A Fool Dies
Soldiers are caught plotting against the General...
A Fool Dies
By Samuel Sullins
Marcus discovered the plot before the sun was up.
He heard them talking as he passed a tent. He didn’t know whose tent it was. All the tents were alike, stiff dirty cloth erected in a triangle, a small barrel near the doorway brimming with water from the last rain. The voices came from inside, muffled through the cloth:
“Our General—he is a fool. His death would be a mercy to all.”
“But surely we cannot…kill our own general?” A second, almost hesitant voice.
“We shall let them choose.” A new voice. “The men.”
“There can be no other way. Tomorrow, it shall be done.” That was the first voice again—hard, solid, and sure.
The voices kept speaking, more subdued.
Marcus stood there, frozen. This was treason. These men were plotting, plotting to kill the General! They must be reported to the General immediately, and he, Marcus, would be the one to do it. Perhaps he might even be rewarded. He could not recognize the voices through the tent, so he did not know who was speaking. He crept up to the tent and soundlessly placed a stone in the wooden water-barrel. HE withdrew his hand, wet, and dried it on his shirt.
It left a dark wet spot there.
The General’s tent was larger, placed in the middle of the camp. Because of the mountain they were camped on, Marcus had to climb to reach it. He tripped once, and scraped his hands on the stone. It stung, but there was no blood. When he came to the tent Marcus knelt before its closed door.
“I seek an audience,” he called loudly.
An officer opened the tent’s door and stuck his head out. “Come in.” He gestured with his hand. An audience with the General was permitted even the lowliest soldier, provided he had true cause. He could face punishment otherwise. Marcus was not worried—he had true cause indeed.
The tent was small inside. There was a round table in the middle with two yellow parchment maps on it. There were three round stools positioned around the table. Two were empty, and the General sat on the third.
The officer who had opened the door sat back down again. The officer and the General both looked at Marcus with some curiosity. It was not often that a foot soldier sought an audience with the General, and they knew that he’d have something important to say.
The General was short and bearded. He was eating wild strawberries and honey off a clay platter in his lap. Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted honey.
“Well,” said the General. His voice rumbled out from deep inside of him. “Tell me why you’re here.”
Marcus said: “I heard some of the men speaking—of treason.”
The General stopped eating. “Go on,” he said. He leaned forward, setting his platter on the table.
“The men talked of killing you,” he said. “They said there was no other way. They called you a…a fool.”
“Who were these men?” asked the General, sharply. “Did you know them? Did they see you”
“I do not know them,” said Marcus. “I only heard them as I passed their tent. They did not see me.”
“Which tent?”
“It is on the west side, somewhere,” said Marcus. “I placed a stone in the water barrel.”
“Leave us,” barked the General.
Marcus hesitated a moment. He had expected, at the very least, to hear words of gratitude. He supposed it did not matter. He left.
Walking back to his own tent, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw his father, his gray hair alight in the first rays of sunlight. Would he himself be like that, one day, grown old and still an ordinary foot soldier? Marching, fighting, never going home? Would his own sons be soldiers too?
“Marcus,” his father said. “I heard you spoke to the General—did you hear where we are going, next?”
Should he tell why he’d been at the Gneral’s tent? “I don’t know,” said Marcus. His father had asked him this question just yesterday. There was an urgency about him as he stood looking at Marcus.
“But I know,” said his father, crossing his arms. “I heard the General tell an officer, just a moment ago. We are going further south, in pursuit of the enemy.”
“But the enemy is defeated,” said Marcus. “They surrendered. We released them with honor. They shall not come again.”
“I know,” said his father. “But the General says we are to pursue them, that we may strike them down from behind.”
Marcus was puzzled. To pursue a defeated enemy did not make sense. They had already sent a detachment of men along to pronouce their claim to the conquered lands; the defeated enemy were now subjects of the Empire.
“Me and my friends, we have been talking,” said his father. “We do not agree. To pursue them would be dishonorable.”
Marcus said nothing, and nodded. It would. But orders were orders, and the army served the General, who served the Emperor. The General knew best.
“We have a plan, my friends and I,” said his father. His voice dropped to a whisper. “We are taking action. We will capture the General and let him choose: either we continue home, or he dies. We want you,” he added, “to join us. I told them you would—I know you think like I do.” His father smiled suddenly.
Marcus felt his palms growing sweaty. He couldn’t swallow for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a dry effort. “I..heard your friends talking, Father, not half an hour ago,” he said. “I—” words failed him. How could he tell what he had done? Would his father be caught, executed for treason?
His father nodded, unknowing. “You will join us, then?”
