Hello everyone! Welcome to Chapter Eight. Apologies for the delay with this chapter, I went down with a severe case of Real Life. Fortunately I recovered with no lasting ill effects...:)
For Disclaimer and story warnings: See Chapter One.
Thank you to everybody that reviewed, you've really kept me going over the last week. Enjoy chapter eight, its another on of my favourites :)
Chapter Eight – Blood-debts
Lancelot had reached the fifty-fourth loud and tuneless verse of "Ninety-Nine Romans Stood On The Wall" when he heard distant footsteps at the end of the corridor. He stretched like a cat and slowly sat up. Another Legionnaire to taunt? Arthur coming to releasing him? The guard outside uttered an audible sigh of relief when the singing broke off. Lancelot grinned viciously to himself in the dark, and rose silently off the hard bed.
The footsteps reached the outside of the door and the Knight heard a string of fast Latin exchanged. The bolt slid and the door opened, and...
Arpagius entered, flanked by a muscular legionnaire guardsman.
Lancelot's grin shifted from easily nonchalant to sardonically mocking.
"General...How's the nose?"
A muscle ticked in Arpagius's jaw, but he resisted touching his bruised and swollen nose. Instead, the Roman looked down at Lancelot as if he were merely something unpleasant the General had trodden in at the stables.
"Pay attention, Sarmatian." He snapped. "I'm not here to listen to your attempts at humour, but to inform you of the case against you, as you appear uneducated in Roman law. You have contravened two laws of the Roman State; as a soldier striking a superior and General of the Army, and also as a slave striking his master..."
Lancelot felt anger burn fast and hot inside him, and his fist itched again.
"Slave?" he said, quietly.
Arpagius straightened his back and continued. "I am within my legal rights to have you executed. You would suffer a traitor's end, stoned to death by your equals-" he paused. Lancelot bursting out laughing was clearly not the reaction he expected.
"Executed?" Lancelot sneered. "What, do you want me to beg for my life, General? I am Sarmatian, not your slave, nor any man's! I am not beholden to the barbaric laws of your murdering empire or your god. " The soldier beside the General was shifting angrily, but Lancelot didn't care. "I follow Arthur-"
Arpagius raised his own fist and glared down at the Knight, his cool demeanour already vanishing. "Arthur?" he hissed. "A half-bred embarrassment, a puppet, banished to the most inhospitable province and forgotten about! You take my word for it, Sarmatian, he won't be in charge of Camboglanna or his precious Knights for much longer, not when my report gets back. And as for you! You dare to speak against those who own you? You are a slave of Rome, as your ancestors were, and your bastard sons will be. You have no rights, or privileges which I, your owner, cannot take away." He snapped his fingers in Lancelot's face, and the Knight automatically knocked his hand away with a snarl.
There was silence for a moment, before Arpagius said, victoriously; "That's another crime, Sarmatian, and the law now calls for your death."
Lancelot managed to keep his silence, barely. He suddenly remembered tales he had heard of Roman households where all the slaves under the roof were executed in punishment for the crimes of one person. If Arpagius was really crazy enough to enforce this, he wouldn't risk any more of the Knight's lives. If only he had his swords...
"However," continued Arpagius, after a pause. "I am far from a fool. I have seen that Artorius's discipline is dangerously close to apathy, and his "Knights" little more than bloodthirsty savages. But I can see a crude tool is sometimes needed for a crude task."
Lancelot was nearly quivering with rage. One of them had died for this arrogant shit's pride, because he wanted to be the General to face the Woads. Because he went looking for them in their own territory and dragged the Knights with him. Gawain was dead because of him. To hell with his swords, he was going to strangle the man with his bare hands.
Arpagius abruptly turned towards the door.
"I will spare your life, in view of your ignorance of Roman law. You will be flogged tomorrow in front of your Sarmatians and the legion, receiving fifty lashes, and then you will return to your full duties. You rations will be halved for the foreseeable future."
