"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."
Peace of Mind
ISOLDE…
It wasn't until late the following morning that I remembered the figure on the hill, and I asked Yasynya about it.
My hostess made the sign to ward off evil. I did the same, wondering what it is that made the tribe so afraid of this person.
"She is bad luck," Yasynya said, "a demon. She brought the plague to her tribe, and when we passed their camp, the pestilence killed two of our strongest warriors. She followed us, until we were forced to stone her and cast her out. She only lingers over yonder hill, waiting for us, like Death himself. Perhaps she will soon leave us to live in peace."
I pondered her meaning for a moment as we sat in silence.
"What is her name?" I asked suddenly, unsure why but inexplicably needing to know. A chilly breeze raised gooseflesh on my arms.
"She calls herself Batraz."
I sat on the top of the hill, waiting, although for what, I didn't know. I had quickly excused myself after learning the girl's name, for it was the same name that I had called out in my dream, just two weeks before the massacre; I'd been so certain it was only a night terror. I was never a superstitious person, but it gave me the frightening feeling that maybe there was some truth or message in it.
"You are brave, to come up here," a steady voice said from behind me. I jumped to my feet, knife out in a moment.
But what met my eyes tugged at what would have been my heart, if I hadn't already decided I didn't possess one. The girl Batraz stood before me, her dark hair dirty and tangled, and her heart-shaped face hollow-cheeked and streaked with grime. I sheathed my knife, feeling rather sorry for her, but the girl was not pleased.
"Give your pity to your own troubles, for your lot in life is as bad as mine." She said angrily. But when I remained there, rather than leaving her, she checked herself and looked at me almost shyly.
"You do not fear me," It wasn't a question. "Why?"
"I do not believe in demons." I said simply. Sometimes the most important things are not said with words.
The following day was our last full day in Sarmatia. We'd be entering Gaul within the next few days, and tomorrow we'd be saying farewell to our homeland for what would probably be the last time.
They selected two of the boys, Beucan and Zanticus. The former was a mild, plain boy of 14 years who looked oddly calm about leaving home. Zanticus, on the other hand, looked surly at the prospect, glaring from under heavy dark brows at the Romans.
He must've been around 16, tough, with thick arms and a stocky torso, and legs that were slightly too short. Despite this, he stood taller than me, topping my height by at least three inches.
Lancelot, who seemed to have personally appointed himself my tarn, or protector, confided that he didn't trust Zanticus, and I was inclined to agree.
That evening, I went up to the top of the hill again. I waited for nigh an hour, but Batraz was gone, as the winter cold in the face of the spring.
Lancelot came to find me when I didn't return, and the rest of the boys, except the two from the village, filed up in ones and twos soon after. No one spoke, or laughed. We sat in silence. The setting sun cast long shadows in the valleys, while red-gold light spilled across the hilltops like honey.
Tears wetted every face before the orb had passed the dark line of the horizon. I pillowed my head on Lancelot's shoulder, and he laid his own atop mine. It was a gesture of friendship and comfort that no one mistook.
Long after the sun had set its light still shone on the clouds, purpling the scene as the plains passed into twilight. Still we looked on, together and mourning for the lives we had lost. Even when the stars winked at us from a broad expanse of unveiled heavens, we held our hands out to each other, and none could refuse.
The morning dawned cloudy, the dreary gray of despair, in perfect keeping with our mood. We broke camp and mounted up with the same flat, colorless feeling as the sky above us.
It nearly broke my heart when I heard the sendoff I should've had, if this had been my destiny, even had my family survived. It was a low roar of love and longing, grief and hope. The cheer of the Sarmatians, an age-old cry.
Two weeks after our departure from Sarmatia, we encountered and merged with a larger group of nineteen recruited boys, and soon after that, a smaller group of only eight as well.
The band as a whole was filled with righteous anger at my conscription. It made me feel odd, as all I felt was emptiness inside. I decided there must be something wrong with me, that I'd been dealt such ill luck, and yet said nothing against it, felt nothing against it.
Even so, sometimes I wondered if, perhaps, they only felt so outraged because they thought they should. Wasgergi, god of contracts and soldiers, knew that they made plenty of time for pitying themselves.
As we rode toward our impending fate, I began to design my role amongst the Sarmatian brotherhood. I held that if I didn't keep myself apart from the other knights, I might slip up and reveal my secret, and they would forever hate me.
And so I tried to make myself as unapproachable as I could, but I found that such an attempt was rather contrary to my nature. Bits of tarnish seemed to rub off my muddy exterior, drawing the more open-minded boys to me like wire through a drawplate. They didn't ask for it, some of them didn't even particularly like it, but there you are.
Lancelot seemed rather unaccustomed to the role of protector, as easily as he had fallen into it. He was self-serving, to the point where one could call him an arrogant, conceited wretch. Of course, one could call him many other things, I soon found. Without quite realizing how, I had become used to trading banter in the mornings, as we two were often the only early risers.
