stepped slightly. His sphincter involuntarily clenched as the strong, bared arm of the Tesserarius reached over to snatch the reins and give them a tug. With the unexpected goading, the wretched horse immediately started to walk in the proper direction.
He glanced over to his right to see if Ser Selmy had seen any of his difficulties. The old man noticed, of course, and gave a polite smile, as well as a word of encouragement. "Don't worry Polites, by the time we reach King's Landing, you'll make a passable rider."
The next minutes flew in a blur as Polites adjusted, and readjusted his arse to the saddle and accustom himself to the gait of the horse. As the three in line horsemen approached the north gate of the castra, the sudden rise in noise finally drew his attention away from himself.
The rest of the Legio and the various Cohors Millaria made two straight lines extending from either side of the gate towards the edge of the forest. And at the sight of the Rex,immediately in front of Polites, emerging from the castra, a chant of Hercules broke forth from the ranks. Even the men marching in column behind Polites started shouting it. The big barbarian soaked it up and started waving as if he were some general of Caesar's returning to Roma in a Triumph; but one without a wise Greek slave at his side whispering in his, 'you are only mortal. all men die.'
The column came to a brief stop when the Rex and the Tribunus met the Legatus, who had stationed himself at the end of all his assembled miles. They all shook hands and wished each other well. No translation necessary by Polites. The last of the hard bargaining, at least until they reached King's Landing, had happened the night before in the commander's tent.
Polites shivered when the march resumed and the hawk-like eyes of Cassius Lartius Mucianus swooped past him. Oh the Legatus, in the presence of both the Tesserarius and the Tribunus, had clearly explained, once the barbarians departed the tent last night, in no uncertain terms what he expected of Polites and ALL score of the Greek translators accompanying the Second Cohors. He shivered again remembering the last warning; punishment at the scarred hands of the dread Publius Postumius for dishonesty and crucifixion for all, if even one of his twenty assigned brethren deserted.
Normally Polites would rejoice at the lack of heavy physical duty at a camp construction, but not now. His arse chaffed from the day's long ride, and the damned old man wouldn't stop running all over the castra rapidly rising among the trees for the night's encampment. Had the barbarian fool never seen men dig before? And questions, so many stupid questions by the Rex's general that even the dimmest of the Legio would know the answers by heart. But no, he was stuck as translator and must follow the old man or suffer words from the Tesserarius.
"Did the cohors show off today by marching so far? Did each man carry only his normal pack? How wide and deep will the ditch be dug? Why not wider? Do we always march this far each day? Why not deeper? When complete will a horse be able to jump it? Do we always make a castra each night? How high the wall? Have I ever seen one repel a horse charge? How wide a gap between the stakes? Where will the ballista and the scorpio be positioned? What if the ground is too rocky to dig? What is the best angle for a stake? Are the boundaries between each centuria the weakest parts of the castra? Do we keep fires and torches ready at night near the walls? What if there is no water source nearby? Is the castra built differently if enemy are near? How does each man know his specific duty in building the castra? Do construction duties ever rotate? How often are guards changed during the night? Do men sleep with their armor on? Has a castra ever been overrun? How was it defeated? Do we draw lots to see when we shit?"
Polites dry throat and aches made him wish yet again he could have stayed with the Rex near the tent of the Tribunus, helping the big man drink wine; or at least passing it to him.
Lancel (II)
Lancel and ten riders plodded up Aegon's Hill and passed between the towering bronze outer doors of the Red Keep. Perhaps noting the hint of Lannister red through his dusty cloak, the gate watch bobbed their heads in respect; tired, sore, and dirty from two days long travel through the Kingswood and along the Kingsroad, he felt nothing about him proudly proclaimed 'here rides the cousin to the Queen and squire to the King.' Even remounting after the ferry ride across the Blackwater Rush had been an aching struggle for his muscles; and yet, by arriving in King's Landing, his work had hardly begun. He nervously patted at the bulge in his tunic and contemplated his duty.
