The Price We Paid: The Farewll

“The Price We Paid” is about the American Civil War in Missouri, and the human struggles that occurred during that great time of war. The war was very personal in Missouri, and neighbors fought neighbors and families were torn apart. This is their story...

***

Isaac and Gabriel Claybourne rode their horses along the dirt path in silence. The brothers were volunteering to fight in the war. Both had been too young when the fighting broke out, but by now, both were eighteen and ready to fight. But they would not be fighting together; they were volunteering on opposite sides.

It was a tense situation at home before they left. Their father, Arthur Claybourne, was personally a Union man, while their mother sympathized with the Confederacy. The dinner the evening before was quiet and somber. Isaac and Gabriel had a younger sister, Mary, and she refused to see them at breakfast that morning out of grief. The family was torn apart by this war.

The road was overhung by a thick line of oak trees, and the afternoon sun was blocked partially by the branches. Gabriel opened his saddlebag and grabbed a piece of dried beef. He was about to offer some to Isaac, but Isaac was looking directly ahead, avoiding his brother’s glance. Gabriel began chewing on the beef, losing his appetite.

After a moment, Gabriel broke the silence.

“Isaac, if we’re going to…”

“Gabriel,” Isaac cut his brother off sharply. “I think that it would be best if we don’t speak to each other. We’ll travel together until we reach Morrisburg. Then, we go our separate ways.”

Gabriel bowed his head solemnly and put his food back into his pouch. Isaac was never much of a talker anyway, but today, he seemed even more hostile. The brothers had always taken different paths in areas of interest; at school, Gabriel always loved playing stickball than studying, but Isaac was a diligent student.

They continued to ride without talking to each other, choosing instead to look at the road ahead of them.

Isaac mulled over his thoughts about the morning, and about the last several months. News about the war had trickled in from the East, giving an overall impression of the Confederacy being on the ascension. Kentucky was a border state, and was still officially part of the Union, but there were still many slaveholding families who had Southern sympathies. The Claybournes lived next to several households that supported the rebellion, and, although relations in the community were still amiable, there was some conflict on the issue of the war.

Some considerable commotion was caused when, some three months earlier, a Confederate cavalry patrol rode into the area and stole horses from a local ranch. A militia force was formed and drove away the horsemen, but they left in their wake a feeling of intense disruption. The war had finally come to Kentucky, even if it had been a small patrol coming into their county.

Arthur Claybourne had been open with his Northern loyalties and had championed the formation of a Kentucky volunteer company to march north and join the Union army. Many had answered the call, but still others scorned the action. Arthur was unable to join them on account of his bad leg, injured in a riding accident some years previous. The company rode away and reported to the local Federal forces.

Isaac had never thought to join the Army until his father mentioned raising the company. Isaac had been so preoccupied with his studies that he had never considered the possibility of anything other science and philosophy. Gabriel, on the other hand, had talked of nothing but enlisting. Isaac’s brother took on from his father, while Isaac was the spitting image of his mother, and had a similar temperament as well. Louisa Claybourne was a quiet and thoughtful woman, and she had married Arthur out of love and against the wishes of her family. Together, they moved from Arthur’s home in Ohio to Kentucky, and built a home in the community where they presently lived.

Louisa disliked slavery and thought it an injustice, but she sympathized with the fight for self-determination of the state. While Arthus maintained that the Union must be preserved and that Lincoln could save the country, Louisa believed that the states should decide their own fate. Whatever their disagreements, Arthur and Louisa loved each other, and they taught their family to settle their differences. Mary, their only daughter, never spoke of the war or politics, and had shouted at the brothers the evening before they left for tearing the family apart. Mary was only fifteen, but she was a keen observer and understood the war, even if she didn’t show it.

Isaac was snapped out of his reverie by the whinnying of his horse. He glanced at Gabriel, whose face was expressionless. Isaac found this amusing, as Gabriel was the most lively member of the family by far. Gabriel could always find a joke in anything, no matter how serious or appropriate to do so. Nevertheless, Gabriel’s intentions of joining the rebellion was quite serious and well thought out. Gabriel had always supported states rights, and when secession was declared in many of the Southern states, he felt that it was his duty to do his part in the war.

The silence continued until the brother reached a fork in the road. A sign indicated that Jefferson City was to the left, and that St Joseph was to the right. Isaac and Gabriel both looked at each other; this is where their paths diverged.

Gabriel opened his mouth to say something, but closed it a few seconds later. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Chances are that the brothers would never see each other until after the war; maybe, heaven forbid, never again. Isaac stared at his brother, and for only a moment, Gabriel saw his brother’s cold facade break, revealing a look of sadness. It was immediately replaced by an even harder look.

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye then. Good luck, Gabriel. Godspeed.”

Isaac’s words rang in Gabriel’s ears for along time. Isaac, without another word, reined his horse in front of Gabriel and began to ride down the right fork. Gabriel just watched his brother go, unable to say anything in reply. Finally, words came to him.

