The Chosen Prince (12 page)

“I'm sorry.”

Suliman shakes his head. “I did not expect such self-importance from you. I thought you were wiser than that.”

Alexos doesn't understand why Suliman is so shocked by what he said—because he really
isn't
like other people. He could list the reasons why, but he
hasn't the stomach for it. So he looks sheepishly down at his hands and waits for whatever comes next.

“You accepted Athene's forgiveness, and mine. You chose life over death. You committed yourself to serving the kingdom, as you were born to do, and serving the goddess, who chose you. But you won't commit. You stand in the doorway, as if you can't decide whether to come or go. Make up your mind, Alexos. If you wish to cower in the darkness and make a fetish of your pain—that will be a terrible waste, but it's your life. Go ahead.”

Though the rest is left unspoken, Alexos hears it loud and clear:
But if that's your choice, I will have no more to do with you.

“It's hard,” he says. “And confusing.”

“Of course it is.” His expression is still grim but he's edging away from the anger. “One of the reasons I want you to be able to ride a horse again is that it will enable you to travel, to see your kingdom and learn how the people live.”

“That's what I want, too.”

“I'm glad, because you really need to see it for yourself, Alexos. And once you have grasped the enormity of the misery that's out there in the world—how brutal the lives of the poor can be, how truly helpless they are—then maybe you can well and truly step through
that door and shut it firmly behind you, put your own problems aside, and make yourself useful. You have enormous power, you know. Why not use it to help someone else?”

“Yes,” Alexos says. He understands now. “I will.”

“That's my brave boy.”

“I wish I could leave right now.”

“It's sleeting outside, Alexos.”

They can't help but laugh, and the tension breaks.

“Suliman, do you know where Attaros is?”

“The village where young Peles lives—the boy who won the laurel crown?”

“Yes.”

“It's far to the south, I believe. Probably three or four days' ride.”

“That's where I want to go first.”

THE ROADS
!
BY ALL
the gods on Olympus, why had no one warned them about the roads?

It's full summer; the sun is high and the days are long. You'd think it would be an excellent time for travel. And so it would be
if the snow weren't still melting
! And judging by the great, filthy piles of slush that linger all over the countryside, it's likely to
go on
melting till winter comes again. As a consequence, the roads, which were not good to begin with, have become streaming rivers of sucking mud. And there's no avoiding them by cutting across the fields, because they are even worse. There are two abandoned carts stranded hub-deep in muck to prove it.

Travel is hard in other ways, too. The inns, when they are to be found, are dreadful, the stinking straw
mattresses crawling with vermin. The food is disgusting. And the horses tire so easily from slogging through the mire that they must be rested every few hours. To make it to Attaros in eight days, let alone four, would be a positive miracle.

Yet for all their complaining, there's not one of them who would dream of turning back. For the truth is, they rather enjoy the mess and the excitement of their many small disasters. Except for the prince's personal guard, who ride with them to assure his safety, they're all of an age, these ten boys, fourteen years or soon to be. And as the country folk would say, their sap is rising. One minute they're loud and boisterous, pelting one another with clods; the next they're straight-backed, dignified young gentlemen, nodding and flirting with the peasant girls they pass along the way.

A few of them have seen more of the world than Alexos has, but not by much, and they are genuinely eager to learn. Like the prince, they will one day have important roles to play in the management of the kingdom. It's good for them to get a sense of its geography and the character of the land (not to mention the state of the roads), as well as the condition of the people, their livestock, and their fields. They absorb this vast amount of new information with the earnestness of youth.

“How can they grow crops in a slough like that?” Markos asks, gazing in horror at the wasteland that surrounds them.

“Obviously they can't,” says Felix. “If they could, there'd be green shoots up by now.”

“What do they eat, then?”

“All you ever think about is eating, Markos!”

“Shut up, Titus. Leave him alone. And besides, Markos isn't nearly as fat as he used to be.”

“Oh, spare me your kindness, Leander. I was thinking about the people, not myself. They have to eat, so there must be crops growing somewhere. Certainly we never lack in the royal city.”

They fall silent at this. They've seen too much poverty already: the tumbledown houses, the barren fields, the haggard faces of dirty children. Is it like this all over the kingdom, they wonder: thousands and thousands of people living on the ragged edge of starvation while they, the sons of rich men, have more than enough to eat?

It's a sobering thought. It makes them cringe.

“Have you noticed how few able-bodied men there are?” Gaius says. “Mostly we just see boys and old men, women, and children.”

“The men have all gone to the borderlands, you slow-wit. Soon as they turn eighteen, they have to
serve. Isn't that so, Alexos?”

Alexos is ashamed that he's never thought about this before. “Yes, Timon, I believe you're right.”

“Then what about Peles? How old is he? It'd be a right bad job if we went all this way only to find out that he's gone.”

“He was sixteen when he won the crown,” Alexos says. “He'll be seventeen now.”

“Gaw! That's close. When's his birthday?”

“I don't know, Titus! For heaven's sake! I'm a prince, not an oracle.”

Finding Peles of Attaros, the improbable hero of the festival race, has become their primary goal. It's what Alexos had planned all along, though he'd suggested it to his classmates with some trepidation. He'd been afraid they'd think it a foolish thing to do. But Leander had jumped at the idea; and wherever Leander jumped, the others followed.

“Oh, yes!” he'd cried, clapping his hands with excitement. “We must do it, Alexos! I don't know how much you remember about the race, since you were more or less verging on death at the time, but he was quite the most amazing creature I've ever seen. Greasy and ugly as sin he might be, but
by the gods
he was a beautiful runner!”

“Yes, he was. I remember that much.”

“Shall we bring him home with us? He could teach the master of arms a thing or two.”

