The Art of Victory

By James Moran

Lieutenant Delpier rode down on his dear friend Boutier on a horse he’d claimed in the chaos of the retreat. Delpier’s small stature required that he stand up on the saddle to help Boutier swing onto the horse as retreating soldiers scattered from its hammering hooves. Upon reaching the staking of the command tent, the horse reared up. Lieutenant Delpier said to his dear friend, “Go inside and speak with your dying brother. I’ll join you there.”

Boutier charged into the tent and shoved his way through the stand of officers arrayed around a litter upon which his brother was indeed dying. Old Douchle the medic had his brother’s shoulders and head couched in the embrace of one arm while his other hand shakingly sewed shut a wound on the dying general’s side. Montier was looking away and was frighteningly wan and in obvious pain. When he saw Boutier he barked, “Move aside.” Then he croaked, “Come here, brother.”

Boutier knelt and drew his kerchief to wipe away the blood from the lips of his elder brother.

“I shouldn’t have involved you in all of this warfare business,” Montier rasped. “I should have encouraged you only to be an artist.”

Boutier sought his elder brother’s hand and wept.

“Only an artist and a lover can end this battle,” said Montier. And then he whispered, “Will you end this battle?”

With all the force of his emotion Boutier nodded his head up and down.

When he lifted his face Montier’s eyes searched his, and as if content with what they saw, he ordered, “Go rally your men so my death is not in vain.” When Boutier continued by his brother’s side Montier growled. “Go now!”

Boutier pressed the skin of his brother’s cold knuckles to his face, gazed at his noble general, and stood.

The growing crowd parted for him, except for one man who detached from the group and strode close. “When he dies, I won’t suffer you to live,” Schnabe hissed in Boutier’s face. Schnabe then turned and drew in close to the litter and his beloved general.

Encountering Aschel, Schnabe’s fully armed guard, blocking the exit, Boutier turned back to examine the interaction between Schnabe and his brother. Montier urged Schnabe to lean in close. Montier ran his fingers through his beloved lieutenant’s hair as he spoke to him. He then gripped him by the hair and went for his neck. Schnabe reached for the blade behind his hip, first stabbing Douchle as the old medic moved to block him, then thrusting the knife into Montier. The crowd surged forward, barring Boutier’s passage to his brother. Boutier leapt onto the backs of those officers in front of him but rolled instinctively to the side when he sensed a threat. There was Aschel hefting his dagger high with blade pointing down. Aschel’s face turned to shock as Delpier appeared like a monkey on the large guard’s back, sawing open his throat with his own dagger. Boutier scrambled forward; the path no longer blocked. Schnabe flopped like a fish on the ground. Montier lay expressionless with eyes wide and still, the scalpel with which he had punctured Schnabe’s neck still in his grip. The old medic lay face down on Montier’s blood-blackened chest.

Delpier sent everyone out of the tent with orders and shoves, and soon Boutier was wandering outside, vaguely aware that he was collecting wood for the pyre with the others while Delpier dressed the bodies.

Boutier wandered about with only three spindly sticks in his grip, unable to collect any more. Wherever he looked he sighted soldiers snatching twigs and gathering fallen branches. Every man within sight had joined him in his errand to facilitate his brother’s journey into the next world. Some hacked at trees with whatever weapons were at hand. Others were cutting loose squares of dry turf. He felt as if, upon their shoulders, they bore his weight. Out of respect, those nearer to him worked silently.

He became suddenly ashamed of his clouded state. “That’s enough!” he called. “That’s enough. Bring what you can and follow me.”

He threaded through the men, recognizing many a dirt and tear-streaked face, then drew them all back to the command tent. There Delpier pointed, suggesting the nearby hillside for the cremations, and Boutier offered a nod of ascent.

Boutier and Delpier raised the litter bearing Montier over their heads. Old Douchle’s litter followed them. Boutier did not ask what of Schnabe and Aschel. He knew some of their supporters were among the onlookers. The litters placed, he lit the pyre in the four directions, and the louder it roared the louder he heard the voice of his brother ordering his men to place their allegiance in he, Boutier. At the same time, he heard in the whistling notes his brother’s pride in him, as well as his brother’s apologies, which he chose to ignore. In the heat that nestled against him, slapping his lapels and cuffs back and forth, he knew his brother’s embrace.

