The Dragon's Prophecy Read online

  “Does that ever work with the Hungarians?” Brendan rolled his eyes mentally but managed to refrain from doing it physically. He needed their help and he had almost ruined it with his last angry comment.

  “Usually not, but we did have a Hungarian chieftain who once brought his dying son to us for treatment. Centurion doctors have a very high reputation as healers, and he had lost all hope in the shamans of his people, so he felt he had nothing to lose. Our doctor was able to save his son’s life and we let them go after we treated them. He no longer raids our lands and has even returned some Frankish villagers he had captured to sell as slaves. It may not seem like a great victory, but it meant a great deal to those villagers who were set free.”

  Brendan chewed on that for a few minutes. These men seemed to genuinely believe the truth of what they were saying. He wasn’t sure what to do with that, he was used to manipulating people through their pride, selfishness, or worst emotions. There didn’t seem to be any of those things in these men that he could get a grip on.

  The knight stood up and looked over the local toughs. "It would be best if we stood watch over them tonight while they are still unconscious; it would not do for us to spend so much time and effort bandaging them up only for them to be eaten by wolves."

  “Wolves?” One of the less injured thugs managed to gurgle through swollen lips.

  "Aye," agreed the priest, pretending to ignore the thug and giving Brendan a wink, "they would probably prove poisonous to some unsuspecting predator. We need to protect the poor, helpless wolves from dragging chunks of toxic villain home to their sweet, innocent pups."

  Sir Gerard shook his head in amusement. "Who would have known? Father Cardic; Centurion Priest, Wolf Protector. The many facets of your personality never cease to amaze me. This is why I enjoy traveling with you."

  "No doubt because I am a source of endless inspiration," suggested the priest with a smile.

  "I was thinking of a different word, but we can use 'inspiration' if you prefer."

  Brendan had to admit that these two old campaigners were interesting company as they joked back and forth. Deep down in the loneliest part of his heart he found himself desperately wanting the camaraderie and companionship that these men had. He had been on his own for so long that he couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly safe. Standing here with them made him feel profoundly lonely in a way that he had not felt in years. Like the smell of his sister’s cooking or the sound of his father’s laughter, there was also something indescribable that felt like home when he was around these two. He needed to distract himself from his own thoughts and the dangerous emotions they were stirring up. Now was not the time to be weak and stupid.

  "Why is your military order called 'The Order of the Centurion'?" He asked suddenly, "Was it founded before the fall of the Western Empire or are you trying to revive the old Roman military traditions?"

  "Neither, our founders wished to create a military order that was devoted to serving Christ instead of men and encouraging the very best qualities of the warrior instead of encouraging the worst. We take our name from the three centurions mentioned in the Bible, all three of whom showed humility, faith, and insight while maintaining the highest standards of the warrior.”

  Brendan had let go of his faith long ago. He shook his head.

  “I don’t really think there is a God, but if there is one, he created the universe and concerns himself with other things instead of worrying about ants like us. I’ve lost too much to believe there’s a God who actually cares.”

  “Losing people you love is hard,” the priest said, stirring the fire. “I lost my father when I was twelve and my mother when I was fourteen. In fact,” he mused, “it seems like I’ve lived long enough that I’ve lost most of the people that I cared about.”

  “How does God show you that he cares if he takes everyone from you?” Brendan asked. He didn’t believe it was possible, but he found himself wanting to know.

  “I don’t deny that God’s ways are sometimes mysterious to us, but the Order has become my family and he keeps bringing new brothers and sisters into my life to keep me going. Do you let God bring new people into your life or have you shut them out because of your fear of losing anyone else? I’ve found that the blessing of having people to love in my life outweighs the pain of losing them in the end. Other people have other explanations but for me, that blessing is proof that God loves me.”

  “Hmm, I expected some lecture about how ‘God showed us his love by Christ dying for our sins’.”

  “While it is very true that God shows his love that way,” the priest explained, “you strike me as someone who is far more worried about his survival than his sins. As such, I suspect that you feel the pain of your losses far more than you feel any guilt for your sins. Each loss makes the world seem darker and your future more doubtful. So, I shared another way that God shows us love, how he personally shows me love in spite of my losses. One could even say that he shows me love through my losses with each new person he brings into my life.”

  These words, from this old man, felt real; he understood how life worked for people like Brendan. Brendan wanted to call him a fool for such ridiculous thinking, but there was a solidity to the man’s faith that was built on something more than just fantasies and false hopes. You can’t build a castle on a cloud. Father Cardic’s faith stood on something solid, his hope pointed to something real. Brendan desperately wanted something solid to stand on too. He usually played the cynical tough guy, but the truth was that he was alone, homeless, on the run, and his path forward in life looked very, very dark.

  "Can I join your Order?" The young thief asked impulsively. He stood for a moment in shock, wondering where those words had come from. This was not like him, he normally planned things out carefully and was cautious with his words. The world was not a very forgiving place and saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could get you killed. Somehow, that deepest, loneliest part of his heart had just forced its way out through his lips.

