“Oh, so you’re awake? Thank goodness. How are you feeling?” said the man as he came to my bedside. When he came closer, I could see his face had sharp features and a radiant complexion. He also wore well-tailored clothes, which looked expensive. I decided that he must be someone of high status.
“I am feeling just a little better,” I said, answering with the few polite words that I knew.
“Really? That’s good,” said the man with a gentle smile.
After that, I was cared for in that room until I recovered my strength and, even after I’d recovered, I stayed on to study and train in swordsmanship. My initial understanding was that I was looked after as a matter of course. However, once I was well enough and took the first chance I had to ask him, I learned that the man who rescued me that day and nursed me back to health was a very notable individual indeed—none other than my half brother and a potential successor to the throne.
When I heard he was in line to inherit the throne, I was shocked by the difference in standing between us and—realizing my terms of address had been far too familiar up until then—hurried to mend my manners. But this was met by a dejected look from my half brother. As he later put it, “Having no brothers from my own mother, and having had no opportunity to interact with my other half brothers, I was delighted just to have the chance to look after you, my little brother. To have you treat me so formally fills me with sorrow.” My half brother’s crestfallen look was more than I could bear, so I immediately went back to interacting with him in a more familiar manner.
Some time passed, and before I knew it my half brother had become very important to me. No, I should rather say that he was special to me ever since that day when he picked me up off the ground. My half brother continued to spoil me, as if he thought no amount of indulgence was enough, and my long parched heart was thoroughly quenched. All of a sudden, I realized that I wanted to stay by my half brother’s side and support him.
However, once I had received enough education that I was no longer an embarrassment to the royal family, and took my first steps outside the palace that was under my half brother’s administration, I came to understand many new things. I learned that many people—my half brother’s mother foremost among them—did not look kindly on someone like me being so close to him, and sought to tear us apart. The reason for their ire was that I, as the child of a traveling performer of scarcely known origins, might damage the reputation of my half brother—with his venerable bloodline—just by being near him.
When I realized this, I felt that I must remove myself from his orbit, but I knew I lacked the power to take such action by myself. I discussed the matter with my half brother’s former wet nurse—who had unavoidably found herself caring for me ever since I came to live there—and her son, who had become my best friend.
But my half brother soon learned about this. As a result, he gave me even greater attention and indulgence than he had before, and made me promise I would remain at his side.
“That man truly holds you dear,” the wet nurse told me.
I knew that, of course. There was no way I could not have known, with all the love he had showered upon me. It was because he had shown me so much love, and because I loved him in return, that the thought of my being a burden to him pained me so. Having no way to repay him was heartrending.
Thus, when I reached the age of majority at fifteen, I was determined to leave the inner palace. My official reason for leaving was that I never felt at home in the palace—a selfish reason if ever there was one—but the truth was that I didn’t want to cause any more trouble for my half brother. My excessively kindhearted brother quietly accepted my selfishness and even helped me on my way.
From that day forth, I was merely Cezar. Because I was an unacknowledged child of the king’s in the first place—born to a woman from a troupe of travelers—it was easy for me to claim my freedom. What I didn’t count on was the son of my half brother’s wet nurse—my best friend Janne—being asked to come with me. But my half brother said that he was worried at the thought of me going by myself, and he looked so forlorn that I could only nod in agreement.
Now that I was merely Cezar, I decided to become a mercenary, having heard it was the quickest way to make money. And so I roamed, hunting those who stood in the way of my half brother’s ascension to the throne. I believed it was all for the good of my half brother’s future. Even today, I still remember the first time my hands were stained by blood. Though I tried to act cool and rational, I could not entirely suppress the nausea I felt. I found myself repeating a mantra the following day as I readied myself to march to the battlefield again.
“I’m doing this so I can live freely. I like living this way. I don’t miss the warmth of my brother’s embrace. Cezar the mercenary thinks nothing of taking the lives of others. He’s the kind of man who can make sacrifices in order to survive.”
I kept telling myself that, went to battle again and again, and before I knew it ten years had come and gone. I finally came to truly believe the words I had told myself, and was no longer concerned by the sight of my bloodstained hands. I became convinced that I—Cezar the mercenary—would probably go on living freely, in accordance with my own whims, until my life ran out. Just when I started to think that, I heard that my half brother had finally taken his place on the throne.
Ah, so he’s finally become king.