Being the only girl, I was also roped into domestic duties – washing clothes, cooking meals, and such – until they realized that every tunic I was made to clean came back dirtier than before, spotty with mud and half-sterile patches, and every meal was sure to be burnt.
The only domestic trait I seemed remotely capable of accomplishing was healing. Balai once grumbled that it was just as well I didn't stay with the tribes to become a full-grown woman; any husband I chose would surely cast me out for incompetence.
I threw a ladle at him.
When first we crossed over the mountains, we gazed slack-jawed at their heights. According to our Roman jailers, they were only foothills compared to the real peaks to the southeast. But to Sarmatians, who came from a sea of rolling plains, they were a sight to behold. They were snowcapped, even in summer, and with craggy slopes that seemed to slice the heavens open.
Gaul wasn't an extraordinary place. Clouds marred the sky's blue perfection, concealing the sun's warmth from the earth most days, and floating on the horizon as a threatening reminder of their presence whenever Khors blessed us with his light.
One day, about two months after I first set out on that hellish quest, we crested a ridge and froze, terrified. Several of the younger boys began crying and praying for mercy, while the rest of us sat still on our horses, stunned.
One boy muttered in a hushed voice, "May the Living Zhihar protect us. Don-Bettyr has swallowed the land!" He referred to our god of water.
The two Romans in front had ridden ahead, hardly noticing our trepidation. Marcus turned in his saddle when one of his underlings muttered in his ear.
"For God's sake, you fools, it's only the sea!" The soldiers riding behind us laid the flats of their blades against our horses' flanks, startling the beasts into frantic motion.
Once the rear riders had calmed their four-legged companions, we glared sullenly at the offenders, but carried on. Sarmatians had never beaten their horses like chattel, but treated them like dear friends, even family. To do so was a thing that drew great contempt from our hearts.
We descended the hill, soon reaching the bustling seaside town known as Portus Itius, the port that marked the shortest crossing between Gaul and Britain, as Marcus told it.
The Gallic people mingled with Romans there with surprising amity for a conquered people. They lined the roads, side by side, to stare at us.
I felt their eyes on me in particular, and shrank away from their gaze. Balai and Lancelot, my Knights Errant, noticed this and sandwiched me between them as the others closed protectively around the three of us.
Even Zanticus felt offended at their open stares at the rare sight of a Sarmatian woman and dropped back to spread threatening glares all around. I saw several hostile glances directed at the inquisitive populus, and felt reassured.
We were put up in a stable for the night, sleeping with our horses on the stale hay. We dropped onto our pallets without complaint, weary from a long day in the saddle.
With the soft sounds of horses whickering drifting to my ears, I slept.
Two days later…
The soft nose of my Simargl woke me as he nudged my prone body. I blinked sleepily at him and reached out to push the offending appendage away. He only brought it back again, snuffing hungrily as he rolled a forlorn eye at me. I groaned and sat up. My lower back was stiff and sore from a full day of riding, but not so that I couldn't function.
I padded sleepily out of the stall designated as mine and into Lancelot's, just across the way. A solid kick brought him swiftly round to consciousness. I ignored his irritable glare and mumbled,
"I'm off to find something to eat. Cover for me, would you?" We weren't strictly allowed to leave the stables, but I needed some real food, and so did Simargl. In the face of that pressing need, the Romans and their orders be damned, I was going to eat. If they didn't like it, they could all go to Sad's fiery hell.
The market was easy to find; I had only to follow my nose. The Romans had given us two coppers as pension, and I, at one point in the journey, had supplemented it with a little help from their own purses.
When the busy square that I was seeking tumbled into view, I stopped and stared like any green merchantman. The fact that I was green was entirely irrelevant; even the most hardened tradesman would've whistled appreciatively at the sight of a Roman market such as this one.
Being the main port between Gaul and one of Rome's greatest outlying provinces, the market in Portus Itius was a trade center that rivaled that of any Roman city I had ever seen. Rich colors leapt at me with vibrant gaiety, while early morning shoppers hurried from one stall to the next, sure of their destinations.
Spices cruelly assault my sensitive country nose, while the uneven cobbles beneath my feet moved unexpectedly, causing me to stumble about like a drunkard while my eyes roamed.
Two delicious hot rolls, an apple in my pocket, and a pint of ale later, I was content to sit by the wayside and watch the strange and frightening expanse that Marcus called the sea. It rolled and fluctuated, spraying a fine white mist to speckle the piers that stood over the water's surface. I took a good, healthy sniff, facing into the landward breeze, and sneezed. A salty, sour smell permeated the air and, I discovered, had made its way into my hair and clothing.