"I'd like to see you try it," growled out Lancelot. Arpagius turned back to him, voice careless.
" As a slave, you have no legal right to contest. You should be grateful I'm sparing your life, boy."
"Grateful!" Lancelot laughed again. "To you? To a man so gutless he can't honour a brave Knight who died fighting to protect his fucking Roman hide? So worthless he has to keep other men like possessions in order to feel like a man at all! So cowardly..."
Lancelot stopped, suddenly realising what this had all been about. He stepped up the General and rejoiced at the glint of fear in the Roman's eyes. "...So cowardly he doesn't even dare to enforce his own laws in fear of what the Sarmatian 'savages' would do to him if he did..."
They stood face to face for about ten seconds, the hate creating a near palpable barrier between them, before Arpagius said, softly;
"You will now receive one hundred lashes, and, if you survive, I fully intent to see to it that your service record is revoked. That means your last eleven years of servitude would vanish. Your fifteen years of slavery will start all over again. Sarmatian."
Arpagius smirked, but Lancelot barely noticed, deafened by the ringing in his ears. Arpagius had finally found the one thing that could hurt him. Fifteen years. Another fifteen years...A death sentence as good as any other.
"You will remain here until you are taken to the Principia at noon tomorrow for your punishment, and if any of your friends try to intervene I will take whoever the youngest is, and flog him too. It's time somebody took control here."
"Oh, I'd say it was high time, Arpagius." The voice behind him made Arpagius jump, and he spun around. Lancelot looked up, barely willing to believe his eyes, and his heart soared.
Arthur Castus strode into the cell, red cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. The torchlight lit a bright nimbed halo of fire around his dark head and flames danced in his eyes as he stared down at the Roman General. In that moment, Lancelot saw him like never before; as towering and unbreakable as a vengeful god, indestructible, transcendent and immortal. He fought the urge to kneel, and the moment passed. Arthur was just a man again, and a bandaged and bruised one at that.
"Artorius," said Arpagius and it was a greeting less warm than a swim in a British lake in winter. "I heard you were still in the Valetudinarium."
"Well, you heard wrong." If Arpagius's voice had been cold, Arthur's sounded like he'd swallowed an icicle. It seemed he had over-heard most of their conversation. "My thanks for your attempts to 'discipline' my men, General, but I believe I can take over from here. Lancelot, you may go."
Arpagius exploded. "Stay where you are, slave! Guard, seize him!"
The burly legionnaire, Arpagius's muscle, who had been standing unobserved in the corner shuffled uneasily, and looked at Lancelot. The Knight raised an eyebrow, and the legionnaire seemed to remember what happened last time he had been order to seize this particular Knight. He opted for standing behind Lancelot and glaring menacingly instead.
Arpagius seemed not to notice. "Castus! You would dare to challenge my authority in this? Your 'Knight' assaulted his army officer, and a superior citizen! He will be corporally punished by the laws of Rome-"
"By the laws of Rome?" Arthur interrupted, furious. "What of the laws of God? Causing another unnecessary pain is not the path to righteousness, or to justice. You might be a General, Arpagius, but not one for this province, and you came here as my guest only. The Knights answer to me only; you have no say over how I organise my forces or discipline my men!"
"You're forgetting the facts, Castus!" snarled the General. "This slave is an insolent troublemaker and a reprobate. He shall be punished for his transgression, as a warning to others that insubordination will not be tolerated!"
"Reprobate?" muttered Lancelot. Arthur shot him a warning look, and turned back to the Roman.
"Yes, Arpagius, he is a troublemaker. But, the thing is," Arthur stepped forward, and Lancelot was surprised to see how he towered over the other man. "The thing is, he's my troublemaker. The Sarmatian Knights serve under my command, and their papers of service rest with me. If Lancelot and the Sarmatians are slaves, they belong to me. Lay one hand on him, or any of my Knights, and you will be breaking the laws of Rome by damaging my slaves and property without permission, a crime punishable by a fine I don't think even your gross salary would cover. Understand?"
