The royal castle in Bulvania was a huge, dark, looming structure. Towers soared, buttresses flew, all of them darkened—almost blackened—by the centuries. If you were filming a Harry Potter movie and you wanted to go on location rather than use special effects, it would be your first choice for Hogwarts. It sat on a low rise just east of the capital city, Flausenthurmopolis, and it had a splendid view of the coast and the Black Sea. Due to its position it was, technically, open to attack. But since no other country had ever bothered to invade Bulvania, no one saw that as a problem.
The barracks for the Royal Guards was behind the main building and, since it was built in the 16th century rather than the 14th, it was younger and more modern (or at least what passed for modern in Bulvania). It was a huge, sprawling place, much larger than was needed to house the 62 men of the Royal Guard. There were private quarters for Captain Alexander Borodenko and his junior officers, and a huge dormitory for the privates. A common room, filled with plush old furniture, served for recreation for the entire corps, and there was a gym, a swimming pool, a mess hall, all the amenities an elite corps could need. The barracks had its own walled courtyard where the men could exercise on warm, sunny days. Over the main door carved deep into the stone, was a legend proclaiming that the building was named in humor of Frederick the Great, the famous king of Prussia.
Early one summer afternoon, Captain Alex Borodenko walked into the common room, obviously exhausted from some activity or other, and collapsed into a huge, overstuffed chair. Brilliant sunlight poured through the windows. He sighed, “My God, they’re still at it. Arguing like fishmongers over a ripe haddock.”
The other men were engaged in various activities—chess, fencing, ping-pong and whatnot. Four guards, stripped to the waist, wrestled on a pair of mats at one side of the room; among them was Lieutenant Evgeny Petrovich. Four more, likewise shirtless, practiced their swordsmanship. Most of them ignored their captain and went right on with what they were doing.
The only one who paid Alex any mind at all was Lieutenant Peter Skonsin. “Excuse me for asking, but shouldn’t you still be there, then?”
He made a sour face. “If I had listened to them one more minute my head would have exploded. I left Hans there. He’ll bring us news of any developments. The way they’re going at it, it could take them years to decide.”
“You should be more respectful, Alex. Our Privy Council does not argue. They discuss.”
“Well, they’re ‘discussing’ at each other’s throats.”
“Electing a new king is important. We can’t expect them to do it in the blink of an eye.”
“There’s no selecting to be done, Peter, and you know it as well as I do. Brother Juniper, er, Raymond von Flausenthurm, is the only member of the royal bloodline left. At least, he’s the only one fit for anything more than raising turnips.”
Nearby, two of the wrestlers, both covered with sweat, heard this exchange. One was Sergeant Petrovich. They stopped what they were doing and took a step toward Alex. Evgeny asked, “Then what is there for them to argue about, sir?”
“You know our nobles. If they couldn’t find anything else to bicker about, they’d complain that there aren’t enough fossilized toads in the coal.”
Peter and the men laughed. “They can be pretty disagreeable, alright. Wealth and privilege do that to a person.”
“And with something as important as the royal succession at stake, they’ll be even worse than usual.” Alex shook his head sadly. “For nearly a thousand years the Flausenthurms have ruled Bulvania. We may soon see all that history, all that tradition, come to an end. A new king from a new bloodline may even decide the Royal Guard is not needed.”
Everyone else in the room froze. This was a sobering thought to them. To a corps of men mired in routine and tradition, it was earthshaking. Peter asked, “What alternative is there? I mean, the Flausenthurms—”
“The Flausenthurm line is all but dead. Our little Brother Juniper is the best they have. And who knows, he might even make a good king someday. But if Theodora has her way, he’ll never get the chance to prove it.”
On one wall hung a larger-than-life-sized, full-length portrait of the late King Raymond. It showed a strikingly handsome man, dark-haired, dark-eyed, brooding, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Alex gestured toward it. “One way or another, I think we’ll be taking that down soon enough and replacing it with one of the new king. And it’s just as well. I want to cry every time I look at it.”
He had been prone to melancholy since the king’s death. Wanting to keep him from brooding on it, Peter said, “There’s not much the queen can do about the election, is there? I mean, she’s only one vote on the council.”
Alex shrugged. “She seems to be in league with Count von Schlutow and his party. You know the rumors about the two of them.”
“Schlutow’s only a count. He can’t claim the throne.” He paused uncertainly. “Can he?”
