THE DRUMS OF WAR

Our troops are gathered at the border.

This is the moment I was made for.  Leading men in battle is my destiny.  Why then did God make in me the heart to reflect on, and fret over, the consequences?

Even now, after emissaries have returned, two riders to a horse, our enemy having ignored the ancient rites of chivalry--they have taken the young one, so the report reads on the table before me, and spilled his blood, dishonored his corpse and sent dignified men, outraged, in hasty flight back to camp as an effrontery to my person and my royal office--even now I question the righteousness of so much death, death surely to come, one way or another, the moment I stand and exit this tent and mount.  Just showing my colors will join the battle.  This head, sheathed in the metal and mail of father and grandfather, and his before him, a deadly signal to the hoary grey-hairs, veterans of the majestic battles of old and keepers of the order of knightly conduct, and to the quickened tempers of the hot-heads, the youngsters, all hoping for glory and spoils.  No one out for death.

But it will surely come, and perhaps to me too.  But I cannot linger any longer.  The field is before me and has yielded already to the promise of my march, as it always has.  I know not why, this time, I presage disaster.  Was it the bird and her perch atop the standard pole, a dark shadow, a soundless dark void, unmoving day and night, sun and rain?  Was it the downcast to the queenly countenance, barely able to meet my farewell gaze, perhaps sensing more deeply than I the coming doom?  Was it the impossibly cheerful prognostication of the soothsayer, for victory and the subjugation of the enemy, an unprecedented auspice for conquest?

No matter.  I can set aside these harbingers, these second-thoughts, this weakness of spirit, for that is my other great gift, besides an instinct for warfare--I can walk the path, mindful always and completely of my duty.  As I ride forth, this coward I see before me in the glass will sink back beneath the muck and grovel in the hodgepodge.  Soon the memory of this "other" me will be more than a distant one.  I shall rake the offending assemblage of our enemy and carry my countrymen into the naked horror of the skirmish showing full the face of imperial war.

Oh honor--spread your cloak of exaltation and consecrate my sword for the bloody blessings it will bestow.  I am your servant.  Do with me as you will.