Giggling caught my attention. Looking down, I saw several pairs of young eyes peering at me from around corners and behind tethered horses. I tilted my head back to catch the wind in my face again, then sighed and addressed my "invisible" audience.
"Alright," I said, "What do you want?"
A girl, a scrawny little thing, appeared in front of me, closely watched by an older boy standing against a wagon, who I suppose was her brother.
"Are you really a knight?" she asked me.
I nodded shortly. "I suppose so. I will be, at any rate."
"You don't look like a knight. You're a girl. Why did they pick you to be a knight?"
I scowled at her, and an older girl shushed her. "Gaia! That was rude."
"But Lucie, I was just curious. Papa says there's no harm in questions, if the questioner is honest and-"
"The questionee is true. My father said that as well." I looked at her thoughtfully, and then shook my head, a curtain of black despair falling across the windows of my eyes. "He said many things."
The older girl, Lucie – Gaia's sister, I presume – nudged her.
"You see? Now you've done it." She turned to me.
"I am Lucia Valeria Drusa, daughter of Tiberius Valerius Drusus. This is my sister Gaia, and over there, against the wagon, is my brother Marcus." Later I would take a moment to reflect on the rather coincidental fact that all of the males who, for any number of reasons, decided to ruin my life seemed to share that fateful and ultimately unhappy name.
Lucia went back to her sister.
"You shouldn't bother people so, Gaia. People with secrets especially. You might bring up memories that they'd rather forget."
And suddenly – suddenly, I didn't want to forget. I wanted, so very, very badly, to remember everything.
I knelt in front of Gaia, taking her small hand in mine.
"Little Gaia," I said, my voice rough with emotion, "Never stop asking questions. You might allow someone to forget something that they would rather remember. You-"
A hand roughly grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I nearly overbalanced and fell, but caught myself against the wall and crouched, glaring angrily at the boy who'd placed himself between his sister and me.
"I think it's time for you to get back to your pen, Sarmatian whore." He sneered, placing a protective hand on Gaia's shoulder. She looked up at him in confusion.
My lip curled in hatred of this whelp's impudence. Why, he was younger than me by at least a year! He couldn't have been more than fourteen to my fifteen, but he was taller and broader than me nonetheless.
"Care to say that again, Roman dog?" I growled menacingly, placing a hand on my hilt. Lucia tugged at her brother's arm futilely, but was shaken off.
I appraised him carefully. His only weapon was a short knife, while I openly carried a sword, and a few quiet blades besides. His was of excellent quality, though, so no doubt he'd had the best of teachers since he could walk. Spoiled Roman nobility, I thought as red rage boiled in my veins.
We held our positions for a moment, and then I stood fluidly and stalked over to him, spitting full in his face.
He disdained from showing anger at my act, but pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his face in disgust. Oh, a handkerchief. Terribly sorry, milord, I didn't know you were so dignified and – refined I mocked silently.
"Gaia, Lucia, go home to Father." The two girls opened their mouths to argue, but he snapped at them forcefully. "Now!"
They scurried off, leaving us alone.
I threw myself into Simargl's stall, hiding behind his bulk. Sensing my apprehension, he sidled and blew air out of his nose.
I'd worked with him over the past two months, teaching him hand signals, whistles and signals with the knees, while also training him to respond to me, and me alone. I gave him one of those gestures now, and he took a defensive stance at the door, snorting threateningly.
The angry buzz of the mob of young boys grew louder. I peeked out the door and saw Lancelot and a boy named Gawain playing dice in his stall. I whistled low, catching his attention while staying out of sight.
"Lance, we've got a problem." Quickly I explained to him what had happened by the piers, omitting the part where I spoke to Gaia. I heard him stiffen when I told him what the boy had called me, and once I finished, he told me to wait and ran off to confer with the other boys.
When Marcus came skidding to a halt inside the stable walls, something less than a dozen of his peers behind him, he found himself facing about twenty Sarmatians who lounged in the hay, loaded bows in their laps and swords close to hand. Another dozen sat in the rafters. Tristan's long legs dangled in the open air above them, his face concealed by the shadows as he munched on apple pieces carved with a wickedly sharp dagger. And, of course, there was the angry warhorse pawing the dirt in their midst.
And me, well, I was crouching out of sight in Simargl's empty stall, once again letting the boys fight my battles. And seething, of course, because it was unanimously decided that as I had caused the problem, I ought to have no part in the fun of finishing it.
Besides, as Lancelot pointed out, I was in enough trouble already, what with sneaking out of the stable that morning in the first place. Apparently he wasn't a good enough liar to convince Marcus (Captain Marcus Tullius, and not Marcus bleeding Valerius Drusus) that I had stepped out to relieve myself.
Their beating commenced. The muffled sounds met my ears, and I sighed and burrowed further into the hay, my ears burning in silent embarrassment. I remembered with diminishing pride how I had acquitted myself down by the docks.