“God go with you, Isaac.”

Isaac turned around in his saddle, and Gabriel could see his brother nod once. Then, Isaac turned around and kept riding until he was out of sight.

Gabriel exhaled slowly, holding back tears of emotion. After what seemed like an eternity, Gabriel guided his horse to the left fork and continued riding down the dirt path.

Constantinople: Theodora

Constantinople, 522 AD

The emperor Justin has lost his mind, and Justinian is a virtual regent in the empire. Surrounded by capable political and military advisors, Justinian is being groomed for becoming emperor, but an unexpected threat approaches…

***

“I’m telling you, Justinian, it’s worth it. Hurry up.”

Justinian ran after his friend Florus up a winding street. They were a long way from the palace, and they had already lost their secret Excubitor escorts two streets ago. Justinian never did this, but Florus claimed that he had a woman that he wanted Justinian to meet. Macedonia, a dancer and spy for Justinian, had met a courtesan named Theodora in Antioch some months ago, and when she heard that Theodora had returned to the capital, Macedonia immediately sent word to Florus. Florus relayed the message to Justinian, and now the two were on their way to an out of the way brothel for a rendezvous.

Justinian was a little hesitant.

“Why a brothel, Florus?” Justinian asked. “I thought you said she didn’t dance anymore.”

“She doesn’t,” Florus replied, grinning. “It’s for secrecy. We don’t know who could be following.”

“Who would be? Who cares about some whore-turned-wool worker?”

Florus simply smiled and stopped suddenly. They were there. It was a quiet part of the city, with a handful of drunks stumbling about up ahead of them. Florus knocked on the door twice, and door opened slightly.

A raspy old voice whispered from inside the brothel.

“What do you want?”

“We’ve come to see Macedonia.”

There was a slight pause, and then the door swung open. Florus looked at Justinian, and Justinian simply shrugged. Florus entered the brothel, and Justinian followed.

The establishment was surprisingly clean, especially for Constantinople standards. Justinian had toured many brothels during his tenure as an imperial secretary, and this one would likely cater to wealthy nobles or high-ranking military officers. Justinian could not see the source of the raspy voice that had unwelcomed them, so he and Florus stepped into the atrium and waited.

A plump madame walked into the atrium from a side room and greeted the two men.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you this evening?”

“We have someone to meet tonight,” Florus said.

“Someone special? I have many girls. What is her name?”

“We’re not looking for a whore,” Justinian cut in. He was a little impatient now, and he wanted to meet this Theodora. “We’re looking for Macedonia.”
The madame raised her eyebrows in surprise, then, in realization, she bowed slightly and beckoned them into the side room.

Florus gave Justinian a sideways glance, and they both left the atrium and entered the side room. A number of chambers were housed to the right, clearly with a salacious purpose. A few clients occupied the rooms, and it sounded like they were quite busy. Justinian had no taste for whores; his tastes were more permanent in nature.

The madame led the two men into a dark back room and opened the door, ushering them in. Florus and Justinian entered the room together.

There were two women already sitting inside the room. Justinian recognized his contact Macedonia. She was tall and graceful, which aided her skills as a dancer. She was not overly pretty, but she was attractive enough. However, Justinian’s eyes immediately fell upon Theodora, and he caught his breath.

Theodora was truly beautiful, so much so that the usually cold Justinian was completely taken aback. Theodora lithe and graceful, also like a dancer, but she was regal at the same time. Her skin was fair and clear, and her eyes were dark and mysterious. Her dark hair was thick and shining, and was so long that it hung down her back and out of Justinian’s sight. Her gown was loosely hanging around her, but it was modest and certainly different from her previous days as a courtesan. As Justinian and Florus entered, the women looked at the newcomers and observed them. Justinian’s eyes met Theodora’s, and she smiled. Justinian was rooted to the spot, unable to move.

Florus cleared his throat and announced themselves.

“May I present to you Justinian, adopted son of the emperor Justin, and imperial secretary. Secretary,” Florus now spoke to Justinian himself. “May I present to you Macedonia, dancer at this establishment, and Theodora, wool worker of the imperial palace.”

Macedonia and Theodora bowed their heads in respect, and Justinian nodded in reply. There was an awkward silence for a few moments; Florus looked between Theodora and Justinian, expecting some reaction from either person. Justinian and Theodora just stared at each other, gazing into each other’s eyes in silence. Florus broke the silence.

“Well, we’ll leave you two together. Macedonia,” Florus beckoned to Macedonia to leave. She nodded, and they left the room. Justinian and Theodora were alone.

Justinian strode over to the chair that Macedonia just vacated and sat down. He stared intently at Theodora.

“I’ve heard little about you, except that it was imperative that I meet you.”

Theodora turned her head and stared out of the window, observing the reflection of the torches from Galata onto the Golden Horn.

“What would you like to know about me?” Theodora asked wryly, looking back at Justinian. Justinian studied Theodora, and spoke.