Once the last of his command entered the outer yard, he gave a shout. "Ronquin!" 'And damn the man for still looking somewhat fresh. "Take the men and stable the horses." He pointed vaguely to the left. "And find them something to eat in the barracks. Your duty is ended."
The Tracking Master of the Royal Hunt returned a lazy smile and briefly tugged an insolent forelock in acknowledgement.
Lancel tugged the reins and turned his borrowed sorrel to the right, towards the Small Council Hall. He dismounted and tied the mare up, while a couple of Northerners wearing cloaks of the Hand stared at him with hard eyes.
"Is the Lord Hand within?" Lancel asked with as much Lannister superiority as he could muster.
One of the men hawked and spat at his feet. Lancel's hand quickly rested upon his pommel at the slight.
"What's it to you Lannister?" the other growled dangerously at him.
He drew himself up straight. "I am the King's own squire and I have message from his Grace for his Hand."
"He's in," came the terse response. "I suppose you can go in too."
Ignoring the ill-bred louts, Lancel strode forcefully past them and entered. He occasionally grimaced as the infected blister on his foot rubbed against the boot leather with his every pace. Three hallways and two turns brought him to the council room. Ser Meryn Trant stood guard at the door.
"Lord Lannister," he spoke in acknowledgement. "Have you found the King yet?"
Heat immediately rose in Lancel's cheeks. "He was never lost," he snapped. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded and sealed parchment. "I have a message from my royal cousin for Lord Stark."
The knight of the Kingsguard smirked, but nevertheless stepped back from the door. Lancel tramped forward, rested his hand a moment on the handle while he mentally prepared himself, then opened the door and entered.
He immediately noted, to no surprise, what with the King, Ser Selmy, and Lord Renly back in the Kingswood; and apparently Lord Stannis still at Dragonstone, the sparse attendance of the Small Council. The cold blooded Stark, a thin bladed short sword lying before him, sat at the middle of the table with the Grand Maester and the eunuch to either side, and Littlefinger, a smug, sardonic look as usual upon his face, tilted casually back in a chair on the wing.
"My sweet Lord Lancel," purred the eunuch, the first to notice his entrance. "What word of the King? Such frightful rumors flutter about."
"Yes, Lannister, out with it! What of the King?!" Stark commanded in a tone that brooked no delay.
"Ahem … the King is well."
"The Seven be praised," called the Grand Maester.
"Where is he?" Stark demanded, rising with evident effort from his chair.
"A whorehouse?" Littlefinger japed. "I was unaware of any in the Kingswood, but if one awaited discovery, no doubt dear Robert could smell it out."
"The King," Stark emphasized.
"Most like already returning," Lancel answered, words that caused Stark to visibly relax. "Riding here with a band of marching sellswords."
"What?" exclaimed Stark in astonishment.
"Hhmn, the gossip wasn't all wrong after all, was it Varys?" Littlefinger pointed out.
"I have a message from the King for you my lord Hand. He gave it to me the day before yesterday."
Lancel strode up to the table and handed the sealed parchment across it to Stark. The man examined it briefly, checking that the King's sigil embedded in the wax; then tore a finger through the seal and opened the message.
"Ned," Stark read. "I found a lost sellsword company in the Kingswood and I mean to hire the tough bastards, so find some money. There are seven thousand of them."
Even Littlefinger sat up from his slouch as Stark announced that figure.
"Is this true?" Stark asked.
"More or less. I only briefly saw their … camp, and the size of it could well hold that many, my lord Hand," Lancel answered.
"Varys, how did such sized a company escape your attention?" accused the Grand Maester.
"I … I do not know," the eunuch replied with a tone more agitated than Lancel ever remembered from 'him.'
"Enough squawking," commanded Stark, giving a stern eye to the Small Council before returning to the parchment.