"Now," Marcus said, "Perhaps it is time for you to learn your place, Sarmatian." He rolled up his sleeves, cracking his knuckles in aneffort to intimidate me.
His eyes suddenly flickered down when he felt the cold, keen edge of my knife against his throat. The little blade was scarcely the length of my finger, and half as wide, but sharp as the devil's teeth. We both noticed at the same moment that there was no one to see us, whatever we did. Somehow we'd maneuvered into a narrow alley that continued onward, shrouded in shadows.
"If you kill me, they will kill you." He jerked his head to the right, where a quick glance proved that six other boys had materialized to close in on me. "You'll be brought up before the justice and hanged for murder. Or, if they aren't in a forgiving frame of mind, they might give you forty lashes for treason, then hand you over to the soldiers of the city guard for their pleasure and enjoyment.
"And if you survive, perhaps they will hang you then. But I hear the market is high for Sarmatian women, they being so… rare. I can't understand the appeal it holds for them, myself." He looked me up and down in a derogatory way, sending shivers rippling all the way to my toes. I felt defiled. I tensed, and brought the knife a little harder against his neck, drawing a thin line of blood from the broken flesh.
"You wouldn't find appeal in a woman if it bit you in the arse, little boy." My gaze lingered on a part of him that he obviously thought was quite a bit larger than it was, it being where all of his thinking took place.
"Unless you've already found it? Naughty Marcus, mothers don't count as conquests."
He grew recklessly wild and roared a fearless roar of fury, moving to attack even with my blade still at his neck. Without any conscious thought, my hand snapped out and up, crushing his nose with one blow, then reaching behind his head and pulling it down into my ascending knee. The resulting blow stun him, but still he came, charging madly. Blood from his broken nose sprayed messily.
Hands grabbed at my arms, pulling me back, pulling me down to pin me against the ground as I tried to duck away from them. Marcus' cronies had circled around behind me, and I'd stupidly forgotten about their presence.
The first blows rained down on my head and neck, and I kicked out without discrimination. My foot connected with several someones, and I felt a momentary satisfaction when I heard a yell of pain. Then the feeling faded abruptly as someone – likely my victim turned vengeful predator – drove a hard, cruel elbow into my stomach. A fist landed simultaneously in my eye.
A starburst of colorful pain erupted above my right eyebrow. I wheezed and coughed for breath, and felt something pop sharply. For the first time, I cried out, curling into a ball to protect the broken rib.
I began to panic when I couldn't get my breath back. My wind was knocked out, as it were, and knowing that, I tried to calm myself down. Being unable to breathe is a fear that is so deeply rooted in the human instinct that it supercedes all else.
I hardly even noticed that the blows had stopped, knowing only that I was free to crawl and heave myself to my feet.
"Go!" I heard a muted voice shout, as though through a fog. A horseman had placed himself between myself and my attackers. In one clear moment, I saw his handsome face, with bright eyes and curly black hair, quite perfectly. He was like my own guardian angel, had I ever once believed in such a thing.
My right eye was swelling rapidly, and I couldn't see a thing past the swelling. I half stumbled, half ran, crying out when my arm knocked into my broken rib.
I stopped and leaned against a pillar, gasping from my run. Dizziness took over for a moment and I sat down hard, putting my head between my knees to regain control of myself.
When I felt reasonably strong enough to continue, I stood and began walking more sedately toward my destination. My normally acute inner compass became useful as I tried to navigate my way through the unfamiliar city streets.
It was then that I heard the shout of recognition. I spun around and saw the swarm of angry boys turn the corner after their fellow's cry. Taking off in the other direction, I passed the market, dodging around beings and beasts. A wagon traveling at a crisp pace pulled up hastily to avoid running me down and its driver shook his fist and cursed at me, but it was too late and I had gone.
The stable was in sight by then, and I passed the soldiers guarding it without a problem. They recognized the scarlet costume I was wearing from when I rode in the previous morning. A flash of red and I was through the gates, safely ensconced in hay.
I heard the groans of Romans in pain, and reveled in it. The sounds of the scuffle died away, leaving me to assume that the boys had run with their proverbial tails between their legs.
A bolt of pain lanced through my side. I looked down at the blood spattered on my shirt, but I couldn't seem to remember how it had gotten there…
MUSE…
Lancelot flexed his hands to loosen them after the fight had ended. These Roman youngsters had no backbone; show them a bit of resistance and they crumbled. Show them a little fear, and they thrived.
Everything seemed to be in order in the stable. A few of the Sarmatians had scuffed hay over dark spots on the ground, left by the blood of broken noses and the cuts and scrapes associated with a soldiers' brawl.
"Isolde?" he called, thinking, surely she ought to have ventured out by now. He went to Simargl's stall, pulling the door open. Perhaps she was angry with us for making her sit out.