“Take care, Leander. He may be poor and humble, but he isn't our plaything. He's the champion of the festival race and—”

“Alexos! I never meant it like that.”

“All the same, we must watch what we say and do. Be respectful.”

“I wouldn't offend him for the world.”

As they continue south, the roads begin to improve. The country folk here have bothered to pitch some stones into the mud. It's not handsomely done by any means, but it helps. Then gradually, mile after mile, the number of stones seems to increase and they've been more carefully placed. It occurs to Alexos that
this is a very good idea.
An enlightened ruler would build such roads all over his kingdom—bridges, too—making travel and the transport of goods much easier and more efficient.

The farther they go, the better the surface they ride upon. Now the rocks are large and flat, neatly arranged with very little space in between. Someone has even taken the trouble to wedge small stones into the gaps. There is real craftsmanship here, the kind
you see in a well-built wall.

“What do you suppose?” Gaius asks.

“We're getting closer to the borderlands,” Leander says. “The army must have built these roads.”

“No,” Alexos says.

“Who, then?”

“I think the people did—the stonework is different from village to village. And I think they were paid to do it.”

“Paid?”

“The prize money—remember?”

“Merciful heavens! You think Peles is responsible for this?”

“I believe he had the vision and then he made it happen. It's just a guess. We'll see if I'm right.”

“Gaw!”

ATTAROS IS MUCH LIKE
every other village they've passed along the way. The mud-daub walls of the cottages have crumbled away in places, leaving fist-sized gaps where the wind and rain can pass through. The thatched roofs are sagging and black with mold. And while there are a fair number of hens roaming about and they've seen the occasional pig, there are hardly any sheep or goats. Certainly there are no oxen to pull the village plows.

Naturally, the sudden appearance of ten richly dressed boys, accompanied by officers of the Royal Guard, all of them mounted on horses, causes a sensation in the village. The people leave their work and run to the road and stare as the gentlemen pass by. They could not have looked more astonished if Zeus
himself had arrived in a golden chariot, holding his thunderbolt aloft.

When they arrive at the home of Peles, a woman is waiting in the doorway. Someone must have run ahead to warn her they were coming. Her cottage, Alexos notes, is no larger or grander than her neighbors', but it's in much better repair. The roof has been newly thatched and the walls freshly plastered.

“If you've come for my son, you're too late,” she says before anyone can speak.

“We have come to see Peles of Attaros,” Alexos says, in case there is some mistake, “who was the champion of the festival race.”

“I know. But I said you're too late. He's not here.”

“I am Prince Alexos, son of King Ektor, and these are my companions.”

“Yes,” she says, as if it was obvious.

Alexos knows he ought to reproach her for her rudeness; he will seem weak if he does not. But he can't bring himself to do it. Either the woman is mad or she's so sick with grief she no longer cares what harm might come to her. So he keeps trying. “We've ridden many days to pay our respects to your son, so—”

“You're
too late
!”

“Is he dead, lady?”

“He may be, for all I know. If not, then he'll die soon enough. The king's men have taken him for the auxiliary. So if you wish to
pay your respects
, you will have to go to the borderlands.”

“She's out of hand,” Delius mutters. “She can't talk to you like that.”

Timon grumbles in assent.

“Leave her be,” Alexos says, keeping his voice very low. “I will handle it.” Then he returns his attention to the mother of Peles, who is already stepping back into her cottage. Next thing, she's likely to shut the door in their faces.

“Madam,” Alexos says, “I would speak with you in private.” He tries for authority, but she's not impressed.

“Your horse will not fit through my door.”

There are actual gasps now, not only from the boys but from the soldiers, too.

“No,” Alexos says coolly. “Nor shall I ask him to. I shall get down and walk inside. I would be grateful for a chair to sit on, if you have one.”

“I have a stool.”

“That will do.”

Leander and Titus dismount and get to work unbuckling the straps. This has become a familiar routine for them, performed many times a day. They unfasten the bands that bind his legs, then the ones that hold him in the saddle, and finally they ease him
down—a sort of sliding and catching sequence—till he stands on solid ground. Still they support him while his brace is locked and his cane fetched.

As Suliman had warned, there's always a terrible stab of pain when Alexos tries to stand or walk after hours in the saddle. He has learned to conceal it, but there's no way he can hide how unsteady he is till he gets his land legs back. So he practically has to be carried into the cottage and settled on the promised stool.

“Will you sit also?” he asks the mother of Peles when the others have left and the door is shut. Wordlessly, she fetches a second stool for herself.

Alexos glances around the single well-swept, tidy room, with a cold fire pit in the middle and a faded laurel wreath hanging on the wall, and notes that there is only one pallet rolled up in the corner. Peles would have taken his with him, of course. The men of the auxiliary must provide their own gear: bedding, weapons, and whatever body protection they can devise. No wonder they die in droves.

“When did they take him?”

“Last month. He wasn't yet eighteen, but they said he was close enough.”

“I shall tell my father.”

Her smile is bitter. “And he will care?”

“He might. May I ask what your son had with him in the way of weaponry?”

“He made a spear. He has a knife.”

“Well, the gods willing, he won't need them. For I shall, as you suggested, go to the borderlands to pay my respects. Then I will bring him home to you.”

“No. You can't do that. He is already sworn to the king; to leave the army would be desertion. I'd rather he died honorably in battle than at the end of a noose. And even if that were not so, he'd be ashamed to come back when every other mother's son is down there fighting.”

“Then I will have him transferred to the Royal Guard.”

“Huh!” she says with a mirthless laugh. “Like those men out there, you mean? The ones with the shiny armor and the fancy helmets?”

“Yes.”

“You don't know much, do you?”

“Apparently not.”