"And before you ask, no I'm not drunk. Remember that when I tell you the next bit. None know how they arrived, they claim they just woke up here, and inside the best damn fieldworks I ever saw. They must come from the far side of the world, cause they speak no language any of us ever heard, though a few of them know Free Cities Valyrian." Stark looked up from the message and stared daggers at Lancel. "This tale makes no sense. I would guess that King Robert was in his cups, but he avers differently. What do you know of it, Lannister?"
"Ahem, I was with his Grace when a group of these sellswords' scouts came upon the King while he hunted a boar. His Grace sent me in search of aid and I found Ser Selmy and several retainers, who I directed to succor the King. But when I returned to the site, all were gone; they'd even taken my horse," he admitted in a drooping voice.
"You left the King to possible bandits, and failed to take your horse with you," Stark scathed.
"Yes, my lord Hand."
"I'm sure it was a difficult situation. What did you do next my dear boy?" soothed the eunuch.
"I returned on foot to the Hunting Camp and gave the alarm. Ser Preston Greenfield directed scouts to search for the King and sent riders to return with Prince Joffrey, who had departed that morning with the Royces, Ser Swann, and others for King's Landing."
"Where is the Prince?" Littlefinger asked. "For he isn't here."
"He returned safely to the camp, with the Hound by his side," Lancel said. "And all the others who rode with him too."
"Continue," Stark commanded.
"Close to dusk the next day, the Tracking Master," began Lancel.
"Ronquin," added the overly knowledgeable eunuch.
"Yes, and another retainer, arrived with word from the King to pack up the Hunting Camp and return with them to an encampment of sellswords where his Grace was entertaining himself. There was much sharp debate into the night. Many voices, led by Prince Joffrey, wanted to leave immediately to rescue his Grace, but Lord Royce's words for a more caution approach won the discussion. So we packed in the morning and left by mid day; not reaching the King till the afternoon of the next day, that being two days ago."
"How did the King appear, you saw him. You must have, you carry his message," asked the Grand Maester.
"Well, though much wrought we did not arrive sooner. He rode a horse between two who appeared to be the leaders of the sellsword company. He promptly gave me this message and bade me return with it for my lord Hand. His Grace said he would leave yesterday for King's Landing with five hundred of them on foot."
"And that is all you know? A tad paltry on details." Littlefinger accused.
"The Tracking Master came with me, and told me much of what he saw."
"And …. ?" Littlefinger drawled.
"The King sparred a squad of them with only shovel, and then drank the night away with them."
Stark smiled. "That sounds like Robert."
"Quite," agreed Littlefinger. "Though a story light on women as far as the King is concerned."
"Pray, please continue reading his Grace's missive, my lord Hand," begged the Grand Maester.
"Yes," agreed the eunuch.
"Very well," responded Stark, casting his eyes back down at the parchment. "But all in all good lads. The soldiers are salt of the earth and their General, Cassius, a fine companion. Being as dumfounded as myself by their magical appearance in the Kingswood, and never having heard of Westeros before, they are as shy of hiring on with me, as no doubt you Ned are of being commanded to hire them. So tomorrow I will leave with a cohort of theirs, about five hundred swords, and give them a bit of time in King's Landing to whet their appetites and their interest. Every soldier wants a chance at coin, wine, and quim! Have things ready for me Ned, and that's an order. I want these men! Their horse ain't worth shit, but they're the toughest foot I've ever seen, if a little under armored. As they'll be hiking it, expect me in four days. We'll talk then, and you can see for yourself why I'm hiring them. King Robert, House Baratheon, etc, etc. Well, thoughts anyone?"
Littlefinger chuckled, "This will make the finding of the money for the Hand's Tournament seem like a mummer's trick by comparison. But if the King orders it, who am I, the mere Master of Coin, to gainsay him."
The Grand Maester cleared his throat, till he finally rattled, "I do not like the hint of Valyrian about these sellswords. It has the stench of Targaryens about it."