“I’ve heard that you were a courtesan in Carthage and Alexandria. I imagine that you made plenty of connections while you were there. Including the wife of one of the emperor’s bodyguards.”

Theodora nodded. Belisarius, one of Justin’s favorite bodyguards and a personal friend of Justinian, had married Antonina, a known former prostitute.

“That is true. I have met many courtesans in my, uh, field of work. Of course, I have given up that occupation and now work for the palace.”

Justinian snorted. Theodora was crafty. If she had indeed came back from her days as a prostitute, it didn’t concern Justinian. He needed a contact, and she was perfect for the job.

“I will speak bluntly, Theodora,” Justinian said. “I don’t care if you’re still a whore or not. I need information, a report from the city. Not just the city itself, but its people. I know that you’ve only been here for a few months, but your contacts would be helpful to my cause.”

Theodora was taken aback slightly. She began to truly observe Justinian for the first time: he was handsome, that was not in doubt, and he was intelligent, far more intelligent than most men she had met. But she felt another attraction to this man. In his eyes, Theodora saw ambition and a thirst for glory; she had read about the great men of Rome, and she always imagined them having that same look.

Justinian narrowed his eyes slightly and sized up Theodora. She wasn’t a normal whore, that much was clear. She was smart, and she knew her way around a palace. She would be very useful as a contact.

And yet…

Justinian felt something that he had never experienced before. He was attracted to this woman in many ways. She was beautiful, but there were many beautiful women in the capital. It did help, as there were also plenty of ugly women here, but Theodora’s intelligence was on par with Justinian’s own. Justinian felt attraction because Theodora’s ambition rivalled his own. Together, they could do great things.

Theodora spoke softly:

“My services are at your disposal, sir. Whatever you require…” Theodora trailed off. She then put a hand to her gown and slid the shoulder down her arm. Justinian raised his eyebrow.

In truth, it was a test. Theodora wanted to see what kind of man Justinian really was, and whether the desires of glory were superseded by the desires of the flesh. Justinian did not move or make any attempt to capitalize on Theodora’s advances.

Theodora stopped, and shouldered her gown. She seemed satisfied.

“Very good, sir. Now may I speak bluntly?” Theodora snapped from seductive to professional, further arousing Justinian’s interest.

“I have heard much about you, Justinian, and your career. I want to be a part of it. When the emperor dies, you will be the master of the world. You need a woman beside you to rule, and that woman is me.”

The two fell silent for a while. Justinian eyes widened slightly, now looking at Theodora with affection. Theodora looked back with reciprocated emotions. In Justinian’s mind, Theodora had proved herself to be ambitious, but she also seemed to genuinely have feelings for him. Justinian admitted to himself that he had feelings for her. It wouldn’t be easy for them, especially considering the fact that, even if she gave it up, she was a whore, and he was the adopted son of the emperor.

But he loved her, and she loved him. Together, they would take the empire by storm. 

Constantinople: The Imperial Heir

Constantinople, 519 AD

Emperor Justin’s reign is now secure after he was proclaimed emperor. His talented and ambitious nephew Justinian, named after his uncle, is next in line to inherit the throne. Justinian’s career in the Imperial Guard, called the Excubitors, has launched him into a notable position of power. Justinian has learned about the great Roman emperors of old, and he has big plans…

---

“It is so often hot here, isn’t it?” Justinian looked up from his papers. Marcus gazed out onto the harbor with a fondness that only a native of Constantine’s City would understand. Whenever Marcus said it was hot, he really meant that it was a nice day. Justinian still sweated in the city’s heat after his native home in Illyria.

“Marcus, do you need to speak with no meaning?” Justinian frowned, and Marcus looked at Justinian and his face fell. Marcus liked Justinian, and he didn’t want to antagonize his friend.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Marcus looked down in regret. Justinian’s expression softened a little. He didn’t mean to be harsh when he didn’t need to, and Marcus had many connections. He could be useful in the future.

Justinian went back to his work. Without looking up, he asked, “Did you see the race yesterday?” Marcus brightened. If there was one thing a young aristocrat like Marcus knew about, it was chariot racing. Like any self-respecting noble, Marcus and Justinian both supported the Blues, who were, in their opinion, the best team in Constantinople. For Marcus, it was all about the sport. Justinian saw the Blues as a means to gain political connections and influence in society, in addition to being just a chariot racing team.  

“Are you kidding me? Oricles wasn’t thinking! He took that turn way too sharply. Too much of a risk.” Justinian had already stopped listening. His attempt at small talk led Marcus to spew endlessly about chariot racing stats, and Justinian immediately regretted it.

Marcus continued rattling off chariot racing results, until he realized that Justinian was no longer paying attention, and he fell silent. Marcus came from an old aristocratic family, Italian in origin, that had relocated to Byzantium along with the emperor Constantine. Following the trends, just like young Marcus, Justinian thought. Marcus was just beginning his climb up the political ladder with a position in the Excubitors, the Imperial bodyguard. Along with Justinian and a number of other wealthy noblemen, Marcus was an officer, commanding the common infantry in the bodyguard.

