"By the bloody moon and sun and however many days we been bleedin' ridin' to this accursed place, I'm damned tired!"

"Your mother would box your ears if she heard that dirty little mouth 'o yours. And it has been 137 days."

"How long!"

"Four and one-half months by their count."

"WHAT!"

"One hundred and thirty-seven days."

"By all that's unholy…!"

"We shall be there soon, I swear it."

The older man quickly reaches out, his arm swiftly steadying the increasingly slumping stout form of the younger man beside him. As though on cue, the younger man's grey horse almost comes to a halt, ensuring his charge does not pitch forward and topple off the large animal, only to be run over by the swiftly moving caravan.

"There, there, Aravind," the older one murmurs, reaching over and reassuringly patting the grey stallion's neck. The horse nuzzles his hand in turn, bowing slightly in salute as he recovers his original pace.

"Here, take this," he murmurs, tearing off a large chunk of the loaf of coarse brown bread sitting in his saddle bag and handing it off the other young one. Passing a large wine skin over as well after taking a sip of the sweet tasting liquor himself, he looks up at the sounds of the rumbling thunder, catching sight of the white slashes of lightening snapping across the gray canvas of the sky.

"This place is goin' to be too damn cold, I can feel it all damn ready," the younger man says, a pout on his lips as he takes another long swig from the skin, stuffing the last of the bread in his mouth. Snatching a tough bit of dried meat from his own saddle bag, he snaps it half, passing it to his companion as he says, "I wanna go home. Now."

"Can't," the older one chuckles, mouth full.

"We could take 'em!" the younger one retorts, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just slash the fat soldier's throat and the rest 'o these cowards would give up like that, the pompous bastards!"

"And where we would go after we kill the Pontifex Maximus, Cossus? Assuming the rest of the legion doesn't crucify us and all the other knights on the spot for mutiny?"

"Away! Just keep riddin' 'till we get to the coast. Get passage on that infernal ship and sail on 'ome."

"And how would we pay for passage, little one?"

The younger one snorts derisively, casting a particularly ferocious sideways glare at his companion. He damn well knows he didn't like being called 'little one.' Unforgivable! And too much like his own damn family. He's always hated being the baby out of five older sisters…though he wouldn't mind all cooing and constant deluge of disgustingly girlish things they seem to love doing all the time right about now. In fact, he'd even put up with being called 'little one,' if it meant he never had to come to this vile, washed out place.

Blinking rapidly, he wills himself to push back the tears, bitterness setting in again.

"…I don't…just walk…ehrm…sneak on the damned ship!"

"Just that easy?"

"I said 'sneak,' you son of a whore!"

"That 'whore' is your mother's sister."

"Well…you're just a…tub of bloody guts!"

"Well done!"

"I should cut yer throat right 'ere!"

"I'd like to see you try," the older one replies with a chuckle. "So, after, we steal passage on this ship, which carries a sentence of losing an ear, what then? Since we'll have to leave the horses behind on account of not bein' able to afford their ferrying on another ship, what then?"

"We…just…steal some more horses!"

"Another death sentence. Or losing a hand at minimum. But we won't get caught since we'll sneak through, right?"

"Right!" the younger one retorts, head held high with pride at his foolproof plan.

"So then do we ride, or walk to get back home? Foreigners in a strange land, fugitives from Roman law for mutiny and murdering a high Roman Commander. Not to mention we have no clue of how to head back considering we haven't been there in 3 years…"

"Head East, you dimwit!"

"Of course. Granted you've haven't been back for four months and I haven't for the better part of 3 seasons or so. And no one will be looking for two big Sarmatians anyway?"

"No! The empire's falling apart! You've heard the whispers."

"Of course it is. That's why we're here now…"

"I bloody hate you!"

"Of course you do!" the older one chuckles again. His companion shoots him a murderous glare, finding himself unable to say anything. Sitting lower in his saddle, mumbling a string of curses in his native tongue that would cause your average seasoned whore to blush, he finds himself seriously contemplating his companion's demise.

"I'm still bloody damn cold!" he hears himself grumble some minutes later.

"You've got on more furs on than the rest of us combined! Not to mention that silly wrap 'bout your head!"

"Doesn't make it any damn better!"

"Surprising, considering you've finished off half the wine already," the older one says, snatching away the skin and corking it.

"If you don't shut-up, I'll tell Cossus you stole one of his best wines," the younger one blusters, though he smacks his lips to get the last of the lingering taste of the honey-flavored drink.

"He'd never believe you. Thinks I'm too big and stupid to be so quiet to sneak past his sentries to his vittle stores."

"You did, did you, yeah? How'd you get to be so quiet on those ogre feet of yours all t'sudden?"

