In the end, I did not have much to worry about. The glances and looks of the soldiers within lasted mere moments before they returned their attention to whatever tasks they had been engaged in before I entered. In truth, their sheer indifference and the chill of their nonresponse was a mixed bag. Mixed in that I was thankful that I did not have to face the brunt of the malice and resentment they felt based on another’s performance or attitude in the role of banner bearer. However, the cold indifference was in some ways, the most hurtful and spiteful act they could have chosen. It communicated that I was not even worth their anger, spite, or vengeance. When not even their anger or spite deemed me worthy of their attention, the message was, you are not worth our time at all.

They casually turned away from me and back to their menial tasks as easily as if I were nothing more than a moth that had fluttered into the room. I was unsure of what to do. No longer the center of attention, I stood for a moment and surveyed the room, taking a moment to gain a better perspective. Two rows of bunks lined each side of the room, a center isle running before me to the back. A total of thirty bunks lined the room. Each one presented in a crisp and pristine manner. A deep green blanket served as the top blanket and a white pillow stood at the head of each bed. A chest sat at the foot of each bunk. The one closest to me was propped open and I glanced in to see it was divided into two halves; presumably the two soldiers sharing the bunk split the storage space. As I glanced in, a heard a creak from the bunk stationed behind the chest and glanced up to see the stare of a solider boring into me. He was sitting up observing me with a deep interest that I found disconcerting. He swung his legs to the side and dropped to the floor with a light-footed silence that I found impressive. He moved to the end of the bed and stood next to his trunk. He wore only his undergarments, sweat from the heat of the day cascading down his lean and fit form. I tried not to stare, but his body bore many scars from wounds that spoke of untold stories. I couldn’t help but wonder, in that fleeting moment, what story each scar told. The most prominent, and thus the one that caught my eye the most, was a long line across his abdomen that was still pink from healing. I guessed it to be a 9–12-inch scar. The pink flesh of healing skin protruded as a long row that rose like a jagged ridge in stark contrast to the smooth flesh of the rest of his abdomen. His hand lay gently across right side of it making it difficult to determine just how long the injury really was. I tried to imagine the pain of such an injury and my stomach turned at the thought. I glanced away but could still feel his eyes boring into me.

I look around, attempting to see if there was an empty bunk; trying to decide if I was to choose a bunk or if one had already been chosen for me. Spotting one that appeared to be empty about halfway down the room, I took a step toward it.

Stepping out to block my way, the nearly naked soldier spoke. “You don’t bunk in here. This bunk house is for soldiers.” His tone was gruff and harsh. I pivoted my head so that I was looking directly at him and saw hardness etched on his face. Having got my attention and having stopped my progress into the barracks, he leaned to the left, resting his arm against the bunk, and glared at me. The angry scar on his abdomen, no longer covered by his hand, intensified the angry and dark expression on his face. His entire body seemed to declare it’s dark gall at my presence.

“Not sure which rich, affluent family they pulled you from this time, but understand this,” he growled, straightening again and stepping toward me as he did so. His body was now inches from mine. His height putting him several inches over me, and I found myself no longer looking into his face but rather staring into his chest as he invaded my space. His glare and malice more felt then seen now with my only view being the glistening flesh of his upper torso. Even that seemed to radiate red hot anger.

Still growling, he barked, “You are not wanted here. You are not a soldier. You have not earned the right to be here. Don’t you dare think for a minute that your family’s money can buy you what you seek.”

He poked a finger into my shoulder blade and with a strength I had never seen, even among all the farmers I had ever met, pressed his body against mine, pushing me back with every step he made. “Only my respect and honor for the king keeps me from throwing you out of this room, off some balcony, and celebrating as your body breaks on the landing.” His finger dug into my shoulder, his body pressing hard against mine, I was forced to retreat backward now under the pressure of his presence. I felt the wall slam against my back. I was trapped. His brute of a body pressed against my front, the wall against my back. Panic welled up in me. I knew this man could break me, injured or not, easier than snapping a twig. His finger felt as if it would pierce my shoulder, exiting out the rear of my body. His breath was hot on my face as he exhaled. The sweat of his body smearing onto mine. The stench of it filing my nostrils.

“Quit now and go home before I put you down like the dog that you are.” The snarl and menace of his voice intensify my fright.
I closed my eyes and prayed for this nightmare to be over. Why had my father done this to me? Why was I here? I fought against the waves of tears that threatened to spill out. Somehow, I knew that the sight of tears on my face would only provoke this man, this soldier, into a rage that would surely end my life.

“Damian.” The voice was soft but commanded attention and contained an unspoken command to stand down. It contained no hint of anger and was no louder than a conversational tone. Yet the authority in it was enough to catch even my attention and draw me back from my self-imposed prison of self-pity. I opened my eyes and saw a hand gripping the shoulder of the soldier pressing me against wall, now identified as Damian.

“Yes Sir.” When he spoke, his tone changed to one of respect and deference. He snapped to attention, twisting so that now he stood at my side, shoulder to shoulder, arms at his side, and gave attention to the man standing before us.

In an instant, I realized that this was the King himself. I had never been in the presence of the king before. I was not a solider. I did not know what the proper action should be. All I knew was that this man was the king of all the free lands, and I dropped to one knee before him, bowing my head in respect for the man who ruled the country.

