Part 12 – Pitfalls and Prostitutes
Polites (V) - November 25.
Polites stood, yet again, on the walkway of the curtain wall, staring out between the merlons at the juicy, exotic vision of King's Landing spread enticingly before him like a wanton whore; and him without the necessary coin to gain admission. "Keep your shield up you cocksucker, or your enemy will poke you another hole to shit out of!" The slender Greek sighed at the discordant shout in Latin and manfully turned back to look down at the bustle of activity in the Outer Yard. The grunts and thwacks and curses of the seemingly incessant Legionnaire training sessions screeched through the air of the Red Keep, ruining his appreciation of the metropolis' song; breaking apart the urban melody of its untold thousands working, drinking, singing, fucking, fighting, and yes, even dying. After several minutes of listlessly watching the Romans perform in rote, Polites didn't even try to stifle his yawn. His squad mates and companions upon the keep's wall, the twins Theus and Thibo, grinned in appreciation at his exaggerated release of boredom. Thankfully no arrogant prick of a Latin officer was anywhere near by to chastise him.
'What can the damn hook noses expect from us?' Polities thought rhetorically, lumping himself and his fellow auxiliary slingers together into a single entity united by a common sense of suffering. 'The Legate only sent the score of us to translate these barbarians' rustic Greek.' Unlike the Cohort, whose doddering Centurion forced them to train every day, the slingers were under no such compulsion about keeping their skills sharp. Though they received enough disdain for their profession. The second full day stuck inside the Red Keep, Polites had led his comrades in a round of practice throwing until the gold cloaked thugs hoots of derision and demonstration of Westerosi archery drove the Greeks shame faced and angry back to the barracks. 'And did the fucking Latins stand up for us? No, the cocksuckers!' So now, after a week's restriction to the fortress, with nothing more to do than eat, sleep, occasionally translate Valyrian, and stare brainlessly at all the dullards hacking away with practice swords, Polites boredom reached a level of Olympian proportion.
"I'm taking a walk," he announced. His squad mates shrugged their shoulders indifferently, then one started to scratch his bony ass and the other to pick his stubby nose. Polites rolled his eyes. Everyone knew twins were stupid, brains enough for one person split between two bodies. So alone he headed along the high wall to the nearest tower, entered it and took the stairs down to the ground. Passing on to the Outer Yard the Greek aimed for the portcullis to the Middle Bailey, all the while dodging the prancing lobster helmed Latin pricks working together in their eight man squads and even in one eighty man century. Many of them grunted at him, none of them in greeting, several with filthy oaths for any not a Jove privileged Roman, but most simply shouts to just get out of the way. The Westerosi knights had practiced earlier, so several times he hopped over mounds of grass and straw loaded horse shit. At last he broached the gate, ignored by the bored gold cloaks on duty.
Pleased to be out of the chaos, he started for the barracks but a hustling man, clad in brown cloth cut different than the servants' norm, man caught the corner of Polites' eye. He stopped and turned his head to watch the in descript man enter the odd, seven sided built back towards the bottom of the hill-slope below the King's Holdfast. The sun chose that moment to slide from behind a cloud and brilliant shafts of light struck the crystal windows lodged high in the walls of the septagon; spreading an arc of rainbow colors through the glass: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and purple. 'Hhmmn, how odd,' the Greek thought. He counted the colors, seven; the same number as sides of the building. As if on cue from an amphitheater drama that revealed the gods atop Olympus, an eerie, yet compelling song began to emanate from the open door to the septagon. One voice would lead a basic melody, only to have the same words repeated by a chorus to the very same simple tune.
Without remembering having walked there, Polites stepped through the arch into the dazzling lit building. Two score or so servants and a few Sers sat on benches listening to seven brown clad men, one each standing at an altar placed in front of all seven walls. No anchovy newly netted to a fishing boat, the auxiliary turned translator quickly realized he had stumbled on to some religious rite. Happy not to have been noticed yet, he made for the nearest bench and began to peek about as surreptitiously as possible. 'Ah, these must be the "gods" these barbarians are always calling upon or cursing,' the Greek thought, noting the ornate statue placed between each altar and each wall. The trio of knights prayed in front of the figure carrying a sword; 'Ares, who else,' he thought. Most of the servants sat on benches in front of a figure hammering at an anvil. 'He must be their worker god; their Hephaestus,' Polites guessed.
