Chapter 1345: Long Lost brothers(3)

He now understood.

He understood his father. He saw the anxiety, the ancient fears, and the quiet, desperate hope that drove the man. Basil would not have expected to find trembling humanity inside the myth of the conqueror his father was known to be, and yet here Alpheo was.

He still recalled him gazing over like an unimpressed god at the long lines of men retreating from the bastion, as if they were beneath his notice.

In his heavy armor, Basil could no longer see the arrogance seeping from his father’s gaze, all he saw was him looking longingly at the columns of desperate exiles. Only, they were no longer a column of slaves. They were... men, women, and children, waiting quietly for their first real peace.

The Uthahia had long since exited the main highway. They now sat in the wide, green meadows flanking the road, where merchants and curious passersby traveled toward the city, gaping at the strange spectacle. Above them, the massive iron portcullis of Yarzat’s great gate rose and fell with a heavy, grinding chain-song for each cart that entered, with merchants making sure to gaze at the strange congregtion as they were allowed inside.

To the tribesmen, the towering stone walls and the bustling city were no longer marvels, though they did fall surprise at how many people went in and out the capital. They stared up at the battlements in wonder, looking exactly like children shown a grand puppet show for the very first time, left entirely agape by the magic of how it moved.

The young ones watched the wealthy merchants flowing through the gates, draped in fine silks, before turning their eyes back to the silent rows of legionaries.One of them even went pointing and shrilling when a camel passed through with his hill-like back with a strange-dressed Azanian atop it, looking at the slaves with the same wonder the children had.

The winter sun bounced off the soldiers’ polished iron breastplates, casting bright, dancing reflections across the grass like light rippling on the surface of a still lake. Even the broken men of the tribe looked at those soldiers, their eyes tracing the clean, deadly lines of the legionary plates and the heavy pila. Perhaps they saw in those weapons a spark of the dignity and fierce pride they had assumed was buried forever in the Romelian dirt.

Basil noticed, with a quiet swell of warmth, how the younger children were already beginning to shed their terror.

A few of them, undoubtedly the bravest of the lot, began to drift toward the iron lines of the Primogenia like curious lambs sniffing and sniveling around a flock of silent shepherds. The legionaries, hard-bitten veterans , baptised in the blood of their enemy and washed in the glory of thier lot, proved surprisingly soft-hearted. Some of the soldiers knelt in the grass, allowing the tiny, soot-faced children to grip the bronze pommels of their daggers or touch the heavy leather of their armor.

He watched as a particularly bold little girl tried to lift a massive, curved semi-oval shield. She instantly fell backward into the grass with the heavy wood and iron piling right atop her. Two young boys immediately rushed to her rescue, grunting as they hoisted the shield off her, while the giant legionary to whom the shield belonged broke out into a deep, merry roar of laughter.

The camp medics and royal doctors were already hard at work, weaving through the thick of the crowd. They knelt in the dirt, gently inspecting coughing children or wrapping clean linen around the festering sores of the adults. Leather sandals, clean wool wraps, and soothing herbal ointments had been prepared in massive quantities beforehand, and for excellent reason: out of every ten travelers, eight had raw, weeping blood staining the soles of their feet, their cheap shoes for those that had it, having long since disintegrated during the grueling march.

To Basil’s left, a tiny girl, no older than his sister Rosalind, and twice as thin, sat on a discarded wool blanket. She held a simple, carved wooden horse-toy close to her face, her small fingers tracing the painted hooves before she began mimicking its frolicking gallop across the grass, making quiet, happy clicking noises with her tongue.

That broke Basil’s heart.

Little by little, their immediate miseries were systematically met. The young prince could see that, with every passing minute, the deep-seated terror these people harbored for the black-and-white banners of Yarzat was dwindling, chased away by the gentle hands of the medics and the beautiful, fragile sound of children’s giggling.

Then, the world turned to chaos once more, when it was their main need that was last to be met.

A sharp, clear note from a brass hand-bell rang out across the meadow, instantly shattering the quiet hum in the air and the warmth that had settled over the plain.

