II: A realisation
Watching the nature no longer held any sway over him, as he faced the grim realisation: he was a slave. Why had his father not told him so? Had he feared that Tristan might not be able to face it? It was true, he was not able to face it. Riding still hurt. His back was tender. Quintus, their decurion, had not said another word to his punishment save for: "You deserved it, boy. Obedience is a must."
There was a kind of deep anger within him, but there was no way to release it. At night he would lie still, staring in the darkness with all the force of his despair that now engulfed him whole. He had never been one to show his emotions in the light though, and so he kept a blank mask during the day. He would not talk to anyone save for the most necessary words. His thoughts kept going in circles. He was free, he was a free man, he had always been a free man, and no Roman was going to change that. The desire to be his own master was stronger than any other desire, even at the age of fourteen summers.
Weeks passed and they took shelter in a small city called Flavia Solva. The city seemed to consist largely of ruins or of disused houses. The houses they stayed in seemed to be some of the only houses still left intact and running. Tristan did not seem to be the only one who had noticed this. Lancelot, ever outspoken, went to talk to the landlord.
"Please tell me," he said in his broken Latin, "why is city empty? No people anywhere."
The landlord raised an eyebrow at the bad Latin, but he answered nonetheless. "This city was left by its inhabitants, boy. Barbarians are roaming free these days. No one wants to stay here, at the edges of the civilized world." He looked Lancelot up and down. "Not that I have to tell you about barbarians…"
Quintus, who had been sitting with his optio, Flavius, at the fireplace, had heard this. He got up and stood before the landlord. His dark eyes were shooting daggers. "Do not forget your position, landlord," he said. "You are grumbling about publicum hospitium, are you? Well, better not let me hear any whisper from you again. These boys will attain civitas one day, if they prove themselves. Standing in front of you is the future of this Empire. And I know there is been unrest these last years, but I can assure you the Senate will do all in its power to reclaim these regions. So you better be silent now."
The landlord backed away, raising his hands in a universal gesture of defeat and went to work on cleaning some tables.
Lancelot looked at Quintus, who looked back for a minute, then shook his head and turned back to Flavius. Tristan had followed the exchange silently. He had gathered a few things from the conversation – first, the Roman Empire seemed to be crumbling. Second, they apparently had the chance to become civitas one day, whatever that meant. He was more interested in the first statement. If there were really barbarian hordes overrunning the Empire, did that mean he could escape and return to his family unscathed soon?
Later, he could haven't said how he could have been so careless in his thoughts and actions. He had packed his two small daggers – the Romans had taken away all their weapons, or so they thought, so he didn't have his father's curved sword – the loaf of bread he had stolen from the kitchen and the few nummi, small copper coins, they had received from the officers for buying small meals from hawkers.
Quintus sometimes taught them a few things about the Empire; its regions and its people. Tristan always listened avidly. Thus, he knew they were in Norricum mediterraneum, just below the range of the Alpes, the gigantic range of mountains dividing this mass of land. They had seen them rising up on the horizon, eliciting sounds of awe- only some of them had known of mountains that gigantic before. He had the route they had travelled to come here clearly in his head, he knew he would not get lost. In his head he had always, even as a small child, categorized routes and landmarks. His father had used to boast about his son never getting lost and even finding the way to their tents in the middle of the night when they had been half a day-ride away. Thus, Tristan knew well where to go. He had even thought of the sentries posted outside and so he climbed across the roof and across to the other side of the house, where there were no openings to the outside. His fingers got bloody rashes when he climbed down along the rough stones, but he did not care. Instead he felt happy when he finally ran away in the darkness. He had really thought of everything. However, he had not thought of Quintus going outside for a check of the situation.
He was halfway through the ruins of the old city, ghostly in the pale moonlight, when he suddenly felt the cold steel of a Gladius, the common sword of the Roman army, at his throat. The dark figure of Quintus was outlined against the night sky.
"Don't go any farther, boy."
Tristan froze, but he made no sound. Instead he felt how the blade wandered even closer to his neck, cutting some of the soft flesh. It hurt. He was deadly afraid in that moment.
"You know what we do to deserters."
That had been the first lesson the Romans had taught them: even Roman citizens, who deserted, were beaten to death with cudgels in front of the entire troop. Yes, Tristan knew indeed what they did with deserters. He could only imagine what they did with deserters who were no Roman citizens.
"Did you really think you were going to flee all the way back to Sarmatia across half the Empire without detection?"
Tristan breathed loudly, he could not help it. The steel was still at his throat.
"How do you even think you would be able to pull that off?"
That had now sounded as if Quintus thought he was stupid and a small flame of indignation wormed its way through. Thus, Tristan spoke.
"I listened to Flavius, the landlord."
Quintus laughed horribly at that. "Flavius!" he exclaimed. "Why in god's name would you listen to that imbecile? He knows nothing of the world and he is a bad example of Roman citizens. He does not even want hard-working legionarii to stay with him, he only has to take us in on a regular basis due to the rules of publicum hospitium. He has as much honour as a common street dog. You are an intelligent boy, why would you rely on anything he says?"
Tristan protested. "He said the Roman Empire is crumbling…"
Again, Quintus laughed, but it was a sad sound. The steel blade had left Tristan's throat by then. Tristan dared to raise a hand to rub his throat.
