‘Who wishes to be first?’ asked Chareos. No one spoke. ‘Then it will be you, young Lorin,’ said the monk, pointing to the red-headed son of Salida, the Earl’s Captain of Lance.
Gamely the boy ran up the plank and on to the logs. They rolled and twisted under his feet and he half fell, but righted himself and slowly made it to the rope. With a leap he sailed over to the second run, released the rope and missed his footing, tumbling to the soft earth. The other youths did not laugh; they knew their turn would come. One by one each of them failed the Run until, at last, only Patris was left. He nimbly ran up the plank and on to the logs. Moving carefully, he reached the rope and then swung. Just before landing he angled his body sideways and, bending his knees, dropped into a crouch. Although the log rolled, his balance was perfect. But the greased plank at the end of the Run foxed him, and he slipped and fell sideways to the mud.
Chareos called them to him. Their fine tunics of embroidered silk were covered in mud and grime.
‘Gentlemen, you are in sorry condition. But war will render you yet more sorry. The soldier will fight in rain and mud, snow and ice, drought and flood. It is rare that a warrior ever gets to fight in comfort. Now make the attempt twice more – in the same order, if you please. Patris, walk with me a moment.’ He led the Earl’s son some way from the others. ‘You did well,’ he said, ‘but it was not innovative thought. You watched and you learned from the errors of your friends. The greased plank fooled you because you did not consider the problem.’
‘I know now how to descend it, master Chareos,’ said the boy.
‘I don’t doubt it. But in real war an officer may have only one chance to succeed. Consider each problem.’
‘I will.’
Chareos wandered back to the three youths on the pegs. Each was coping more ably with the course, save Akarin. ‘Let me look at you,’ said the monk and the boy stood red-faced before the Swordmaster as Chareos gripped the flesh above the youth’s hips. ‘You know, of course, that you are carrying too much weight. Your legs are strong, but your body is out of balance. If you truly wish to become a swordsman, then limit your diet to one meal a day. Make it a broth, with meat and vegetables. No honey-cakes. No sweetmeats. You are a fine boy, but your mother spoils you.’
The other two boys were allowed to attempt the Run, but they fared badly. Akarin pleaded with Chareos to be allowed to try.
‘They will make fun of me,’ he pleaded. ‘Please let me attempt it.’
Chareos nodded and the fat youngster ran at the plank, made it to the logs and wobbled towards the rope. Under his great weight the logs did not roll as badly as with the other youths. He swung on the rope, but lost his grip and dropped into a mud pool. A huge splash went up, followed by a roar of laughter from the other boys.
Akarin hauled himself clear of the pool and stood blinking back his tears.
There was always one, Chareos knew, who had to endure the taunting. It was the nature of the pack.
He led them to a nearby pasture and opened the chest containing swords, masks and mail-shirts. Then he paired off the youngsters, partnering Patris with Akarin. The Earl’s son stalked across to the monk. ‘Why must I have the Piglet?’ he demanded.
‘Because you are the best,’ answered Chareos.
‘I do not understand.’
‘Teach him.’
‘And who teaches me?’
‘As an officer, my lord, you will have many men under your command and not all will be gifted. You must learn to use each man to his best advantage. Akarin will gain more from partnering you than he would with any other boy . . . and I will teach you.’
‘So from now on he is my problem?’
‘I believe that will be in his best interests – and yours.’