On the field of battle, more than a hundred pyres burned low beneath the harvest moon. Following the battle, the Legionaries had gathered twigs and tinder from the woods, bundled and piled them in rows. Then the bodies had been collected, those who had fallen on both sides. They had been set on top, one man to a pile, with their weapons and belongings left intact. Now, many hours later, only the embers and ashes remained, smoldering on as the camp slept.
Waiting until the torturous sounds and smells of dinner in the camp had subsided and he had assured himself that all but the nightguards were safely in their tents, Arden climbed the rest of the way down from his treetop hideaway and crept out into the field. The night was cloudless and the moon bright, and though it lit the way, Arden cursed the light. Moving out over the felled wheat stalks, each stripped of every kernel of grain, he wished the night was one of deep darkness. One of those where the air seems inky and thick, where one cannot see their hand before their face – let alone a figure creeping at twenty paces.
Leaving the treeline, Arden headed away from the camp and towards one of the fruit trees that towered over where the bodies had been laid and burnt. Cautiously, staying as low as possible, he made his way a foot at a time, pausing periodically to glance around before continuing on another foot.
At one point, from the corner of his eye, he thought he caught sight of another figure moving as he was, out ahead and by the right. Arden froze, terror gripping every inch of his young form. At just fourteen years of age, he was not far removed from a childish fear of the darkness itself, let alone all of the legitimate dangers which now faced him. His heart pounding in his ears, he waited, straining his eyes to see if he could catch another glimpse. Only after several tortured minutes was he able to assure himself that it had been nothing but a trick of the light, and continue on to the tree before him.
It was peach tree, fully grown. Forking many times from its base, it would have been easy enough to climb. But on a night like tonight, with the moon shining and the Milky Way stretching like a white scar across the heavens, he worried about being outlined against the sky. More than that, movement in the tree could be seen a long way off, by guards all the way across the field and on the other side of the camp. Better not to risk it, he thought. Better to look for a fallen peach, one overlooked by the Legionaries, even if that meant eating rotten fruit.
It didn’t take long to find one. Within two feet of the base of the tree Arden found a fallen peach that couldn’t have been more than a few days past its prime. It was large, perhaps weighing more than he did, and gave off a strong odour of fermentation. But still, in his current state of near starvation, Arden couldn’t restrain himself. Quickly pealing off the skin, he set to work filling his empty stomach. Possessed by hunger, he began taking large and goopy handfuls of flesh and jamming them greedily into his mouth. Soon he was covered in juice, his arms up to his elbows, his face, and even the rags that covered his chest and thighs. Only once he had eaten a good twelfth of the peach, and began to feel as though he might throw-up, did he snap out of his frenzy and pause to look at his surroundings.
At first all seemed quiet. But then, again from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a figure in the distance. Blinking and squinting hard, he looked again. Yes, there was a figure. More than that, he could see the twinkle of sparks coming from one of the smouldering piles. Someone was by the pyres, disturbing them and sifting through the embers.
A cold chill ran through Arden’s thin body. There was someone else here. Another intruder had snuck into the camp under cover of darkness. And if he had seen them, then perhaps the guards had too. Perhaps they would raise the alarm, wake the Legionaries and spell his doom.
Hurriedly, Arden pulled the shirt from his back and tied it into a makeshift pack. As quickly as he could be began stripping the peach from the pit, slopping the runny flesh into his shirt. As he worked, a strange feeling began to come over him. Struggling to separate the goo from the fibres, his hands began to feel clumsy and his head light. His vision too began to grow unsteady, the world beginning to swim around him. What was going on, he wondered. Had the peach been poisoned? Was he growing ill?
Spilling much of what he had gathered, Arden wrapped up his shirt and began to make his way, stumbling towards the treeline. In the distance, he could hear shouts of anger and the sounds of pursuit, but could not tell if they were for him. He ducked low, trying to look around but unable to make out anything beyond his immediate surroundings. It seemed as though the night were closing in around him. He felt sick, nauseous, as though he might throw up at any moment. He stood again and barreled towards the woods in a zig-zagging run, as the world began to spin circles around him.
All of a sudden, Arden felt a set of rough hands grab his upper arm and a voice yelling at him to stop. Every fibre of his body called for him to twist free. To drop what he was holding and break the grip. To spin, run into the woods and not stop till daybreak. Instead, he vomited – both on himself and on his pursuer. The hands let him go immediately, but Arden could no longer run. He dropped to the ground, vomiting and vomiting again. The night no longer seemed bright. From what seemed like a long way away he could hear the voices of people standing over him. Feel their boots as they kicked him where he lay. Soon he could hear not even that, lost to fitful sleep and dreams of nausea and captivity.
Arden awoke only an instant after the first bucket of water was dumped over him. Spluttering and blinking hard, the second bucket caught him almost as completely by surprise, sending him into a coughing fit. Then came the third and fourth.
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“Gods above and below, don’t he stink,” said one of the men, an empty bucket in his hand.
“A miracle the little drunk didn’t drown in his own vomit,” said another, standing over Arden and pouring the last of the water slowly over him.
“Might soon come to wish ’e ’ad,” said a third, chuckling.
The men walked away, leaving Arden sitting in a puddle, struggling to get his bearings. Around him the world was still spinning, though not quite so badly. His stomach was in knots. Emptied of every drop of fruit, its hunger pangs had been replaced by nausea. His head pounded, the sun seeming to cut into his brain like a burning lobotomy. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to wipe the water from his eyes, only to find that his hands were tied painfully behind his back. He let out a long groan, images from the night before beginning to return to him.
