In February, when Major Brigadier General Labienus first walked into the reception hall in the east wing of the Quirinal Palace, he thought to himself: “Which bored aristocrat is trying to appear cultured again?” He had just returned from Libya, having led troops in the deserts of Tripoli for three years; his skin was tanned to a deep bronze, and standing with the aristocrats of Rome, he looked like a different species.
His military uniform was washed until it was faded, the loose threads on his cuffs were not trimmed, and there was a distinct scratch on his leather boots—it was left by the gravel in the desert, and he had never bothered to fix it, not because he lacked money, but because he didn’t care.
He was thirty-seven years old this year, with a resolute face and deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes like knife cuts, serving currently as the commander of the 2nd Infantry Battalion stationed in Rome, having spent nearly twenty years in the military, from the First World War to the colonies, with three scars on his body.
What made him most famous was not these, but the fact that he had publicly defied the orders of the Fascist Party Headquarters in Libya, refusing to let his soldiers build office buildings for the party.
No one dared to touch him, because his battalion was the most combat-capable unit in the Rome garrison, and also because his father was one of the few people in the Senate who dared to frown at Mussolini.
So when he received the invitation from the princess, his first reaction was confusion, and his second reaction was—this is probably just another salon that needs a decoration wearing a military uniform.
But he came anyway, because the invitation was signed “Cerydra,” not “Her Royal Highness Princess Cerydra.” It was handwritten, the handwriting neat and powerful.
The reception hall was not large, and the walls were not hung with those suffocating family portraits, but only an old map of Rome.
On the table sat a set of Chess.
The board was spliced from maple and walnut wood, and the pieces were carved from ivory, showing signs of many years of use, the edges slightly yellowed.
A blue cane leaned against the edge of the table, with a crystal king piece facing the board.
Cerydra sat on one side of the chessboard, her short white hair shimmering with a faint blue in the afternoon light, her exquisite face as calm as water.
“Major,” she said.
“Your Highness,” Major Brigadier General Labienus bowed slightly, his voice deep and rough, with a southern accent, his gaze sweeping over the chessboard, the corners of his mouth twitching imperceptibly, “Does Your Highness wish to play against me?” “Yes.” “I do not play well.” “The Major has spent three years in the desert,” Cerydra said, “The thing that is least scarce in the desert is time.
Three years is enough for a person to master anything.” Major Brigadier General Labienus was silent for a moment, then he sat down opposite the chessboard.
The hem of his military uniform pressed a crease into the chair.
He played black, and Cerydra played white; at the opening, Cerydra’s king-pawn advanced two squares.
Major Brigadier General Labienus responded; when his hand fell on the piece, the movement was rough and accurate, as if gripping a gun instead of a Chess piece.
But for every move, he did not need to think for too long.
The game proceeded for about thirty moves when Major Brigadier General Labienus suddenly realized he had been trapped.
It was not about how many pieces had been taken—the number of pieces on the board was roughly equal—but that every one of his choices had been blocked.
The direction he wanted to attack, the white pieces had already set up a defensive line.
The path he wanted to maneuver around, the white pieces had already occupied the key squares in advance.
He wanted to retreat and defend, only to find that his retreat had long been cut off.
Major Brigadier General Labienus’s hand hovered above the chessboard, not falling for a long time.
Then he looked up at the girl opposite him.
Her expression had not changed at all; there was no smugness, no urging, just quietly waiting for him to move.
“Your Highness,” Major Brigadier General Labienus said, “I surrender.” “The Major’s Chess skill is not weak.” “In the desert, I did indeed play Chess for three years.
But my opponents were all soldiers; the best one was my adjutant, and I have never encountered an opponent like Your Highness.” Major Brigadier General Labienus leaned back in his chair, looking at the chessboard, “From which move did Your Highness determine that I would lose?” Cerydra reached out and gently pushed a white pawn in the center of the chessboard one step forward; that pawn had been sitting quietly in the center of the board, almost unmoving from the opening until now, its presence masked by all the more active pieces.
But the moment she pushed it, the entire layout of the chessboard suddenly changed.
All the black pieces’ retreats, all their maneuvering space, all possible counterattack directions were completely locked by this one pawn.
“From the moment you sat down,” Cerydra said.
Major Brigadier General Labienus was stunned.