The food was ready.

Whatever the exiles were doing,trying on fresh leather sandals, or playing in the dirt with the legionaries’ gear, was instantly interrupted.

So fast they were that all Basil had to do was blink to miss it.

A collective, breathless silence fell over the six hundred. The wooden horse fell from the little girl’s hand. Every head snapped toward the edge of the field, where massive, black iron cauldrons sat boiling over roaring fire pits, sending thick, heavenly plumes of steam into the cold winter air.

’’It’s ready!’’ One of the cooks shouted, rather uselessly of course for the rich, savory scent of thick mutton stew, boiled root vegetables, and fresh-baked barley bread drifted across the grass announcing it far better than words ever could.

For people who had spent decades surviving on moldy scraps and thin gruel, the aroma was nothing short of the gods’ ambrosia.

With a sudden, desperate urgency that no amount of discipline could check, the Uthahia began to scramble toward the stalls. They formed long, trembling lines before the bubbling cauldrons, clutching wooden bowls in their dirt-caked hands, their eyes locked onto the steaming ladles as if they were looking at life itself being delivered by gods’ hand.

It was then that Basil saw it, learn it and understood it. Clearer than any war cry, more tragic than any death, he saw it the way those small children went to the tips of their feet hoping to take a plassing glance at the food at the cauldron. It was then and there , outside the gem of his father’s king, that Basil realised it.

There was no greater evil in the world than Slavery.

And he would make it his life’s work to do everything he could to fight it once he became king.

-----

The king looked over at the remnants of Egil’s tribe, watching as they barely contained themselves in the long, winding lines. The moment a wooden bowl was placed in their hands, they moved in unison, like a single, rehearsed play, devouring the stew. They cared nothing for the fact that the broth was boiling hot, aggressively stuffing the thick chunks of mutton and torn pieces of fresh bread down their throats with overflowing spoonfuls of barley.

"Do you recall the first time we had meat?"

The voice drifted from his side. Alpheo turned his head to see the Legate of the Primogenia taking a seat beside his King directly on the dry grass. Fortunately, it hadn’t rained in two days, and the ground was free of mud. Jarza’s bull-like shoulders crouched forward as he rested his heavy elbow atop his knee, staring out at the hungry crowd.

"Well, do you recall? Or have all those dandy palace banquets clogged your memories?" Jarza asked, a faint, nostalgic smirk playing on his weathered face.

The King didn’t mock him. In truth,he couldn’t find the heart to.

"This would probably be the part where I am supposed to say that meat was the sweetest morsel I ever tasted in my life," Alpheo murmured, his eyes fixed on a young boy greedily licking the grease from his fingers. "But it was hardly any good. I got perhaps a dozen bites before the carcass was stripped bare. And the flesh was bad-cooked and tight."

It had been during their march from the red sands of Arlania to the fertile plains of Romelia. A lone rabbit, snagged by a forager who had spent his youth poaching in the lord’s woods.

Jarza grunted, thinking it over before nodding in agreement. "Asag was never much of a cook, to be fair. Though I do recall we made a decent pair of gloves out of the skin. For Ghalrim’s wife, if memory serves."

"It does,it was a gift for their marriage" the King said, a quiet warmth settling in his chest.

’’Aye I recall Ghalrim teared up’’

"Still, I suppose it was a fine meal nonetheless. If for nothing else than the sheer novelty of it."

"What was it he said? Egil.’’ With a smile the legate kneaded his head. But be as it may he could not remember it ’’ I only recall he had a few choice words about that rabbit."

"He said it was stringier than an old man’s balls," Alpheo replied, and against the heavy tide of grief and exhaustion rising inside him, a genuine smile finally broke across his face. "I never did have the courage to ask him how he knew what those felt like."

Jarza let out a deep, gravelly chuckle. "Aye. He always had a beautiful way with words, didn’t he?"

"That he did."

