by Max Rissman
The axe fell, swooshing through space as it seamlessly sliced off the head of a common thief, the
final execution of the day. The head fell with a thud into the bucket, to be carted off to the castle gate and mounted on its pike next to all the others. I shivered in the cold, pulling my cloak around me as the peasants, guildsman, tavern keepers, foot soldiers and whoever else had gathered to watch day’s executions wandered off to get senseless on ale and wail on each other, or on their children if they weren’t in the mood for a fair fight.
Only a few government ministers had gathered to watch the day’s decapitations. Although they were encouraged to attend executions regularly, beheadings had been so numerous the past winter that it had become nearly impossible to follow the directive whilst getting one’s work done. But I attended them all. Not because I enjoyed watching heads roll, mind you, or even to curry favor with the king. Lord knows I had more favor with the king than I could handle. No, I attended every single gruesome show of justice, often slaving away late into each night and rising before the cock crowed to finish my preparations, because it was my one chance to see… him.
After washing the blood off his axe and strapping it into his leather sheath, the object of my obsession descended the ladder leading from the chopping block to the ground. He casually joked with the stablemaster whilst feeding his horse some hay, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the afternoon decapitating the condemned. And then he swung into the saddle, gave his horse a swift kick, and was off. I watched until he was an unrecognizable speck in the distance before mounting my own horse and galloping in the direction of the palace, where my work awaited me.
As I trotted along the dirt paths leading to the looming castle, I realized I didn’t know anything about the man who’d enchanted me so. As the royal minister for social events and celebratory occasions, I could have bedded any strapping stable boy, dock worker, night watchman or even some of the knights and courtiers who were known to have certain proclivities. I also knew that with the king’s wedding only five months away, the last thing I should be focusing my attention on was some brute executioner.
I was being crushed by a constant influx of impossible tasks, with all the silks to be designed and
ordered from China, the game and wild beasts to be shipped from Tunisia, the paintings and busts to be commissioned from the finest artists throughout all of Eurasia, not to mention the food and wine, musicians, dancers, jugglers, acrobats, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The perfume alone would cost more than all the sheep that the kingdom of Bazallaria exported each year, and I was in charge of making all the arrangements. But I was helpless. Each morning I woke vowing to skip that day’s executions, and each evening I found myself on frosty ground, straining to catch a glimpse of the executioner’s sparkling green eyes.
I led my horse to the castle stable, leaving it to devour its dinner, before making my way up the winding staircase to my chambers. I heard knocking as I grew closer, and when I turned the corner I
found none other than His Majesty himself standing outside my room, his bodyguards pounding on the door. My visage remained stony, but images of my head rolling through the gutter flooded my mind.
“Where’ve you been, Amis?” the king thundered.
“At the executions, Sire. You decreed all your ministers must attend, remember?”
“Don’t take me so literally. I needed you here, now.”
“And here I am, sire. Won’t you come inside?” I withdrew a cast iron key from my cloak and
opened the door, letting the king lead the way.
King Vargas was a plump man, as most kings were. There wasn’t much point in being king if you
weren’t going to partake in the daily feasts and orgies. As my imported Italian armchair creaked under his weight, I wondered if he would have me decapitated if it broke and he fell on his ass. He had executed advisors for far less. I knelt in front of him, but he gestured for me to stand.
“Let’s get to the point, shall we?” my liege said as he poured himself a glass of port from my carefully curated collection. He took a long healthy pull, wiped his mouth, and continued. “My bride-to-be has been betraying me. Don’t ask me something silly, like ‘are you sure?’ I wouldn’t be king for long if I didn’t have a nose for sniffing out backstabbers and rats.”
“Good God,” I stammered.
“If God were good, he wouldn’t have saddled me with that whore,” the king snorted.
“So…does that mean the wedding is off?”
“On the contrary, it is very much on. Her head will roll in style, and that’s why I’ve come to talk to you about it.” He proceeded to detail his grand scheme, which consisted of his executioner popping out of a hollowed-out wedding cake and beheading his bride. Though mortified, I couldn’t help but mentally roll my eyes. Executioners popping out of cakes was cliché even in Tristan the Terrible’s time.
