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The Hawk
Soldiers reentered the wagon and sat at the back of it. Tristan could only interpret it as a sort of guard over him. He didn't care for that at all.
He wasn't surprised that the Romans would try something like this now. He half expected his and the knights' service to be extended for much longer. But it startled him that he was singled out. And without any aid from the knights, and so weak as he was, he would not succeed in putting the Romans in their place.
The knights—had they survived? Something told Tristan yes, that their battle had been successful. He wondered if they all lived. He wondered if they realized he was missing, or even alive. He didn't hope for it, but it would be nice. . . .
The Roman soldiers laughed raucously, glancing in Tristan's direction. He merely stared at them with half-hearted effort. It was enough, for they turned their attention to the road that passed beneath them.
A faint cry outside drew Tristan's attention. No one would normally notice it, but it was as familiar to him as a friend's voice. He leaned forward, taking care not to pressure his wounds. His eyes stared intently at the sky, now broadly lit with the morning sun. How long has it been since the battle? He pushed the thought aside as he heard the cry again.
There! There she was, his hawk, flying high up in the sky, just beneath the clouds. She's tracking me. His heart panged with hopefulness and sadness at the same time.
"Sit back!" one of the soldiers yelled at him. Tristan flickered an annoyed glare at him, and the soldier pushed him hard. The scout fell back against the wagon's side, wincing at the jolt of pain the impact generated. The soldiers laughed, but he ignored them.
He had one friend who knew where he was. . . . Tristan closed his eyes, and willed his body to recover quickly.
He slept the rest of the day, his body draining his energy as it tried to heal itself. Noon came and went, along with dusk. It was blindingly dark when the bishop's caravan stopped.
The dampness of Briton and the cold night air quickly affected Tristan. Despite the stress it caused his side, Tristan crossed his arms and hugged in whatever warmth he had. His body was trembling, a fact he tried to hide as the Roman soldiers shot sideways glances at him.
They finally got out of the carriage as the bishop returned.
"Take him to the fire," he said with haughty authority. He grinned at Tristan. "Feeling any better?"
Tristan didn't grace that with a response. He just focused on getting out of the wagon without too much pain. As he walked to the camp's fire, the reality of how weak he was hit him. He stumbled to stay on his feet, even tripping once. He caught himself, but still had to kneel for a moment.
Soldiers flanked him on either side, men he recognized as the fleas who inhabited Hadrian's Wall for some time. They lifted him up enough to keep him moving. At the fire's side, they dropped him. Tristan uttered a soft groan as he fell to his knees. He gripped at the gash in his side and sat with his back to a felled log.
The fire radiated waves of heat at him, but it wasn't encompassing. Tristan still sat with his arms crossed, shivering in the night air. He was used to cold, the miserably winter and rain and snow that plagued this land. But he normally was dressed for it.
Germanius came to the fire and sat across from him. Soldiers meandered around the fire and the caravan. There weren't any civilians here, purely a military escort. It made Tristan wonder what became of the people he and the knights left when they returned to Arthur.
"You look cold," Germanius said. Tristan shot him a look.
"Where are my things?" he asked evenly, though he felt his voice shake with the rest of his body.
Germanius nodded at one of the wagons. "Your armor and weapons you do not need now, and your clothes were soaked in blood." He watched Tristan, obviously taking some pleasure at the scout's suffering. Germanius waved his hand in the air.
A soldier brought forward a wool blanket, tossing it at Tristan. Despite his pride, Tristan quickly tucked the blanket around him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Germanius grin broader.
He scowled to himself, cursing his weakness and his luck. Why couldn't death have come like it should have? He knew the answer—Germanius. How he wished either he or the bishop was dead.
"A man so silent must be given to thought," the bishop commented over the fire. Tristan didn't bother looking at him. He tugged at the blanket, and kept his hand over his side.
"Tell me, Tristan." He hated how his name rattled off of Germanius' tongue. It almost bounced, like a sharp echo in the Italian's accent. "What do you think about?"
Only the fire answered, with the wood cackling as the heat lit it. Tristan tried to relax and stop shivering. Slowly, it worked, and he stared at the bishop that Arthur had once admired greatly.