“Father—I heard them discussing a plot, your plot. I—I didn’t know—”
His father paled. “Marcus. Tell me. What did you do?”
“I told the General,” he said, weakly. “He’s probably searching for you this very minute…”
“God save us,” whispered his father. He looked deeply at Marcus, as if he could not believe what he had heard, then turned slowly and disappeared between two tents.
The court was held one hour later. All of the soldiers crowded to watch it. They were eager to see who it was and what they had done. Rumors sprang through the group, inventing horrible crimes—but nothing, Marcus knew, could be worse than what he’d done.
Marcus pushed to the front of the crowd.
The suspects stood in a long row, their hands bound, surrounded by men with drawn swords. Marcus saw his father there, and his father met his eye. His face was pained and he looked…older.
The General stood before them. “Bring forth the first traitor,” he commanded, in a raised voice. “The one who dared begin a plot against me.”
The crowd rumbled.
They hit his father with the flats of their swords, pushed him forward.
The crowd shuffled—his father was well respected among them. But nobody said anything. A crime was a crime; a criminal had no honor.
“All of you were found together,” said the General. “What were you doing?”
“We are but old men, General,” said his father. Marcus was shocked to hear the tone, begging, pleading. He did not know his father could sound that way. “We but talk to while the hours away. We meant no harm.”
The General rumbled back at him. “You were heard to discuss treason, a plot to kill me. This good soldier—” he pointed to Marcus “—has betrayed you. He placed a stone in your water-barrel, that we knew which tent it was.”
Betrayed. I betrayed my own father, thought Marcus.
The crowd murmured, turned to look at Marcus. Treason. That was a rare crime indeed, and a bold one, too. Marcus felt approving thumps on the back from the other soldiers. Catching a criminal like this was a thing to be proud of.
The General turned back to Marcus’ father. “You shall die, now.”
Marcus heard his father whimper. He raised his clasped hands, bound with brown rope. “Please,” he said, “we did not intend harm—”
“Silence!” barked an officer. He stepped behind Marcus’ father and drew his sword. He rubbed the sword on his sleeve, shining the blade twice, then raised it, ready to plunge down.
Marcus found that he could not watch this happen. He could not see his own father die. He would not.
Marcus stepped forward suddenly, almost without thinking. His voice cut through the rising murmur of the crowd. “Stop!” he shouted.
There was a sudden silence. Everyone turned to look at him, again.
“It is me,” he said. “I am the one responsible. This was my plot.”
The General looked at him with a questioning look. He was confused.
“Explain yourself, soldier,” he rumbled, angrily. He would not like to be interrupted, Marcus knew; he would not let a common soldier upstage his judgement. Power was hard enough to gain—he must watch that he did not lose it.
“I have lied,” said Marcus. “I myself…intended to kill you. The rest was a lie. I never heard these men talk of it.” He waved at the men.
“Capture him!” said an officer. Marcus felt hands grabbing him—the same hands that were congratulating him just seconds earlier. He felt the point of a sword in his back. He was pushed before the General, knocked to his knees.
The General looked at him, then at his father.
“You meant to kill me, then, soldier?” his voice was angry now.
Marcus nodded. “When I came to your tent I meant to kill you, but I did not find you alone. I lied about these men…”
“I suspected this,” said the General. “Alas! The truth has been drawn out of you. Release the old men,” said the General. “This fool will be killed instead.”
Marcus heard his father start to protest. “Silence!” he cried. “I shall pay for my treason.”
The General turned back to Marcus. “You fool,” he said. “You weak man. You betray yourself, then? You are worse than a murderer, a plotter—you are a weak murderer. You are no soldier.”
This time, the crowd roared. Here was a man that truly deserved to die. Weakness was nearly equal to treason in the eyes of this army.
Marcus twisted his head, saw his father at the front of the crowd. He was not cheering with the rest of the men. He looked like he wanted to step forward, as Marcus had. He still looked old. He still looked pained, a dark horror in his eyes.
Marcus shook his head. It could only work once; if his father stepped forward now they would both be killed.
“Now dies a fool,” rumbled the General, “A fool who cannot even keep his own plot a secret.”
The crowd roared with laughter. Marcus saw his father look down at the ground, helplessly, his face wincing.
Yes, Marcus thought. A fool dies. But his father lives.
Author’s Note
I first drafted this story around six weeks ago. Then I did my best to forget it.
When I came back to it, I was able to read it with fresh eyes. I’d forgotten almost all of it.
That was incredibly helpful for editing, because I was able to edit objectively, the way I’d edit a story I’d never seen before.
Will be trying that again.
Honored to have you read it.
— Samuel
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nice quick read. good work.