Tristan's Story

Chapter Nine

Learning and Healing

"Learning by experience often is painful-and the more it hurts, the more you learn." Ralph Banks

Tristan watched Quentas walk into the night following Lancelot. He looked back towards Rufus' papilio where Rufus, Dag and Brumear were tending to Gareth and Lamorak. He sighed, uncertain what to do. He should probably be over at the fire reassuring Nell but truthfully, he needed some time to be alone…to think through his thoughts of this night.

Tristan opted for a visit with Paska. Besides Nell, his beloved horse was the only tie with home he had left. He walked over to the hitch line where all the horses were kept. Twice in the darkness he had to stop and identify himself – once to Lucius and once to Patrobas. Even in the short distance to the horses, security was tight. Once he reached the hitch line he went down the row of horses, familiar by now with each of them. The Romans, for the most part, rode horses from the cavalry pool maintained for the mass ranks of soldiers, the kind of horses that were steady and solid, if not very spirited. The Sarmatian horses were obviously a cut above the standard issue mounts of the Romans. Each one had a personality as distinct as its owner.

Sarmatian Knights believed that their fallen comrades came back to this world as one of the great Sarmatian war horses, and having experienced the trials and tribulations of knighthood would be able to better protect the one riding him. The highly trained horses were almost as valuable a fighting weapon as those carried by the men. A Sarmatian trained horse would fight to protect his warrior, would never leave his fallen rider, and would, in fact, protect his owner at all costs. The horse and rider formed a bond that held them steadfastly loyal to each other.

Reaching Paska, Tristan began to stroke the huge bay between the eyes, just where he liked it. "Hello, old boy," crooned Tristan. "I am in need of your wisdom tonight."

O-o-O-o-O

Quentas found Lancelot standing on the shore as near to the water as he could get without getting wet. It was obvious from the tear tracks running down his face that his torment was still not abated.

The Roman stepped up beside the boy, not speaking, but just making Lancelot aware of his presence. He would let Lancelot decide the next move. They stood side by side looking out at the vastness before them. The full moon was reflecting off the water though the stars further out were veiled by clouds. The power of the waves bore testimony of some storm too far off shore for them to even see. Oceanius Britannicus it was called by the Romans, and it washed their faces in a salty breeze, stinging their eyes occasionally by whipping up the sand.

"Centurion," the boy said softly. "What Lucius said today…about decimation…could you have done that to us?"

Quentas considered his words. "I could have, Lancelot, but I would not do that. Decimation is only used by the Legions in very rare cases. We do not normally execute our men for disobedience, though it has been done on occasion. The purpose of discipline is to train and therefore strengthen the unit."

Lancelot looked up at the Roman…his large brown eyes open windows to his vulnerable soul as he swallowed noisily.

Quentas considered the boy by his side. "Come," he motioned, "sit down here and let us talk for a moment." Quentas joined Lancelot on the cool, damp sand, aware that this could be considered a breach of military etiquette. Well, so be it. His men were otherwise occupied, so they would not observe the moment, and he felt sure that Lancelot would not abuse this instance of his lowered guard. Besides, the boy was at a crossroads. What he had witnessed tonight was meant to teach him, not inspire hatred towards all Romans.

"Tell me, Lancelot, what you felt tonight."

When the boy hesitated, Quentas encouraged him. "Speak truthfully; I will not hold it against you."

Lancelot chewed on his lip thoughtfully as he relived the moment Lamorak and Gareth had started through the gauntlet, seeing their bleeding backs again in his mind's eye. "I wanted to hit you." He paused to glance up at the Roman. "No, I wanted to kill you." A sob caught in his throat as he admitted his feelings.

"Have you eve killed anyone, Lancelot?"

"No," the boy admitted softly. "And I don't think I really wanted to kill you," he admitted.

Quentas smiled slightly and nodded, giving Lancelot a moment to compose himself. "Go on, what else did you feel?"

Lancelot sighed; his eyebrows were knotted as he thought again. "I wanted it to be me that they were hitting, and…" He paused, unsure of how to express what he was really thinking.

"And?" Quentas questioned.

Lancelot ran his hands through the sand over and over as he considered how best to explain his legion of feelings. "I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me so that I didn't have to hear those sounds any more."

"With me it was the smell," mused the Roman as his mind raced back in time to his first real battle. "I could put my mind on hold…do what I had to do, but no force of will could mask smell the blood and the fear." He glanced down at Lancelot, somewhat surprised that the smells and sights of that day had been so easily resurrected. "It is different for all of us. With you, it may be the sounds that seek you in your nightmares."

"You mean they will never go away?" gasped the boy, horrified at the thought.

"No," reassured Quentas, "they will go away, but I will not lie to you. They may also revisit you from time to time."

They were silent for a while, each lost in thought as they listened to the ancient, soothing melody of the waves crashing upon the shore. There is timelessness about the ocean that pulls man to it… that lifts the spirits and calls to him with its siren song.

"What of Lamorak and Gareth?" continued Quentas after a time. At Lancelot's confused look he illuminated. "What did you think of them?"

"I was proud of them," Lancelot replied immediately. "And I was surprised."