He approached the fire and found footing on a thigh-thick trunk that refused to catch. “Here, before the body of your beloved general, I stand, to give you your deserved compensation for your loyalty to him. That compensation is the truth. Montier and Old Douchle are dead and gone. Though Douchle died at the hands of Schnabe, my brother Montier did not. Montier had already been dealt death by our opponents on the battlefield, and Schnabe only acted in response to the death that Montier had dealt him. I believe he struck Montier out of sheer surprise and out of the hurt that sprung both from Montier’s action, and from his love for Montier. Schnabe should not be considered a perpetrator or a traitor, not even upon old Douchle. I do not believe Montier nor Douchle would consider him such.

“My brother knew that Schnabe believed I caused this battle. He feared that this understanding would lead Schnabe to harm me, and therefore would lead us to defeat. Your course remains yours to take, but understand clearly that this conflict between Knuschell and the kingdom of Zough was indeed caused by me. Until now you have understood your speaker’s words. Now understand your speaker!”

He pointed at Montier’s pyre.

“You know my brother. You know of my father. They were the greatest military leaders Knuschell has known in two hundred years. I was raised upon their shoulders, but their epaulets would not stick to me. Though I learned to fight I have the nature of a composer, and since the theater of my family is one of war, I composed the marching songs that have never failed to embolden the spirits of you, our brave warriors.

“The kingdom of Zough requested that I compose a concert for their royalty, after which I was led to expect the offer of a commission from them. I entered their country and for the first time observed the cultural ways of which I’d absorbed much hearsay. They are a people more sensitive and passionate than we, short to judge and quick to act. As a man drenched in passion for the arts I recognized and admired this, and when I met Zara, the daughter of their monarch Nelza III, I resolved to claim her. Hours before the concert I altered the composition only slightly, but enough to stir the passions of princess Zara. I led the orchestra through the movements, and just as I predicted, Zara fell in love with me. A love driven by such a force of passion I couldn’t have foreseen. Just as I had not foreseen that the real motivation behind my invitation to Zough had not been a commission, but rather a plot to assassinate me and spark a war for our trade routes. When, a single day after hearing my composition, Zara learned of this plot she placed her own life in the balance. Nelza III, underestimating the passion of his own bloodline, resolved to follow through with the assassination, and Zara took her own life in protest.

“I managed to escape. But did I truly escape? An army hungry for vengeance has followed on my heels, and dealt death not only to my own brother, who I loved greatest in this world, but to my kinsman whose blood still cools. Just as Schnabe drew blood from his leader because of his love for him, so Zara drew her own blood out of love for me, and now Nelza III draws blood out of his love for his daughter. He no longer cares for trade routes, and this has not been a calculated battle. The last calculation was performed by my brother when he cut short the life of Schnabe, his most trusted lieutenant. By doing so he could place in charge one who has spent time with the Zough and understands their ways. In doing so he has ended this conflict. 

“In as much time as it takes the sun to set, we will march into the Zough camp. Yes! We will march to their line of defense, into their camp, and meet eye to eye and end this strife. You think I am mad! But understand how we will march. We will march as you already know how: to the tempo of our drummers. And drummers you will play as exacting a tempo as you have ever known. But marchers your feet will fall behind on that tempo. You will march out of step so slightly that only a man with a keen ear can tell. And you will march in step with one another, so that all are equally out of step and so that all are consistently out of step. At the same point, just behind the tempo, your feet will fall every measure. Your stomp shall be perfect in its imperfection. Just as Schnabe’s imperfect actions came from his perfect love! Just as Zara’s imperfect solution came from perfect love! Just as Nelza III’s hatred springs from love! We each, each of us, will know that as we march, we are human, and we are surrounded boundlessly by those that are human. Never are we perfect. Think of nothing else, and within each step you will find perfection! Think not of what has happened, or what will happen, and I guarantee you, we will be victorious. Let there be no doubt in your hearts, we will be victorious! In my words you will find the last commandment of your beloved general; he died and killed his friend to bring them to you. Obey them and follow me into peace!”

The heat of the fire and the tears of the men mixed to create a humidity that touched every face. For a moment all were silent. Then that moment shattered, never to be clasped again, and the men broke camp to gather in formation.

---

James Moran is a professional astrologer who regularly publishes articles, fiction, and poetry.

His published works can be found at https://jamesmoran.org/the-creation-playpen