“And I thought I was havin’ a rough time.”
Arden looked up, his stomach turning as he tried to focus on the speaker. Only a few inches away, also seated in the dirt and tied to a post with his hands behind his back, was a boy roughly Arden’s age. Handsome, wiry and covered in ash, the boy smiled back at him, seemingly unconcerned by his predicament.
“Can I ask ya somethin’, brother?” said the boy. “What were ya thinkin’, sneakin’ into camp just to get so drunk ya couldn’t sneak out again?”
“I... ,” said Arden, slowly blinking his eyes into focus. “I didn’t realize the fruit was so far gone...”
“Damn,” said the boy, “You really must’ve been hungry. I mean, I could smell the ferment right off ya. Ya stink. I can’t imagine diggin’ into a peach that smelled like that and not realizin’. I mean, you really stink,” he went on, beginning to repeat himself.
Listening to this, Arden felt he should say something. That he should stop this boy and curse him for his rudeness and stupidity. Had it not been this stranger, still stained with the marks of his guilt, whose brashness and foolhardiness had raised the alarm and gotten them both captured? He felt that in another circumstance he would have said something. Would have had something to say. He was sure of it. But now it seemed the hunger and the nausea had robbed him of his tongue. Of his personality. It was as if he were thinking through a fog, incapable of putting his mind to anything but his hunger, his thirst and his wretchedness.
The boy continued. “Stink to high heavens. Stink so bad that the guards had to throw water on ya. Think about that, even the guards couldn’t stand the smell. Image me, I had to sit here all night and-”
From a tent no more than a few feet away, several figures emerged into the morning sun. One was middle aged, bearded, with a large feather quill and a tablet of birchbark. The other was General Naberius, still in his armour and carrying his helmet under his arm. Behind them was an honour guard of four Legionaries, each in mail and carrying shields, their swords at their side.
As the group approached, Arden got his first good look at the general. He was tall and pale, his head and face closely shaved. From above his left eye, running up and disappearing over the top of his head, was a large crooked scar, bleached white by the sun. His armour was finely crafted, clearly having been forged by expert hands, the shoulders moulded in the image of the heads of rats. As he drew close, the General beckoned to the guards on duty, those who had thrown the water on Arden. They hurried over.
Coming to the prisoners General Naberius stopped, looking down on them as he addressed the guards.
“So, these are the men you found stealing form the dead?”
“Yes, my General!” said one guard, stepping forward.
“I wasn’t-” Arden began, but one of the other guards silenced him with a kick to the ribs. He winced, trying his best to curl up and saying nothing more.
The General frowned. “Well, first of all they are not men.” His voice was deep and sober. “Why is this one sitting in a pool of water?”
“When we found him, he was stone cold drunk and covered in rotten peach,” said the guard. “He threw-up on the soldier who caught him, and all over himself. We tossed water on him to keep the ants from eating him. And to clean him up a bit, so that you would not have to smell him, General.”
“I see, and this other boy covered in ash?”
“Him we found disturbing the burial mounds. We found this in his possession.” The guard produced a small leather pouch, opening it and revealing many arrowheads, as well as rings and other small metal items stained black by soot.
“And the drunken boy, what he carrying?”
“He… uh… he had a scrap of cloth filled with rotten fruit, Sir.”
Again, the General Naberius frowned, turning to Arden. “You, boy, have you come here to watch the spectacle of our pyres? To sift through the ashes and to steal from the dead? Go. Speak. You may have your say.”
Arden averted his eyes, looking down at the wet earth in which he sat. He was wearing no shirt, his shorts little more than rags, and he felt naked beneath the gaze of the General. “No,” he said. “I was just hungry."
“And why did you not wait until we were gone to go to the field and eat the fruit?”
“I was hungry. I… I couldn’t wait.”
The General nodded. “Now child, I will tell you this. In this world, he who does not work has not the right to eat. Starving is the rightful lot of the thief. But fear not. The nation is not without mercy. I am certain that Abaddon can provide the means for you to redeem yourself in the eyes of God and men.” He turned to the ash-covered boy. “And you, robber of the dead, what have you to say in your defense?”
“Well, I mean, it’s not like they were using any of it,” said the boy, sitting up and giving a slight smirk.
General Naberius frowned, looking down on the impudent youngster.
“And besides,” said the boy, “an hour after you decamp the locals’ll be back and swarmin’ over those mounds. I wasn’t stealin’ so much as getting’ first dibs. The way I see it-”
The General gestured with his head, and one of the guards silenced the boy with a kick to the ribs. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
Shaking his head, General Naberius turned to the man with the quill and the tablet. “Take their names and places of birth. Inform Sargent Kalinin of their sentences and attach them to the column of war prisoners under his command. Give the hungry child six months penal servitude at a collective farm, to be followed by obligatory membership. He will work and he will eat. As for the grave robber, the nation is not yet so powerful that it can afford to ignore its parasites. For him, six years hard labour, then a lifetime of exile east of the River of the First men. We will not have such as him infesting the heart of the nation. He is fit for slavery and banishment. Nothing more.”
With that, having dictated the lives of the two young men tied and bound before him, the General turned and walked calmly away.