"Sad's balls!" He exclaimed upon seeing her. He very nearly marched out to hunt down the Romans who did this and kill them, once and for all.
She sported several injuries. One eye had puffed up, balloon-like, and blood from a cut on her eyebrow had spilled over her slack features. The whole of her face was spotted with darkening bruises. A knife cut to her shoulder had dripped blood down her arm, darkening her red tunic with a wet stain.
His shout had summoned Gawain and his close friend, impetuous Galahad. They peered over his shoulder.
"Bloody wench!" Gawain roared. "She didn't even tell us she was hurt!"
Lancelot picked her up, careful not to bother her injuries, but he startled a groan from her despite his caution. Carrying her was awkward, but not too difficult. She was still thin from the days after her family died; in fact, she would probably remain that way for the rest of her life.
He kicked the stall door open further to keep her head clear of the corner. The antics of Gawain had attracted the attention of several other boys, each of whom wore equally shocked looks when they saw her limp form.
The large, usually cheerful Balai rushed up to them.
"What happened?" He had been one of those out of the stable during the fight. Gawain gave him a summary of the previous hour or so.
"And none of you thought to check on her?" Balai's voice was accusing.
"Seeing as she said nothing of it and we were a bit preoccupied at the time, I think it's rather understandable that we didn't." Lancelot replied with cool sarcasm. "And where were you? Fraternizing with the Romans?"
Balai snarled an oath, suggesting something that Lancelot didn't think was even physically possible, but an amused voice brought up the improbability of the action before Lancelot could even open his mouth.
"Why don't you try that sometime, Balai? I can't imagine it would be particularly satisfying, though you're welcome to attempt it." Isolde coughed harshly and added, "Let me know how it goes. And Lance, you ass, would you put me down already?"
He complied, and she hissed as she straightened up. She swayed a little, and both boys started forward to steady her, each glaring jealously at the other.
"I'll take her," Lancelot gritted out.
"You've proven quite well that you can't properly care for her-"
"If you don't stop this, I'm going to strangle both of you," Isolde snapped. Her side was one massive hurt, and all she wanted was to go lie down.
The boys stopped bickering, but a high-strung tension ran between them.
Isolde sighed, jerking her arms out of both of their grasps.
"Tristan, would you kindly escort me to the infirmary," she asked. "I believe I've forgotten where it is, and I'm not sure how well I'd be able to find in the shape I'm in, anyway."
The dark boy emerged from the shadows where he'd been observing the conversation. Without a word he paced alongside her as she walked, a trifle unsteady, to the door. He paused once to smirk back at the rather dumbfounded boys behind him.
Lancelot and Balai, standing side by side, wondered what had prompted their charge to choose the company of one she had so carefully and blatantly avoided from the very first, over their own. They glanced at each other to share a frown and a bewildered look, then recovered their composure and turned their backs on one another.
ISOLDE…
Tristan sat in the chair near my bunk as the healer set my broken rib, lending a constant support in the presence of the Roman physician.
With a broken rib, a badly swollen black eye, and stitches above my eyebrow and in my arm, I had no chance of leaving my bed (by the healer's decree) and so had plenty of time to think, to my chagrin.
I know I had made a mistake in going out against orders this morning, and I regretted it – really, I did. All the same, I was confused and more than a little angry with myself. I'd never been a hothead before, but today I was quick to take the bait. It wasn't like it was words I hadn't heard before; the Romans who traveled with us had muttered such insults under their breath at least once a day.
No, I didn't know what had made me explode, and it chilled me. If I couldn't control myself in a city, against a younger boy, then how on earth would I prevent myself from losing control on the battlefield, when there might not be anyone to save me and it might be one of my brothers who were hurt or killed?
Battle madness, that's what they called it, when the red fog obscured your perception and good judgment was blown to hell. It was something most fighters regarded as a curse, rather than a blessing. Only the most battle-weary would welcome it as a means to escape their sins. I fervently hoped I wasn't susceptible to it, or I might be meeting Sad sooner than I'd like.
And to top it off, my two best friends were at each other's throats… again. I couldn't understand what offense had pitted them so dead-set against one another, but whenever they were both around me their hackles instantly went up.
Oh, they were courteous enough when I wasn't near, but something about me seemed to bring out the worst in them, and it saddened me.
The incident this morning had taught me one thing, although I didn't particularly like it. Orders were meant to be obeyed.
"So." Tristan said in his usual, quiet manner. I didn't need to ask what he meant.
"I shouldn't have gone," I said. He kept looking at me, prompting me to continue. "I endangered my brothers, as well as myself. I – I suppose if this were a tale, and I a bard, I would say the moral is that sometimes… sometimes orders are there to protect us, rather than to restrict us. But it's not a tale, is it?" I asked suddenly. "And it wasn't there to protect us, though it could have been, in another world, another time."
