“Such a thing is of great value, yes? Why would you do that for me-me who is not even your real servant?”
“Because I don’t want to do the job, but I can see I’m going to anyway. So I might as well get something for it-or at least one of us should. And maybe one day when you have your piles of gold, you’ll hire me to guard it for you, yes?”
“Absolutely!” Despite the pain, Pickles’s face beamed again. “What is it the professor wishes you to do?”
Hadrian looked back at Glen Hall and the blue sky above it. “Honestly, Pickles … I’m not sure.”
Later that same day Hadrian went in search of Royce.
His foot was feeling better. He noticed only a minor twinge when he put his full weight on it, which left him limping slightly. He’d survived dozens of battles without a scratch, but one afternoon with Royce had left him a cripple.
He searched the school and the grounds with no results and was heading for Arcadius’s office when he was stopped by a student.
“You’re Hadrian, right?”
Hadrian hadn’t seen the kid before, or at least he didn’t think so. The school had a lot of students and most looked the same to him. “Yes.”
“Ah … your friend, the young one who speaks funny, he-”
“Pickles?”
“Yeah … I guess.”
“What about him?”
Hadrian had taken his battered friend to see the professor, who in turn had taken him to the school physician. Hadrian expected Pickles would remain there for the day but perhaps not. He had only suffered a beating. Nothing was broken.
“He sent me to get you. He’s out in the stable.”
“In the stable?”
“Said it was important. He wants you to come quick.”
Hadrian was moving down the stairs before the boy finished speaking. He forgot the pain in his foot and pushed out of the school doors into the courtyard. Even though it was still early evening, the valley, surrounded by high hills, was cast in shadow. Built on the west side of the common, which received the least light, the stable was already cast in deep shadow, the interior dark.
“Pickles?” Hadrian called out as he poked his head inside. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer, and Hadrian walked the length of the aisle to where Dancer stood. He greeted the horse, clapping her rump. She responded with a stomp of one hoof and a tail swish.
Dancer turned her head, and he imagined she smiled. Hadrian always felt that it was a mistake of the gods not to grant animals the ability to smile and laugh. Every living thing should have that pleasure, and yet when he thought about it, the idea of his horse laughing at him might not be such a great idea.
The light entering the stable from the courtyard flickered. Turning, Hadrian noted silhouettes in the doorway. “Pickles?”
It wasn’t Pickles. He counted five before they began pulling the doors closed. A lantern flared and Hadrian saw Angdon. He wasn’t wearing his robe. Instead, he was dressed in wool britches and a light shirt-what nobles might call work clothes. It was obvious why Pickles had lost the fight. Angdon was smaller than Hadrian, but not by a lot, and he had a heft to his shoulders and arms, the sort Hadrian usually only saw on field hands or his father.
“Sorry, Pickles won’t be coming. Let’s see now, your name is Hadrian, you said.” Angdon slapped an axe handle against his palm. The other boys had sticks as well-not a gown among them. “You appear to be missing your swords, Hadrian.”
“They aren’t missing. I left them in my room.” Hadrian thought the boy might be smart enough to understand the threat he implied, but Angdon missed it.
“You’ll regret that decision.”
“Why’s that?”
The boys moved forward, clapping their sticks. They fanned out, staring him down, banging the barrels and stalls with threatening grins. This was the fun part for them-intimidation. Bullies lived for this, and it wasn’t much different on the field of combat; the methods were just more dramatic and multiplied by thousands.
Hadrian recalled how each battle began with two sides facing off. Lines of men stretching as far as he could see, five or ten deep with a grassy gap of less than a hundred yards between them. They would stare at one another, then beat on their shields with swords and axes. Finally, they’d howl like wolves. No one ordered this; no commander instructed they act like animals-that came naturally to men pumping themselves up to kill. Both sides did their best to frighten the other. That’s where the real battle took place. On any field that Hadrian had fought on, a balanced scale was set-until the two groups saw each other. The more numerous group added weight to their side of the scale. No one likes to be outnumbered. Cavalry was scary, and seeing horses might tip the scale back. The shouting was an effort to tilt the scales because the winner wasn’t the side that fought best. No battle ever came down to the last man standing. The winner was always the group that drilled their side of the scale and sent the others running first. Hadrian had seen winning sides flee because they thought they were losing.
Establishing superiority early on, nailing fear and hopelessness into the other side, made any conflict easier. Hadrian understood this even more than Angdon, but like howling, such things came naturally to men looking to cause harm. This was the crucial moment of any fight, and Hadrian’s role, as one against many, was to cower and quake, and if possible cry and beg.
“You’re friends with Pickles.” Angdon said it as an accusation. “The two of you like embarrassing me. Think it’s funny to belittle your betters. Only I don’t. None of us do.”
“I saw what you did to Pickles. Seemed a bit harsh for throwing a pie.”
“We taught Pickles a lesson. This is a school after all. Most of what they teach here is useless-just words. Words don’t mean anything outside this valley. But I teach something important, a real-world education. Lessons that can help a person their whole life, and I’m going to teach you one right now, Hadrian. I’m going to demonstrate why you should respect your betters.”
“Appreciate the thought, but I’m not a student.”
“It’s a free lesson.” Angdon circled Hadrian and with both hands took a solid grip on the axe handle.
Hadrian spread his feet slightly. He bent his knees and balanced his weight. He watched Angdon’s body and the direction of his eyes. He would swing right to left, aiming for Hadrian’s side rather than his head. The boy intended a beating, not a killing. Behind him, the rustle of straw indicated the others were closing in.
Angdon twisted and raised the axe handle. Muscles stood out on his neck as he started his swing, only the handle failed to move. A shadow appeared to envelop the young man from behind.
“Mufftt…” Angdon uttered softly as his back arched and his eyes widened.
He collapsed, dropping to his knees, where he hovered for a moment and then crumbled to his side. Blood stained Angdon’s work shirt, spreading out and soaking through the linen.
The shadow behind him remained standing. A faceless black cloak and hood. The grim reaper took a single step forward and the others bolted, clawing at the doors. Bursting outside, they ran, dropping the lantern in the grass where it went out, spewing a slender thread of smoke.
“What did you do that for?” Hadrian shouted, and moved to the boy’s side.
Royce stepped back into the dark recesses, gathered up an armful of leather straps, and walked out.
“We’ve talked about this before, Royce,” Arcadius yelled at him. “You aren’t to hurt the students.”
“You said don’t kill,” Royce replied. “If you don’t want misunderstandings, then be specific. The little baron boy will live. Trust me, I know where to stick a knife.”
They were back in the professor’s office. Hadrian had carried Angdon to the school infirmary, then marched up to see Arcadius, who had summoned Royce. The thief’s hood was down, and he carried his armload of straps and buckles, which he set on one of the crates. He continued to sew with a thick hooked needle as if he were a lady at a quilting bee.