The Fear of Rome
Germanius watched the knights as they took their papers, some albeit threateningly. The verge they were on—about to snap and kill—
And for what? A fallen pagan? He almost snorted aloud, and would have, if it weren't for the tension. His Roman guards glanced at each other as the dark-haired scout approached.
He inspected the box that held their papers, and then simply took it. Germanius almost smiled at the final defiance.
Such pride. Such insolence.
They would all suffer. Most likely at the hands of the Saxons.
Germanius turned and left the Sarmatians to their grief.
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Morning came quickly, and with it, Germanius was ready to leave. Britain was a place he long thought should be abandoned. It was too uncivilized, and the barbarians that inhabited the land could slaughter each other for all he cared. They could slaughter the knights too. Or the Saxons. Or any variation.
Germanius pushed back the long arms of his robe and dipped his hands into a basin of water. Horton quickly came forward with a towel.
"Is the caravan ready?" Germanius asked. Horton bowed and nodded.
"At your command."
Germanius smirked and nodded.
"Let us return home."
No one came to bid him farewell, though he hadn't expected it of the knights. Arthur, maybe, but he seemed taken with the pagan Woad girl. As the bishop mounted his horse, amidst the caravan, he saw the knights riding ahead. A shout echoed across the land as the bald one honored Arthur.
Again, Germanius smirked. He raised his hand and motioned forward, and he and his caravan started out of the fort.
It didn't take long, he noticed, for the knights to abandon their flight and return to Arthur. It vaguely impressed Germanius. Such loyalty—and to a dreamer such as Arthur.
The Roman procession made it to the trees, out of range of the coming battle. Germanius held up his arm. A soldier came to his side.
"Bishop?" he inquired. Germanius gazed over the damp land at the knights, all waiting on the hill for the battle.
"Lead them ahead," he said. "Leave me five soldiers. We will watch the battle."
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Woads, Sarmatians, one Roman, and thousands of Saxons fought and bloodied the land. The fighting was fierce, the battle cries deafening along with the final shouts of death.
Germanius's lips curled in half disgust and delight at the scene before him. His eyes narrowed in on each knight.
Lancelot, the dark-hair adulterer, chose his opponent out of misguided passion. He fought to save the Woad woman, and Germanius watched the knight succumb to foolishness.
Gawain and the bald knight fought savagely, roaring in the blood they spilt. It made Germanius cringe, more because of their barbarism than anything else. The youngest knight, Galahad, fought effectively enough to stay alive, and quickly passed from Germanius' attention.
Arthur was heroic as always, stalwart, and completely predictable. Not far from him, though, stood the Saxon leader, and instead of fighting the leader of his enemy, he fought the dark, silent scout.
Germanius' curiosity was raised. Tristan, the scout, took great care in form and grace. He and the Saxon leader fought, their efforts concentrated and efficient. But the Saxon was winning.
That's when Germanius discovered Tristan's strength and weakness. He'd fought simply to fight, for the honor of battle, the honor of death. A warrior. That, in a word, was Tristan.
The Saxon stabbed Tristan in the side, a second wound after a slight cut earlier. From where he sat atop his horse in the trees, Germanius saw the pain on the scout's face. But he didn't give up. Even as the Saxon allowed him to pick up his sword again, or even run away.
"Ortegius," Germanius called forward one of his soldiers. "Kill the Saxon leader."
He watched ahead, waiting as Tristan slumped to the ground, ready to accept death. Suddenly an arrow shot by, and landed in the Saxon as he was about to bring the death stroke on the scout.
The Saxon leader fell. Tristan seemed surprised, making Germanius chuckle from his vantage point. The scout was too weak though, and fell back against the grass.
"Ortegius," the bishop called forward again. "Retrieve the scout. He's coming with us."
With that, the bishop turned back to the road, ready for home. And with him, he would take a warrior, who could serve Rome well.
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Death. How he was prepared for it—ready to embrace it. Odd, that death was the one thing he was ready to show emotion for. And not any person's death, not Dagonet, not his fellow knights, but only his own death.
He didn't expect death to keep company.
That was his first clue that perhaps this was not death—the voices around him. The pain in his side was Tristan's second clue.
He opened his eyes, seeing dark shapes of people he'd heard around him. They moved like water before him, swirling, merging, morphing. Tristan blinked, just as a sharp jolt of pain went through his side. He clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. The wetness of his own blood covered his left side, and a broad portion of it. But there was pressure over the wound, and circling his chest.