"Oh really Grand Maester," oozed the unctuous eunuch. "Aerys' children are beggars, living, at least for a little while longer, with the horse savages. How could they arrange, let alone pay, for the services of such a large sellsword company from the Dothraki Sea? And it seems to me his Grace has already charmed them with his knightly demeanor. A mystery no doubt, but perhaps a serendipitous one, wouldn't you agree, my lord Hand?"
Stark scowled at the mention of the Targaryen pretenders to the Iron Throne. "A mystery I think I dislike as much as the Grand Maester; and a command from his Grace I am none too happy about either. Though his return to King's Landing with only a small contingent of them seems the only smack of common sense about the thing. We have much now to discuss to prepare in ways both small and grand for Robert's return." Stark's eyes flashed to Lancel's face. "On behalf of the Small Council, I thank the King's squire for promptly delivering his message to his Hand. You may leave us now."
Lancel sketched a hasty bow, and exited the room.
"So they didn't ask me to deliver you to Traitor's Walk and the King's Justice, too bad," snickered Ser Meryn Trant, as Lancel passed by him on the way out of the Small Council's meeting room.
Lancel barely heard the insult. In his mind he had already begun to imagine the more pleasurable possibilities of where his duty, Lannister duty, now required him to go.
Barristan (V)
A strong breeze blew along the tunnel created by the cut of the Kingsroad through the tall oaks and elms of the Kingswood. The sturdy trunks and soaring branches provided walls and a roof that reduced sunlight overhead, but also helped to reverberate the sound from the regimented beat of cobbled Roman shoes upon the dirt, stone, and mud of the road. The sellswords, apparently by tradition, marched six abreast though the Kingsroad was wide enough to accommodate more. Nevertheless, the narrowness of their column did not slow the superior pace of the well organized ranks of foot soldiers, in no small part thanks to the relentless efforts of each Century's sergeant.
Ser Barristan's appreciative gaze passed between the mounted figures of the King and the Prince directly in front of him, and around the Hound in front of them to let his eyes wash over forty rows of martial glory moving together like one glorious, living armored beast. Soon he locked on to the symbol of the cohort, a spear in the front rank holding aloft an array of medallions topped by a gilded open palmed hand. The plumed helmet walking beside the Standard Bearer identified the veteran Centurion, Titus Sidonius, who each day refused the use of a horse in order to show the men of his cohort he shared each day's hardships with them.
The Lord Commander stifled a sigh of envy at such leadership. He shifted slightly, hoping to distract himself from the unending drivel spewed by the Stag. He noted the Watch Commander, Publius Postumius, on a horse beside him, and in the row behind Lord Renly and Tribune Lucius conversing with the occasional aid of Polites. Watch circuit complete, he returned his full attention to the King.
"… at that point I dropped my spear, and just in the nick of time too, else that brute, twenty stones of him, would have gutted me for sure," rumbled the Stag before he suddenly spat. "Granted that'd have made your mother shed tears … of joy as she sat the crown on your golden curls."
"Father," spoke Prince Joffrey in his usual petulant tone," I don't understand why you waste your time with these scum? Why not ride off ahead? We can be back at King's Landing by dark. Let Uncle Renly or old Ser Barristan baby sit them back to King's Landing."
"Listen child, any one of them is worth three of you, understand?" he commanded.
The prince rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I'd ride right through them smiting death down upon their heads," Joffrey answered arrogantly. "And my plate would turn their blows."
"Oh think you so, puppy boy?" the King laughed. "First they'd gut your horse, and if you were lucky enough not to be caught under the falling beast you'd be slow afoot in that pretty plate against three of them with those damned big shields and flickering blades; just meant for stabbing you in the crotch or armpit, any joint where mail is used instead of plate."
"My knights would rescue me. A lance charge drives all before it," the prince declared with the certainty of youth.