The older one shrugs nonchalantly, a smile creeping onto his face.

"The black-haired one with the braids and the ruddy eagle tattoo on the inside of his wrist, yeah?" he replies, nodding to the tall, lanky man on the white charger ahead of them. "That one from the far-off East taught me,"

"Him? He's…odd."

"Not any more than the rest of us."

"Didn't even know he talked. Just sits there and stares at you, like this." The younger one leans forward in his saddle, puffing up his cheeks, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes in a look of mock concentration. "Don't think he sleeps either. Just sits there, all silent and quiet like. It's strange, just so, I don't know, animal. Hell, Cossus hates 'im something fierce. Always makin' him do sentry duty. But he seems to like it, ya know?" he continues, waggling his eyebrows in an attempt to stifle an uneasy laugh. As eerie as the Eastern man is, it still makes him laugh just picturing the terrified look on the mean Roman's fat face whenever he gathers up the courage to even speak to the apparently mute Easterner.

"He's just quiet 'til you get to know him."

"Yeah, and I'm the emperor's son, Dag."

"Sure you are, Bors. Sure you are," he replies, lightly cuffing him on the ear with a laugh and quickly riding ahead to avoid retaliation

"Old man," the younger one mutters, slumping in his saddle once more.

"Oi! Look out there, you wouldna wanna go fallin' from a fine creature like that, eh?" a cheery voice yells out after a while, the sound of hooves echoing in Bors' ears. The Roman soldiers in from of him swing about in their saddles, glaring at the owner of the voice, only causing him to shoot a bright smile right back at them. Almost simultaneously rolling their eyes in complete contempt, they turn away, focusing their attention on the road ahead.

"Go 'way, or I'll sick Dag on ya."

"Ah, don't whine. It's unbecoming on you."

"What do you care!"

"I don't. I just don't like looking at ugly things. And as far as you go, you don't need anything else ugling you up any further."

"I should break your neck…"

"Nah, ya won't."

"Why?"

"Because ya like me. Everyone does. I'm that charming. Hell, even that fat git Cossus can't help looking at me."

"He just wants yer ass, Gaheris," Bors replied, rolling his eyes.

"Could you blame a man?" he replied with a steady chuckle, his round, tanned face turning red, dark green eyes sparkling in the waning sunlight. Running his slim fingers through the golden hairs that have escaped his braid, he sits up straighter in his saddle, the black charger snorting proudly as he pulls it into a fancy gait.

"I will blame you when we hear you screaming out for your mama behind some bush as he takes what he'll think is rightfully his, showoff."

"Nah, he wouldn't."

Bors snorts in disbelief. "Of course, because he loves you so much, he'll be all slow 'n gentle-like as he pounds your fat as…"

"My, such words. Dagonet will be disappointed."

"Shut-up."

"I would like to, but you're so fascinating to talk to, my man!"

"I'm not yer man." Bors snaps.

" 'Tis ashame. I'd think poor Dag would get tired of you."

"Quite a surprise your brothers aren't tired of you."

"How could they be? Hundreds of 'o leagues we've traversed, you've got to provide entertainment of some sort."

"'Tis what the taverns are for."

"All find and dandy if you're got the money, which most of us don't."

"Thanks for reminding me!" Bors mutters. After a while, he looks up again, seeing the citadel in front of them finally seems to be closer.

"Shouldn't you be watching them?" Bors asks, breaking the silence, voice softening as he took in the sight of the rest of that group. Just to his side, he can just make out through the increasingly dense grey mist Gawain asleep in his saddle, his usually stout and straight form almost completely hunched over. Ahead of him rides Agravaine, slouched and muttering to himself in his usual strange way that no one has really quite become used to.

"They'll be fine," Gaheris says after a while with a casual wave of his hand. "Just tired, 'tis all. Most of them being so young and such. Too young, frankly."

"Except for Agravaine."

"Yes," Gaheris replies quickly. "Who can forget Agravaine?" he adds as almost an afterthought.

Suddenly, Agravaine snaps out his ramblings, head turning swiftly in their direction as though he's heard them, though it would be impossible considering his distance from them. Almost unnaturally pale gray eyes narrowing in suspicion, he glares at them both, a sneer quickly making its way his face, contorting his oddly smooth and young looking features into a mask of hatred. Bors blanches slightly while Gaehris simply snorts and grins, easily holding his older brother's unnervingly feral gaze. After a while, he tips his cap to him, causing Agravaine to look away, immediately falling back into his ramblings.

"Uh…is he well?"

"No. And yes. But aren't we all a little mad, my man?"

"No."

"Aye, we are. Some of us are just more likely to admit it."

"Like you."

