In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane, donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es: quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.
By the sweat of your face will you eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken. For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
-Genesis 3:19
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Villagers telling of the infringement of Woads, the order to go investigate, a simple patrol of 40-odd knights and soldiers riding the west on the south side of the wall at dawn. The incursion is peculiar in and of itself, considering it's the end of January. The earth, like the season, proves frozen and cold, usually signaling no attacks at least until the first thaw. But something is pushing the Blue Devils south and they must be dealt with. Which is why he's standing here now, in the field of dying grass covered over by icy and newly bloody snow, the sky clear and blue despite the biting wind whipping around them. They are outnumbered three to one as he yells at the top of his lungs for his comrade to dodge the Woad's sword. But it is too late, for it embeds itself into Amhar's thigh. The screams and shouts of the chaos surrounding him fade to a dull roar as the rage of battle courses through his veins anew, like some bewitching brew of the forbidden ancient goddess Hecate.
"Amhar!" Arthur bellows, eyes going wide at the gush of blood that springs from the soldier's leg as a result the enemy's sword. Swinging his own sword in a wide arc, Arthur barely has time to register the fiery-haired Woad woman to his side crumbling to ground in a hiss of blood and flesh. But not before she pulls him down from his mount, her impossibly sharp dagger slicing through the strap of his greave and leaving a wicked slash on his calf. The burning sting is ignored as he clambers up from the ground and fights his way deeper into the melee.
"Cador!" he screams to his page behind him, "Fall back!" But the young soldier ignores him, a grim look set on his face as he rides forward. Cador plunges ahead and battles his way to Amhar, who's scored a vicious hit to his opponent's arm. But he's loosing blood fast and is still faltering from the fall he took from his horse as a result. As the Woad spins around, his short sword clangs on the soldier's cuirass. It would be a deadly blow if it were a bit to left, below the side straps of the armor. But even in his state, Amhar is fast. His dark eyes narrow in concentration as he slides out of range at the last moment. Sword sinking into the Woad's shoulder with his last efforts, he's satisfied as his enemy's scream of pain fills his ears. But the ground's coming up fast to meet him as he falls to his knees, chest heaving with exertion. Cador gallops up behind the duo, yanking his dagger from its sheath and flinging it into the Woad's back, even as he next hurls his pilum into the throat of another Woad, who immediately drops the notched arrow he's trained on Amhar. Panting, the page struggles to pull his fellow soldier up onto his mount, half dragging, half riding with him to the outskirts of the fight.
"Jesus!" Cador hisses, eyes going wide at blood now also pouring from Amhar's side as he dismounts to attend to him. Suddenly hearing a gurgle of pain above him, he jerks his head up just in time to see Agravaine withdraw his war hammer as the Woad pitches face forward into the snow, his blood dirtying the white of it.
"Careful. We wouldn't want you killed, now would we?" Agravaine chuckles darkly. Looking past the page, the knight's face goes grim as he takes in Amhar's state. "Tie off his leg or he'll bleed to death," he nods curtly before he spurs his black stallion on and plunges back into the battle. Cador unstraps his sword belt, leaning Amhar against a tree and doing as he is told.
"You'll be fine?" he asks of his charge as Dagonet rides up to them, dismounting and quickly helping him move Amhar further away from the conflict. The injured soldier nods his head, struggling to concentrate, no words coming from his mouth, his eyes wide and unfocused.
Turning away from that scene, Arthur stabs a man in the gullet with the arrowhead end of a broken arrow shaft, then dropping to the ground and retrieving a an abandoned short-sword. Watching as Lancelot gives another Woad a deadly shave with a blithely executed double sword move, he flings his extra weapon into the stomach of another enemy about to deal the death blow to a Briton named Ermind, the soldier's brother Dywel shaking his weapon in thanks as he rushes forward to complete the job.
"How many more, you reckon?" Arthur hears a voice casually rasp at his back.
"A two dozen to three, maybe?" he answers to Jols as his sword clangs against the Woad's in front of him. The man screams angrily as he tries to disarm the young captain, but Arthur ducks his swipe, dropping down and literally cutting his enemy out from under him. Plunging his weapon downwards, he finishes the grisly task.
"Some serious injuries we've got," Jols grumbles, shooting off an arrow at the Woad woman engaging Galahad. Watching listlessly as she falls to ground and Galahad swings around to score a hit on the man to his back, he mutters, "Palamedes and Riwallawn, arrowed. Gareth's bleeding out."