The walls held paintings, not poorly drawn at all, if garish in color, which aided him in matching these gods to the pantheon of his childhood. He deliberately fidgeted on the bench in order to keep slowly turning around to see all without gawking. A strong looking, fatherly figure of a man holding scales reminded him of Zeus. The painted songbirds and fawns on the wall behind the statue of a chaste girl made the Greek think she must be the Westerosi Hestia or Artemis. A few women sat near the sculpture of a mother and child. 'Maybe she is Hestia … or Hera?' he pondered. The skeletal figure could be only one god, 'Death escapes no man,' he thought. The last figure confused him, the old withered woman. 'If Hades weren't so obvious I'd guess their death god a woman. But what can she be?' He stared a long time at the old hag, trying to divine her secret. 'A Moirai?' 'Gaia?'
A gentle cough, and soft words startled the Greek. He stopped gazing at the crone and looked up. The service had ended, the septagon now lay nearly empty. A brown clad priest smiled down shyly at him and spoke again in words Polites hardly understood. He cleared his own throat and remembered the words the old white knight had taught him a fortnight ago. "No … speak … Andal … tongue." Then he continued in Greek, "Do you know Valyrian?"
The temple augur seemed to understand, though his eyes snapped up for a moment to Polites' hairline. "Your pardon, I did not realize you were from the Free Cities, brother," the man answered in very choppy Greek. "Did you stop dyeing your hair when you joined the faith?"
Polites smiled politely in understanding at the other man's wrong assumption. "Ah, I am not from there. I came with the King's new sellswords."
The priest bobbed his head in embarrassment, understanding his mistake. "Forgive me. I am Septon Merret."
'Don't step in it, Polites; be courteous or the Tribune will have the Watch Commander crucify you,' he thought, plastering as sincere a smile on his face as he could muster. "Polites."
"May I be so bold to ask, Brother Polites, but since I saw you so deep in prayer, I was wondering … do your brothers worship the Seven as well?"
'No fool, even if the Latin pricks are stupider than mules, they, like any smart man, worship only whores, grape, and coin,' he screamed inside his head. "Many of your gods look the same as theirs"
A quizzical look descended on the earnest man's face. "Many? How so?"
Polites started pointing at the seven statues and rattling the Roman names for who he thought they likely were.
"So … you worship more than … the Seven?" the Septon asked
The slender Greek didn't hear the tones of disbelief and concern in the priest's voice, so he plowed on ahead. "Well, there's also Apollo and Minerva, Neptune and Mercury, oh and Ceres. And that's only the end of the list for those they stole from us Greeks. Renamed them of course, but they were ours first."
"They stole … gods?"
Polites chuckled. "The Romans are great ones for that. They've taken Isis from the Egyptians, Epona from the Celts, Cybele from Pontus, Mithra and Sol Invictus from the Parthians. The only gods they ever made and stuck to are old Quirinus, lucky Fortuna, and two faced Janus. Before you can blink, they'll want one of yours too."
With this religious revelation, the brown clad priest's face flushed purple and his mouth puckered like an anus.
Looking at the priest turn apoplectic, comprehension dawned on Polites that he may have trod on some barbarian taboo. 'Damn, I'm in the shit for sure.'
December 1.
The sniping, teeth gnashing, predatory posturing, raised hackles, and marking of territory with pissy scents by the ugly, mongrel bitches of the Brown Dog distracted Polites from what little enjoyment he could pull from the dregs of the thin red he nursed along with his state of ill humor; and all that commotion came from just the bar's poxed whores. The Greek, forced into acting as the translator for two squads of Romans granted their first leave outside the Red Keep, kept close to the bar of the seedy, tenement basement of a tavern and as far as possible away from his 'companions'.