"You cannot deny my freedom forever." The bishop jerked at his words. Tristan smirked at him. "I will return to the Wall as soon as I am well enough."
"You wouldn't get far, my young knight," Germanius chuckled. Tristan stared at him with hollow eyes. The fire glinted off them, and it didn't take long for the bishop to quiet.
Tristan leaned his head back, and waited for the night to quiet as well.
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"Still no sign of him," Gawain muttered with frustration. He hacked at the tall grass with his sword. Beside him, Bors clapped him on the back. But it was Arthur who spoke next.
"He is not among the fallen," Arthur said. "He was in the battle, I know."
"I saw him fighting," Galahad piped up. "He fought with the leader." The knights looked to each other.
"If Tristan killed him, why would he leave?" Arthur asked aloud.
The knights stood on the grassy hill, near Lancelot's grave. Each feared not finding Tristan's body, if he was slain. But the possibility that he was well, and yet not here, disturbed them. If he wasn't at Hadrian's Wall, where was he?
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The fearless knight fell asleep again. Germanius looked up at the dark sky, showing it his amusement. Tristan challenged him, basically made his intentions of leaving clear. And yet, he would never succeed.
The bishop knew this. He knew Tristan would resist for now, but eventually, the might and awe of Rome would tame him. But hopefully not too much, because his skills would benefit Rome first. They would help Germanius tame the threats within Rome. He himself probably wouldn't see it firsthand, but after some time there, someone would find Tristan, and discover what Germanius already knew.
Part of him longed to do what needed to be done, but as a man of the church, he could not. That didn't lessen his satisfaction with what he'd done or what would happen. No, he had several weeks ahead to see the scout's reactions.
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That familiar faint cry woke him. Tristan blinked quickly, trying to focus in the dawn light. He winced as his side reminded him of his injuries. But he ignored them as he saw the welcome sight soaring in the sky.
Good morning, he thought with a faint smile.
He surveyed the camp. A couple of soldiers stirred, and slowly the rest of the camp started to wake. Tristan would have tried to disappear, but he quickly dismissed that for now. He could barely get to his feet.
In fact, as he tried, he only failed and went to his knees, the blanket from the night before falling around him. His hawk cried out above him, almost in alarm. Tristan gasped for breath, and slowly peered up at the dawning sky. She flew in long arcs through the air, circling the camp.
She cried out again, this time true panic as an arrow flew by her. Tristan's throat tightened and he quickly looked around.
Three Roman soldiers were scrambling to aim arrows at his beloved bird.
"Ten silver pieces to who kills it," one said. They laughed, and Tristan's heart dropped as they pulled back on the bowstrings.
"No!" It startled them to hear a shout early in the morning, and much more so from the usually silent scout. The soldiers paused, curious. They watched as Tristan got to his feet, ignoring all pain.
And then they chuckled and took aim again.
The pain disappeared and anger took its place. Tristan tore the blanket from him and took quick, long strides toward the soldiers. His eyes widened as their fingers loosened, ready to release the arrows.
Tristan hissed and flung the blanket at the soldiers. It startled them as it half-draped and blocked them from their target. Tristan glanced up at the sky. The hawk darted away from the camp.
He breathed a sigh of relief before turning his attention to the soldiers.
"You stupid cod!" a taller soldier yelled. He dropped his bow to his side, but still gripped it in his hand. The other two, about equal in height and overall appearance, started towards Tristan.
He stood firm, even though the pain in his side was returning. The tall soldier took quick strides at him. Tristan didn't move. The soldier swung the bow at him.
Tristan quickly ducked and spun out of reach. He bit his tongue when the pain flared through his body.
The two other soldiers converged on him. Tristan managed to evade their grasp, but his injury unbalanced him, making him stumble right into the tall soldier. The Roman seized him around the neck with one arm and used the other to hit Tristan in the side.
Tristan uttered a blunt yelp. He bit down again on his tongue as the two other soldiers came at him. The tall soldier shoved him to the ground, at his comrades' feet. Tristan rolled on the ground, coughing into the moist earth.