In an attempt to break the awkward silence, Marcus cleared his throat and started another conversation.

“So, Justinian, how is your uncle?”

Justinian looked up, furrowing his brows.

“You mean, my father?”

“Well, yes, your adopted father, but…”

“My father, Marcus. Never forget that.” Justinian snapped back.

Marcus fell silent once more, looking out the window towards the harbor once more.

Justinian was now too distracted to continue his work, and he lowered his quill and took a drink from a cup of wine on the desk. Justinian leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in relaxation. For a young man in his late twenties, Justinian was surprisingly handsome, with a strong jawline and curly dark hair. His penetrating deep blue eyes betrayed a non-Greek origin, which was explainable as he hailed from a small village in Illyria, just like his adopted father.

Marcus, on the other hand, had a pale complexion with light brown hair and a thin face. Marcus looked like many other nobles of senatorial rank, paler and cleaner than the unwashed masses that populated the city. Justinian, for a man who was born in poverty and rose through the ranks, did not have much affinity for the peasants and city poor. For Justinian, there existed a different connection with the people, the same connection that previous Roman emperors had had with their own subjects. The citizens of the city and elsewhere were Romans, whether or not they lived in Rome, so Justinian believed that they had a right to share in the benefits and glories of being a Roman.

A knock at the door snapped Justinian back from his reverie. A tall, well-built soldier walked in, closing the door behind him.

“Andronicus!” Marcus exclaimed, probably a little too loudly. Justinian surveyed the newcomer, coolly noting Andronicus’ expensive scaled armor.

Andronicus has never even seen battle, Justinian thought. Neither had Justinian, but he didn’t carry himself like a self-proclaimed war hero the way Andronicus did.

“Marcus, Justinian,” Andronicus nodded lazily at the sight of the two officers. Andronicus commanded a section of the guard in the south of the city. The tower had an excellent view of the harbor adjacent to the Imperial Palace.

Andronicus strutted into the small room, surveying it lazily. His aristocratic demeanor did not impress Justin, who grew up in a poor Illyrian village. Andronicus finished his inspection of the room in just a few seconds. Justinian was a little suspicious.

“Finished inspecting, Andronicus?” Justinian said patronizingly. Andronicus wrinkled his nose slightly and turned to face Justinian.

“That’s not why I’m here. The emperor wants to speak with you.”

Justinian raised his eyebrows. He had not expected this. His uncle was normally very busy with trying to surround himself with capable yet trusted advisors, not an easy task in the cutthroat world of Eastern intrigue.

“Why didn’t you say this earlier,” Justinian asked. “And why did he send you?”

Andronicus looked rather pleased with himself.

“The emperor trusts me. He says he will have use for me.”

Justinian scowled. Of course Justin said this to Andronicus; he said that to everyone. It was a way of making reference to vague hopes of achieving some favor with the emperor, but mostly it came to naught. If Justin carried through with every promise he ever made, he’d have an army of cooks alone.

“Alright, I’ll be at the palace shortly.” Justinian went back to his paperwork, but Andronicus shook his head.

“Now, if you please.”

Justinian raised his head slowly, staring right at Andronicus’ smug face. Justinian’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything further. He put his stylus down and shifted his cloak. Justinian regarded Marcus as he left, completely ignoring Andronicus. Without another word, Justinian exited the tower.

---

A herald announced Justinian as he entered the emperor’s private study. Justin, sitting at a cluttered desk, was surrounded by a dozen advisors. Most were talking to each other about affairs of state, while the rest were trying to get the emperor’s attention. As Justinian entered, the emperor, who was conversing with one of his advisors, turned his head and saw Justinian. The emperor always loved to see his nephew, and his wrinkled face cracked into a broad smile.

“Nephew!” Justin boomed loudly, causing all of his advisors to stop talking and watch Justinian, with one dropping the stack of scrolls that he was holding. Justinian was a little embarrassed by the attention.

“Caesar,” Justinian nodded his head respectfully. Justin waved this away with a calloused hand.

“There’s no need for that, nephew. Come, come, walk with me. I want to discuss something with you.” The emperor beckoned to Justinian to a door on the opposite side of the room. One of the advisors, a young but stern looking man, cleared his throat slightly.

“Caesar, I must remind you that there is still much to do.”

“Later,” Justin said distractedly.

“Caesar,” the man began, but the emperor cut him off.

“Quiet, Gratian. The work can wait. You are here to advise, not to rule.”

Gratian bowed his head, and the rest of the advisors did the same as Justin stood and guided Justinian through the far door and out into the gardens.

The palace gardens were truly spectacular. Rows of fruit trees grew everything from figs to oranges. Brightly colored flowers blossomed in the warm sun. Several gardeners tended the various flora, but when they saw the emperor, they bowed their heads and left the gardens.