"Kill her blackie! Kill the bitch!" thundered Gnaeus Tacitus in his coarse Subura Latin, disproving for the ten thousandth time his silent cognomen; rooting for the mastiff-like beast he'd bet on as it fought to the death down in the 'stew pit'.
A dog's pitiful squeal rose above the din for a moment, only to be almost immediately choked out, no doubt Polities' thought because its windpipe was now being crushed by the massive jaws of its opponent.
A chorus of angry Latin cries, "No!" "Damn cunt!" "Fuck!" "Pile of shit!" "Useless bastard!" filled the air, bringing a grin to the Greek's face, which only widened with the sweet sound of denarii, provided them as a signing bonus by the Tribune, hitting the wood knotted floor in payment for their lost bets. Polites shook his head in disgust at the Romans' choice; anybody with half a brain could have seen the skinny spotted bitch had the oversized jaws and a speedy look to her. Size didn't mean everything.
The gold cloaks under the command of Ironhand, brought up from the Mud Gate to "train" with the Romans after the first lots proved so feeble, had shown almost competent and despite the language barrier a few friendships were formed between the groups. One of them, Ryman Cooper, nearly as giant a prick as Gnaeus Tacitus, had suborned the group to come to this dive near his birthplace, forcing Polites as translator to trail along. Some middle aged, painted whore sitting two stools over hawked and spat a prodigious wad of phlegm. 'Lovely,' he thought, smirking to release both his loathing and a little bit of pressure from his sense of superiority.
"What are you smiling at ya pansy Greek catamite!? Just take a hard one up your ass?!" barked Gnaeus, his peevish threats accompanied by the sycophantic grunts of two other oafs; all three clearly unhappy at having dropped some silver.
"I was only looking at the wretched choice in whores, Gnaeus Tacitus. They remind me of home. Ahh mother, how I miss her," replied Polities agreeably, stuffing his anger deep down inside.
"Haha, did ya hear that?" chortled one of the oafs.
"He called his mum a whore," laughed the other in agreement.
Gnaeus Tacitus eyes' near lidded over as his pea sized brain searched for anyway the over clever Greek's words might be slyly reflected back on himself. Finding none, he then commanded, "We're out of coin, buy us three beers Greek."
Unfortunately over used to being robbed by Romans, he simply asked, "All together or each?"
Finding the answer somehow obstinate, the Roman sergeant purposefully dropped a hand to the dagger at his waist. "Three beers, cock sucker!"
Polites pleasantly shrugged his shoulders and turned to the bar and dropped a few coppers. "Three flagons of the Stag mead," he ordered.
The weaseley barkeep promptly swiped up the coins and soon drew off three heady brews into chipped, clay baked tankards.
"Thanks Greek," the big Roman sneered evilly down at him. "Since I don't fancy your bony ass, when I'm ready to get my dick wet, you'll pay for that too. Won't he boys?" he laughed, drawing chortles from his two lackeys.
Polites answered by setting an unreadable smile on his face until they drifted back to rejoin the rest of their mates at the group of tables the pack of Romans had commandeered by the stew pit. At last feeling unwatched, the Greek turned his back on his tormentors and unleashed a ferocious scowl.
"Your friends don't like you much," called out a voice in semi-decent Greek, no Valyrian, Polites realized. He peered around the nearby whore and saw a stout man cloaked in a leather half cape. He knew enough now to look to see if the speaker had the telltale dyed hair of the Free Cities, but the man wore a steel cap that hid his scalp. The stubble of beard on his somewhat chubby and scarred face appeared a chestnut brown. The man stood up from his stool, revealing a hand each on the dirk and shortsword at his belt, and walked around the scraggily harlot to sit next to Polites.
"I saw you come in with Ryman Rough Hands. Are you new gold cloaks?" the stranger asked. Polites saw that beneath the cape, the local tough wore a partial shirt of total woven iron circles over or sewn on to a leather tunic.
"Who wants to know?" Polites asked suspiciously.
