My laughter is over, my step loses lightness,
old countryside measures steal soft on my ears;
I only remember the past and its brightness,
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.
From out of the shadows their loving looks greet me,
and wistfully searching the leafy green dome,
I find other faces fond bending to greet me,
the ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
-The Ash Grove, Traditional Welsh
"Alright you slags, off yer horses! Now!" the burly man snaps, causing the group of older boys and young men in the inner court of the citadel to quickly dismount in the sprinkling rain as another string of lightening slashes across the sky. The oldest of the group, Dagonet and Tristan, dismount as well, though they quickly lead their horses to their respective the stables rather than staying there in the crowded yard. Dagonet, casting a truly sympathetic look to Bors, suddenly feels the younger man's fingernails digging into his arm, almost breaking the skin.
"Where you off to, cousin!" he whispers frantically, being sure not to catch the attention of the yelling, brawny man who is now berating one of the new knights, a black haired, green eyed, slim young man who has apparently seen fit not to dismount in a timely enough manner.
"I've other things to do. Been here for three seasons, along with Tristan…"
"The odd Easterner?"
"Yes. I've got to go wipe down Heras here," Dagonet coos to his mount, patting his horse's flank. "And attend to my duties. You'll be fine," he continues, patting Bors on the shoulder reassuredly. "It will a take a fortnight or so, but you've got a good head on your shoulders and sixteen seasons to you. You'll fall in line…"
"Do you see him!" Bors mutters, voice just on the verge of panic, hand gripping Dagonet's arm like a vice as his eyes dart to the scene across the cobblestoned yard. By now, the slow dismounter is splayed on the ground on his backside, stone-faced but steadfastly blinking back tears as the man bellows at him, prodding his chest with his finger. The others stand around, eyes cast downward, completely unsure of what to do, save for Agravaine, who's slowly creeping over to stand behind the young man on the receiving end of the tirade.
"Him?" Dagonet questions as Bors arches an eyebrow in utter disbelief at the scene before them. "Oh, that is Lot," Dagonet replies, casually taking it all in. By now, Agravaine is hastily dragging the black haired young man to his feet, for Lot has moved on to Gaheris. Wearing a look of amused detachment as the commander roars at him, Gaheris wipes his face with the back of his hand from the spittle flying from Lot's mouth. He shrugs his shoulders after a while, though the look on his face has devolved into one of sobering shock.
"Don't worry about him," Dagonet continues. "He's a prickly one, yeah, but he knows what's what."
"Or so he says," Tristan drawls behind Bors, causing him to jump.
"How in the name of the gods do you keep doing that!" Bors starts, spinning around to face the older knight who has soundlessly made his way to them.
"Practice," Tristan shrugs, tugging the reins of his horse, patting the animal's neck to calm him down. "Besides, I enjoy seeing you lasses jump whenever I appear out of the fog," he continues, a shadow of a grin coming to his face.
"Go to hell," Bors mutters.
"I'll see you there," Tristan replies steadily with a nod, leading his horse to the stables and nodding to Dagonet in goodbye.
"I've got to go, Bors," Dagonet says suddenly. "You will be alright…"
"No I won't!" Bors retorts frantically, voice rising.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yeah…"
"Then trust me when I say you be fine, Aye?"
"B-but…"
"Don't fret," Dagonet says with a sigh, squeezing Bor's shoulder and stepping away.
"I hate this!" Bors calls out to his older cousin's retreating figure.
"Ah, and the fat 'un has something to say!" he hears Lot bellow behind him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.
"By the Gods!" Bors mutters, shutting his eyes tight and then turning around to face his tormentor, eyes popping back open and the sound of Lot's bellows envelope him. It is going to be a long day.
Watching the scene before him, Constinian glances around the courtyard, his round, age-lined face impassive, flinty grey eyes taking quick inventory of the twenty or so Sarmatians standing about. Between him and the Sarmatians stand one hundred or so Roman soldiers in full dress uniform, all at unflinching attention, their spears in their right hand and their rectangular Roman shields in the left. Milling about around the edges of the entire group are the older Sarmatians already stationed at wall, impassively watching the newly arrived ones and all but ignoring the Roman troops. Taking into account the hundred or so other Roman troops and knights attending to other duties throughout the fort, there are roughly 300 troops stationed at this citadel. Along the length of the wall, combining all the citadels, Roman strength in Britain numbers 2800 or so.