Justin strolled along the garden path with Justinian slightly behind him. Two Excubitors trailed the emperor, as was standard protocol. However, Justin decided that they were not needed, and he told them to wait at the entrance. They nodded their compliance and left the gardens. Justin and his nephew were now alone.

“Justinian,” the emperor began. His tone was still warm, but it was lower, quieter. The emperor almost always spoke with a soldier’s booming voice, needed to bark orders on the battlefield or parade ground. But now that they were alone, the emperor had no need for it.

“There is something that I need to discuss with you. It is a very delicate matter.”

“Of course, Caesar.” Justinian replied. Even when they were alone, Justinian knew the importance of keeping up appearances. Familiarity with the emperor could break his image of a leader, even if it was with his nephew. Justinian always stressed the importance of formality.

Justin walked around a large palm tree and plucked a pear from a nearby tree. He examined the piece of fruit, then continued walking along.

“Nephew, I am naming you my official successor.”

Justinian stopped in his tracks. He was expecting this, but he had to make it seem like a surprise. Justinian fumbled with his words; this was something that Justinian never did, and it only added to the illusion.

“I...uh...I am greatly honored, Caesar.” Justinian averted his uncle’s eyes, but Justin merely touched his nephew’s jaw with his free hand.

“Nephew, this is very important to me,” The emperor’s tone changed from warmth to urgency. Justinian phased back into a less humble demeanor.

“I am an old man. I will die soon, and be with God,” Justinian opened his mouth, but Justin raised his hand to silence him.

“I am old, nephew, no matter what you say. I care dearly for you, but I also care for the empire. You are a very talented and capable man, and the empire needs you; more than it needs me.”

The emperor stopped speaking for a moment, and walked a short distance to a bench. As Justin made his way to the bench, Justinian was suddenly struck by just how old his uncle truly was. The emperor was hunched over slightly, and he hobbled slightly when he walked. Justin’s once strong and muscular body had become soft and thin. Justinian knew that his uncle had been one of the strongest men in the capital in his heyday, but that was almost thirty years ago.

Justin sat down on the bench and groaned slightly as his frail body rested from the short walk. The emperor looked at his pear thoughtfully, but didn’t eat it.

“Rome is gone, nephew. The Goths have taken the old capital, defiling it before the rest of the world. You must take it back.”

Justinian frowned.

“But, uncle, why can’t you retake Rome? You have an army, loyal subjects, and a full treasury. Rome is yours for the taking.”

Justinian was truly puzzled by the emperor’s resignation to not taking Rome. It was true that Justin was old and weak, and if the emperor had become emperor in his younger days, a reconquest would have been much easier. But time was running out, and the empire was strong enough to reclaim Rome easily.

Justin looked slightly annoyed by the question, but his expression softened almost immediately.

“Justinian,” the emperor began, shocking Justinian by using the latter’s adopted name.

“I am old and weak, and my time is almost gone. I became emperor to secure the empire’s future, and I have come to understand that I can accomplish this best by giving you, my successor, the resources to save the empire.”

There was a long silence between the two. Justinian stared towards the sky, observing a few birds that had landed on the tiled roof. Justin stood up from the bench, doing so with some difficulty. The emperor spoke softly now:

“I leave the empire in your capable hands, nephew. Do make me proud.” With that, Justin started to walk back towards the exit. Suddenly, he turned around and handed Justinian the pear.

“Ye shall know them by their fruits,” the emperor said, quoting the Gospel of St Matthew. Justinian smiled and took the pear. Slowly, Justinian bit into the pear, savoring the sweet fruit.

It was done.

The Condotierri: A Contract is a Contract

This story is based on the life of Sir John Hawkwood, a condotierri, or contractor, in medieval Italy. Hawkwood was a mercenary through and through, and gold was worth more to him than honor. 

***

“Niccolo! More wine! Now!” A servant boy in his early teens bustled out of the magnificent tent. Marquis Giovanni held his golden cup out, waiting for his servant to return with the reddish liquid that so many lords lived on. Next to the Marquis, seating at a long table in the tent, sat Ludovico Tolliani, the chief minister of Montferrat. Montferrat was located in the north of Italy. Not large, it boasted bountiful vineyards and a gateway through the Apennines to France. The Marquis was a large man, with an enormous belly and drooping jowls. Giovanni II of Montferrat had once been a strong, able soldier who had defended his principality from ravenous neighbors to the south, but now, after a decade of wine, women, and a lack of fighting, the Marquis was as soft as his own pitiful army. He contrasted severely with Tolliani, who sat to his left. The minister was stick thin and  dressed in black, with a pointed mustache on his chin. The minister surveyed the tent with sharp, dark eyes.

As the servant boy returned with more wine, the tent flap opened, and a knight appeared, carrying his helm at his side.

“Pardon me, my lord, but the Englishman has arrived.” The Marquis put his cup down and clapped his hands loudly, grinning with glee. The servant boy, not knowing what to do now that the Marquis had replaced his cup, stood nearby, hesitantly.