The scarred face smiled to reveal a full set of teeth. "A friend who provides protection to certain establishments. New gold cloaks might mean my partners have to make additional payments to ensure the peace. Understand?"
The Greek returned the smile, understanding the universal nature of extortion extended to King's Landing. "Yes, I understand. And I don't think we'll join. We," and it hurt Polites to include himself in the 'we', "are the sellswords who returned from the forest with the King."
The tough's eyebrows, seemingly penciled in, rose with surprise. "Roo-maans? No?"
Polites smile grew even wider. "Yes. I see you've heard of us."
The man's eyes ran up and down the Greek, took a long look over at the dozen or so legionnaires, and then returned a skeptical look at Polites. "No, you boast. The Roo-maans are all eight feet tall. I saw them march in with the Stag. And the gold cloaks whisper the king allows the ogres to beat them near to death inside the Red Keep."
The Greek laughed in delight at the praise. "Well the gold cloaks are only scum."
The man nodded in agreement and said with some heat, "That is true, my friend ..." And the tough cast him a questioning look.
"Polites," the Greek responded.
The man smiled back. "Daeron. A pleasure. So will you fierce Roo-maans join the city watch?"
Polites snorted rudely. "I think not. Our second in command just yesterday agreed to a preliminary sell sword contract with the Hand. The King wants us quite badly," the Greek said knowingly, full of self-importance. "I was the one who first found Rex Hercules in the woods," he bragged.
"Rex Hercules?"
"That's our pet name for your fat, wine guzzling King. Our common soldiers adore him."
"And you?"
The auxiliary slinger to the Legion shrugged his shoulders. "So long as the coin is plentiful, I'm happy enough to follow him." He jingled the silver denarii in his neck pouch. "And it's copious to start." He leaned closer to the man Daeron. "It better be, because war is coming with the Queen's house," he whispered.
The tough nodded his head in understanding. "Yes, that was a bad death. And war is worse; but, … it can be very good business for my partners. Warriors have urges, and never more so than before ..."
A wave of harpy like laughter and ox like bellows drowned out the last of Daeron's words. Both men turned to look at the table of Romans paying court and even starting to pay coin to a gaggle of whores gathered around them.
"Damn," choked Polites.
"I see your friends may not wait for the war to start," Daeron tittered.
"Yes," agreed the Greek unhappily. "Is this place one of your partner's?"
"Gods forbid," the man scoffed. "I wouldn't stick my cock into anything here. It might fall off afterward."
Polites began to worry that Gnaeus Tacitus would soon return and extort him like a pimp. "Are any of them nearby, Daeron?"
The scarred face man smiled, "Would you care to sample some higher quality wares?"
The Greek's cock stirred slightly at those words. A shy look came over him. "Would any of them, uhm, have women, with, ah, ebon skin."
The man returned a knowing look. "There is such an establishment. A much nicer place than this, much nicer; but a bit of a walk. It's run by a partner of mine, Chataya. I think you'll be happy with the choices there."
The two men stood and began to edge around the crowd towards the door.
"You speak Free Cities better than any I've heard so far here. Do you come from there?" asked Polites.
"Oh, a long time ago. Almost a lifetime," Daeron answered.
December 4.
Polites marched to the right side of the Century sized formation of legionnaires, even with the third row from the front, directly behind the Centurion Titus Sidonius, who himself marched directly behind the Second Cohort's standard bearer. The eighty odd Romans followed behind the carriage carrying Rex Hercules from the Red Keep down through the Mud Gate and over to the area of docks set aside for ships of the Royal War Fleet. Unfortunately the King's rumored binges of drinking and gorging had left him in no shape to stay mounted on a horse for even such a short jaunt. In the Outer Yard, Lord Renly had laughed at the idea of accompanying his brother in any manner to the docks. And the King barked his displeasure at the notion of the still gammy legged Hand joining him in the carriage. Ser Barristan and Ser Loras however, as Kingsguard, did ride, trotting on either side of the horse drawn coach. Apparently to appease the worries of the Hand and other lordlings, several score gold cloaks strode in the lead of the party, insuring the populace of the city parted peaceably to make way for their sovereign. Tagging along at the tail end of the column were servants leading a half dozen drays, ready to take drafts if necessary.
