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Porthos wondered how much a man could sweat. At first, it had been individual drops running down his back, but now it felt like the whole of the Seine had somehow found its way into his shirt. He yearned for a nice, cold ale or two.
No such luck. The King showed no sign of tiring of entertaining some diplomat. A very important ally, Athos had said. Important enough to warrant having the entire musketeers’ regiment on parade in the boiling heat for what felt like hours. Not that Porthos begrudged the King his entertainment or indeed France the important ally, but it really was impossibly hot.
While their heavy leather uniforms were practical and offered good protection in a fight, they weren’t made for this. If this went on much longer, Porthos was convinced Serge would be able to serve him up as stew for dinner. He certainly felt very well-stewed. Stewed or roasted. Maybe he was being roasted like a suckling pig and his skin would turn all crispy. A rather one-sided roasting though. You had to turn the pig to cook it evenly, not let it get singed on one side.
Yet another salty drop rolled into Porthos’ eye and he blinked it vigorously to alleviate the sting. It was about as much movement as he dared. Tréville had made it abundantly clear that nobody was to move a muscle and that he would not tolerate any departure from protocol. Aramis said this diplomat was big on discipline and the King needed to showcase France’s military power every time he came to visit. Porthos feared the main impression would be an overpowering stench should the man dare to inspect the troops.
They stood in two long rows, musketeers in the front, recruits in the back. It was a real honour to be here as a recruit. Occasions of state were usually the realm of commissioned musketeers, but... Nobody had said it out loud, but of course they all knew that there simply weren’t enough musketeers to make much of an impression right now.
Aramis stood directly in front of him. Porthos wondered if Tréville had arranged that deliberately. He concluded that he probably had. Porthos liked that. He liked being close to Aramis. Not that it looked like Aramis needed him. The musketeer stood still as a statue, despite having to wear the blue cloak on top of his uniform.
Yet another layer. Porthos smiled, then quickly schooled his features into the required neutral expression again. Maybe Aramis was finally warm. He was always cold, always seeking the sun or a fire like a cat whenever he wasn’t wrapped up in his multiple blankets. Maybe this would finally do the trick.
The thought didn’t distract Porthos from his discomfort for long. There had to be puddles of sweat in his boots by now. Ankle deep at least. He wriggled his toes to assess the situation, but couldn’t really tell anything definitive. He wrinkled his nose imagining the reek once they were all back at the garrison and taking off their boots.
Porthos stole a glance down the line of recruits, but couldn’t see Athos without actually turning his head, which he knew wasn’t an option. He appreciated the captain’s trust in them as recruits and wouldn’t disappoint him. Athos would be alright. In the months since he’d joined the regiment, there had been very little that made the slightest dent in Athos’ stoicism. Considering how well he fought while dead drunk, a bit of heat was probably of no concern to him. And considering how acerbic he was when hung over. Acerbic. Aramis had taught him that word and Porthos thought it fitted Athos perfectly. He liked how sharp and precise it sounded. Just like Athos.
At least Tréville had allowed them their hats. Porthos guessed he should be thankful for that. He didn’t want to imagine how uncomfortable it would be to have the sun in his eyes the whole time. Not that his hat was terribly comfortable any more. It felt too small all of a sudden, like it had shrunk in the heat. Porthos’ head throbbed. The hat seemed like an iron band, squeezing out his brains.
The King had a pavilion of course. Porthos didn’t begrudge him that. His delicate white skin would probably blister and burn in this sun. He thought about Athos again. He really was terribly pale. Aramis said he was a nobleman. Well, Aramis said he was a nitid ninny and a poncey prick, but that meant much the same. He hoped Athos’ skin would be more resilient than the King’s.
Porthos almost envied the liveried lackeys. Not that he wanted to trade his career with the musketeers for their life of boredom and bowing, but at least they got to stand in the shade. Even the pack of hunting dogs the King also felt he needed to display were allowed to rest under some nearby trees. But they were musketeers after all, France’s best and hardiest soldiers.
A loud thump interrupted his thoughts.
Athos.
“Eyes front!” Tréville barked.
Porthos turned his head ever so slightly and out of the corner of his eye he saw a body sprawled onto the dusty ground. Athos. Definitely Athos. Porthos’ legs twitched. He needed to go and help Athos.
Tréville glared at Porthos. His eyes seemed to bore into his skull. No, he mouthed.
Porthos tried to put his entire desperate plea into his eyes. He had to get Athos out of the sun.
Tréville snarled at him. His reply was wordless, but certainly not lacking in clarity. Tréville knew. He had seen. Certainly, the king had seen, the diplomat had seen, everyone had seen. And it was embarrassing enough as it was, without Porthos adding to it by breaking formation.
Porthos’ every instinct was to ignore Tréville and take care of his friend.
He couldn’t. He had to trust Tréville. He had to. He knew Tréville cared about his men. He’d seen it first hand with Aramis. He knew Tréville wouldn’t let one of them come to harm. Never. He’d seen the captain blame himself for that Spanish attack at Savoy and that happened when he was far away and couldn’t possibly have done anything. He wouldn’t let Athos die right in front of him.