“Excellent! Send him in immediately!” As the knight exited the tent, the Marquis turned to examine the boy and frowned.

“Are you simple, you piss-face sow? Pour me my wine! Stupid boy!” The Marquis’ face was contorted with displeasure. Young Niccolo turned red with embarrassment. He quickly poured the wine into the Marquis’ now proffered cup. With his cup filled, Giovanni seemed to relax, and he waved the boy away.

The tent flap opened once more, and a tall man in simple grey armor entered. The Marquis did not know what to think of the man in front of him. The Englishman was strong, possessing an air of rigidity and dignity, yet not nobility. The man’s face was rough and scarred, no doubt from his many battles with the French; rumor was that he killed a French lord at Crecy and plundered his gold. This knight in front of Giovanni was common, but he was a good soldier. His armor bore the look of well-used metal, beaten in many places. A pure white surcoat covered his breastplate.

“John Hawkwood. At your service, my lord.” The man’s hard face remained emotionless as he stared straight ahead. Tolliani scanned the man for any sign of weakness. The Maquis smiled at Hawkwood and opened his arms wide, cup in hand.

“Master Hawkwood! Welcome to Montferrat!” Hawkwood raised an eyebrow, noting the evident fact that they were not in the castle of the Marquis.

Giovanni’s smile faltered slightly.

“I know that this isn’t my castle, but I thought that you should come to my military camp to equip your company with whatever weapons you may need.” Tolliani shifted uncomfortably. The Marquis’ generosity in giving away weapons to the Englishman and his company would be expensive, since any mercenary company would take what they could. Hawkwood nodded once, still expressionless.

“Thank you, my lord. I will inform my captains. Now, do you have a job for me” Hawkwood’s direct tone caught the Marquis off guard. Tolliani narrowed his eyes, but Giovanni laughed.

“Excellent! You are direct then. I like that in a man. Yes, a job.” The Marquis motioned to Tolliani, and the minister stood up, reaching for a scroll laying on the table. Tolliani gave the scroll to Hawkwood, who took it hesitantly.

"The Green Count. Do you know him?" Tolliani inquired. Hawkwood shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"I have heard of him, yes. Amadeus of Savoy." Hawkwood looked directly at Tolliani. Tolliani stared back, not willing to be outdone by a soldier.

“Quite so.” Tolliani turned and seated himself on the Marquis’ side. Giovanni spoke next.

“This meddlesome Count is one of my greatest rivals. He believes that he can simply raid my territory and get away with it. It must stop now.” Hawkwood thought for a moment before he spoke.

“And what is the target? I need a town, or castle, or army.” The Marquis smiled.

“A village in the south of Savoy. St Gilbert is the name. It’s not particularly strategic, but…” he glanced at Tolliani, who turned away his head in disgust. “It has certain, uh, aspects that make it a very tempting target.” Hawkwood did not flinch.

“Such as?” The Marquis realized that he had lost the savor of his joke, and his smile faltered.  

“Ah, well, I can see that there is no fooling you. The village in question is the birthplace of the good Count. He was christened in the church there, and I would hire you to burn this church to the ground The fool claims he was born in Chambery, but I know the truth.”

Hawkwood for the first time looked uneasy.

“I am not sure that some of my men would do harm to a building of God. If any clergy were harmed…” The Marquis’ eyes narrowed.

“From what I hear, you were not squeamish when you burned that church in Burgundy.” Giovanni’s venomous tone was not lost on Hawkwood, who looked down with a painful look on his face.

“I understand, my lord. My financier will arrange for the contract and payment.” Hawkwood looked up, his face once again without expression. The Marquis’  face brightened immediately.

“Well then! Now that we have that settled, would you care to dine with us this evening?” The Marquis seemed sincere, but Hawkwood cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Thank you, my lord, but no. My company must depart as soon as we can.”

“I see. Then you must be off! Farewell, and Godspeed!” The Marquis waved Hawkwood away, and the mercenary bowed his head and left the tent.

The afternoon air was cool with a breeze drifting by lazily from the Alps. The mountains, only miles away, dominated the horizon with snow-capped majesty. Hawkwood scanned the camp around him. The sound of a blacksmith hammering a sword echoed through the small sea of tents. The simple white field and red bar of Montferrat fluttered in the wind above the Marquis’ pavilion. A few dozen Montferrat soldiers milled around the camp, carrying firewood and cooking supper. Most were young and inexperienced, dressed in a leather brigandine with the Montferrat badge stitched on.

But towards the center of the camp, in a wide open space, there was a group of an entirely different sort of soldier. A pure white banner trimmed with crimson flew from a lance propped against a cart full of weapons. Around two hundred soldiers gathered in the open area. Some were clad in chainmail tunics, some with leather and metal brigandines, and a few in solid breastplates; all wore a white surcoat.

As Hawkwood approached the mass of men, a head poked out from the center of the crowd. A massive dark haired man called out from the crowd.