Tristan nodded at last, satisfied that I understood the circumstances.
"No," he agreed, "It isn't a tale." He gestured around, encompassing the infirmary, the city, Gaul, all that had happened in the past nine weeks with that one wave of his hand. "It's all too real."
I received a month's probation for my actions that day; a fine way to begin my servitude. The following morning, Balai and Lancelot crept into my room, heads hanging dejectedly. I'd already had them forcefully expelled from my room (the healer was all too happy to get rid of them after I got into a shouting match with the two of them and attempted to hurl a very heavy basin at them). They apologized, looking so contrite that I had to forgive them both.
Balai sat down next to me on the bed, and it looked for a moment like Lancelot would say something, but he closed his mouth and sheepishly ducked his head.
Two days later, when I was to be allowed out of my bed, Balai burst into the room, all smiles and bright cheerfulness. I, on the other hand, glowered fiercely at him, which of course didn't dampen his jollity a bit.
"Rise with the sun, little vixen!" he crows happily, using the nickname they'd affectionately, and also quite irritatingly, dubbed me with. "Come, let's to the stables. We've much to do and we set sail today!"
I considered my options; shoot him as soon as I was near a bow, push him off the side of the ship and let him drown, or call in Lancelot – who was sure to burst anyone's bubble – to cleave his head from his shoulders. For certain, the days on the plains, when I rose early and easily, were long past.
In the end I decided to settle it peacefully. When "go away" didn't cut it, I grumbled and commented, "You're a painfully cheery person to be around, did you know?"
He only grinned, patting my cheek.
"Nonsense," he said, "I'm just naturally optimistic."
I growled and tossed a pillow at his head. He threw it back at me. A pillow war ensued, which ended with he and I in something of a compromising position on the floor and Gawain looking on bemusedly from the doorway.
"When you two are finished, we'll be going. Just don't take too long, you know how testy these Romans get when their farts are ignored." He left the room.
I jumped away from Balai as though I'd been scalded, blushing furiously. When I looked over I saw that Balai had done the same. Before we rejoined the others, I pulled him aside.
"Bal – I hope you don't think that I – that we–"
"No," he interrupted, "not at all, that would just be too – you know."
I sighed in relief. "Yes. You just… you don't have what I'm looking for, Balai. In a relationship, I mean. Don't take it personally."
"Aye," he agreed. "And you're far too feisty for my liking. I'd be gray before I'm thirty if I took up with you!"
"Friends?" he asked.
"Always," I replied, clasping his arm with mine.
He grinned. "Good. Then I can do this." And he pulled me in and kissed me.
Gatalas had kissed me before, but that was the kiss a boy gives to a girl, and he was dead now. This was different. Sometime in the past few months, I'd become a woman without my realizing, and I was getting my first true kiss from a man.
Balai pulled away smiling, as always. I stood rooted to the spot, my mouth hanging open in surprise. "Oh," I managed faintly.
His lips brushed my ear. "Just a friendly little kiss," he murmured, and opened the stable door.
I was still dazed when I walked into Simargl's stall to saddle him, slinging my packs across his hindquarters. My possessions had grown in number as we traveled, rather than diminishing.
We mounted our horses easily, some vaulting into the saddle to show these conservative Romans how it was done. When we were prepared to leave, we formed up, sharp and square. I once again rode in the middle, but my fear had morphed into rebellious pride, and I sat tall in my saddle, fading bruises and all.
Although we'd been scheduled to leave several days from now, the incident with the Roman brats hurried things along a bit. Marcus had "convinced" the ship's captain to hasten his departure, though he did so none too happily. He was forced to leave much of his goods behind in order to match our request.
The horses were loaded first, and we took the packs off one by one and slung them over our own shoulders to place in our mass quarters for easy access during the voyage. Then came our personal supplies and those that were to come with us, and finally we were allowed to cross the gangway.
MUSE…
Marcus Tullius parted company withthem beforethey could depart; all were glad to see the back of him.
Before he left, he leaned over to hiss something into Isolde's ear. Just behind her,Lancelot saw her shoulders stiffen suddenly, and she whipped around with a hand to her "tripped" and jostled her, and she glared athim but moved along saw the red rage slip from her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Murdering this Roman would not be particularly beneficial to her well-being. She called out something to Tullius, and he paused, then disappeared around a corner.
Once aboard,Lancelot watched Isolde as she retreated to the front of the galley and faced away from the rest of the Sarmatians. Worried,he started toward her, only to hearhis name shouted from the stern. With one last look athis friend,he turned and followed the call.
ISOLDE…
We set off in the dark of night, without even the doubtful light of the moon to guide our vessel as we drifted out of the harbor and began with long, steady strokes to draw closer to our sorry fate.