Arpagius was so red in the face, he looked like a bloated corpse.
"You...You would let him get away unpunished? You would let a barbarian get away with assaulting a Roman?"
"Yes," said Arthur, simply. "If I believed the Roman deserved it. It was not fear for my life that sent you fleeing back to the wall with your tail between your legs, was it, 'General'? Maybe next time you should listen to my advice and leave the battlefield for the captains with experience, rather than forcing an idiotic move to take on the Woads in their own country and leading one of my men to an unnecessary death!"
"He died killing Woads!" snarled Arpagius, "That was his function. He died fulfilling his orders."
Arthur stepped close to the other man's face, and he was nearly trembling with anger. "It was unnecessary," he repeated. "And I hope God can forgive you, because I do not think I can. I think you've outstayed your welcome here, General, and I want you out of my fort by noon. Give my greetings to Rome when you see it again. Lancelot?"
He turned out the door with a swirl of cloak, leaving Arpagius red-faced and speechless in the cell behind him. Lancelot needed no other encouragement, and threw the Roman another sneering look before darting from the cell, to freedom. He quickly followed Arthur as he swept up the corridor. The two walked side by side in silence for a moment, before Lancelot spoke up.
"I'm your troublemaker?" he muttered. "Arthur, all this time and I didn't know you cared..."
The Roman uttered a short, tired laugh. "Don't let it go to your head. It was the only argument I could think of at the time. Not really up to complex legal debate right now."
Lancelot noticed for the first time how weary Arthur looked under the bandage on his head, and how he held his splinted arm tightly to his chest. How grief hung over him like a cloud.
"Should you really be out of bed?" Lancelot asked. Arthur shot him a look that quickly made him change the subject.
"So," he mused "You're really going to let me off for punching your General in the face?"
Arthur snorted, as they rounded the next corner and stepped out into the pre-dawn air of the Principia and freedom.
"Of course not. I'm putting you on Pecunaria multa, you're on a quarter pay until I stop seeing double. And you have to...patrol with Tristan for the next three weeks."
Lancelot winced, but nodded. It was only fair. He had crossed a line.
"I'm sorry I punched him, if it screws everything up." He offered.
Arthur smiled grimly. "I'm not. Little sod deserved it. I was pretty close to socking him myself."
It was Lancelot's turn to laugh, but then he remembered the words of Arpagius, and sobered.
"What are you going to do? About his report he's sending back. Would they actually try and replace you?"
Arthur sighed, "I don't know. Probably not, if only because no other Commander could put up with you."
Lancelot smiled, but he heard the worry in Arthur's voice. If Arpagius gave a negative report of Arthur back in Rome, would they act on it? Were they all still in danger?
"Forget it," said Arthur briskly, as they entered the Praetorium. "There are other things that are more important."
He turned to the desk for a moment, and picked up a sealed paper. He took a deep breath, and turned back to Lancelot.
"You feeling up to a little excursion?"
Lancelot flashed as smile. "Always."
Arthur nodded, and held out the paper to the Knight, and he saw it was a pass allowing travel beyond the Wall.
"Go and find Gawain." He said.
Gawain drifted in and out of awareness. He was moving, half carried and half dragged by swift unseen figures on each side. His eyes and hands were bound, a stinking cloth was tied around his mouth; breathing was difficult. The grip on his arms pulled agonisingly at the arrow wound in his shoulder. The Knight tried to pull his feet under him to walk, but his knees didn't seem to want to hold his weight and the men dragging him along wouldn't stop for him to get his balance.
Irritated, he struggled, pulling back against their hold, but one of his captors gave him a cuff round the head; his feet slipped out from under him, and he lost consciousness again.