“The Major is a soldier,” Cerydra’s voice was calm and clear, “A soldier’s instinct is control.
Controlling positions, controlling rhythm, controlling the enemy.
So you, every move you make is an attempt to control—you want to control the center, control the kingside, control the queenside.
You want every square on the board to be under your control.
But a chessboard is not a battlefield, Major.
On the battlefield, controlling everything can let you win.
On a chessboard, trying to control everything will expose you.” She pushed that white pawn forward half a square, making a pushing gesture, then withdrew her hand.
“You spent too much energy controlling the positions you thought were important, while I only did one thing—wait for you to exhaust your energy.” Major Brigadier General Labienus looked at the chessboard and did not speak for a long time.
Outside the window came the sound of soldiers drilling in the garden, faint, as if floating from a very distant place.
He finally spoke, his voice much lower than before.
“Your Highness asked me here today, not to play Chess, right?” “Yes.” “For what?” Cerydra did not answer directly; she stood up, took her cane, and walked to the window.
Outside the window was the garden of the Quirinal Palace; the February garden was still desolate, the rose branches bare, with only a few early-blooming crocuses showing a bit of purple in the corner of the wall.
“The Major defied the order of the Fascist Party Headquarters in Libya,” she said without turning back.
Major Brigadier General Labienus’s fingers tightened slightly.
“I am a soldier.
A soldier obeys orders, but a soldier does not serve politicians.” “In Italy, the line between the two is becoming increasingly blurred now.” Major Brigadier General Labienus was silent.
“After the Major returned to Rome, you were transferred to be the commander of the 2nd Infantry Battalion.” Cerydra’s voice had no fluctuations, as if stating the weather, “The Rome garrison, it sounds like a lateral transfer, or even a promotion.
But the 2nd Infantry Battalion is stationed in the south of the city, furthest from Palazzo Venezia.
The Major’s superior was changed to Colonel Ambrosio—eight years of Fascist Party membership, with no practical combat experience in the military.” Major Brigadier General Labienus’s hand clenched into a fist on his knee.
Cerydra turned around and looked at Major Brigadier General Labienus.
The sunlight shone from behind her, gilding her short white hair with a golden edge, and the blue at the tips of her hair was almost transparent in the backlight.
Her face was covered in shadow, with only those blue eyes glowing slightly in the dark.
“The order the Major defied in Libya was to have soldiers build office buildings for the party.
The Major said, soldiers are not coolies.
The Major was right, but the Major was also wrong.” Major Brigadier General Labienus looked up.
“Soldiers have always been coolies,” Cerydra said, “The difference is just who they are coolies for.
Being a coolie for a politician is a humiliation; being a coolie for someone worthy is called loyalty.” The room was quiet for a long time.
Major Brigadier General Labienus stood up, standing straight, the creases on his military uniform particularly obvious in the sunlight.
He looked at the girl who was more than a head shorter than him, looked at the blue cane in her hand, and looked at those calm, almost transparent eyes of hers.
“Your Highness,” his voice was low and clear, “I am thirty-seven years old this year.
I have fought for half my life.
I have defied orders, offended superiors, and been exiled to the desert for three years.
A person like me has no future in the military.
What does Your Highness need a person like me to do?” Cerydra looked at him.
“I need you to continue being your battalion commander and lead your soldiers well.
Make them convinced by you, not because of the rank on your shoulders, but because you are worthy of their conviction.
For the rest, do nothing.” Major Brigadier General Labienus was stunned, “Just like that?” “Just like that.” “I do not understand.” “You do not need to understand,” Cerydra said, “You only need to, one day in the future, when I need you to make a choice—choose the right side.” Major Brigadier General Labienus was silent for a long time, then he knelt on one knee and lowered his head.
“I, Major Brigadier General Labienus, Major of the Royal Italian Army, commander of the 2nd Infantry Battalion.
I will not say a word of what Your Highness said to me today to anyone else.
If Your Highness tells me to wait, I will wait.
When Your Highness tells me to choose, I will choose.” Cerydra looked down at him; she did not say “get up,” nor did she say “thank you.” She just reached out and gently pressed her hand on Major Brigadier General Labienus’s epaulet.
That hand was very light, but Major Brigadier General Labienus felt that it was heavier than any medal.
“Good,” Cerydra said only this one word.
It might not seem tempting right now but who knows what the future holds?
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”