III: The passage through the Alpes
It was nearing the end of summer and Quintus cursed to himself heartily, because he knew that crossing the Alpes would be nigh impossible in approximately two to three weeks. They had lost time doing some obligatory paperwork, filling out forms when passing the inner reaches of the Roman Empire. Plus there had been a mudslide on their way, forcing them to take a long detour through rocky terrain, which, along with continuous rain, had served to dampen their spirits considerably.
"I wish we could have turned south instead," Flavius Iulius Marcus, his optiomumbled, standing next to Quintus.
"Yes," Quintus said heavily, eyeing the snowy tops of the mountains glaring at them from the distance, "so do I."
He turned around, looking at the boys. They all looked back at him indifferently, but Quintus could see in their gaunt faces that the long journey had already taken its toll on them. But he had no choice; his orders were unmistakable and if they rested any longer, chances were that the first snow would come upon them even sooner.
His look met the silent stare of young Tristan. The boy had not said anything else to him after his failed escape attempt, but Quintus had not failed to note the quiet defiance that was constantly in his eyes. The boy was different, somehow. All the other boys seemed to be homesick and tired, but Tristan's spirit was strong and enduring. The boy would need it.
Turning back to the snowy expanse in front of him, he sighed. "Let's go then."
Tristan marvelled. He was careful not to show it too much on his face lest any of his companions picked up on it, but he marvelled. The mountains seemed to reach to the skies, or no, even higher! They were such huge, rocky expanses of silence and of snow that Tristan felt very small indeed. He tried to reach up with his hands once, trying in a childish mood flare to reach up, attempting to gauge the height of the mountain next to him. His horse whinnied in impatience, wondering what her rider was up to.
"This seems silly," Lancelot commented snidely next to him. Tristan shot him a non-plussed sideways look. Ever since their agreement in the inn Lancelot had taken to ride next to him. Why, Tristan could not fathom. He had never had many friends in their tribe and he had always been rather unsure of how to handle social relationships. Why, he did not know. His parents were rather sociable and had a lot of friends. He supposed it was nothing he could easily change and thus he did not think much of it. Lancelot seemed to consider him a friend now, though, and he did not seem to need much incentive from Tristan.
Oh well.
He instead concentrated on the mountains once more. Such beauty…such cold majesty. What was it like, being one of those silent giants, always, ever alone with the sounds of the wind and the birds? Alone up there in the windswept heights, a kingly gaze sweeping on the ground where the small, insignificant humans dwelled? Forever lost in icy winds and the contemplation of the vastness around? To anyone else this description might have sounded cold, lonely even. To Tristan it sounded heavenly.
"I would very much like to be a mountain instead of a man," he said, more to himself than to anyone else.
Lancelot chortled. "What? A mountain? Are you out of your mind?"
Tristan ignored him.
"Why?" Lancelot then asked, sounding genuinely interested.
"Why would you care for that?" Tristan asked him.
"Why not?" Lancelot asked back, insufferably.
"I imagine it peaceful," Tristan finally answered quietly. "More peaceful than anything else than will await us."
"How would you know what awaits us?" That was the voice of Galahad, loud and impulsive boy that he was. Being the youngest, he often cried at night for his mother and at day would leave out nothing to provoke the Romans and, on occasions, also his fellow Sarmatians. He had once told Quintus that he considered him as good as a slave driver. Quintus had very patiently explained him the difference between a slave driver and himself and Tristan had marvelled at his patience with the boy. Tristan himself did not care much for so much loudness. He fixed the boy with a stare, hoping he would simply give up on asking. No such luck.
Finally he sighed: "My father told me what awaits us. We will be trained on how to kill men."
Those words, spoken out loud, seemed to instil a heavy terror in Galahad, visible at the naked panic in his eyes.
"You should not be so direct," Gawain, who somehow seemed to be particularly protective of young Galahad, admonished and put a hand on Galahad's shoulder.
"Why not?" Tristan asked. "It is only the truth. Should not all men know the truth?"
Gawain glared at him and Tristan let his horse fall back to join Lancelot once more. Lancelot seemed more amused than anything else at the little exchange, but he did not comment.