Constinian continues surveying the scene before him, immediately observing how one of the new knights has helped the black-haired boy back to his feet, at once shoving the younger man behind him to avoid the renewed attention of Lot, his Sarmatian Praefectus Castrorum or Knight-at-arms. At least there seems to be some sort of honor among this set, he thinks to himself, filing away the action of the young knight for future use as he keeps his thin lips from curling into an obvious grin. He's gained a rather satisfactory reputation for never forgetting any person, incident or thing he's ever found important enough to remember. But no less is to be expected as Captain. It is, after all, how he moved into the duty as commander of the largest post along the Hadrian's Wall.
"At least they're a bit older this time 'round," his wife sniffs beside him, her intense blue eyes taking note of what he's seen as well. "Hopefully that will lead to less crying in night and such," she continues, voice softening slightly.
"We can only pray for that, Ceridwen," Constinian replies evenly, lightly polishing his breastplate one last time with his deep red cloak. Turning to face her, he grunts in appreciation as Ceridwen's deft fingers quickly move along the clean lines of the Roman legionnaire uniform, tightening various strings and lacings, readjusting assorted folds of cloth. After she gives a curt nod signaling she is done, he quickly reaches down, his large calloused hand covering hers.
"What would I do without you?" he murmurs, leaning in so that she may readjust the brown leather strap of his helmet under his chin, her fingers lingering along his grey-whiskered face as she looks up at him. She is a relatively tall woman, but Constinian still all but towers over her. He is not a portly man, but rather simply large, muscles toned from twenty-plus years of time as a captain of the Britannian Legion.
"Look like a sloppy pig, that's what," she replies with a slight grin. "You've been living with us barbarians for far too long," she chides, tucking a few strands of his brown, heavily grey-streaked hair further into the ornately gilded helmet. "Don't you know that true Romans keep their hair short and to the point, much like themselves?"
"Considering I've yet to visit that magnificent city, no," he counters evenly, though a slight sparkle comes to his eye. She pulls away from him, nodding after giving him a final once-over.
"Neat as pin," she says. "Play fair," she murmurs as he turns to away.
"I always do," he replies, the sea of one hundred or so Roman soldiers in front of them parting as he makes his way to the group of the newly arrived Sarmatians, his sizable form belying the quickness with which he moves.
"'Tis enough, Lot," Constinian intones evenly, coming to a stop, his hands held behind his back as Lot swiftly turns around. Narrowing his coal-black eyes, Lot quickly ends his tirade upon seeing who addresses him, the knight swiftly standing at attention as Constinian begins walking up and down the group of young men. They stand there, some shocked, some smirking, some resolute, but all silent, seeing how the Roman commander gives each of them a once over.
"I see you that you have all met my Praefectus Castrorum?" Constinian says quietly, though his voice is easily heard by each of them, its easy dignity rolling over them and bringing some strange sense of comfort. "Believe it or not, he is one of you, arriving here some twenty seasons ago. Apparently he has seen fit to stay, much to the chagrin of those he now trains." His words are met with silence, save a quick guffaw from one of the young men. The man immediately regrets his action, bringing his hand over his mouth, eyes widening in disbelief at what he's done as Constinian strolls towards him.
"You find this amusing, knight?" the captain asks evenly, coming to a stop in front of the tall, rather sizable Sarmatian. The young man's dark eyes widen, his freckled ruddy cheeks going red as he quickly pushes strands of his blonde hair back from his face. Quickly coming to stand at attention, his eyes focused on a spot just to left of the captain's head, he answers, "No, I do not. Forgive me, my lord."
Constinian's eyes flit over him, noticing his particularly ragged clothes and the way he is using all his efforts to keep from shivering in the increasingly chilly wind. "Forgiveness is not mine to give, knight," he replies. "Your name?"
"Calogrenant, my lord. My father served here…"
"I only asked your name. I could care less about your history."
"I apologize, my lord."