"The Captain has returned!" All heads turned towards Hawkwood as he walked through the tents. The crowd parted to allow Hawkwood to stand in the center of the group.

Hawkwood stood amidst the mass of soldiers, looked around determinedly, and began to speak.

“Gentlemen, we have been given our first contract as a Company.” A roar of triumph greeted these words. Veterans amongst the crowd looked eager for glory, while the novices cheered but still looked anxious.

“The objective is a small Savoyard village. We move in one hour. Captains, organize your sections at once. Dolfini,” Hawkwood turned to a small, bespectacled man with a ledger in hand. “Come, we will sort out the contract.” Dolfini nodded, and he and Hawkwood walked off, away from the crowd. As the mass broke up into sections, Hawkwood addressed his financier.

“We’re a long way from Burgundy, Giulio.” Hawkwood said. Dolfini smiled.

“Certainly, Captain. But here it is more profitable. The Marquis can pay, I imagine?” Hawkwood shrugged.

“Your imagination could be correct. From what I hear, he offers plenty in the way of provisions and weapons, too. But he wants us to burn a church.”

Dolfini stopped dead in his tracks. Hawkwood stopped too. He glanced at Hawkwood in disbelief.

“What? A church? That won’t sit well with the Italians, or the Germans. But, why?” Hawkwood kept walking, looking straight ahead, and Dolfini jogged to catch up.

“This is personal for the Marquis. He wants to insult Amadeus of Savoy by burning the church where he was christened in.” Dolfini pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Hmph. This Marquis would have us take on the Green Count for a petty vendetta?”

Hawkwood stopped.

“Of course. That’s what we’re paid for.”

The Bloodstained Banner: The Death of Danton

This is the first in a series of short stories about the French Revolution called The Bloodstained Banner. These stories are meant to look at multiple perspectives of the Revolution and its consequences, negatively and positively. 

***

“It’s time.” 

The words of the officer rang in Danton’s ears, leaving an echo after they left his head. Danton was still defiant, but the cold glaze of impending death had settled in already. Desmoulins’s face was contorted in a grimace, but Danton knew that it wasn't for his own life; Camille was worried about his wife and children. Danton had heard earlier that Lucile had been arrested just days ago, but he hadn’t the heart to tell Camille. 

Soldiers used their musket butts to herd the prisoners onto the three tumbrils. The condemned men were all silent, but there was an air of hopelessness around them. Many of these men were heroes of the Revolution, Danton thought. Some, like Herault de Sechelles, had been betrayed by Robespierre and now found themselves facing the guillotine. Danton glanced at Fabre D’Eglantine, a man whom Danton had once appointed as his secretary. However, as Danton’s eyes fell on Camille, he felt a wave of despair fall upon him. 

An army captain had arrived to the prison with a number of soldiers, ordered to be a further escort in case of mob unrest. The captain then turned to Desmoulins, his face blank and expressionless. 

“Camille Desmoulins, I am here to inform you that your wife Lucile Duplessis has been arrested for crimes of aiding and abetting the escape of a man convicted of treason.” 

The words were spoken without emotion. Camille’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened in a terrible scream. 

“No! Lucile! You can’t do this, she has done nothing wrong!” Camille began to struggle against his guards, who in turn wrestled him onto the tumbril. Camille continued to yell madly as the tumbrils began to roll forwards towards the scaffold. 

Danton looked around at the crowds of people gathered on the route to the guillotine. Many looked sad, as they watched their hero carted off to his death, but others were angry. Plenty of Danton’s supporters had turned against him after the sentenced was given, as they believed that if he was truly innocent, he would have been acquitted. Many in the crowd shouted insults at the condemned, throwing pieces of garbage along with the words. 

“Traitors!” one person yelled.

“Sons of whores!” shouted another.

“Words won’t save you now!” exclaimed a third. 

Some in the crowd laughed at the last comment, and Danton himself smiled grimly. He had always been the best orator in the Cordeliers Club. He was a better speaker than Camille, and he had more restraint than Marat. But all of that was over now. Words could do nothing now. 

The ride to the scaffold was both agonizingly long and brutally short, Danton thought. He turned to see Camille, now in pieces after hearing that his wife was arrested. The verdict would be guilty, and the sentence would be death. The guillotine came into view as the tumbrils rounded the corner from Rue Royale into Place de la Revolution. A large crowd had gathered around the scaffold, larger than usual. The deaths of so many prominent victims would inevitably draw out a bigger selection of people. 

The tumbrils came to a stop at the foot of the stair leading to the guillotine. No ceremony was given for the condemned as the soldiers hauled the first grouped off of the tumbril and towards the scaffold. 

The first man was brought up the steps towards the guillotine. As he was strapped to the board, he closed his eyes in silent prayer. He was then slid into trap, the trap was set, and the executioner’s mate gave the signal. The grim-looking executioner pulled the lever, and the blade fell to earth, severing the man’s head in one swift motion. His head tumbled into the waiting basket, which was out of sight for Danton. The man’s headless corpse was removed from the board and tossed onto a cart at the side of the scaffold. 

