I calculated, assuming three meals a day, that I had been interred for about four days when the door finally opened. To my amazement, I found that I could stand with relative ease. Some of my strength had, apparently, returned. Another thing that amazed me was that, instead of being dragged or thrown, I was led out of my cell. There were two guards present for this task, and they were large enough that I had no resistance in mind. Outside the cell (and the dim light seemed very bright now), I saw that there was a large, dense contingent of soldiers farther down the corridor. Pairs of them were opening all of the cells. Soon, the hallway was filled with a line of prisoners, each flanked by a black-clad soldier. The large contingent brought up the rear.
We were filed down several corridors and up a set of wooden steps. The steps opened immediately into a courtyard, beyond which I could see the ocean. It appeared as though we were at the back of the building that I had entered several days before. The sunlight was harsh on my eyes at first, but the smell of the ocean breeze was worth any discomfort sustained. Once out in the open, I could estimate that there were about 30 prisoners in all. I recognized no one.
We were all paraded in front of a wooden stage, which looked suspiciously like a gallows, and made to halt. I was a bit nervous at the thought of a mass execution, but dismissed the notion as ridiculous. There would be no reason to collect and feed prisoners of war, only to execute them a few days later. No. There must have been some other motivation for the elaborate proceedings.
Looking around, I could see that all the prisoners were men of military age. They all looked as though they had undergone some harsh treatment, but none were broken. All stood erect and at some semblance of attention. Our little group could have easily been mistaken for a veteran warring party, were it not for the ragged clothes and the smell. Strangely, though I was standing among fellow prisoners, I became self-conscious about my appearance. I adjusted my own smelly rags to give a more fitting impression of a warrior.
Onto the stage walked several black-armored soldiers, carrying long pikes to which were attached various flags. I recognized one of the flags as the Standard of the General, used by the Black Armies to signify their leaders in battle. With little more ceremony, a man in comfortable-looking black leather attire strode onto the platform. He had a red cape, which flowed quite gracefully in the breeze. On his head rode a sleek helm, whose horsehair crest nodded impressively with every step. So, this was the General.
He very carefully removed his helm with both hands as he stood facing us. Handing it to a servant, who was there specifically for that task, he began to speak. He spoke in my native tongue, with only a slight accent of his own language to betray his eastern origin.
“Brave soldiers,” he began in a booming, yet pleasant voice, “I have had your lives spared so that you may achieve higher glory.” With this, he raised his hands majestically. “Higher glory than the defeated state from which you were salvaged. I am here to offer you another chance- a chance to again achieve fame and glory on the battlefield!”
At that, I watched some grins appear on the dirty faces of the prisoners. Others were less excited. I was one of them. Slavery, to me, was a state worse than death. For all of the General’s shining talk, I knew that slave-class soldiers worked until dead. Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was to fight for those bastards! I hated them. The memory of what had happened to my family was still fresh in my mind.
He continued, “I give you the opportunity to fight in my ranks,” stressing the word opportunity. “Or, “ he continued, “you may choose quite another option.”
He made an almost imperceptible gesture to a guard, who then called out a few terse orders in his own language. At this, three prisoners were dragged by their respective pairs of guards up to the stage. While the General’s pikemen lowered their weapons toward the remaining crowd, three ropes were thrown over an overhanging beam. My gallows suspicion was, regrettably, correct.
Nooses were made and the heads of the three hapless men forced through, their hands bound behind. Of course, they didn’t just walk up there quietly. There was plenty of kicking and cursing, but they were too depleted by their individual ordeals to really put up a fight. The rest of us languished in helplessness, as we were outnumbered and without weapons. As the nooses were tightened around their necks, one of the condemned shouted, “Avenge me! Promise you will avenge me!” I silently promised that I would.
Without so much as a last request, or masks to cover their faces, the warriors were hauled into the air by the several large guards who manned the other end of the ropes. I had seen hangings before, but it was made all the more gruesome because there was no justice in it. It was murder. The three men kicked and squirmed in the most grotesque manner, trying in vain to relieve the pressure from their necks. It was no professional execution, in which the spinal cord is cleanly popped from the base of the skull causing almost instantaneous death. The thing was a slow strangulation, propagated by the eventual weakening and stretching of the neck muscles. The faces of the men strained and blued trying to prevent that inevitability.
After an eternity of thrashing and gurgling, the movement on the platform, mercifully, ceased. My heart dropped to my stomach as the reality of the moment set in. Those were real men, who had really died before my eyes. In such moments, one becomes acutely aware of one’s own mortality- of his humanity. Anyone witnessing such barbarism cannot help but to be drawn out of his solipsistic self and empathize with the slain. The final act of those brave men was to urinate themselves.
The General stepped slowly in front of the gently swaying bodies. In a low, but audible voice, he said, “Is it not better to fight as a soldier, than to die as a prisoner?” It really made sense at the time, which was certainly the desired effect.
With that, he turned on his heel and walked off the platform, pikemen in trail. As his cape furled with his brisk stride, however, I noticed the sword beneath. Son of a bitch! That was MY sword! The hilt, with its distinctive whale-tail pommel and the gargoyle-tipped cross guard, was unmistakable. Besides, I’d never known the Black Armies of the East to issue longswords as standard equipment. Longswords aren’t normally worn on the hip in the manner of regular swords, but it appeared as though the General had a scabbard and belt specially made for the purpose. That sword was a gift from my father, rest his soul. I would have it back, just as surely as I would avenge the death of those hanged men.
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