"Amhar looks worse for wear, Peredur and Ermind rendered injured…" Arthur retorts, jumping as he hears Bors' tell-tale war cry. The broad knight wrecks bloody havoc with his knuckle dusters as jumps into the skirmish yet again, drawing upon his seemingly infinite reserves of strength. Woads fall left and right, those lucky enough to escape the initial onslaught immediately cut down by the graceful arcs of Tristan's sword. The scout's face is impassive, save for the glitter of his impossibly dark eyes. His blade arcs upon the air, slicing through flesh and bone as it elegantly spins to and fro. Weapon and wielder are as one, the dance beautiful despite, or even because of its grim result. So contrary yet superbly fitting; Arthur almost wishes he isn't forced to look away from this lethal demonstration, but he must secure his life against his new opponent now charging him. "So many…" he murmurs.
"Never underestimate the enemy," Jols counters, out of arrows. Dropping his bow as he draws his gladius, he runs through a Woad in front of him with nary a glance. Looking further beyond, he frowns at the remaining sea of Blue Devils beginning to surround Gawain and Galahad as they fight back to back. As Galahad hurls off a string of small daggers, each hitting their lethal mark, Gawain follows with a broad sweep of his mace. The alternating displays of grace and strength are executed so rapidly that Jols almost feels sorry for the Woads falling at their feet. Almost. That is until he makes out a wounded Peredur lying on the ground between them. Well, we'll have to remedy that situation now won't we? he muses as he battles his way through to the brawl, twirling his sword in anticipation of more bloodletting.
It is the tangy smell of salt upon the air is what snaps him awake, his dark eyes jolting open. He can feel the supple green grass beneath his toes, the warm wind upon his back, hear the rustle of the golden leaves on the trees surrounding him. All of it bolder and more vivid than humanly possible. And then he sees it, brighter than he's ever found himself blessed to witness; the sun swiftly rising, that bright star splitting open the blue canopy of the world as the brilliant stars of night fade into oblivion. Taking a deep breath, he lets the sweet air wash over him, reveling in the sound of the waves crashing upon those startlingly familiar white cliffs. He grew up on these eastern shores of Britannia overlooking the continent, the son of an old Caledonian legionnaire and his equally native wife. Heartbroken when he was forced to leave it for his time in army, he swore he would come back sometime. And now he has kept his promise. Turning away from the great waves, Amhar sees them standing on the horizon; his ancestors of old, ready to greet him at this end of days.
His lips frantically move, noise gurgling out from between them, a mixture silent prayer and his native tongue. Eyes going wide as he struggles for breath, he attempts to focus on the scene before him. But it's steadily falling into shifting darkness. He can only make out the distant but frantic yells of his name, Cador shaking him, begging him to stay. But it does not matter now. The others call to him and he may no longer deny their summons. For the pain has drifted away, unspeakable peace filling the void. Suddenly his head falls forward as his chest stills, eyes glassy and seeing no more of this earth.
"It is done," Dagonet murmurs, closing Amhar's eyelids with a solemn sweep of his hand.
"You cannot mean that he is…" Cador retorts with a strangled cry.
"He is with us no more."
"NO!"
"Death spares no man eventually," Dagonet intones, eyes blinking rapidly as he holds back his own tears. It is easy to forget Cador's only has sixteen to seasons to him until he sees the sort of effect this is having on him. The page is literally shivering with shock, face as white as the snow, his hands still on Amhar's shoulders and attempting to shake him awake. "Why don't you go get the captain…" Dagonet contines.
"'Tis no need. He just needs a bit of mending!"
"Cador…"
"Surely just a few stitches!"
"Cador," Arthur's voice demands behind him. Taking his page by the shoulders and firmly pulling him to his feet as he actively avoids looking at Amhar, he orders, "I seemed to have lost my mare in the fray. Maybe you may locate her?" Cador eyes flit from his comrade's corpse to his captain's gaze, their haunted, empty look causing Arthur to swallow hard. "We won't be able to take him if I can't find my horse," the he whispers into his page's ear as he releases him, lightly pushing him forward away from the scene. Cador nods fervently, blindly stumbling off into the body-littered field.
"I should…keep an eye on him," Lancelot mutters, looking away from the body with a deep sigh and leading his own horse away as he follows the young soldier. Arthur barely nods in reply, tossing away his sword and kneeling before the tree where his dear friend rests in that dreadfully permanent sleep. Touching a hand to Amhar's cheek, he lowers his head, muttering a prayer of absolution over him. It will have to do in absence of a priest at the present.
"Cut the bloodline in his thigh. The arrows in his side certainly didn't help. Bled out to death," Dagonet rumbles, removing Amhar's cloak as well as his own. "It was quick," he continues as he begins to wrap the body in the cloaks. Arthur immediately joins in his actions, face stony save the steady twitch of his lip and brightness of his eyes, his breath coming in shallow, quick bursts.
"You need not do this…"
"I must help prepare him," Arthur retorts flatly, jerking his head up and giving the big knight an inscrutable stare as he begins draping his own cloak around the body. Dagonet gives a silent nod. He's learned long ago that each person deals with death in their own way. Better to allow them to come to it with their own terms.