  Both men stopped what they were doing and took a long look at him.

  "What do you mean by that?" Asked the knight.

  Brendan’s first instinct was to laugh it off as a mistake but that deep, dark hunger for home refused to back down and wouldn’t let him deny the question. Playing it safe had kept him alive but it wasn’t helping him to find a home or family, it wouldn’t help him to be the man his father would want him to be, or to rescue his sister. He decided to push on. The risk of telling the truth was getting bigger but so was the potential payoff. The problem was, how to answer the knight?

  "I want to join your order," he finally said. "I want to protect others from what happened to me. I may not qualify as a knight, but you must need men-at-arms as well."

  “Anyone can join our order, but it is a commitment for life. There are others who make a limited vow to serve for a time, villagers who wish to thank us for saving their families from raiders, parents who bring a sick child in to be cured and we cure them, penitents wishing to atone for their sins. We do not require any of these people to take these vows, but they choose to serve of their own accord for a year, two years, or occasionally five years. These are the people who become our men-at-arms, among other things. We consider them to be our brothers and sisters in Christ, but we do not consider them to be members of the Order. You are welcome to simply travel with us for a time, to take a vow and serve for a year, or to join the Order. You may do what you wish, but make sure you understand what you are committing to before you make the commitment.”

  “Aye, ‘Centurions do not die gently’,” Father Cardic quoted from somewhere.

  “If I look at the life I’m living now, I would have to say that I’m not destined to die gently even if I don’t join the Order. I want to travel with you both and learn more about what it means to be a Centurion.”

  “Another mouth to feed, I’ll warrant!” Challenged the priest with a twinkle in his eye. “What can you do to pull your w
eight, besides lay on the ground at the feet of someone who’s about to box your ears?”

  "Don't mind him, Brendan, I saw how you took out the young gentleman who was trying to attack me from behind. Father Cardic is just frustrated because now he knows that I’ve won the bet and he will have to do all of the cooking and packing for the rest of our trip."

  "Bet?" Asked Brendan, puzzled.

  "Aye," answered the priest. "Sir Gerard was in prayer this morning about the success of our mission when the Lord told him that we would meet a young man today who’d want to join our order. Knowing the, ah, nature of our errand I was far from convinced and thought that it was merely wishful thinking on his part. We made a wager on it."

  God “telling” people things? That always set off an alarm in Brendan. His cynicism came surging back only to be drowned out by the deep, rumbling laugh of the knight.

  “God was very specific on these things and even you must admit that what he told me came true.”

  The priest waved him off, “At any rate, Sir Gerard has won his leisure for the rest of the trip, but if you’re joining us then you’ll be helping me with the chores. Start gathering firewood so we can keep the fire going all night."

  “Wait!” said Brendan, full of unanswered questions, “What was your mission? What does finding someone to join the Order have to do it? Was finding me your mission or was finding me just a sign that your mission would be successful?”

  “Ah yes, about that,” said the priest hedging. “The less said about that right now, the better. I’m afraid that if some of that information was heard by the wrong ears it might jeopardize everything. Best if we don’t talk about it anymore. Let’s get to work.”

  Brendan started to ask whose ears he was worried about when he realized that a couple of the gang members were now awake. It would just have to wait. The young man forced himself to set it aside, he had a hundred questions, but he also had a strange glow of warmth inside that didn't come from the fire. A glow that he had not felt in a very long time.

  Chapter 6

  “In battle keep your heart calm and your mind clear by trusting in the Lord. Let your enemy waste his strength in rage or make mistakes in fear.”

  The Centurion Handbook of Combat – Heart and Mind: Chapter 1

  "Did you see that little monkey?" snickered one of the other girls in the barracks. “’The Squire’ proved her manhood again.”

  Portia blushed a deep red and stayed behind the door of the toilet and out of sight until she was able to get her emotions under control. That had to be Priscilla.

  “Even her voice sounds like one of the squires, it is almost as deep as the boys.”

  “And don’t get me started on her skin!” A third voice chimed in. “She’s outside training constantly so now she’s as tanned as the men!”

  “It’s true,” added still another voice, “If she expects to marry someone of her own station she needs to learn how to act more like a Lady. There’s not a nobleman alive who would be interested in a wife who could beat him in a wrestling match.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Priscilla continued, “She’s up before dawn lifting her stupid water buckets and running her ridiculous agility course, then she eats like a horse, then she trains with every weapon in the castle until noon, then she eats like a horse, then she spends all afternoon in the saddle training with every weapon in the castle on horseback, and then she’s back to the dining hall to eat like a horse. Finally, she ends her evening reading a book on castle design or drawing a picture of some new siege engine she’s thought up. She looks like a man, sounds like a man, acts like a man, trains like a man, eats like a man, and even thinks like a man. I’m telling you; she wishes that that she was born a man and she’s not going to stop until she turns into one.”

  “Let’s just say that there’s a reason why I don’t change in front of her anymore…” another voice added.

  There were a few more comments made by quieter voices that Portia couldn't quite hear and more laughter that she knew was at her expense.