“Sire…Princess Lovelace’s entire family will be in attendance,” I stammered.
“All the better, we’ll fill them with arrows and expand our empire threefold. Don’t worry about the politics, just worry about the cake.”
“Well, we’d certainly need a bigger cake than what we’ve been planning. And it would be a lot heavier to transport, considering a man will be hiding inside. I’ll need to weigh him and take his measurements.”
“Excellent, I knew I could count on you. I’ll summon the executioner to your fitting room tomorrow morning. Ah, this is going to be a smashing success, I can feel it!”
And with that, King Vargas was out the door. I waited until the footsteps of his goons had receded into the distance before collapsing into my armchair. Had I heard correctly? The executioner, the source of my longings and all those sleepless nights, was coming to my studio tomorrow. I could hardly breathe.
I spent all night frantically rearranging my studio, polishing the mirrors and placing fresh candles in the chandeliers. After fretting over which of my favorite surcoats to wear for nearly two hours, I collapsed in a heap from exhaustion and woke to the sound of pounding at my door. “One moment” I hollered, checking myself in the mirror and cringing at my disheveled hair and dark circles under my eyes. I took a deep breath, pulled my eyelids open with my two fingers and hoped for the best.
As he strode into my studio, his long golden hair flowing from his delectable scalp and his broad shoulders barely fitting through my pathetic doorframe, he smiled and extended his hand. This was an egregious violation of decorum, as I was a member of the royal court and typically would have received nothing less than a bow from a low-ranking executioner, but it sent shivers of delight rippling up my spine. How simple. Unfettered. Authentic. I took his massive, calloused hand and almost let out a yelp of pain as he squeezed mine firmly, staring into my eyes.
Oh what I would have given to be on his chopping block, quivering as he loomed over me with his axe shining in the sun. “My name is Amis,” I managed to stammer, though my tongue felt like it was coated in molasses.
“Rudolph,” he replied, tossing his wolfskin coat on the rack.
As I sat him down and began to take his measurements, he hummed a tune that tickled some memory buried deep within me. “What is it that you’re humming?” I asked.
He grinned and replied, “A drinking song.”
“I don’t know any drinking songs, and I haven’t been to a tavern in over ten years, but it sounds so familiar.”
“Maybe you passed by a tavern and heard someone singing it? My father was a barkeep. I grew up in his tavern, knew all the drinking songs.”
I dropped my ruler as my mind was flooded with memories. The boy who’d been sitting on his father’s bar stool the day my own father, a royal collections agent, had taken me on his rounds to see what men did for a living. I remembered staring at him from across the room as his father brandished a broken bottle at my old man, roaring about how the so-called king had robbed blind, while my father frowned and casually scribbled in his ledger. He calmly explained that that the tavern was now property of the crown, and the king’s guard would be requisitioning the property within a fortnight. The boy looked so thoughtful and melancholy back then, a far cry from the brash, bold, strapping specimen sitting in my chair, but they were unmistakably the same.
Rudolph glanced up at me, puzzled, as I felt my way to a chair and sat, struggling to compose myself. “You’re shaking. You haven’t the plague, have you?”
“No, no plague, nothing like that. It’s just…I’m afraid we’ve met before, under painful circumstances. You see, my father was a tax collector for the king. He ordered the closure of your father’s tavern. I was just a boy when it happened, but I would understand if you hated me.”
Rudolph looked stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. “My father was a rotten bastard. Why do you think I became an executioner? To rid this kingdom of rogues like him.”
“You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. In fact, I owe you a drink. At a real tavern, not that dingy shithole my father couldn’t manage to keep afloat.”
And with that, Rudolph leapt out of his chair and threw his coat back on. Before I could protest that we hadn’t finished weighing him or taking his measurements, he was out the door.
His laughter rattled the bar, such that I was forced to grip my glass with both hands to keep ale from spilling all over my tunic. I didn’t previously realize that I had a sense of humor, but this man seemed to be laughing at nearly everything I said. I felt myself possessing a certain charisma when I was with him, a looseness and unselfconsciousness. Perhaps Rudolph’s unabashed shamelessness was wearing off on me, and it felt good.