The galley had just started to back oars when the men were ordered to parade rest on the pier. The King staggered going down the pullout steps of the carriage, but his big hand grabbed on to the door and kept him from tumbling. A skill in balance that Polites suspected the King had been practicing with some frequency of late. Several sailors leapt off the boat to start tying her up to the large circular pillars supporting the entire jetty. A plank soon slid down to connect the ship with land and almost immediately a tall, bald man sporting a close cropped beard strode purposefully down it. He had the size for a Baratheon, but there was little else pleasing about his visage, a face drawn over-tight, like one of those Egyptian mummies. Thus to King's Landing arrived Lord Stannis, prince of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the Iron Throne.
Lord Stannis stepped in front of his brother, words already rolling out of his mouth, and bowed his head briefly. Rex Hercules answered back succinctly, gruffly. The bald Baratheon brother nodded his head in agreement, but showing no pleasure at this family reunion. The only words in Andal he caught in their stilted seeming conversation were a short, indignant bark of "Renly" by Stannis and then, once his dark blue eyes roamed over to the Century, "Roman sellswords," by the King.
Eventually a second, middle aged man came off the galley to join Lord Stannis. He bowed more deeply before the King. His presence, for a moment, brought a more cheerful response from Rex Hercules. The man, perhaps the captain of the vessel, appeared completely ordinary to Polites. The sailor's hair and beard were a lank brown, spotted with a few streaks of grey. He seemed as slender as the Greek, useful by chance on a cramped boat, especially if needing to climb a mast. The only flair displayed by the man was on his cloak, which bore a large emblem of a black ship emblazoned with a light brown colored circle on the sail.
Shortly after the stranger's arrival, whatever niceties or transfer of necessary information were completed and Rex Hercules doddered back to the coach. Lord Stannis spoke grumpily for a bit longer with Ser Barristan, until at last the Lord Commander returned to his gelding. That duty done, the king's heir pointed back at the galley, causing his companion to solemnly nod a 'yes' before walking back up the plank to the boat and barking out orders. Soon a squire and two servants carrying bags came down and started loading them on to the draft horses. Apparently satisfied with the state of affairs, the Lord of Dragonstone marched resolutely toward the Romans.
"I've seen sheep's anuses more happy than that fellow," whispered Titus Sidonius, causing the men nearest him to chuckle softly. "Well, the Tribune says we must ingratiate ourselves, so … do so." The Centurion obeyed his own command and placed as welcoming a smile on his face as an old, sour lemon could.
"I understand some of you sell swords speak Free Cities," Lord Stannis voice boomed in a heavily accented, though understandable voice.
Polites gingerly stepped forward and bowed. "Yes, milord. I speak Valyrian and translate for the Centurion Titus Sidonius. He greets you in the name of the Legion, and our leader Legate Cassius Lartius Mucianus."
The large man stroked his beard. "No, you do not sound of the Free Cities. But you are sellswords." He pointed at Titus Sidonius. "Tell this … Centurion , of yours, war comes. It has been seen."
The Greek translated, causing the old Roman soldier to slowly nod his head yes, giving an air of sage agreement.
"Now ask him this. You are sellswords, bought with money. How can we trust you?"
Polites rendered the question into Latin.
Now it was Titus Sidonius turn to rub at the stubble on his cheek. "Tell him this."
And Polites did so, saying in Valyrian, "The men already love your brother. He has a way with soldiers. And yes, while a Roman can be bought, we at least have the decency of character to stay bought."
Lord Stannis face didn't move at the Centurion's answer. He simply stared into Titus Sidonius' bluff face for a very long minute, clearly evaluating the man by some formula only the large bald man knew. At last, he replied in a neutral voice, "Very well." The King's brother turned back around without another word and walked back to the carriage, rejoining the King.