"Well, at least you know some sense of protocol, eh? But you seem not to know how to give only what you are asked for. You have much to learn. So you may begin with stable duty tonight before you turn in. Dagonet will show you what to do." Calogrenant does not react, remaining still at Constinian's words. Turning on his heal and stepping away, a slight grin comes to the captain's face as he sees the young knight's apparent steadiness.
"You may think that duty assigned to that man may not fit his infraction," he calls out, making his way back to the front of the group. "But your duty is not to think. It is to serve. Serve Rome, and most importantly, serve me. I am Constinian Flavian Heranus, of the gens Heranii. As such, I am the Legatus Legionis of this, Aelia Citdel. It is the largest and most illustrious citadel and outpost along this wall. And since you will be serving here, you are expected to be most illustrious company in Britannia." The courtyard remains silent as Constinian continues.
"I know that in the three years many of you have been serving, this is as far north as you have been. But you will find the rules here, on the very edge of the empire, are just as stringent as those from wherever you have come from, which is why I do not know why you are not standing in formation as your Legatus Legionis addresses you…"
Suddenly, there's scrambling as the young knights attempt to line up, quickly moving to get in some sense of an ordered formation.
"And why you're bothering now," Constinian continues, "I know not, considering your penalty has already been determined. Praefectus Castrorum?
"Half rations for tonight!" Lot barks out. Some of the knights groan, but immediately fall silent at the look of pure malevolence Lot casts their way.
"As you can see," Constinian continues without pause. "Discipline is held in just as high regard here as elsewhere. And as I said, your duty is not to think, but to serve. Now, if it is found that any of you have any sense of judgment, then you may learn to think, thus going far in this company. It is a rarity, but surprisingly, sometimes it happens."
"In the meantime, while I am your decisive commanding officer, fortunately I will not see much of you. You will answer directly to the Praefectus Castrorum, Lot, who will further train you to ensure you do not waste your rather valuable life and end up on the sharp end of some barbarian's sword or with a barbed arrow in your back," Lot gives a curt nod, immediately going back to attention as Constinian goes on.
"You in turn answer to the Tribunus Laticlavius, Ectorian. Since you will be found wanting, he will train you in the art of strategy and governance, his son, Caius taking on the role as well since the young whelp proves still in training like the lot of you."
With that, a rotund older Roman soldier along with a much younger, lankier one step forward from the crowd. They have the same intense green eyes, the sharp lines of their faces eerily similar, the tint of their olive skin comparable in color. But whereas the older one's face seems to be locked into a permanently tired frown, the younger one's lips curl in a devilish grin, the taint of youth still upon him despite his having what looks to be eighteen or so seasons.
"With that, I leave you in their hands," Constinian finishes with a nod. "Since it is Dies Saturni and tomorrow is Dies Solis and the day of rest, you shall have tomorrow to acquaint yourself with the citadel. Hence, on Dies Lunae, I expect to see each and every one of you here, at attention and ready to report at the 5th hour. Do I make myself clear?"
"Aye sir!" comes the response from most of the knights now standing in formation in the courtyard.
"Caius will now address you," Constinian replies with a curt nod. "The rest of you are dismissed," he says to the remaining Roman ranks. Turning his heel, he makes his way through the sea of Roman soldiers, who part, giving the standard Roman salute as he strolls past them. As soon as he's past the Roman ranks, they begin to disperse, save a but a few including Ectorian and Caius
"Well now, mates, 'twasn't so bad, was it?" the younger, lanky soldier says cheerfully, flashing another grin as he leans on his spear, addressing the knights. "So lads, it looks that I'm to show you the ropes and such. As for Lot," he looks around, ensuring the commanding officer is nowhere to be seen. "Well, he's a piece of work, no doubt. But don't you mind 'im any, for you'll only see 'im for training. Anyway, as has been said, I'm Caius, but you may call me Cai. And this be my father, Ectorian. Unfortunately, he seems to have lost his voice his a bit, so I'll be doin' the talkin'. This'll be awhile, so at ease, knights."
The knights relax with a sigh as Cai proceeds to lean his heavy spear and shield against a tree, coming back to stand in from of the group, his hands behind his back as his father looks on, arms crossed across his chest.