A new ally, Kaeso Naevius Avitus, had taught me much about the peculiar stretch that was the sea during the day. He showed me how to tie several knots and how to man the oars while paying attention to the other rowers so that the vessel cleaved a straight line – standard seamanship, he said – until the galley's captain put a stop to it.
"A waste," he'd called it. As he'd walked away with his crewman, I heard him tell Kaeso, "You oughtn't to encourage these barbarians, Comes Avitus. They'll be dead before they have the chance to make the return journey."
Kaeso was careful to stay away from me after that.
After Marcus took his leave of us on the dock, I went off to the bow of the ship, as Kaeso would have it – I still thought of it as the front – and sat out on the beam that protruded from the hull, where not even small Askhkadar would venture for fear of falling and plunging into the chilly sea.
The captain rotated us Sarmatians in three shifts for rowing, two hours on, four hours off. I didn't like the look in his eyes when I boarded the galley, and so I endeavored to stay far out of his way – as far as I could get on a crowded ship in the middle of the Oceanus Brittannicus. Likewise, the captain ignored me, except for sending leery glances in my direction as though he knew something about me, which he bloody well didn't.
Lancelot and Balai, on separate shifts, stood by the bow and tried to coax me from my perch, but I said nothing and they soon gave up and just stood there quietly until it was their turn to row. Meanwhile, I stared down at the cold black water, looking utterly calm and quiet, but inside I raged. With a shudder of intense fury, I recalled Marcus' words exactly, the way the din of the afternoon market faded and warped around each syllable, how the stubble on his chin scratched my cheek as he leaned in, the sharp details of his handsome, cruel face…
"It's a pity," he sneered at me, and I heard the menace in his voice and shrank back, "that the Romans didn't have a chance to have some fun with your bitch mother before they killed her. I hear your sister was good, up until they put a knife in the whore's heart. Your father took down only two as they planted the arrows of the Huns in the ground before he was also cut down. But you know, a dog is only a dog, after all, and must be disciplined."
I very nearly sank my sword into his evil heart right there, but I dredged up reserves of control that I never knew I had when Lancelot banged into my shoulder, reminding me to be careful. I mentally visualized tearing out his throat and feeding his balls to the hogs, or stringing him up and peppering him with arrows, and I really wanted to claw his face with my nails and shriek and hurt him as badly as he and his have hurt me.
But I did none of these things. Instead, I stood shaking with barely suppressed murder boiling in my soul.
As he left, I turned glassy eyes on his retreating profile and managed to force out, "Watch your back, Marcus Tullius. One day I will return and destroy all you hold dear. There is one thing you cannot take from me, for I have not sold my soul as you have. Watch your back, Marcus Tullius, or you will find yourself in hell before your time."
His steps faltered only a moment before he turned a corner and was lost to sight.
I came back to myself and pried my hands from the beam, pulling splinters of wood from under my nails.
One thing was for certain, and that was that the boys must never learn of this, or they would kill every Roman in Britain and sign their own death warrants.
I wondered that it was they who needed restraining from avenging the deaths of my clan, and that I was the one so coldly and calmly preventing it. Had I no heart at all, as I'd feared? There was surely no hope of redemption for me now.
It was nearly dawn when I finally stirred. I unwrapped my legs from the beam – or tried to. Over the long hours, my muscles had cramped and were now knotted tightly, but with the help of Lancelot – who was currently standing watch over me – I managed to return to the deck, whereupon I collapsed into a sitting position on the planks. Lancelot wordlessly handed me the blanket he'd had wrapped around his own shoulders, and I thankfully took it, teeth chattering heavily. Then Lance sat down at my right side, and Balai took the left.
I felt so warm and comforted by this, with the two of them sitting pressed up next to me that I was nearly asleep when I realized that I'd been asked a question.
"Wha'" I murmured sleepily.
"I said, what ails you, vixen?" Balai repeated. I was still for a moment. I looked up at them with shuttered eyes and searched their dear faces, filled with concern and slowly, sadly shook my head from side to side.
"Nothing," I heard myself say. "Nothing, I'm fine now." And I think we all knew it isn't true.
But that night, when a cold dinner was brought out and we all fell to, I found myself sitting between the captain and one of the rowers, a burly man with hard eyes, whose name I didn't know. Throughout the meal, as the captain indulged in more and more wine, I sat rigidly on the hard bench.
Lancelot and Balai, my two protectors, didn't notice, one being fast asleep on a pallet near the stern, and the other occupied telling stories of his exploits to his brothers-in-arms.
Most of the crew was Gallish, and as they jabbered away in their strange, fluid language, the Captain (a Roman who despite his heritage had spent his entire life among Gauls) laughed loudly at something they said and placed his ham-like hand high on my thigh, giving it a suggestive squeeze.