Even as I was dropping to one knee, I heard shuffles, scrapes of chair legs, thuds of men dropping off bunks and I felt the snap of attention in the room. Without evening looking, I knew that every solider in that room had come to attention at the entrance and presence of their king.
And I suddenly felt stupid. I was entering the king’s army, my response should have been one of attention, not bowing. I felt my face go red in embarrassment as I realized my error.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and the words that spoke were not a man angered by my mistake, but one of kindness and grace. “Stand, my banner bearer.”

I stood and came to attention, facing my king. As I stood there, it suddenly occurred to me how extraordinary this was. Perhaps it was in error, but I never imagined the king would come here, to the soldier’s barracks. I always pictured a king who would summon those whom he desired to speak with to his throne room. I always imagined that a king would not come so low as to be found in the living quarters of his soldiers. And yet, here he was. Half of these men, his off-duty soldiers, were not even fully garbed. Damian, next to me, in nothing but his undergarment. What kind of King was this that would bring him from his royal chambers, here, to this lowly place? What brought him here?

“At ease, men.” The king directed his attention to Damian. “Your wound seems to be healing well. The captain says the physician’s reports are promising and good. It is good to see you getting back on your feet. I look forward to seeing you reinstated to active duty.”

Damien dipped his head in deference to the king. When he spoke, the reverence and respect that filled his voice was in such stark contrast to the hatred and malice he had previously directed at me that I had a hard time reconciling that these words were coming from the same person. “It will be my honor to serve you once again, my lord.”
The king dipped his head toward Damian and then turned his attention to me.

“Valiant, welcome!” The warmth and kindness in his voice, took me off guard. It reminded me of my father in so many ways. My father never had a harsh word to say to or about any man. He had always been a man of grace, compassion, truth, and respect for others. The kings’ words to me now immediately struck me as those of my father that I had been raised under.

“I had been told of your arrival today,” he began, “and I wanted to come and personally welcome you.”

And in that moment, I knew that my life would never be the same. I knew something about this man, this king that I had not known before. And I knew that this man would be worthy of my service, submission, and life. A man who would leave his home, his dwelling, and come to a place such as this merely to extend a welcome; well, this was a man whose character and person was worthy of all that I could possibly afford to give.

The king continued, “Captain Davies here,” gesturing behind him, “will get you situated and will begin your training immediately. The captain, leaning on his cane, possessed that same look he had upon my arrival. Stern was the word I dubbed it. Not harsh but not gentle either. Serious and stern, I decided. But whether this would be a good thing or bad thing, I had not yet decided when the king spoke again. “The recommendation of your father comes with high commendation. I look forward to high things from you. I remember well the days your father served as Captain of the guard for my father. He was, is, a man of great honor who served with distinction. I have many a memory from my childhood of your father. The respect and admiration that my father had for your father left a lasting impression upon me. I count it an honor to have the son of my father’s trusted chief guard serving as my banner bearer.”

My involuntary response was one of shock. My father seldom spoke of his younger years. My brothers and I had known, of course, that he had once served in the military before setting down on the farm, but we knew little else. He never shared. We had tried to pry out of him stories of his past, exploits of this vague illusion to a military service, but he had always refused to open up about it, even after my older brothers had joined the army. I suppose that they thought if they joined the army and become fellow soldiers like him, he might be more willing to open up. I cannot say that this was their only reason for joining the king’s army, but I had wondered if that was part of it. There was always a part of our father that we did not truly know because of his closed manner about this past military involvement. Over time, we had come to respect that there were reasons why he chose not to open up and we stopped pressing him.

But to hear now that he had not only been in the military but had been Captain of the Kings’ guard, well, this was a shock to say the least. A shock that must have been clear on my face.

“I see you were not aware of his role in my father’s court,” the king said.

My words took a few seconds to form and seemed to come out in a stammering sentence. “No….my king…. I was not.” After my first words, I recovered myself and continued, “Sorry, sir, this is all a lot to take in. It is an honor to stand in your presence. Please forgive my ignorance regarding proper protocols before a king as well as my stammering. Both being in your presence and the news of my father serving as captain of the guard in your father’s court have left me undone. I knew of my father’s military role but was not aware of the any specifics as he had chosen to keep that from my brothers and I.”

As I spoke, I couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of my eye that the remainder of the guards in the room had taken greater notice of me as well. Where once they had ignored and considered me inconsequential, now they eyed me with a renewed interest. Perhaps they were aware of my father’s name and reputation and were now piqued in their curiosity as well.

Turning toward the room, the king spoke to the soldiers. “Do not judge this man on account of his predecessors. My poor choices of selecting banner bearers should not determine your judgment of this man. He must be afforded the opportunity to either prove or shame himself. Give him that opportunity and assist him in becoming the soldier of integrity and valor that I know each of you to be.”

Turning back to Damian he said, “Do not allow your grief over Selman and your anger for Lucas to cloud your judgment. Be a friend, a comrade to Valiant. Be his supporter and make him successful, for my sake.” He stepped toward Damian again, gripped his left shoulder with his right hand and gazed deeply into Damian’s face. “For me, my good and faithful soldier.”

The conflict of emotion and thought that flickered across Damian’s face was fleeting but clear, Damian wrestled deeply and hard for a moment. Then, with a simple bow of the head, he acknowledged the king and consented to his request. With that the king nodded, withdrew his hand, and left the barracks.