The Latest Campaign A Narrative Poem Poem by Daniel Brick

An awareness spread through the ranks
of the horses, that their ordeal was over,
that life in a pasture with sweet grass,
clear streams, and room to roam, was soon
to resume. They know nothing of Victory
or Defeat, they only know kind treatment
or harsh handling by their human masters.
They were still bearingf heavily armored men,
or dragging ever heavier war machinery.

Behind them, far in the rear of the column,
were the Cavalry Horses, select, pampered,
protected by four ranks of soldiers on all sides.
Close by and equally protected by rows of soldiers,
the Prince who wanted to become a King, rode
his black stallion next to six subtle advisers
who determined whether arms and battle should
subdue his opponents, or words and treachery.
The Prince considered them his last and best teachers.

As his army positioned itself across the land
base of the port city of Xenahuan,
like ponderous chessmen on a flimsy table.
The Prince, the chessmaster, sat erect
and perfectly poised on his noble black stallion.
He clutched the Sphere of Heaven in his left
hand, and the Scepter of Power in his right.
He raised them slightly and moved them back
as if performing a benediction over his army.

Capturing this city, joining it to his other
conquests would prove his worthiness for crown
and kingdom. On the ramparts, from towers,
from Cathedral Hill, citizens and defenders alike
were waving anything white! A whole city was
surrendering spontaneously. Scores of weapons
they throw from the parapets to the ground below.
Thousands upon thousands cheers shatter the sky
as they call the Prince their liberator!

It is the Prince's move. He could unleash his soldiers
to riot and pillage, to rape and murder, to send
a warning to the other coastal cities, and let
fear do the work of conquest. Or he could be magnanimous.
While an eerie silence falls over the deserted
streets of Xenahuan, the Prince huddles in secret speech
with his six advisers. They drink wine which the Abbey's
monks had preserved for seventy years, eat a feast
prepared by trembling cooks, and decide to act with mercy.

Three days later, riding his glorious black stallion,
the Prince, now officially a King, leads his army
out of Xenohuan, turns the double column of troops
inland, away from the desert coastline toward
the High Plateau of the interior where the undefeated
tribe of Lycians live without a central authority.
This offends the newly crowned King, and he intends
a quick lesson delivered by his direct authority.
Oh, King, when you put on that crown, you put on blinders, too!

The King carouses nightly with his court, makes
marriage plans and battle plans at the same time,
as if winning a woman's heart was just a matter of
strategy, and crushing the Lycians just as matter of
displaying his authority. Already his cavalry skirmished
with mounted Lycians and lost six riders and six horses.
An engagment with his advanced guard was inconclusive.
But the King enjoya his crown, and the increased deference.
His generals look nervously into the vast distances everywhere.

In the weeks to come skirmishes will increase, men
and horses will die. Supplies from Xenohuan will slow,
gradually messengers will bring excuses but no supplies.
Reinforcements will get lost and fall into Lycian traps.
But the King will drench himself with wine, and declare,
By next year, I will not just be a King, I will be an Emperor!
Meanwhile, steadily, relentlessly, the memory of pastures
recedes in the consciousness of horses. Finally, the memory
will dissolve, the pastures forgotten, beauty cannot save them.