After the third or fourth round, Rudolph grinned and clapped his massive hand over my bird-like shoulder. “So why’s the king getting me measured, anyway? He wants a dapper executioner with class and manners, is that it? ‘Scuse me, sir, would you mind if I chopped your head off?’”
I choked down the last of my beer. I was hoping he’d already have been informed of King Vargas’s plan, but it now seemed my burden to break the news. “King Vargas…has ordered the execution of his bride. He wants you to leap out of their wedding cake and behead her right there in front of everybody.”
“Well, that old Vargas always knew how to put on a good show,” Rudolph chuckled. “And I’m assuming my head’ll be next?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Well, because I’m the one who’s been getting cozy with the princess.”
My heart stopped, and my ears filled with a high-pitched tone. Rudolph looked unfazed as he slurped down the last of his ale and ordered another round.
“How…how can you be so calm?” I managed to force out of my chattering lips.
“We’ve all got to go sometime. After lopping off heads for as long as I have, you get used to the notion. I’ve had a good life. I mean, how many sons of broke barkeeps get a chance to roll around with a princess?”
A rage filled me that I hadn’t known I was capable of. I slammed my empty glass down on the bar, an unthinkably histrionic gesture for me, though it must have been completely ordinary for everyone else. I looked Rudolf in the face, my own contorting into what I hoped looked like determination but could as well have appeared more like constipation.
“I just met you, Rudolph. It isn’t fair I have to let you go so soon. You might treat life like a plaything to be tossed aside but you mean something to people. You mean something to me.”
Rudolph grinned at me, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “I figured as much. You’ve had that lustful look in your eye since I walked into your tailor shop this morning.”
“No, you’re wrong,” I sputtered. “Calling it lust is an insult, what I feel for you is pure, true love.”
“Well, well, well. Sounds like you really mean it. I’m flattered, but there’s not much you can do if
the king wants my head. Might as well live it up these next few months while we can.”
“I have a plan,” I said as the barman refilled my glass.
The following months were a blur. King Vargas was a nightmare as usual, turning away shipments of flamingos from India because their legs weren’t long enough and reconfiguring the entire color scheme for the drapery after the silks had already arrived from China. His Majesty would never pass up an opportunity to make impossible aesthetic demands, even though the wedding was just a farcical guise for an execution, and he increased taxes throughout the kingdom to pay for it all. The only thing that made those months tolerable were the beheadings, which I still attended regularly. After Rudolph was finished with his last decapitation of the day, we would meet by the stream and he would allow me to wash the blood off his body. Though what initially attracted me to him was his frank, uncomplicated brutishness, he revealed himself to possess a sensitive soul with an interest in poetry and music, and discovering these new layers in him was a source of endless delight.
The day of the wedding finally arrived. The roads were clogged with carriages making their way to the castle from kingdoms as far as Palloy, and the church was so packed that even the Duke and Duchess of Gundria were forced to wait outside. As the vows were exchanged, I couldn’t help but notice the sneer spread across King Vargas’s face as he regurgitated the words “till death do us part.”
After proceeding from the church to the great hall via a path covered in flower petals and gold coins, the guests began to dine on the rarest, most endangered species from around the globe. I took a deep breath, knowing the moment was close. Princess Lovelace looked nervous, as if she suspected she were walking into a trap, though her extended family seemed contended enough to guzzle wine and poached pheasant egg despite the cadre of archers sitting in the upper balcony awaiting the signal. I withdrew into the kitchen to find the hollowed-out cake, crafted to my precise specifications, and Rudolph leaning against his freshly sharpened axe. I held Rudolph’s hands, possibly for the last time.
“These last few months have been the best of my life,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
“You’re truly noble, you know that? Plenty of bastards call themselves noblemen, but it’s just a
meaningless title. You deserve it, though.”
It took six servants to carry the cake to the throne where the king and queen were sitting, and every step felt like an eternity. When the cake was finally set down, I withdrew the carving knife from my sleeve and sliced the top of the cake off as quickly as I could, bursting through the top and fighting my way through the frosting. King Vargas narrowed his eyes, his fury masked behind a bemused smile.
“What is this, some kind of joke?” he shouted.
