Argus watched the young boys throughout the whole trip to towards the ocean where they would board a ship and then go on to Briton.
So far now he had gathered forty-one boys and meant to gather another nine.
All together that would make fifty.
"Sir, one of the boys is ill," reported Fred. Argus merely nodded to the soldier and ignored the fact that one of the boys he had gathered was sick.
To tell the truth Argus wasn't all that fussed on collecting mere boys from this bare and strange land called Sarmatia.
Argus would have much rathered be back in Rome with his wife but the pope had insisted that he, Argus Imperious the great commander, do this is the name of the Roman Empire.
"Sir should we not stop and allow the boys to rest?" queried Fred.
Argus just shook his head and continued riding his horse towards the coast.
He had no pity for these boys at the moment. They hadn't earned it yet.
Lancelot stood ready with his father's hand on his shoulder and the reins of a tall, black stallion in his own hand.
He bit his lip as the party of Roman soldiers and also Sarmatian boys got closer and closer to his own small camp.
"Father, they are here".
His father also watched the soldiers sadly.
"They have come".
As the soldiers came closer and closer by the minute, Lancelot's father turned him around and looked into his son's eyes with a sorry and miserable look.
"There is a legend that fallen knights return as great horses, he will bare you well," he said strongly as he nodded to the stallion that had once been his own until now.
"Lancelot!" Lancelot!" came the voice of a young little girl.
All heads turned to the girl as she ran towards him while he mounted. He palm was held out and on it lay a small, wooden, carving of a lions head tied to a piece of string so it could be worn around your neck.
"Lancelot," she panted as he took the keepsake and his father embraced the small girl tightly.
"Don't be afraid, I will return," Lancelot said bravely as turned the horse and made him trot on towards the Roman soldiers or pigs as he and his father called them.
"How long shall we be gone?" asked Lancelot as he rode up alongside what seemed to be the commander.
"Fifteen years, not including the months it'll take to get you to your post," answered the Roman abruptly.
Lancelot sighed deeply and turned to face his home at the sound of his father calling his name.
"Lancelot! ARRRRRRRRRRGH!" let out the old man in a battle cry.
Lancelot fought back the tears as he watched his family cry out for him in love.
His father stood with one arm around his wife and other two daughters and the other arm raised in honour of his son.
Lancelot took one last look at his home and went on in search of victory remembering his own words, "Don't be afraid".
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