"Now, as your officer, I'll be in charge of you as far as everyday needs, along with Julian Sergius here, the Tribuni Angusticlavii." An older dark-haired, dark-eyed man steps forward, nodding in agreement with Caius' words.
"With the Tribunus Laticlavius Ectorian in charge of the more mental aspects of your training," Cai continues, "You shall also have to answer to Lady Ceridwen, the wife of your Legatus Legionis, acting quartermaster, and caretaker of your general physical welfare. Thus you shall treat her with the respect befitting her rather high station," he nods to her as she stands impassive to the other side of him. On either side of her stand Gaius and Trajan, shadowing her every move as any bodyguards are want to do. In front of her stands Maeve, along another girl of approximately eleven seasons or so, her bright red locks loosened from their knot and waving haphazardly in the wind as usual.
"Lastly, you will find the older Sarmatians already here will also play a role in your daily upkeep. Some have been here longer than the others. Others, not so much. But be assured that in some point in time they were in the rather similar precarious position you currently find yourselves in." Cai nods to the group of older Sarmatians milling about on the edges of the newly arrived company. They stop whatever they are currently doing, respectfully nodding back to him and then continuing with their various tasks.
"Thus," Cai continues, "I assure you they comprehend your situation far better than any of us. Now, I've wasted enough breath on you lot. Julius?" he addresses the soldier next to him. Julius, standing at medium height and on the thin side, proves older than Cai, around some 30 seasons or so. His dark eyes belie a sadness fit for someone containing more years. This, combined with general look of apathy upon his face, makes it rather obvious he's been in service for a while. And judging by the rather nasty looking white scar slashing down along the right side of his mouth and the weathered look of his tanned skin, it has been a rather long time. His surprisingly graceful fingers clutch at his spear and he still holds his shield to the ground as he eyes look over the group, unreadable as they flit over his charges. And while such emptiness would usually make one feel uncomfortable, for some reason, many of the men in his charge find his lack of overt menace and general sense of competence a welcome change from their previous experiences with various commanders they have dealt with today, save the unexpectedly considerate Cai.
"Well, men, it looks as though Rome has taken another group for payment," he begins, raspy voice flat and without emotion. "And as such, I will be in charge of shaping this group so that the empire may make some return on such a payment. As you have heard, I am Julian Sergius. Most call me Jols. I am to serve to as advisor and mediator for the lot of you, especially your commander, a Lucius Artorius Castus as I am told. I assume he is present?"
With that, the slim black haired, green eyed young man who Lot berated earlier steps forward, pushed to the front by Agravaine. He is young, his unsteady eyes having trouble meeting Jols'. Despite this, he uses all of his control to draw himself up to his full height, which is slightly taller than the Tribuni Angusticlavii.
"I am he," he replies, voice wavering before he has the chance to catch himself.
"Ah, I see," Jols replies, mouth curling into a unreadable grin. "You are the Roman one amongst them, I take it?"
"Aye, my lord. They call me Artorius, my lord."
"No need for that 'my lord' nonsense, young pup. For within time, should you survive, you will be my commander."
Artorius casts his head downward at his mistake in addressing the other soldier, causing Jols to sigh with irritation.
"No need for that, either. 'Tis one thing to make a mistake. 'Tis another to dwell on it. Men!" he calls out to the rest of them, nodding for Lucius to come forward and stand next to him, facing the group. "This is your commander. And as such he is responsible for you all. Whatever acts you undertake, he will answer for. So I will assume you have the sense enough to see your hopefully future glory will be reflected in him with the same respect accorded to you.
Artorius dips his head in a faint bow of acknowledgement, but the Sarmatians remain impassive.
"In the meantime," Jols continues. "You are dismissed. Caius and Ectorian will accompany you."
Despite the dismissal, the newly arrived knights stand about, unsure of what to do, some slowly beginning to move to the back of the group while others have begun to shiver from the increasing cold. The older Sarmatians begin to move amongst them, herding them in the direction of the barracks on the other side of the citadel.