"The Roman Empire might be weakened by hordes coming from the east, but we still prevail. Roman institutions are still strong and deserters are punished more harshly than ever. Rest assured you would never make it home alive. We would hunt you down like a rabid dog."
"The deserters are punished more harshly because you lose influence," Tristan surmised.
"No," Quintus replied quickly, but Tristan caught the sliver of truth reverberating in his voice. "They are punished because discipline is the most important thing in an army."
"Why have you not killed me then by now?" Tristan challenged. He knew it was stupid, but he thought that the end was coming anyway.
Quintus shook his head, a gesture barely visible in the moonlight. "You are an intelligent one, boy. With time you will come to realise that not all about the Roman Empire is a bad thing. My father came from Gallia and was drafted as well, to reach a certain quota needed during the time. He did not want to go, but he had to. And as it turned out, in the end he was awarded some land for his service and he became a citizen of Rome, which is why I stand in front of you today. I would like you to have the same chances as I was once offered. You can do so much as a Roman citizen. You can learn how to build majestic structures, read about the philosophers or sharpen your mind in a thousand other directions." There was an awe in his voice which Tristan could not understand.
Finally, shrugging, the Roman said. "It is up to you." Tristan walked after him, slowly, defeated. When they reached the entrance of the inn, though, the steel of the commander's Gladius was once more at Tristan's throat. "Next time you run I will kill you."
Then he pushed the boy inside, watching how he disappeared quickly upstairs. At the top of the stairs the boy turned, looking back at him. Quintus didn't break the gaze, and after a while, the wild boy nodded, turning to go. Strangely the Roman legionarius didn't feel like he had attained a victory.
"I will watch you," he mumbled to himself. "Rest assured, the next time you are dead."
Tristan meanwhile had only made it a few steps farther. Then a dark shape hurled itself at him and pushed him to the ground. Punches were flying his way, dealt by a strong fist, but Tristan fought back fiercely, biting and scratching.
"You idiot!" he heard. It was Lancelot's voice.
"Stop it!" Tristan yelled, his young voice ringing out clearly. Lancelot pressed a hand to his mouth. "Silent now," he hissed. "Or do you want more trouble?" Little did they know that the Roman legionnarii had already taken notice of the scuffle, but Quintus had forbidden them to intervene. Long practice had taught them that the young recruits were to be left alone in moments such as these.
As a response Tristan launched himself at him once more, trying to break Lancelot's hold over him. Lancelot landed a hit to his stomach and Tristan bit back a pained yell. Instead he hit back, so hard, that Lancelot fell on the ground next to him. They lay next to each other, heavily panting, both covered in bloody scratches and bruises.
"Why did you try to run, you idiot?" Lancelot asked scathingly and there was so much fury in his voice.
Tristan paused and suddenly understood. "You wanted to do that as well. Running."
"Yes," Lancelot said tartly. "Not only me, some of the others as well. Do you realise you have now ruined all our chances? They will keep an closer eye on us than before. Why do you never speak to any of us? You would have known otherwise."
Tristan said nothing, but he felt a slight stirring of guilt. He was not speaking much to the other boys, that was true, but that did not mean that he was completely indifferent to them. They were of his people, after all, and petty things like tribal rivalry meant only very little now that they were all together in enemy territory. "We would have never made it," he said and Lancelot would only get this as apology. However, that did not seem to be enough for the other boy.
"We would have made it," he said bitingly. "The landlord said-"
"I know," Tristan interrupted. Then he told Lancelot all that Quintus had told him. Lancelot was silent for a long time after that. Then he finally said in a broken voice: "Are you sure he is not lying to you?"
"I am sure," Tristan replied quietly and steadily. Again Lancelot was silent.
When he spoke again, he sounded earnest. "I don't want you to be killed. I might not like you, but I would not want that for any of us."
Tristan nodded solemnly, though he knew Lancelot could not see it in the darkness. "I don't want you to be killed either. We will have to work together."
Lancelot suddenly gripped his hand in the darkness and Tristan let him, though he did not like the contact very much. "Let's try that, then."
"Yes," Tristan said and Lancelot released his hand.
"I want to go home," he said and it was the most earnest thing Tristan had ever heard him say.
"I don't think we will ever be able to go home," he whispered back sadly in a rare show of openness.
It was a grim realisation and they both stayed there on the floor silent, for a long time.
Thank you very much for the reviews, BabSberry and Josje! Looking forward to hearing all your opinions on this chapter, all of my dear readers! Best, Sachita :)
Annotations: Publicum hospitium first and foremost meant the lodging of high guests by usually the patron of a city. It also came to mean, however, the (involuntary) lodging of troops by private persons or landlords, which was enforced by the state.
Civitas means the citizenship of the Roman Empire. A Roman citizen had much more rights than an ordinary person. Auxiliary troops could attain citizenships after a fixed amount of years of service. In fact, in the beginning days of the Empire most auxiliary troops consisted of volunteers exactly for that reason. Citizenship was something to be desired. It was only in the later days of the Empire, when it was all crumbling, that some were drafted against their will.
An optio is in fact the second-in-command of a centurio. The centurio leads an infantry unit of 80 men. However, our Quintus in our story is a decurion, meaning he commands a cavalry unit of about 30 men, which would be an acceptable size for keeping 40 wild recruits in check. Since I am not sure what the second-in-command of a decurion is called, I just stuck to calling him optio as well – bear with me :)