Gawain was snapped suddenly back into wakefulness as his captors released his arms and he fell to the ground. He didn't need his eyes to know where he was; the smell of pungent blue dye mixed with sweat, woodsmoke and leather assaulted him on every side. A Woad encampment. He wondered vaguely why he wasn't afraid, but realised, fear needed energy and he had nothing left.
"This doesn't look good," commented Lancelot's voice from behind his shoulder.
Don't be a moron, Lancelot, Gawain thought, muzzily. I'm about to get gutted by Woads. Of course it doesn't look good.
There was a lull in the conversation as he was dumped on the floor, before the Woad to his right spoke up loudly, the native tongue lilting on the air. Another older voice, away to the left, responded with a question, and strong hands on his shoulder and hair pulled him upright onto his knees. The Woad, consciously or unconsciously knocked the arrow shaft, and Gawain's agonised cry was muffled in the gag.
Dizzy and disorientated without his sight, he let the natives hold him upright, too exhausted even to lift his head.
"I think you might be in trouble, boy." Dinaden piped up, helpfully.
You can talk, Gawain thought back. You've been dead for five years.
"You'll be alright, Gawain," said Galahad, firmly. "The rest of you, shut up."
The Knights went quiet as Gawain knelt before his enemies, and let the native language flow over him as the Woads about him decided his fate.
The first glow of dawn was lighting up the sky, when the three Woad scouts returned with their captive to the camp. Chieftain Alvar and the Elders sat beside the glowing fire, observing the holy hours, when the Woad scout Carlon approached.
"Alvar. I have returned, and I bring a gift." Carlon watched his Elders and was satisfied by the look of surprise on the Chieftain's face when he saw what Carlon had brought. Brae and Esras dragged their captive forward into the firelight, and dumped him on the ground. There was a moment of silence as the Elders rose.
"Carlon, what is this that you have found?" Alvar's voice did not betray his emotion, but Carlon knew it was there.
He gestured to the men behind him with a smirk; they dragged the bound man up to his knees, and the captive gave the first sign of being conscious, letting out a muffled grunt of pain.
The warrior was a pitiful sight. Dried blood stained the front of his garments, and coated his armour like rust, and more fresh blood was seeping from his tunic even as he knelt on the ground. Alvar saw the shaft of an arrow still embedded in his chest. He was filthy with dirt and mud, wild hair tangled, and the skin of his face that wasn't hidden behind blindfold and gag was pale. The soldier was clearly badly injured, but Alvar did not need to imagine that at full strength he was most intimidating. He had seen this one in battle before; the big axe-wielding Knight with the wild mane of yellow hair. Fearless and, he had thought, undefeatable.
"We found him in the forest, wounded," said Carlon. "He is from the Wall."
"A Roman?" Asked Esras.
Alvar shook his head. "No. He is one of the Knights. He is Arthur's."
There was a murmur of conversation around them in the small crowd of warriors that had gathered to see the captive.
"A Knight!" the Elder Beran spat. "Much of the blood of our people is on his hands."
"He must die, now." agreed Brae.
Carlon shook his head. "No. He may have useful information for us. He may know where their troops will next venture to cross the Wall. He may know how their scout always finds us."
"Arthur is not our enemy," said Elder Oran. "His is one of us. A slave to Rome."
"If he is one of us, why does he kill so many of our people?" demanded Beran. "We should send this Knight's head back to Arthur, and show him what we do to those who take what is ours."
Doran, the druid for the clan, slowly approached the fallen Knight. He touched the fresh bleeding slashes on the captive's neck, carved, it seemed, by a wolf's claw, then examined the arrow shaft in his shoulder. The Knight jerked back from the touch and turned his head away.
"He is strong, this Knight," said Doran, slowly. "This arrow is one made by our people. It has been two nights and a day since our last encounter with Arthur's horse-warriors, and that was many miles north of here. He has walked far with these wounds. He is strong."
He turned back to face Alvar. "He will tell you nothing."