"Oh, a hit! You are improving, Bors."

"Erhm, thanks?"

"Of course," Gaheris replies, grin slipping back into place. Glancing back to Agravaine, he inwardly breathes a sigh of relief as another horse approaches. At least it looks like his brother had finally made at least one friend.

Friendship proves the last thing on Agravaine's mind as he lightly spurs his chestnut brown charger on. The large animal snorts in what surely must be derision, refusing to increase its pace, leaving its rider to sigh in defeat. There's no point it anyway; for no matter how many times he looks up, the stone walls of the citadel seem the same distance away. Cursing to himself in his native tongue, he reverts back to quietly reciting as many lines of the old stories his father had used to lull them to sleep him night after night as they huddled together in their tent on the windswept steppes. It keeps his mind from focusing on the utter dreadfulness of trip so far. And most importantly, it helps him to remember; from the start, he has vowed to never forget his village, where he came from, the tales and legends of his once proud people. By the gods, his people are still proud, better than these damn Romans, too weak to use their own inferior cavalries for their dirty work. They can break his body, ridicule his obstinacy, call him mad, attempt to assuage him with false ideas of "civilization," and whatever else they have up their decidedly unworn sleeves. He'll never budge, never become one of the so called "Romanized" and "enlightened." Let them think he's insane; it keeps the accursed Romans away from him, scared for their pathetic little lives, and forces only the best of his fellow lot to attempt to engage him. Besides, everybody knows dying alone proves far better than mixing yourself up in some false sense of utterly useless brotherhood.

"And they say misery does not love company."

"Watch yourself, young pup. I'm liable to cut your tongue out. Or haven't you been listening to our Roman brethren?"

"I am insulted!"

"When are you not?"

"When are you not mumbling to yourself, trying to convince everyone you're certifiably insane?"

"You assume much."

"I only assume what you want the others to think. There's only so much wool you can pull over my eyes."

"I'd like to pull a noose over your neck…"

"But you won't."

"Why not!"

"Because you need me. You find me amusing despite your best efforts at this supposed play of madness," the younger man replies with a self-satisfied smile.

Agravaine rolls his eyes at the petty exchange. Don't they get it? He has no desire to waste his time with anyone, let alone this Iazyge of the South. Completely ignoring the other man, he spurs his horse forward, shocked to find it actually responding. Unfortunately, this does not stop the other one from doing the same.

"Come now, Agravaine, do not be short with me," the dark eyed knight says, an exaggerated look of offense on his face. "I simply wish not to see my friend so…out of sorts."

"Your friend! As though you care, Lancelot."

"You would be surprised," he replies, voice dropping and becoming serious. "But do not worry, we're almost there," he nods happily to the citadel, its stone walls coming up fast on account of his horse's steadily increasing gallop.

"And that will make it all better, yes?" Agravaine replies harshly. "It will only mean the beginning of the end."

"Well, at least the beginning starts with a warm bed a bit of food and what will hopefully be a large company of some rather attractive maids," the young man replies, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. This causes a slight, if feral grin to come to his companion's face as he shakes his head.

"How many seasons do you have to your insipid little life?"

"Fifteen or so, so they say," Lancelot replies.

"So how do you even know what to do with said maids?" Agravaine asks in barely hidden disbelief.

"Older cousins do talk," Lancelot replies unsteadily, his cheeks beginning to redden. Seeing the man's reaction, Agravaine's mouth twists into a full smile, causing his grey eyes to light up, significantly changing his whole face and making it almost unnervingly handsome. "I see. 'Tis simply all bluster," he replies matter-of-factly, giving Lancelot a derisive once over. "You're but a mere babe," he continues, voice suddenly sounding distant, if not a bit distressing.

"Aye, but what does it matter?" Lancelot replies after a while, perking up and spurring on his horse, causing Agravaine to do the same. "I will certainly be younger than you by the time this is all done, old man!" he calls out behind him. Agravaine rolls his eyes again, but does not hesitate to catch up. Granted, he's found himself unable to stop the young pup from shadowing his every move for the last few seasons, so there's no point in losing him now. He's liable to get himself killed with that mouth of his, he thinks. Not that I'm concerned, he quickly reminds himself. After all, he's a madman, there for the warm beds and wanton wenches.

Iazyge – There were probably four tribes of Sarmatians. The Iazyges lived in the south, on the shores of the Sea of Azov, with the Roxolani were moving to the west. The Urgi lived in the north on the banks of the Dnepr, in the neighborhood of modern Kiev. There was also an ancient Scythian tribe, the Royal Scythians, a few of which still lived in the east of Ukraine by early Roman times. However, most of them eventually became allies with and were absorbed into the Sarmatian Urgi.