“It’s a warning to you, Queen Lovelace, and to your family. King Vargas intended for his executioner to hide within the wedding cake, beheading you before King Vargas’s archers rained arrows down upon your family. I was enlisted to assist in this plot, but I could not in good conscience carry it out.”
“This is absurd! I ordered that the court jester be hidden within the cake, not the executioner! This man is lying, or else he’s completely insane. Ergot poisoning, I suspect.”
I must confess that King Vargas is quite a talented actor, nearly convincing me that I had made a horrible mistake or really was delusional. I locked eyes with Rudolph from across the room and was flooded with feelings of strength and calm.
“See the archers on the balcony. Do they belong in a wedding?”
“They’re for my protection. I never enter a room without my archers, everybody knows that.”
“King Vargas will proffer the perfect excuse to counter anything I say. For that he is unmatched in his skill. But I can only offer my warning and pray that you will heed it. Save yourselves and avoid this senseless bloodshed,” I preached to the queen’s guests.
Murmurs rippled throughout the hall, and Queen Lovelace’s mother and father gestured for their bodyguards to encircle them with shields. King Vargas rolled his eyes and scratched his nose, the signal for his archers to stand down.
“Calm down, nobody’s going to die today,” King Vargas bellowed. “This is a celebratory occasion. The next course is hummingbird heart a la mode!”
“We think we will be taking our leave, your Majesty, we have a long journey back to Plitz,” Queen Lovelace’s father muttered as his guards began escorting him out of the hall. “We trust our daughter will be safe, for we needn’t remind you of our superior naval capacity and the ease with which we would place Bazallaria’s ports under siege.”
“Don’t be absurd, you just got here, and Plitz is a three day’s drive,” King Vargas brayed, but it was too late. All of Queen Lovelace’s relations were pouring out of the hall as fast as their legs could carry them, and the queen herself looked white as a sheet. King Vargas turned to me and dropped his bemused veneer, snapping his fingers as his guards lifted me off my feet and carried me outside to the pillory. I felt a feeling of lightness ripple through my body as they locked my head and arms into place, watching the moonlight glint off the gently falling snowflakes.
A dusting of snow covered the ground when they spiked my head on a pike near the south gate of the palace, but the buds on the trees were beginning to open and the crocuses were in bloom – the first signs of spring. I’d spend the week in the pillory humming to myself the drinking tunes that Rudolph taught me in our months together, and even when the rats gnawed at my feet and the waifs and riffraff threw feces at my face, I couldn’t stop beaming. Rufus visited me at night when the kingdom was asleep, bringing me ale and feeding me jerky, though it was tough to swallow with my neck shackles so tight as to push up against my throat. I kept dreading the day when Rudolph would appear in the pillory beside me, but that day never came. King Vargas must have forgotten all about the man who cuckolded him in his blind rage for me, or perhaps he thought it might arouse suspicion if he executed his own executioner without cause.
The day of my death played out just as I’d always fantasized. I knelt before Rudolph’s chopping block, watching him tower above me with his glistening axe resting on his massive shoulder. “Any last words,” he said in low baritone, a voice which still made me quake each time I heard it.
“None,” I said. “I am content.”
I lay my neck on his chopping block and felt the cool wooden surface against my cheek. Though I couldn’t see him, I sensed Rudolph hoist the axe off his shoulder and allow it to swing to his foot in his characteristic way I’d seen him do so many times. I closed my breath and muttered, “Thank you,” before he arched his axe through the air and swung it down with such speed that it took me nearly a minute to realize I was dead. When my head was lying on the ground, looking up at my breathtakingly beautiful executioner, my mouth lolled open in joyful adoration.
I now watch the executions from farther away than I would like to, the men and horses in the distance now silhouettes against the setting sun. But I can still sometimes catch the reflection of light that glances off my dear Rudolph’s axe as it comes crashing down, and I feel the bliss of his blade against my neck all over again. Pure serenity. Ecstasy. Perfection.
Max Rissman is an author and filmmaker living in Pasadena, CA. His short films have screened at the Austin Film Festival among many others, and he is currently in post-production on Upon Waking, his first feature film as writer and director. He is currently working on a collection of short horror fiction about weddings and getting married, and his fiancé has assured him she is cool with it.