Furious as I was with Rome and Romans, it's needless to say that this was a bad idea. I roared out my anger and stood, kicking the surprised man in the chest – an action that spilled him none-too-gently onto the wooden deck. In a moment I had the point of my blade at his throat, ready for the kill.
"Hold!" The order possessed such command that I stayed my hand and snapped my head around to meet a pair of green eyes, eyes belonging to a handsome youth with curly black hair. I hadn't forgotten that face.
"You!" I gasped in shock, lowering my sword. I could see the knights out of the corner of my eye as they looked back and forth between us.
The boy blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, the like of which I hadn't seen in quite a while, both kind and sincere. Immediately I thought, I can trust this boy. I sheathed my sword.
"It's the girl from the fight in the alley!" he said while looking genuinely happy to see me again. "Had I known you were Sarmatian, I would have brought you back myself to be sure you were alright and to meet with my knights." What?
"I didn't have a chance to thank you for your aid then," I said, though in truth I was quite confused by this point. "I would like to do so now."
He inclined his head, acknowledging my gratitude. Like a young lord, I thought, nodding benevolently to his people.
"But… who are you?" I blurted out, and I knew immediately that I sounded terribly ignorant, but I couldn't stand not knowing.
I saw a few of my Sarmatian brothers hide sudden smiles, and I sent a withering scowl in their direction.
The stranger was a bit more successful at concealing his mirth, but still his mouth turned up at the corners and a dimple showed in his left cheek.
"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I am–" Lancelot chose this moment to step forward and interrupt the "young lord". He had a teasing grin plastered to his face and rocked back on his heels with glee.
"Please, allow me." Without waiting for an answer, the dear, dead Lancelot happily continued. "While you were moping, dear vixen," This time no one bothered to hide their amusement. "We men-" I snorted "-were hard at work, getting to know our new companion. Let me introduce you to…" He paused, and I made a rude gesture to express what I thought of his stalling.
"…Lucius Artorius Castus, our new commander." He bowed to some applause and ribald comments from the Sarmatians.
"Call me Arthur, please," Arthur said.
I stumbled back. A Roman! I could feel my horror showing on my face. So many damned Romans!
Of course I'd known we would be commanded by a Roman, and we'd probably be surrounded by Roman regulars when we finally arrived at our post, but I didn't expect to be so easily taken in by him, and I was not happy with myself in the least. I didn't expect to want to trust him.
I didn't expect to like him.
"Not another one…" I moaned.
"Another what?" Arthur asked, looking concerned. He would look concerned, wouldn't he?
"Roman," I spat out.
"Half." What?
"Half what?" I asked.
"I'm only half Roman," he said. "My father was a Roman, my mother one of the woads, the wild natives of Britain." Well, that's alright then, isn't it?
No, my stubborn side insisted. A Roman is a Roman, be he noble, merchant, or a half-breed mutt, as this one claims to be.
The boys seemed to have made their peace with him. But then, they didn't know what I knew.
"Khors," I muttered, "I'm so confused."
Lancelot looked put out when his introduction didn't quite go as planned. I put a hand on his shoulder as I walked past. Back to the bow I went, straddling the beam closer to the base this time so that I could relax against the rail and didn't have to cling to the wood to stay on.
I had a lot to think about.
It took us a total of four hellish days to cross the channel between Gaul and Britain – hellish because the wind picked up away from shore, and suddenly the ship was pitching back and forth, rolling onto first one side, staying there for an interminably long time, and then rocking over to stand on the other side.
Meanwhile the vessel was lifted up and dropped again on the other side of the wave as the stomach jumped traitorously into the throat to gag you.
To my immense annoyance, I was the only one who actually loses the contents of my stomach during the voyage; the others were green for awhile, but after two days or so they got over it and were prancing around for the rest of the trip.
I, however, spent all four days on my knees, getting to know the bottom of a foul-smelling bucket very, very well.
It settled my mind on one point – for certain I wasn't meant for the seafaring life. The whole thing was a tortuous experience I'd rather forget. I wasn't even sure I wanted to make the return trip if this was the price.
That is, if I lived long enough to have the choice, because I had the strange and frightening feeling that once I reached this island, I would never leave it either way.
It confronted us with smooth green curves that would prove deceptively friendly, gentle wooded hillocks and happily gurgling rivers, grimy children peering at us from the protection of their tiny villages.
It was where we'd spend the next 15 years of our lives, where we would spill the blood of our enemies, where we would kill and be killed. Whatever had happened in the past, and whatever lay on the horizon, this place would decide our fates.
And so we watched, silent, observing with quiet resignation our first glimpse of Britain.
End Chapter.
IF YOU ARE ENJOYING THIS, you are welcome to check out Fortune's Fool, although that's HP fanfiction, not KA, and I'm on a roll with this one now. To Dance Alone is also another option, and one I may continue to a fuller extent once I finally finish PoM.
Ribhinn
Review.