Traditions of Dead Generations

Round Two - The Bones, Pt. 4

They heard the sounds of battle before they arrived at Antioch's north wall. A skirmish at best, but perhaps worse. Petrus heard the whinny of horses, the whistle of arrows, and the inevitable shrieks of humans. Even Bogdan slowed his pace as they approached, glancing sideways at his friend.

"That sounds like a bit of a dust-up, Petrus," he stated unnecessarily. Petrus chewed on his lip and furrowed his brow.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" Perhaps unwisely, he removed the helm he had stolen from the fallen solder, as well as the corslet. He glanced nervously at the buildings that crowded them, mindful of any bowmen in the windows. He didn't want to be mistaken twice.

"So, when we go out there," Bogdan winced a little at the word "when", "we're on which side, exactly?"

"If we go out there," Petrus corrected, "I have no idea. I've been attacked by both sides now. I'm beginning to think these people don't like me." Bogdan guffawed. "But they have - they still stole from me."

"Far be it for me to shirk a fight, Petrus," Bogdan began slowly, "but you're not exactly in fighting form right now, eh?" he looked pointedly at the shoulder wound which had coated him collarbone to navel in blood. "There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours any further."

"You're a perfect model of chivalry, Bogs." Petrus replied dryly. "This here-" he pointed out the gate at the sandstorm of soldiers, cavalry, arrows and swords, "-is a geopolitical nightmare."

"What isn't, in our line of work?" Petrus nodded. He thought for a moment longer, then turned his back on the battle.

"I have a better idea." he sighed. "One last thing, Bogs. Then you can go back to starving in a cell." 

*

"It's done, then?" Frederick VI of Swabia delicately accepted the finely crafted chest from Maik's embrace. The arms of Frederick I Barbarossa, Holy Roman Emperor were carved on the top and tinted a deep red. The whole package was heavy, bearing more of the weight of a man than one might expect. Petrus stood at the boy's side with his left arm in a sling.

"His Holiness is ready to continue on the road to Jerusalem, your highness." Petrus bowed. "The flesh has been embalmed and Bishop Aimery is prepared to inter it at St. Peter's. The ceremony will be very solemn, very grave. We will be back on the march in two days."

The Duke of Swabia nodded. "Well done as always, Petrus. I hope you will continue to serve me as loyally as you did my father. You are a servant without price."

You have no idea, Petrus thought, but he kept his face void of any emotion. "Thank you, your highness."

"But m'lord," Maik protested later as they wound their way back to the empty chapel which had become their home for this short time, "The other man, the one who-"

"Shut it, boy." Petrus sighed, "Not one more word."

"But the body, the one you and the Templar brought back with you-"

"Boy, I said be quiet. One more word and I'll send you back to Frankfurt strapped to the back of a donkey."

"You wouldn't!" 

 "Yes, I would." The boy bit his tongue and continued his walk in silence. Petrus cast him a sideways glance. Of course he had figured it out. So much like I was at that age. He sighed. That being the case, he still had so much to teach him...