"Maybe so, maybe so. But do you know how I won at the Trident? Do you?"
In his head Ser Barristan imagined the intemperate scowl of derision the Prince would now be trying to hide from his sire.
"You killed Rhaegar the Raper in the Ruby Ford."
"NO!" the Stag howled. "Before that."
The wind began to flag as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned his attention to again scanning the edge of the woods, while he pictured the dumb look of confusion on Prince Joffrey's face.
"I … I …"
"The Northern foot, child. Did you think I'd send my horse across the ford first, only to be met at the water's edge by a Targaryen counter charge? I've told you the battle a hundred times …"
'A thousand,' Ser Barristan thought.
"… you'd think you'd remember," the King barked, before ordering, "What happened next Selmy?"
"Prince Rhaegar had his best foot, the Dornish spear, on his left. In the center he kept the remnants of Lord Connington's foot, which he feared might break, with his best knights."
"So when Ned's crazy boys went straight at him; he thought to chew them up before I could arrive to support'em, so the fool charged into the waters of the ford. In the shallows the Northerners were able to grapple with Rhaegar's knights and free riders. This denied them their speed and ability to maneuver."
Something tingled in the back of Ser Barristan's brain, but he couldn't place it. Too many memories of the Trident, the sound of metal on metal, the screams, the stench of death, jarred at him so hard he couldn't focus as sharply as his norm.
"The Umbers and Karstarks and Boltons and Glovers clung to Targaryen's horse like wolverines to a fresh kill. THAT boy, THAT, allowed me the chance to bring my own horse into the ford and join the battle on an even playing field. So don't EVER underestimated foot. They may not be pretty, but …"
The wind lulled. Ser Barristan's eyes narrowed. Movement. The trees. "Bow!" he roared, brutally driving spurs into his steed's flanks.
"… they … hunh?" questioned the Stag.
Two arrows lanced out of the Kingswood. The Lord Commander in a blur of white placed himself athwart their trajectory. He thrust a plated arm forward, then grunted as one arrow hit into his body plate only to ricochet away and a micro-second later the second glanced off his raised gauntlet to plunge into the shoulder of the King's mount.
A mere moment later he snatched a glimpse of Publius Postumius yanking both the King and Prince Joffrey off their horses.
"Unhand meeeee!" squeaked Prince Joffrey as he tumbled backward to the ground.
The Lord Commander immediately launched himself from his own steed and fell body length across his sovereign. An arrow promptly thunked into the King's saddle and another passed over the horses at the height of a rider's chest.
Hooves beat as several of the King's company quickly reacted and charged toward the leafy cover hiding the assassins. The Romans in near unison reacted to the sudden threat by stopping their march, pivoting, and kneeling behind their oversized shields.
The King's stallion neighed at the pain of its injuries, tossed its head, and broke away from the roadway to start galloping into the woods. Prince Joffrey's well trained hunter, uninjured, simply stood in place.
Publius Postumius, from his place smothered over the prince, yelled something in his stuffy language. Several squads of Romans immediately leapt up at the command and moved to place themselves, and more importantly their shields, between the King and the woods.
"Get off me Selmy, damn your hide," protested the King.
"No, your Grace, better to stay down; the curs might be using poisoned arrows. Others have gone after the cowardly dogs, you will be safe soon enough."
"Father," whimpered the prince.
"Stop sniveling boy. This is the price for being King. Think it a part of your tutoring."
Two high pitched shrieks, near atop each other, rung out from the woods. Ser Selmy eased himself off the Stag, stood, and peered over the row of Roman sentries into the trees. Soon several horses came trotting out from between dark trunks: the Hound, Bronze Yohn and his son Robar, Ser Balon Swann, and Alek Roone.
"Where are they?" the Lord Commander called out.
"Dead," the Hound answered with a smirk.
Behind his typically blank façade, Barristan Selmy wondered, 'but who were they and more importantly who sent them?'