Tristan opened his eyes, and tried his sight again. He raised his head and peered at his side. Any armor he'd worn was off, as well as his usual tunic. He was left in a thin undergarment, and his pants and boots. Not even his dagger and sword were to be found. The pressure around his chest was some cloth of sort, stemming his wound from bleeding. He could see the strip of cloth peaking through the open neck of the shirt.
Which begged the question—
"We have no healer in our company, but you should live," came a voice. Tristan moved his eyes only towards the sound. It was a soldier, Roman, of course. By him sat two other soldiers. They stopped talking to stare at him.
Tristan looked from one to the next, and finally around the wagon he lay in.
"Arthur," he started. His voice croaked. "The Saxons—" Something caught in his throat, and Tristan coughed violently. His whole side shot up in protest, and his hands flew to his side before he could still himself.
"The Bishop says you should lie still," the same voice said. "The Saxons are not your concern."
The Bishop . . . Saxons . . . Arthur. Nothing connected in his mind. He only remembered fighting the Saxon leader, and failing miserably. That sky—gray with smoke and ash—and him staring at it, seeing his hawk fly away a final time.
Pain and fatigued made him succumb. Whether he wanted to or not, he would have to make sense of everything later.
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Germanius climbed into the wagon, his eyes on the still scout. His men reported that he'd awoken briefly, but sure enough, the scout was asleep now. Germanius waved away the soldiers, and they climbed out of the wagon.
The bishop sat by the man's side, his hands poised almost in prayer as he waited. Even unconscious, the scout was observant. He started to stir, and slowly his eyes opened.
If he was surprised at seeing Germanius, he didn't show it. The scout studied him for a moment, then looked away to the major gash in his side.
"You are in pain?" Germanius asked. Tristan didn't even look at him until he spoke, and not answering the question.
"It was you who shot the Saxon," Tristan said.
Germanius smiled. "Yes. One of my soldiers." He waited for the scout to say more.
"Why did you interfere?" His eyes bore into the bishop, trying to decipher him. Being under the scrutiny made Germanius smile again.
"You are different than the other knights," he said. "You fight to fight—nothing more or less. A man of such battle should not be wasted."
Tristan didn't react, or at least he didn't show anything. He merely looked away and laid a hand over his wound as he gingerly sat up.
"Thank you for the help," the scout muttered. The bishop doubted his sincerity. "I should return to the knights." A slight hiss escaped the scout's lips as his movement disagreed with his injuries.
"You're in no condition to leave," Germanius said. His eyes became cool and his lips curled in an all-knowing smirk. "Besides, there is much for you to see still. We head for Rome. A great city, a city that could use a man with your talents."
Tristan stared at the bishop, still no emotion on his face.
"Rome has used me already," he said simply. Germanius nodded, a smile spreading over his lips.
"Yes. And now what? You are a warrior. Arthur seeks peace, but there is always a fight, always a battle," he said. "Rome needs a warrior, Tristan." Upon hearing his name so directly, the scout tensed. Germanius waited.
"I've earned the freedom to choose my battles," Tristan said. It amazed Germanius how succinct the man's sentences were; everything was clipped and to the point. It amused the bishop. Tristan began to inspect his thin shirt, or more, his skin beneath for further injuries.
The bishop shifted his body and leaned back against the rocking wagon. The folds of his robe layered around him and pooled at his feet as he faced Tristan.
"Did you know," he began, "that some cultures demand that if you save a life, that life is yours?" He was pleased that the scout stopped his inspection. Slowly, the Sarmatian looked up. "I would expect a knight of the Round Table to honor such a deed."
"I've served Rome for fifteen years," Tristan said quickly, revealing aggravation that the bishop didn't expect. It delighted him, and he grinned to show it.
"My dear Sarmatian knight," he said, "I'm not asking you to serve Rome." He watched as his words hung in the air and slowly sunk into the scout. He waited for several moments, wondering if the scout would say anything in defiance or accept his fate.
When he remained silent, Germanius stood and gathered the yards of his robe.
"Rest, Tristan," the bishop said. "The journey to Rome is a long one."
a/n: I never liked it that Tristan died, so I thought up a different ending for him. This will be a nice action/drama, and I hope you all read it and review it! I haven't pre-written tons of this like I normally do my other stories, but I should update relatively quickly.