"Bloody hell," Bors groans as he comes upon the sight, looking as though he's about to be sick. A bandaged-about-the-stomach Gareth leans on him for support. They are followed by Gawain and Galahad, carrying a half-awake and still steadily bleeding Peredur between them. Dywel rides up behind the group, leading his brother's horse, Ermind already lashed to it on account of a broken leg that could result of him otherwise falling off it on the journey back. Tristan can be seen in the distance hauling Palamedes onto his mount, while Bedivere attends to a Briton named Riwallawn who still lies crumpled upon the ground. Other knights and soldiers venture about the field, looking for additional injured allies as well as any abandoned weapons and horses.
"We shall hang the black banner from the Imperial standard for the journey back," Arthur calls out suddenly as he rises from the ground. "In honor of him," he continues, voice breaking on the last word at the rest of the troop surrounding him. They nod in silent reply. Some make the sign of the cross, while others mutter their own blessings in their native tongue as Arthur and Dagonet walk past the line, the body carried between them. Raising it, they place it on Amhar's horse, lashing it to the snorting animal that skitters to and fro, as though it knows of what's come to pass on this dark day.
"While we have killed the bulk of the enemy for now, we must stay on our guard on the road back," Arthur continues after finishing his task. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he wills himself to remain calm. "Now is not the time for rashness or wrong-headed revenge. We must all make it back…alive," he continues, voice sounding falsely impassive. "It would be what he would want, after all."
"As we do in life, so do we care for them in death," Ceridwen murmurs as she finishes polishing Amhar's armor. Tightening the straps so that his cuirass stays in place, she finishes the final steps of preparing his body for burial. Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, the Maeve struggles to stop her shivering as she approaches. Biting back a sneeze at the smell of the combination of the strong soap used for the preparation and smoky incense filling the impossibly chilly room reserved for the storage of bodies, she pins back the legionnaire's scarlet cape with new golden brooch reserved for such grim occasions. As she backs away, four of the infirmary attendants approach. Spreading an almost impossibly thin but beautifully woven white shroud between them, they place it gently over the length of the body, giving one final bow as they leave, followed by Maeve and Ceridwen.
"Since he is Christian," the old woman breathes, "The priests will carry him to the church and hold vigil overnight, saying whatever chants they say with their prayer beads and such. We shall bury him in morning. Normally, it would have happened sooner, but he died on at the end of the week. They apparently cannot commit him to the earth until the end of their Sabbath."
"Get some rest," she continues, as they make their way back to their quarters, the night cloudy and moonless over them. "You will need it for tomorrow."
The early morning proves almost mockingly beautiful, the cold air fresh and still, the new snowfall from the night before bathing the entire citadel in crystal white. There has not been a death in the battlefield for any of the soldiers and knights from the citadel for the last few years. And so it appears that most everyone has turned out for the final procession of Amhar from the church to the cemetery.
Constinian, the Legatus Legionis or commander of the citadel rides at the head of the convoy. Arthur rides stiffly in his wake pulling along Amhar's empty horse with him. He is flanked by Cai and Bedivere, Cai's father Ectorian behind them. Jols rides somberly to the left of the flower draped funeral cart, with Cador to the right of it. The young legionnaire sits deathly still in his saddle, too drained to bother wiping away the silent tears trailing down his flushed cheeks. And while the rest of the knights were not allowed to attend to main liturgy on account of their pagan status, they meet their fellow company of Briton soldiers at the church doorway. Falling silently into position behind the cart, all ride together creating a mixed company of men, the divisions between Sarmatian and Briton forgotten for today. Behind them ride various Roman soldiers who knew Amhar, while behind them ride Ceridwen, Maeve, Vanora, Heraniae and Leonius. They are followed by the rest of the mounted civilians, with those on foot last in line.
"Memento, homo, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris," Bishop Vitus calls out, blessing the coffin for one final time as it's lowered into the ground at the cemetery. Remember, man, thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return. The words echo in Arthur's head as the thin, wan-looking priest nods to him. Stepping forward he clears his throat, hands clasped together in front him so as to stop their shaking.
"No words I may say do justice to Amhar, the man or the memory," he begins, voice scratchy but strong. "I may speak of him being cut down too soon, how he proved on his way to becoming a great soldier, how he would have grown to a great commander, had he lived." Murmurs of agreement spread through the company of knights and soldiers. "I may even expound of his sense of kinship with both Briton and Sarmatian, Roman and native, soldier, knight and civilian. Or of his friendship with those blessed enough to find him among one of their chosen comrades. But he would rail against that sort of paralyzing grief. For as a citizen of action, he lacked patience for such lethargies." Glancing up he sees Cador's head bowed next to Cai's, Cador nodding vigorously as he sniffs back his tears at whatever words of apparent comfort Cai whispers to him. Arthur offers a silent prayer of strength for his page, even as he steels himself to continue.