Nobody was dying. Porthos had to get a grip of his thoughts. Athos had merely taken unwell. That’s what Athos called it. It was only natural. After all, Porthos, who was never unwell, had a headache. And he knew that Athos did never not have a headache, so this must be even worse for him. No wonder he’d had a little funny spell.
Athos would be alright. He had to be.
And yet Porthos was itching to make sure that he was.
Athos had been doing so well. He was the best recruit by far, and calmly bested most of the musketeers with the sword. He claimed he’d never been a soldier before, but nobody could deny his God-given talent. Though he never sought any attention, men looked to him for guidance. Above all, Athos took his duties seriously. Porthos frequently saw him sober up in the blink of an eye at morning muster. For him to have passed out on parade, he must be seriously unwell.
It seemed to take hours before Tréville finally released them. Porthos was on his knees next to Athos before the men next to him had moved a muscle.
Without even stopping to check on him, Porthos picked up his friend and carried him into the shade. He laid Athos flat onto the ground beneath a grizzled yew tree and removed his hat, fanning Athos’ poor red face.
Athos’ hair was sopping wet and stuck up in odd angles. His eyelids fluttered when Porthos ripped open his doublet, but he didn’t wake.
“Come on, Athos,” Porthos said, shaking his shoulder.
Athos groaned.
Porthos shushed him. “You’re alright. Let me get you out of this.”
He gently manoeuvred Athos out of his leathers. To his surprise, Athos’ skin was cold and clammy. Worried, Porthos felt for Athos’ pulse. He was no expert, but it felt pretty weak to him.
Porthos unlaced Athos’ damp shirt, trying to get him out of as much of his clothing as possible.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Porthos looked up and was met with steely pale eyes. Slowly Athos raised himself up into a sitting position.
“My thanks for your timely intervention, but I do not require further assistance,” Athos said.
Porthos smiled. He certainly sounded like he was getting back to himself.
“You passed out on parade,” he explained.
“And for that I shall apologise to Captain Tréville,” Athos replied.
“He’ll understand,” Porthos said. “It really is terribly hot.”
“Nonetheless, no reason to break formation,” Athos said. “I took unwell. An unacceptable dereliction of duty.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you back on your feet,” Porthos said. “Don’t worry about that. We were all feeling the heat.”
“And yet none of the others found themselves fainting.”
“It was only a matter of time,” Porthos said. He stopped Athos from rising with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, mate. You were out for a while.”
Athos’ lips tightened into a thin line of discontent, but before he could say anything, Porthos felt Aramis approach. He held out his hand for the water he knew Aramis had managed to procure from somewhere. They were a good team like that, they didn’t even need to voice their needs any more for the other to fulfil them. They’d spent so much time together, they simply knew.
Porthos was surprised when Aramis didn’t place a cup or water skin into his hand. He turned just in time to watch Aramis chuck the water straight at Athos instead.
“Aramis!” Porthos shouted while Athos tried to blink the water from his eyes.
Aramis stalked off without a word, leaving Porthos flabbergasted.
The empty goblet rolled uselessly on the ground.
“What was that all about?” Porthos asked Aramis’ retreating back. There was no reply, no explanation for the act of mindless aggression against a friend who was already down.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to Athos. “I don’t know what got into him.”
Athos straightened his sodden shirt and tried to smooth down his hair. “I’d much prefer a bottle of wine,” he said dismissively.
Porthos frowned. “You think that’s wise?” he asked. “It’s only… you had rather a lot last night and I was thinking that maybe the wine—”
“It was merely the heat,” Athos said, getting to his feet. “And as you can see, I am much recovered.”
Porthos didn’t see that at all. Instead, he saw Athos looking exhausted for the rest of the day. He saw him knead his forehead repeatedly although he denied being in pain. He saw the skin on his nose and cheeks turn bright red while the rest of his face was even paler than usual.
Athos would never admit that he was unwell and Porthos didn’t press the matter. He simply watched his friend drown his misery in wine and tried in vain to make him take some water as well.
That night, Porthos went to sleep thinking he might have to say something to Tréville. He wasn’t one to grass on a friend, he really wasn’t, but Athos was ill and clearly wouldn’t admit to that. Athos would go to Tréville and apologise and claim he was fine, when he really, really wasn’t. And Porthos didn’t want him to get hurt. He shuddered thinking back to that awful thump, to the sight of Athos on the ground, his pale face, his clammy skin… He didn’t want a repeat of that.
The next morning, nothing looked less likely to happen. Athos was already in the yard when Porthos woke, meticulously running through his sword drills as usual. When Porthos joined him for a round of friendly sparring, Athos was as skilful and methodical as ever. Soon, Porthos found himself sprawled on the ground, having his sword handed to him accompanied by Athos’ customary smirk.
Porthos was relieved to know it truly had been nothing but the heat. Athos was well. He wouldn’t let anything get between him and his duties.