Alvar nodded, considering. "Your gift is double edged, Carlon. If Arthur finds that one of his Knights died here, we shall not escape his wrath."
"If we can get no information from him, he must die." said Brae. "He is not long for this world anyway."
There were nods from the watching clan members, but just at that moment, another Woad approached the group, and knelt.
"Chieftain! I wish to speak!"
Alvar nodded. "Speak then, Rian."
"You must stop. You cannot kill this man," said the young Woad, rising and pointing at the captive. "He is the man who saved Fiachra."
There was another ripple of talk amongst those watching.
"Explain this. You did not say he was a Knight before."
"I did not think it would matter, I thought him already in the Otherworld by now. He took us by surprise in the forest as you know and we would have killed him, but Fiachra was injured from a fall and we were trapped by wolves. He fought off the wolves to allow me to escape with her. I did not think he would survive, but now that he has, he is owed a Blood-debt."
"He did not fight to let you and Fiachra escape, Rian," said Carlon, but patiently. Rian was only young, and had much to learn of their enemy. "The horse-warriors are just savages, they have no concept of mercy or kindness."
"Even beasts will protect others if they are attacked," argued Rian. "And so he did with us, and with purpose. He spoke to me in the tongue of the Romans and told me to flee with Fiachra."
There was silence all around, and many eyes fell on the injured Knight. Alvar saw the man's head had fallen forwards and he wondered if the warrior were still conscious. He made his decision.
"Blood-debts are not owed to enemies," he said, slowly. "We cannot let him live, or he will take more of the lives of our people. He shall die by his own sword once the sun is fully risen."
Carlon nodded, acceptingly. He had hoped the Knight would be able to give them some information to defeat the invaders of their homeland, but even if he did not, with his death there would be one less murderer in the world. He took the Knight's blade from Esras. It was a beautiful weapon, far more beautiful than he would have expected from the Romans. It seemed also oddly familiar.
"This is his sword," he said, and passed the weapon, strangely reluctantly, to the druid.
The gasp issued by Doran was loud enough to make him start, and he looked at the man in surprise. The druid stared at the sword in his hand with mingled amazement and disbelief.
"This!" He murmured. "Look!"
The three Elders Alvar, Orin and Beran all glanced at the sword, and then, with looks of wonder, they immediately knelt. The watching warriors quickly emulated, not understanding what was happening but knowing it was important.
"Excalibur!" cried Doran, lifting the sword, and the word was echoed across the clearing by whispered voices.
"The Sword of the Pendragon! How came it to be here? It does not belong to this Knight."
Carlon looked up from where he knelt. "I do not know how he came by it," he said, shaken, "but he was holding it when we found him."
"It's true, Lawspeaker," added Rian, "That is the sword he wielded against the wolves."
"Then in spilling their blood there he has made that place holy," said Doran, "and our path is clear. The one who wields Excalibur is blessed by the gods. If he comes to us in battle, we may fight him and be blessed to die on that blade. If he comes to us in peace, or at an hour of need we may not harm him."
"Those laws refer to Uther and his kin, Spiritwalker!" said Beran, angrily "And not to any who should merely pick Excalibur up."
The druid eyed him, coldly. "No man merely picks Excalibur up, Beran. This weapon was guided to this Knight, such things are the will of the gods and goddess, and not for us to judge."
"We must send word to Merlin," suggested Oran. "He shall wish to know of this."
"Agreed," said Alvar. "And as this man has borne Excalibur and proved himself a friend to the Woads, I declare him reprieved this day, and the Blood-debt stands. Tomorrow, he is an enemy once more and we must decide then if he is to die. Rian, it is from you and Fiachra that the debt is owed. You may treat his wounds if you see fit. Go."
TBC.
Well I wasn't really going to let them kill Gawain now, was I? Woads are a lot of fun to write. I even think Lancelot might be growing on me!
All reviews are gratefully accepted.
Till next time, Nienna x