Quentas nodded, encouraging the boy to continue with his train of thought.

"They were brave," Lancelot exclaimed finally, "braver than I expected them to be – than I thought they could be." The boy hung his head, embarrassed to have admitted his doubts about his friends.

Quentas nodded sagely, "Look at me Lancelot."

Lancelot forced himself to meet the Centurion's eyes.

When he had the boy's full attention, Quentas continued. "They were forced to grow up tonight…and they did. I meant it when I told them they did well. Most of us have strength within ourselves that we do not know we have until we are forced to access it, Lancelot. Whether you meant to or not, you have coddled them and they let themselves be coddled and protected by you. That was a dangerous habit for you and for them. Now all of you know that they can stand on their own two feet, and you will think twice before you disobey an order from me again, will you not?"

Lancelot hung his head, smiling slightly to himself. "Yes, Centurion, I will."

"Then this lesson has served you well, Lancelot."

Quentas stood, brushing the sand from his hands and the seat of his braccae. "I believe I will look in on my horse. Why don't you check on your friends before turning in? You will sleep better if you see for yourself that they are well."

"I am allowed to do that?" questioned Lancelot hopefully.

"Of course," answered the Centurion. "I'm sure it will do you all good, though they may be groggy from Rufus' ministrations." He patted the boy on the back and walked off into the night, leaving Lancelot to consider all that had been said.

O-o-O-o-O

Paska's head bobbed up and down as though he understood every word from Tristan. Fluted nostrils flared as he sniffed the air seeking any sign of danger. Finding nothing in the air to warrant his concern, he turned his intelligent eyes to his master as he sniffed at Tristan's pockets seeking the treat he knew would be there. Tristan laughed as Paska attempted to stick his nose into a pocket that was much too small to accommodate even so soft a muzzle.

"All right, you big lug, here you go." Tristan fished a carrot from his pocket and held it in his palm as the horse nickered in pleasure. Large square teeth chomped contentedly on the treat as Tristan petted and babied his mount, scratching him between the eyes and behind the ears before running his hands lovingly down Paska's neck. "My father believes your spirit was that of his best friend, and now you are my best friend." Paska leaned into the boy as he stroked a favored place on the great stallion causing Tristan to chuckle to himself, unaware that close by Quentas had paused when he heard the boy speak. He felt guilty listening, but hoped to learn new insight into Tristan at the same time. His charge was to teach and train the boys and the better he understood them the more effective he could be, so he quelled his instinct and stayed hidden as the boy spoke softly to his horse.

"Will you speak to my spirit guide, Paska? I am in need to council." Tristan continued his rhythmic stroking of the horse as he poured out his doubts. "My father taught me many lessons so that I would not have to learn them from the Romans like my friends did tonight. My heart tells me to be angry and yet my head warns me not to listen to my heart."

The silence of the night took over as Tristan stopped talking and just continued to stroke his horse. Quentas, thinking the conversation was over, had just started to move from his position when Tristan began to speak, freezing the Roman in place once more.

"I am confused, my friend. I thought I understood what it would mean to be a warrior. I wanted to be a warrior, but when I saw Lamorak and Gareth's backs I was angry and afraid. I was angry because they were so terrified and they didn't mean to act wrongly."

Tristan's next words were spoken so softly that Quentas had to strain to hear them.

"I was afraid because it crossed my mind for a moment to lead Nell away from the attack. What would I have done if that had been Nell running through the gauntlet for something I decided?"

In the darkness, Quentas' eyebrows rose in surprise. So, Tristan had nearly run as well. That was interesting. He was pleased that the boy's common sense and whatever training it was his father had given him had overcome his instinct to flee. Quentas remembered the scene from the day he had arrived to take the boys…remembered that Tristan's father was not at the camp. He regretted that he had not allowed them to fetch the men so that the boys might give a farewell to their fathers. He mentally bereted himself for allowing his fatigue and impatience to be about the task cloud his mind. Taking the boys from their homes was always the hardest part of his duty and he tended to make it as quick as possible. Delaying the departure only caused more tearful scenes, especially from the mothers. His experience had shown him that it only made it harder for him to get the boys acclimated to their new lives if they clung too long to the memory their mother's skirts. He was glad that this was the last group of boys he would have to rip from their homes.

"I have many skills my father taught me," Tristan continued thoughtfully, "but I have never killed another person." He yelped as Paska nipped at his side, seeking another carrot where none existed. "Hey, watch where you're biting," he snorted. "Sorry, that was the last one. Perhaps there will be carrots in Britain. If not, I will find you something you like."

Quentas smiled in the darkness, silently thanking the great steed for diverting the boy from his morose thoughts. Perhaps the horse did house the spirit of a fellow warrior. This night had been a hard one for all the boys, but he believed that they would quickly recover their natural enthusiasm. The young had that capacity.

TBC

Translations:

Papilio: Tent

Braccae: Trousers which extended to just below the knees

MissBubbles, Vintersorg, and OP: Thanks so much for your reviews! You truly keep me going! Once the boys get to Britain they shall meet Arthur, and soon after I shall begin to "age" them!