"And with the ladies, too," the Legate added, nudging the King’s armored shoulder with his elbow. "How many of his bastards did you end up having to take care of after he went into the dirt?"

"Fourteen," Alpheo muttered dreamily, the memories washing over him like sweet wine. "Four girls, and the rest boys.That we know of.

I had to foster some out to the temples, and I spent half my capital convincing landless knights to take the lads on as child. Quite the legacy." He shook his head slowly, the smile fading into something softer, more aching. "That is what I miss most about the man. The chaotic noise of him.There was always life wherever he went. Though I do not miss the bastards."

"That, and his arguments with your wife.I miss their shouting, you’d think them husbands and wife from how much time they passed with one another...though most of that time was by calling each other names."

Alpheo let out a soft huff of laughter. "Aye. That too... I had almost forgotten about those storms. I don’t think the queen has ever been spoken to in such a manner before or since.She also looks a greater deal happier now...."

Jarza snorted, his gaze drifting back to the six hundred exiles who were currently wiping their bowls clean with the last crusts of bread.

"Well," the Legate said, his voice softening just a fraction as he watched a mother gently wipe her child’s grease-stained chin, before went back to the line for a second serving. "I suppose their first meal as free men beats our first rabbit by a spectacular margin." He shook his head, a rough, fond chuckle escaping his chest. "We had twenty women in our company and yet not one could cook for the sake of us all.’’

The king gave a soft smile.

"So... a guilty mood?" Jarza asked, not breaking his gaze from the cauldrons.

"Does it show?"

"Unironically, yes. You’re wearing your conscience like a set of iron" The Legate shifted his weight on the grass, his massive shoulders rolling. "I think Egil would be proud to see this. From what I know of the old rogue, it was his biggest wish to reform his tribe. To see them beneath a safe sky. You do him great honor today."

The dead do not need honor, Alpheo thought, the words bitter and cold in his mind. They need breath. They need blood in their veins.They need life.

"Is that so?" Alpheo murmured aloud, his voice flat.

"It is not your fault, you know," Jarza said, his gruff tone dropping into something surprisingly gentle. "You couldn’t have pulled them out of the north any sooner. You didn’t put the chains on them."

Alpheo let out a long, heavy sigh, watching the steam rise from the pots and vanish into the winter air. "I have already made my peace with the timing, Jarza. I have already felt my share of sorrow for it. But I know that being sorry is a secondary thing, it is worthless unless a man uses it to improve himself, to ensure he doesn’t fall blindly into his past mistakes." He tightened his fist against his knee. They both knew they weren’t talking about the tribe.

"It is just a damnable misfortune that I had to lose a brother to finally realize that."

Jarza reached out, his heavy, calloused hand coming down with a solid, comforting thud against the King’s shoulder guards.

"Listen to me," the Legate said firmly. "Whatever happens now, or whatever we may sit here and think Egil would want... he is not here for us to ask him. The dirt has him, and the gods have his soul. But I know the man, Alpheo. I fought beside him, and I argued with him just as much as your wife did. And I know for a certainty that he would not want to see you sitting here like this, letting his ghosts hollow you out."

Jarza nodded toward the children who were now laughing, their bellies full of mutton and their hands full of wooden toys. "He’d tell you to stop brooding like a cloistered maiden, stand up, and look at what you just gave them.Either that, or he would have just sat down and clamored for wine for him and his tribesmen, while he would delight them with his war tales.’’

The king laughed ’’Aye, that is something he would do....’’

A small silence came hanging between them. The cold wind rolling on the plains, as the Uthaia gorged themselves till they were full. He torn his eyes away from the last kindness he could do to a dead friend, and instead turned to livings.

His eyes bore Jarza’s with a deep intensity. Was this the right choice?Somehow he knew the answer was probably not, but he also knew he had been kicking the can down the road for too long, perhaps it was time to face that?

The legate of the Primogenia noticed something in the king stare that levelled him.

’’Alph?Everything’s allright?’’

’’No , it isn’t. I may have something to confide to you....about Egil, and about me.’’