He raised his voice, calling, “Lieutenant Markos.” Shortly, a small, heavy chest rested beside his chair. On the tabletop were an ewer of wine and four cups, and another chair had been brought in. .
After the aide had left in search of Strahteegos Gabos, Milo turned to Tomos. “I think that Captain Portos and I are about of a size. Go over into my quarters and tell my men to open my chests, then choose some clothing and boots suitable for a captain of a thousand horse, then have them bring your choices and my extra suit of Pitzburk back here.”
As Tomos rose to go, the big captain protested, “But, my lord … I ask only for those who depend upon me, not for myself.”
“Because, in addition to being a born leader and true gentleman, you’re a really good officer, and that, my good Portos, is a far rarer combination than you think; too many officers, especially nobleborn officers, remember only that ‘Rank Hath Its Privileges,’ forgetting that ‘Rank Hath Its Responsibilities,’ as well. You gave more than your all to one who betrayed your trust. You must now be very cynical regarding the gratitude of rulers, but I say to you this: serve me as faithfully as you served Zastros in the past, and the rewards for both you and your squadron will be great.”
While Portos sat digesting the unexpected praise, Milo leaned to open the small coffer and extract three leather bags that he dropped, clanking, on the table, then shoved over to Portos.
“Captain, we maintain and enforce high standards of personal cleanliness in our army, especially amongst our officers, so you will need more than a single suit of clothes; the smaller bag is for your own needs. With the two larger bags, I expect you to improve the appearances of your officers, nor will you have to search far, for—impending battle or no impending battle—a host of sutlers and merchants have opened for business along both sides of the road just north of the castra, along with armorers, tailors, whores, pimps, gamblers, bootmakers, horsetraders, farriers, fortune-tellers, and thieves. God help them all if we lose the battle!”
“No, my lord!” Portos shook his head emphatically. “The supplies for my troopers are more important. In honor, I cannot accept …”
“Captain Portos!” Milo snapped. “In my army you will accept what I damn well tell you to accept. Your sergeants and troopers will be supplied by my quartermaster with whatever they need, be it clothing or weapons or armor or horses or blankets or even cookpots. And Sacred Sun help the quartermaster I ever apprehend cadging bribes for preferential issuance of stores!”
Then Tomos and Milo’s orderlies arrived and, by the time Gabos came puffing in, Captain Komees Portos looked the part of a noble officer—black, thigh-length boots; breeches and shirt of plum-colored linen canvas; black leather gambeson under a three-quarter suit of matchless Pitzburk plate..
Without preliminaries, Milo said, “Gabos, ever “since you became Senior Strahteegos, you’ve been badgering me to train and allot you more Ehleen cavalry, despite the fact that—as you well know—my efforts along that line have been dismal failures for reasons we’ll not here recite.
“Well, to your right sits the answer to your prayers. His name is Portos, he is a Kath’ahrohs and a Komees by birth, he commands nine hundred sixty-eight veteran lancers, all Ehleenoee. Until recently, his unit served in the army of King Zastros, who shamelessly misused him and them. Tomos has fought Portos’ troopers and he considers them first-rate opponents, brave, and well led. Do you want them?”
Gabos turned and eyed Portos shrewdly, then snapped coldly, “Why did you desert your former lord, Komees Portos?”
Crisply and succinctly, Portos told him. While he spoke, Gabos mindspoke the High-Lord, “You believe this tale, Lord Milo?”
“Yes,” Milo answered silently. “I have entered his mind, and so has the Maklaud. He has been completely candid with us all.”
“I like his bearing,” commented Gabos, “and he speaks and expresses himself well. Yes, I’ll take him and his men as regulars. I’d be a bigger fool than I am not to, Lord Milo.”
“Then say it aloud,” ordered Milo. “The good captain doesn’t mindspeak.”
Pale moonlight bathed Lord Alexandros’ couch and a soft night breeze cooled his love-wet skin. Mara lay pressed close beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her breath still ragged, her shapely legs quivering yet from the joy he had given her.
After a long, dreamy while, she half whispered, “Lekos?”
“Yes, Mara?” he murmured.
Without speaking, she rolled her body atop his. her full, firm breasts pressed tightly against his chest. Resting on her elbows, her thick hair cascaded down either side of her small head, enclosing their two faces in a faery-pavilion, through which moonlight filtered as through blue-black gossamer. For an interminable moment, she gazed into his eyes, then slowly lowered her face and pasted her hot, red mouth firmly over his. But when his arms made to close around her, she tore out of their incipient embrace.
“No, Lekos, we must talk.”
Knowing her moodiness as well as he knew her matchless body, Alexandros lay back, cupping his hands beneath his head.
Mara reclined on her elbow, tracing the scars on his body with a forefinger. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the finger, she stated, “Lekos, I love you. I think that I love you as much as I loved your grandfather, my first Lekos … perhaps more. With you, in these past weeks, I have re-experienced a rapture that I had thought I would never again know.
“But, unlike my first Lekos, you as well as I knew that it could not last, that it must end. And why, as well. I would gladly give anything of which I can think if you could be as me or I as you, but Fate has ruled otherwise.
“My husband and Aldora and I are not truly immortal—Demetrios’ death proves that. -Anything that keeps air from our lungs is fatal to us, but our almost-instantaneous regeneration of tissue makes us impervious to most injuries or wounds or diseases and keeps us youthful for hundreds of years. To look at Aldora or at me, few would guess our ages at over five-and-twenty, yet Aldora is well past her fiftieth year, and I am well over three hundred years old. Milo is not even certain of his own age; he thinks that he is seven hundred, possibly more.
“What I am trying to tell you, Lekos …” Gently, he placed two fingers to her full lips and softly said, “That you could not bear to see me grow old, my Mara? No, that must never happen, my love, for it would be the cruelest of torture for both of us. So you wish me to leave. When must I leave you?”