"Alright, you people, let us show around this rather illustrious stronghold," Cai begins wryly, further ushering the group away. Taking Artorius by the arm, he pulls him away from Jols and towards to the rest of company. "You're coming along too, lad. C'mon," he continues. Artorius follows him mutely, his eyes scanning for Agravaine among the crowd. Locating the other knight, his eyes meet Agravaine's, the other elder knight's own gray eyes flashing in recognition as he nods to the young commander to follow him. Artorius breathes a silent sigh of relief, relieved that one day out of many more to come has finally seemed to come to an end.
Waiting until the last of the group has disappeared from the courtyard, Jols suddenly turns towards Ceridwen, dropping his spear and shield to the ground with little ceremony.
"I've been wondering where you've been too. No doubt getting yourself in a muck of trouble with that one," he says as he winks at the red-headed little girl. She knowingly smirks in reply as his face unexpectedly lights up with an amused half-grin. As he goes down on one knee, Maeve runs up to him, throwing her arms about his neck.
"Been gone for too long, Da!" she exclaims as he ruffles her hair. Pulling her into a ferocious hug, he stands up, picking her up with groan.
"I told you, little one, I had to go with them to get the new lot of knights," he replies, planting a kiss on her forehead as she leans into his shoulder. "And you're getting to be too big, my girl," he continues with an exaggerated huff as he readjusts her weight against his hip. "Don't know if I can keep going about doin' this!" he continues, eyes lighting up with joy as he finally settles on a comfortable position with which to carry her.
"I told 'er that, sir and she wouldn't believe me," Gaius mumbles, causing Jols to clear his throat to suppress a laugh. Trajan launches into a coughing fit, attempting to cover up his own snorts of laughter.
"I told you you'd grown, you idiot! Always whining I'm small! I'm so short! Whenever will I grow! That gets quite tiresome after a while! " the red-headed little girl calls out with a wicked self-satisfied smile, running up to catch up with them as they make their way across the courtyard. Ceridwen follows suit, grabbing the older girl's hand.
"You and that mouth of yours, Vanora," the older woman replies with a snort. "You'll have twelve seasons to you within a month and yet you still refuse to control it…"
"You don't!" she retorts. Trajan's coughing becomes even louder, causing Gaius to hit him in the shin with the bottom of his spear. Trajan attempts to return his brother's action, missing completely as Gaius easily sidesteps the motion.
"Such insolence!" Ceridwen retorts. "I should take you out back and flog you. What would your mother say?"
"Nothing, considering she's dead," Vanora replies smartly, rolling her eyes in irritation. "It's not like father can do anything either, considering he's dead as well."
"Shame, child. Sometimes you make me wish I did not have to put up with you!"
"You don't mean that," Vanora replies matter-of-factly.
"And how do you suppose that, you little cur?"
"'Tis not your nature. 'Sides, you'd be bored without me or the other ones frankly," she continues. "Six children, all without any parents to their name. You couldn't let us kinless ones starve," Vanora replies confidently, standing on her tiptoes and giving Ceridwen an unexpected peck on the cheek. Ceridwen bats her away with a huff and a wave of her hand, though her mouth twitches with the vestiges of a smile before she catches herself, her face going impassive again.
"You horrid little thing! Continue and you'll get no supper being so smart with me, young miss."
"Drats!" Vanora continues. "Well, I am starving," she says aloud. Glancing to her side, she sees the cautionary look of unfettered displeasure cloud Ceridwen's face, causing her to quickly fall silent.
"I see I haven't missed much," Jols says with a smirk as he walks ahead of them.
"Same as always," Maeve replies steadily, though she closes her eyes and attempts to stifle a yawn, the excitement of the long day finally catching up with her. "Must she always be so bold?" she continues, looking over her shoulder at Vanora who's currently whistling some foreign tune and skipping to keep up with them.
"Funny, I always see the same boldness in you, little mistress," Jols replies. "If anything you're worse, you spoiled little thing."
"Hmph. It's not as though she's my sister."
"Aye, she may not be by blood, but she is in spirit. Besides, you'd miss her, if she weren't around," he replies easily, leaning her head into the crook the of his neck. "I must admit, she keeps you busy while I'm gone."