“With his fellow nobles making the decision… ” Alex jumped to his feet. “Listen, I can’t think about this now. I need to be alone for a while. Maybe get some rest. Listening to Bulvania’s best and brightest all morning has me exhausted.” He left the common room, heading for his quarters.
The men looked at one another, uncertain what to say or do. Finally, Evgeny turned to the young private he had been wrestling with. “Pavel, let’s continue our bout out in the courtyard. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors.”
Pavel was still on the mat, kneeling and toweling himself off. “The pigeons have been aggressive lately, Evgeny. They defecate on everything.”
“What the pigeons do is nothing compared to what the Council of Nobles may be doing to us soon enough.”
Pavel laughed. “Let’s go, then.”
Pavel was young, one of the newest recruits to the guards. Like Evgeny he was naked to the waist, and his body was absolutely magnificent. If the International Olympics Committee had taken Bulvania seriously enough to let it participate in the games, he’d have been a world-class athlete, along with Evgeny. Lean and fair-haired, he contrasted markedly with the dark, hairy Evgeny Petrovich. The two of them made their way quickly outdoors, and in only a moment they were back at their wrestling match.
Their muscular bodies were soaked in sweat; their trousers were wet with it. They were evenly matched; neither could quite gain the advantage. After a few minutes Evgeny suggested they strip completely, which they did. Their beautiful bodies glistened in the sunlight. And the feel of them against one another began to arouse them.
By twos and threes the other guards drifted out of the common room to watch. And it was not long before their physical contest turned to erotic passion. Evgeny got Pavel in a half-nelson, and when Pavel worked his way free, instead of wrestling more, they kissed. The other guards, seeing them in erotic embrace, began to fondle one another. Athletics was forgotten, and in a matter of moments the courtyard was fled with a dozen men making love. Tongues and fingers probed and penetrated; eyes devoured, lips tasted, cocks stiffened. By twos, by threes, even by fours the men combined. The air was filled with the quiet sounds of passion, moans, groans, sighs. Straight guards, knowing there was nothing for them, left quietly, but there were plenty of men left.
From a window in his quarters Captain Alex watched it all. Inevitably he felt aroused. His thought was of Frederick the Great, Alexander the Great and all the other famous military leaders who had loved men. Yet at the same time he felt as if what he was seeing was alien to him, as if it was something he could never touch again.
On the wall of Alex’s bedroom hung a small, intimate portrait of the late King Raymond. He looked at it, stared at it, moved to it. And lightly, lovingly, he kissed it. “I will always love you, Raymond. You know that. Wherever you are, you know how much I loved you, and I still do.”
In the courtyard, Pavel and Evgeny finished their coupling before any of the others. Winded, exhilarated, they pulled apart. Pavel looked to the sky, where a jet plane was passing overhead. “I hear the new American ambassador will be here soon. I wonder if he’s on that plane.”
“They say he’s bringing his son as part of his staff. We’ll have to be especially discreet around them.” He gestured at the other guards, who were still in the midst of their wild copulation. “It’s certain they never encountered anything like this in America.”
Pavel grinned. “You never know. I understand America can be pretty advanced.”
“Advanced, yes. But… gay orgies?”
The chorus of groans from the other guards was getting louder. Against his will, Evgeny felt himself getting aroused again. He caught Pavel’s eye, and Pavel was obviously having the same reaction. Laughing, they took each other’s hand and rejoined the action.
In his room, Alex decided he couldn’t watch anymore. The portrait on the wall seemed to be reminding him of something more, or something better than what was happening in the courtyard. The guards all had magnificent bodies, and their passion was palpable. But..
There was a knock at the door. He adjusted his tunic. “Come.”
The door opened. Hans McGregor, the corporal he had left to monitor the nobles’ deliberations, saluted. “Sir. They’ve reached a decision.”
From the corner of his eye Alex watched the men in the courtyard. Then he forced himself to focus on Hans. “Yes? And?”
“Count von Schlutow and the queen have lost, but the vote was very close. The council has chosen Raymond von Flausenthurm to be our new king.”
Alex looked still again at the portrait. The contrast between the handsome, virile man in the picture and the thin, weedy boy monk was almost too pointed. But he put on a brave face. “So our Bulvanian traditions are still alive.”
“Yes, sir. King Raymond XL is to be crowned next month.” He saluted again. “Long may he reign.”