As the second victim was taken by a soldier and led up the steps, Danton heard Camille’s name being called from the crowd. One of the members of the Cordeliers Club, Claude Dumare, was trying to get through the crowd to talk to Camille. The guards were forcing Dumare back, but Camille struggling against his own guards. Danton could not hear what Dumare was trying to tell Camille, as the second condemned man had already been executed and his body was being disposed of. Camille fought his captors, ripping his white shirt in the process. As Dumare was forced away by the guards, Camille called out to the crowd. “Citizens, you know me! I am one of you! I have been wrongly accused.” Camille’s desperation, Danton knew, was so that he could free Lucile somehow. Alas, it was all in vain, as many in the crowd shouted Camille down. 

By this time, the captain, who had escorted the column, ordered two soldiers towards Camille. The two National Guardsmen grabbed Camille’s shoulders roughly and pulled him away from the crowd. Camille continued to struggle against the Guardsmen until he reached the steps of the scaffold. 

Danton saw Camille stare right at the blade of the guillotine, and then the struggling stopped. Camille had accepted his fate, and he was now going to die with honor. One of the Guardsmen shoved Camille in the back with his musket. Camille winced in pain, and then began to ascend the steps. It seemed an eternity before Camille stepped onto the scaffold. For a moment, Camille stared up at the blade, transfixed on the blood dripping from its fresh kills. The executioner’s mates grabbed hold of Camille and pushed him against the board. As they tightened the belt around his body, Camille closed his eyes tightly. They executioner’s mates tipped the board and rolled Camille forward. Camille’s head went through the hole and the trap came down on his neck. The executioner stepped forward and grabbed hold of the lever. After a moment of hesitation, the executioner pulled the lever. The blade swiftly came down on Camille’s head, taking it off in one clean stroke. Danton could not see his friend’s lifeless face, but he didn’t want to. For the next few minutes of living, Danton wanted to remember Camille as a patriot, not a dead man convicted of treason. 

After Camille’s execution, the rest of the prisoners were quickly dispatched. Herault went to the scaffold stoically, but Fabre was pleading with the executioners before he was finally silenced by the blade. At last, Danton was the last condemned man remaining. The captain turned to Danton, motioned in the direction of the scaffold. 

“I can see, sir.” Danton said venomously, and the captain turned red and stepped aside as Danton walked slowly up the steps. Danton chuckled to himself slightly, thinking about the captain who had just been rebuked by a dead man. Danton reached the top of the scaffold and stopped.

 As the executioner stepped towards him to bring him to the guillotine, Danton said: 

“Show my head to the people. It’s worth a look.” 

The executioner nodded solemnly, and Danton walked over to the executioner’s mates. Without a word, they strapped Danton to the board and rolled him forward. Danton looked down into the basket. He saw Fabre’s head lying in the bottom, looking up. The expression of disbelief and horror was still upon his face. Danton would not die like that. The trap was set, and the executioner’s mates stood back. The executioner took the lever in his hand and pulled it down. Danton heard the click as the mechanism began, and heard the blade sliding against the wooden beams. 

The events of the last five years flashed by in an instant. The storming of the Bastille, drafting the Declaration of the Rights of Man, the insurrection against the King, the fall of the Girondins, and finally his own fate. Danton smiled as he realized what they had started would never be fully seen to its end, not in his children’s lifetimes. France was free, but the world would take much longer to be rid of their chains. 

As the blade fell closer to his neck, Danton's thoughts turned to fishing. 

To be a fisherman now, Danton thought.

Ground rules for the blog

Naturally, there will be some rules and regulation on the site. This is for me, as well as anyone who wants to submit.

1. This is for enjoyment only, political agendas are not encouraged.

2. Keep offensive language to a minimum.

- Self-censor if you want, but use your best judgement on if it is appropriate to the situation.

- If you do not care for offensive language, there will be a disclaimer before stories. (There will be a disclaimer regardless of if it offends you or not, but you don't have to pay attention to it if you don't want to)

3. Be creative and original.

- This isn't so much a rule as it is a tip.

- But there is an actual rule; only submit original material unless you directly attribute the original creator.

4. Anonymity is paramount.

- There is no obligation to share personal information or real identities.

- Use pen names and pseudonyms. (Like me; Jon Wright is not my real name)

5. Discuss if you wish, but please keep the discussions civil and appropriate.

6. Have fun!

- You can not have fun if you don't want to. I am not an enjoyment fascist or something.

- This blog is meant to be interesting and entertaining. That is the main goal.

Welcome to the blog!

As a lover of all things historical, this topic has been close to my heart for the past while. This blog will be devoted to short stories, poems, and novellas with historical fiction subjects. I will be posting as much as I can, but I will also be accepting stories from anyone who wants to submit. I will make sure that stories are subject-appropriate.

My email address is fightinghistorian@gmail.com.