Maeve thinks on his comment, finally nodding in agreement. It is true, she would miss the little fire-headed malice. She doubted she could find a more out of the ordinary roommate, especially considering her own father was always gone so often. And Vanora was a fighter, always threatening to kill and/or seriously maim the older children whenever they mistakenly attempted anything not on the level. Frankly, no one could ask for anyone better to share quarters with. Thinking on this, she looks over he father's shoulder, catching Vanora's eye. Giving a little wave, she stifles a giggle as Vanora blows a kiss back, giving a sly wink in turn. Yes, she was definitely was never boring.
As the sun dips below the horizon, the group makes their long way to the main living quarters at the back of the citadel. By now, Ceridwen has dismissed Gaius and Trajan, they leaving for their own barracks with their usual nod and salute. Maeve has fallen asleep in her father's arms, snoring loudly, while Vanora skips ahead. Reaching their destination first, she salutes the soldiers who stand guard at the heavy wooden and metal studded doors. Seeing her, they nod in passive acknowledgment, one of them knocking on the doors to give the signal. As the entranceway swings open and the party steps through, Jols slows down, waiting for Ceridwen to catch up with him as Vanora runs ahead, shouting out a raucous welcome to the other children playing in the yard. Enthusiastically returning her hoots and howls, they surround her as she starts chattering on about what the day has brought.
"As always, thank you," Jols murmurs to Ceridwen, shifting Maeve's weight in his arms. Recognizing that she wears her grandmother's costly, fur-lined wrap, he takes it off of her, handing it back to Ceridwen and wrapping the child in his own deep red legionnaire's cloak.
"And as always, there's no need for thanks," Ceridwen replies, arching an eyebrow. "If her mother were still alive, she would be doing the same. But since Malmuira is not, it is the least I can do, taking care of my own grandchild when he father is off on business and such."
"Not to mention putting up with your son-in-law," Jols replies knowingly.
"Considering he is such a pain, it's a wonder that I do," she replies flatly, though a grin tugs at her mouth. "She washed up before, so you can just tuck her in," she continues, her usual brisk tone returning as they step though another wooden door leading to their prospective quarters. "I'll have one of the women bring you both some supper, along with some mulled wine. Seeing that you've been on the road so long, I am sure you can use it."
"Real food and an actual warmed drink? I cannot ask for anything more. Shall I report to Constinian for anything?"
"No, no He's too probably too occupied with the new group. I doubt I'll see him until morning. In the meantime, you need some much deserved rest."
"Aye, captain," he replies in jest as they reach the stone steps. Climbing up three flights of stairs, they reach their floor. Jols approaches Maeve's quarters, with Ceridwen taking the ribbon of keys from her belt, unlocking the wooden door and letting him in.
"I expect things will get quite exciting around here, now" she says as he wanders inside.
"To say the least. New knights always bring it out," he replies.
"Well, I'll leave you two be. Goodnight."
"Aye, good night. And as I said before," " he says, turning to face her. "Thank you," he murmurs, voice low with genuine appreciation.
"Think nothing of it. 'Tis a pleasure, not a duty," she replies. Lingering for a bit as she watches Jols tucks Maeve in, Ceridwen leaves after a while, crossing to the other side of hall and unlocking the door to her own quarters. Appreciative of the glow of the fire and the warmed room, she quickly notes Constinian's cloak and over-shirt tossed across the golden surface of the table sitting closest to the red-hot grate. Just as sloppy as ever, she thinks to herself with a smirk. One day he'll set this entire place on fire, she reflects as she quickly pulls the edges of the garments away from the sparks of the hearth and proceeds to fold them accordingly. No matter; she'd learned almost three decades ago there were simple certain faults one had to let go of if they wished to remain sane. No need to attempt to change him now. And it ultimately didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.
Finishing her task, she looks out the window, noting the dusky sky. It will be an hour or so before she fetches her other charges from the yard and sends them to bed. Taking advantage of this rare opportunity of solitude, she takes a parchment scroll from one of the dark wooden shelves lining the wall. Pouring herself bit of wine and taking a seat in the large chair by the fireplace, she gives a sigh of relief as she begins to read. After all, with all that has passed, the Goddess only knows when she will get a chance at such a simple pleasure again.
Dies Saturni - Day of Saturn, Saturday
Dies Solis - Day of the Sun, Sunday
Dies Lunae - Day of the Moon, Monday