By the end of the third day, I remembered how to find edible berries and roots. Aristocratic life, it turns out, didn't include a survival course—a regrettable gap in the easy life program. Nature reminded me of everything harshly, but honestly.
The third trouble—bandits.
They multiplied more than fleas on a yard dog. The kingdom collapsed, work disappeared, but eating is wanted every day. Simple equation: no lawful authority—there will be unlawful. Every encounter with such gentlemen of fortune—lost time and another scar as a memento.
The first one I met on the second day. A skinny guy with a crooked sword and a hungry gleam in his eyes. He jumped out of the bushes like a devil from a box.
"Purse or life!" he proclaimed in a trembling voice.
"No purse," I answered honestly. "And I don't plan to give up life yet. I have a lot to do."
"How no?" the bandit faltered. "And what about... what about the rules?"
"What rules?"
"Well... the traveler should have money. Otherwise, how to rob?"
"That's your problem, not mine."
While he pondered this philosophical dilemma, I knocked him off his feet with one move and tied him with his own belt. I didn't kill him—killing desperate people seemed pointless. Besides, he was skinnier than my horse.
"Listen," I said in parting. "You're not cut out for banditry. Too polite. Try trade."
The third bandit—and I successfully avoided the second—was a boy of about sixteen. On his face, hunger had written a sad story about a ruined farm and dead parents. He held a rusty dagger in his hands and shook like an aspen leaf.
"Why?" I asked softly, holding my sword at his throat. "Tell me honestly."
"I'm hungry," the boy answered simply, and his voice trembled. "No work. The kingdom ended, but eating is wanted every day. Every single day, you understand?"
I understood. Too well.
"What did you do before?"
"Helped my father. We grew bread. Taxes... then war came. Fields burned. Father was taken as a soldier—didn't return. Mother died of grief. I was left. And what am I to do? Die of hunger?"
I gave him my last piece of bread and all the small coins I'd managed to exchange.
"Go to the city," I advised. "Learn a trade. You're not cut out for banditry—hands shaking, eyes kind. The first merchant will slit your throat."
"And you?" the boy asked, hiding the bread in his bosom. "Who are you? Why don't you kill?"
"Me? I'm also out of work. Just with a sword instead of a plow. Going to find a new place of service, you could say."
The boy went into the night, and I stayed pondering under the stars: who is the greater bandit—a hungry child with a rusty knife or a civilized army robbing entire countries in the name of high ideas and imperial glory?