One of the soldiers kicked him solidly in the stomach. Tristan could almost feel his stomach hit his spine. He gulped for air, for control, and fell onto his good side. His eyes were squeezed shut, trying to reign over the—
Another kick to his stomach, followed quickly by something poking his wound. Tristan tried to mute a cry through his clenched teeth. He opened his eyes in time to see the tall soldier bring down the bow towards his side.
Weakly, Tristan blocked the hit with his forearm. It didn't feel much better, but it offset the soldier's attack. He kicked at his feet, felling the Roman, but not without suffering from the movement. Tristan saw the other two soldiers coming at him, yet he couldn't get his body to move in time.
They grabbed him by the hair and held a sword to his throat. Tristan felt the metal tip at his throat. Do it. Just do it.
"Stop!" he heard nearby. "Do not kill him!"
Germanius. His commands were obeyed quickly. The soldiers dropped the sword from his throat, and with a shove, released him. Tristan fell onto his back, his chest rapidly moving as he took in air.
"He attacked us," the tall soldier grumbled. He stood and dusted off the dirt and grass from his uniform.
"I saw what happened," Germanius said. He glared at the soldiers. "Prepare to leave! You!" He pointed at the two soldiers who'd fought with Tristan. "Tie him in the wagon."
The soldiers grabbed him again and forced him to his feet. Again, he stumbled, and it frustrated him—he'd never been so affected, so clumsy, so weak.
A cry above him made the scout forget his anger momentarily. His hawk was well, again circling above but not as close this time. Tristan kept his eyes trained on the bird for as long as possible. He was denied the sight as soon as the soldiers pushed him into the wagon.
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Germanius reached for the back of the wagon and pulled himself into it. The caravan was moving along slowly in the heat of the day. He would make them hurry later.
His eyes searched the dark of the wagon, though not for long. The Sarmatian knight was situated in the back. Ropes anchored at the upper frame of the wagon tied each wrist. The height of the ropes made him have to sit up stiffly. Already his wrists were pink.
So he's tried to test his bindings. Germanius smirked, and moved to sit in front of the knight.
Tristan's eyes zeroed in on him. The bishop couldn't help but feel like a target. Even so, he steeled himself and lifted his chin. He was a bishop of the Roman church. He had nothing to fear.
He'd been waiting for this meeting. After seeing the knight leap in defense of his bird, Germanius knew what he had to do.
"How do you feel?" Germanius started with limited concern. Tristan shot him a look, and the bishop decided to dispense with the pleasantries. "It amazed me to see you so agile, fighting my men. You are very weak, but for that moment, you fought furiously."
He waited for something from the knight. The two men stared at each other. Germanius cleared his throat and continued.
"You care dearly for the bird. And you care for your brothers in arms," the bishop said, again lifting his chin a bit. Tristan cocked his head to the side, and that fueled Germanius. "Rome may have left Briton, but I can easily persuade them to return. Or to go to what people remain in Sarmatia."
He let the words hang in the air. Tristan's body was tense—he could see the curves of the muscles straining in his arms, the tight line of his jaw.
"I will make a deal with you, Tristan." The knight winced, but whatever caused it passed quickly. Germanius smiled. "You will come with me to Rome, willingly. You will do what I ask. And I will leave your knights alone. Briton will be left to Britons. And Sarmatia to Sarmatians."
He waited for something, anything. He stared at the knight, unwilling to yield or show any discomfort at the blank stares. For several moments, this battle of wills went on.
"Go to hell." Germanius almost jumped at the quiet insolence. Tristan just stared at him lazily, but the bishop could tell he would kill him if he was free.
Slowly, Germanius grinned. He laughed and stood in the ambling covered wagon. Tristan seemed unfazed, and that was starting to get to Germanius. Still laughing, he took one step towards the knight. Suddenly he quieted and struck the knight across the face.
Tristan's head snapped to the side. Germanius waited for a groan or a spark in defiance. But the knight slowly brought his head back to stare at Germanius.
Germanius felt his blood begin to boil. He lashed out again, striking Tristan across the face. His hand stung, but he wanted the knight to understand. He leaned close to the man's ear.
"You will do as I say, Tristan." He stood up straight. "Or anything you value, animal, town or man, will be destroyed."
The bishop left the wagon quickly, brushing off his hands. As he made his way to the head of the caravan, he admitted to himself that he wasn't sure who won that round.