"But all of us prove beyond familiar those concepts. As you know, Amhar was not one to waste time. Patience may be a virtue, but in the less epic sorts of things, it flowed just beyond his reach. Especially when it came to his tolerance for waiting for his refilled tankard over at the taverns," he breathes, pursing his lips with a distant grin. A murmur of approval comes from the knights and soldiers, some even openly smiling at the memory. "In the end," Arthur continues, voice dropping, "Truth proves relative to each how man perceives it. And such is how each of us will choose to remember him. There is but one thing remaining infallible when it comes to our fallen comrade; while his body will be committed to earth today, Amhar's soul will never die. It will never cease to exist in memory. Thus is the heart of a true soldier, a virtuous man, most importantly, a friend. Accordingly, let us from this day preserve that legacy."
As Arthur gives the Roman salute, his final words are met with a loud buzz of reply from the company. Suddenly Bors shouts his usual war cry, others in the company immediately following. Their shouts ring clearly in the air despite the scowl of utter disdain glared their direction by Vitus. Do these heathens not know a Christian funeral when they see one?
Arching his eyebrow at the old bishop in warning, Arthur allows the company to continue until it subsides. "Homo, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris," he murmurs again as he then reaches down to take some of the freshly turned earth meant to bury the fallen soldier. Tossing it into upon the coffin in the grave, he moves forward in the line. The rest company follows in his stead; assembling behind him, each take a bit of the earth and repeat the gesture, murmuring their own words of farewell. When this task is done, Arthur pulls Amhar's sword from his own scabbard. Raising it to the sky in salute, he declares with a raw voice "Remember Amhar, lest he be forgotten. For we shall carry him with us until these end of days."
"My, what a quiet room," Lancelot snorts uneasily almost to himself as he takes a long drink of his ale. "You'd think someone had died," he sniffs forlornly.
"Forgive him, for he does not know how else to manage all of this," Dagonet murmurs to the group of soldiers sitting across from, even as he squeezes Lancelot's shoulder in reassurance. All silently nod in reply, they also too worn out to do much of anything else. After the final rites, the entire company has gathered in one of the taverns, their large number sending the rest of the patrons scattering out into the dusk. The barmaids don't mind it all; plenty of coin will be spent on the liquid courage required to forget the grim circumstances of this gathering.
"A bloody shame," Bors bellows as he finishes off the contents of his tankard and slams it down on the table. Vanora rolls her eyes at his loudness, though she nods in agreement, shifting to get more comfortable on the bench next to him. "Chin up, love," he snorts, hand squeezing hers in reassurance as she leans into him. Her own eyes are red from crying; while Amhar did not prove her greatest friend, he still was close as any of the men in the company are.
"To say the least," Arthur slurs. Sitting across from Bors, he motions for another cup of the heavy ale.
"Someone should keep an eye on that one," Vanora mumbles, looking in the direction of Cador sitting at a table on the other side of the courtyard. Shoulders slumped and eyes cast downward, he emptily stares into his tankard. Not even the numerous free drinks put in front of him by one of the sympathetic but fetching barmaids cause him look up.
"He will be looked after," Arthur replies slowly, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing Bedivere and Cai seated across from Cador. "Those two have been at his back since…it passed."
"Whatever you say, cap'n," Bors breathes with a loose salute. "All I'm wonderin' is if he'll ever be the same. I ain't lost no one yet, unless you include me family being so far away back home," he continues evenly. "But you never know how loosin' a best mate can turn out. I know you know about that, what with your whole family situation. Not that I mean to be all cruel and such in dredgin' that up."
"I take no offense. And you have a valid point," Arthur replies with a nod, "This will hang over us for a while, as all such things do with time."
"Are ya always this philosophical?" Vanora questions with a grim chuckle.
"Apparently," Arthur retorts dismally.
"Oh, come now. I didn't mean in a terrible way," she sighs.
" Tis all in the occasion, not you," he replies, giving her a fleeting grin.
"So what of it now?" Bors volunteers a lengthy bout of silence.
"We press on," Arthur counters quickly. "Press on for the sake him. And of ourselves."
"Well then," Bors calls out, getting to his feet and raising his mug in toast, "To Amhar!"
"To Amhar," the entire company replies. And so they all drink to the memory of a friend and the hopefully brighter days ahead of them.
Pilum – Throwing spear or lance commonly used in Roman times. Later pilum were created so that that iron blade would bend upon impact with metal, making its removal from a shield per say very difficult, rendering the shield unwieldy and ultimately unusable.