  The handmaiden fought back tears; she couldn’t let them see her crying. She looked down at her body and her eyes burned with shame. Why was she cursed with this shape? Why did she have this relentless energy that kept pushing her to go, go, go? This should be a good thing, the Order of the Centurions encouraged strength and vitality even from the smallest of their maidservants, a handmaiden with her physique and energy should be applauded by everyone not mocked by her peers. And yet here she was, hiding in the toilet, embarrassed by her body.

  Portia put her hands on her hips, lifted her head, and squared her shoulders. She forced herself to take several deep breaths. She was who God made her to be and she should be confident in that no matter what the others said about her. His plan was best, she knew that. It was Priscilla who was wrong.

  Priscilla wasn’t raised in the Order; her parents were minor nobles who had joined when she was twelve. Her parents and older sister all embraced the Centurion lifestyle but not Priscilla, she knew the outside world and clearly preferred it to the spartan world of the Order. Her stories of fancy Lords and Ladies, handsome suitors, and court intrigue had found a hungry audience among some of the handmaidens who thought that their own lives were too hard and boring. These things, along with her biting wit and air of worldly knowledge, cemented her position as the social leader of a large clique among the handmaidens. She talked openly of finding a noble husband among the Franks and leaving the Order as soon as possible. How she was going to meet such a man was unclear since noble outsiders rarely visited the castle but just talking about it got many of the other girls thinking the same thoughts.

  Portia set her face to stone and walked into the room to face Priscilla and the others. All the talking stopped, and all the giggles ceased. Everyone had mistakenly assumed that she was outside as usual. Several girls who had been getting changed for the evening suddenly covered themselves up in her presence. Anger throbbed through her. Portia pulled out her short sword and began twirling it dangerously in her fingers. She knew that she couldn’t do anything to them even though she was the daughter of the Lord and Lady of the castle, that was not the Centurion way, but they all knew how impulsive she could be and the look of apprehension on their faces was gratifying.

  "I overheard my mother talking to Sir Bertram,” Portia began, “she said that we would be working with the gladia tomorrow." Portia paused for a moment to let that sink in. "I look forward to sparring with each of you." Several girls flinched, a couple turned white, and even Priscilla took a step backwards at the announcement. Portia smirked, "What's the matter? If we have to defend the castle you’ll be fighting against men, does sparring against another girl really scare you?"

  “Sparring against another girl doesn’t…” someone muttered from the back of the room. Portia felt a white heat flash through her body, and she knew that her face was turning red. Priscilla smirked knowing that the remark of one of her cronies had struck home. Portia tried to cover her frustration by flicking her gladia like a throwing knife at the frame of her bed, embedding it deeply into the wood.

  “I think I need a bit more work today to get ready for our sparring matches tomorrow,” she said quietly, before turning to dig through her footlocker until she found her scuta and her francisca. She retrieved her gladia from the bed frame with a mighty heave, looked each handmaiden in the eye noting who was there and who wasn’t, and then stalked back out of the barracks toward the practice field. Aurora was leading a group of handmaidens in from the practice field. It was all too apparent who took their training seriously and who didn’t, those who stood around inside the barracks gossiping and those who put in the extra time working out. It was reassuring to be reminded that there were a lot of handmaidens who were NOT part of Priscilla’s clique.

  Portia nodded at Aurora and her crew as she passed them and gave the air a few practice cuts with her sword to indicate where she was going. Portia loved her gladia. The standard short swor
d of the Imperial Roman Army, the gladius had a well-earned reputation for deadliness because of its powerful hacking stroke and superior ability to penetrate armor when stabbing. It was used in conjunction with the rectangular Roman shield known as a scutum. A Roman soldier was well protected by their scutum so that they could get close to their enemy and then make lightning quick attacks with the gladius around the edge of the shield. Even though the gladius and scutum were no longer used by Centurion knights, Centurion shieldmaidens had taken them up in a slightly lighter and smaller versions that they called the gladia and the scuta. The girls would not be using real gladia in their sparring, of course, but the wooden versions could still leave a nasty bruise if one knew how to wield it properly, and Portia did. Too bad she wouldn't really get to spar with the other girls. Her mother had been talking to Sir Bertram about taking her training to the next level so she would begin working against one of the veteran men-at-arms instead of any of the handmaidens.

  Portia found herself fantasizing about sparring with Priscilla and “accidentally” clubbing her on the side of the head with the practice sword, not hard enough to do a permanent injury but just hard enough to ring her bell. She was running though the scene from different angles when her father’s voice suddenly came to her repeating his favorite paraphrase of scripture, "’Lord, how often shall I forgive my sister when she sins against me, seven times?’ and the Lord Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times but seventy times seven. Forgive freely, even as I have forgiven you.’" He used it every time she got into a fight with her younger sister Marcia. She muttered several swear words under her breath. Good thing her parents couldn’t hear her now or they would permanently ban her from the stables so she wouldn’t learn any more interesting words from the grooms. She knew she shouldn’t hurt Priscilla, but she could certainly hurt some training equipment.