They made their way along the mountain pass of Monte Crucis, as Quintus explained to them. "This path is called Via Iulia Augusta," he told them one evening, pride clear in his voice, motioning to the stone street stretching out endlessly behind and in front of them. Tristan could not help but marvel yet again. Yes, the Romans were slave drivers, Galahad had been correct in his assessment. Yet they had to have many more traits in order to have built a huge Empire such as this with streets such as that one. There were no streets in Sarmatia; you did not need them in the steppes. But even if they had streets, Tristan doubted they would be as perfect as this one. His people had neither the experience nor patience.
"Who made this street?" Lancelot asked, something other than apathy in his voice when talking to the Roman legionarii for the first time since they had left Sarmatia.
"Men made this street," Quintus said, and there was still a lot of pride in his voice. "The best Roman architects and thousands of workers worked here."
Some of the boys scoffed, but none of them could really hide their awe. Tristan looked down as the gaze of Quintus searched his. He did not want the Roman to see that he too admired the Roman infrastructure.
They stayed at a small inn along the way that day. There was not much space and many people stayed there with them – a group of traders: people with weathered faces and a knowing look in their eyes as they watched the bedraggled group of Sarmatian boys. The traders gathered around the fire and the boys lay down on the wooden ground on the other side of the room, trying to make themselves comfortable with the little they had. Quintus came down to check on them. The Legionarii shared two rooms on the first floor. Quintus, as a decurion, had a small room of his own.
"There is trouble ahead," one of the traders, with long hair and a hoarse voice said suddenly to Quintus.
"I did not ask you," Quintus replied rather firmly.
"Oh, but I am offering," the trader said, yellow teeth showing. "Poor little slave boys. There is a storm brewing ahead. It will be there by the morrow of the day after the next. I can sense storms. My bones tell me so and I have crossed the Alpes many a day."
Quintus stared at him shortly, then shook his head and turned to the boys. "Get some sleep," he said sternly. "You will need the rest in the next days."
Tristan saw the wisdom in his words and he curled up in his woollen blanket, a gift by his mother.
"Do you think he can foretell storms?" Lancelot again. Why the troublesome boy always sought out him was still a mystery to Tristan.
"I do not know," he replied and closed his eyes again. "But it is possible."
Lancelot, for once, was silent and Tristan was glad for the respite.
The next day had them climbing higher and higher up the mountain passes, until Tristan was sure he could have reached the clouds with his bare hands. Even the louder boys quieted down in face of all the wonder around them. White wisps of snow were caught in the treetops and feather-like clouds floated silently through the blue sky. A ray of sunshine broke through and made the fine sheen of snow that covered the ground glitter in a thousand different colours. Right beside the way was a steep drop that seemed to go on endlessly. Firs grew all the way down the mountain, looking from above like an assortment of spears. They shortly stopped on a high mountain ledge. From there they could look down into a narrow valley. The mountain ranges opposite seemed close enough to touch, but Tristan had learned that they were simply that gigantic, they would look close even from far away. He had noticed that the mountains seemed to become blue shades in the distance; even though they were mainly green and grey from close up.
Quintus stopped next to him. "What are you looking at?" he asked the boy.
Tristan mentioned the phenomenon of the blue mountains and Quintus smiled. He was becoming fond of the obstinate, quiet boy, who was so observant. An interesting boy he was indeed.
"The people who live here in these outskirts call the area here `blue country´. Now you know why. The mountains farther away look as if they are blue, though I do not know why that is so."
Tristan did not answer, he stared transfixed at the mountains. He learned something new on that journey every day.
"Why do you look so content?" Galahad queried bitterly a few hours of riding later. "We are being taken from home against our will. What is there to be content about?"
Tristan found no words to explain that he marvelled at the beauty of nature around them. He gave the boy a silent stare instead and shook his head. Surprisingly it was Lancelot, who answered.
"Maybe you should try to see the few good things on this journey also, rather than always focussing on the negative. I rather think Tristan's outlook on things makes more sense than yours."
Galahad ignored them after that but Tristan found he did not care much.
On the next day Quintus was riding ahead next to Flavius, stopping beneath an overhanging ledge to wait for them, when suddenly all hell broke loose. A storm had been engulfing them with winds and snowy rain for the last hour or so, but suddenly lightning struck and thunder rolled around them.
Tristan could later only surmise that it had been the bolt of lightning which had caused the debris avalanche that came roaring down the mountain, but in that moment all erupted into chaos. Loud roaring was all he could hear for a long minute and he could not even see Lancelot beside him due to the white dust building up in the air. His eyes were ringing, when it finally stopped, but miraculously he was not hurt in any way. When the dust cleared a little he could finally look for the others. As far as he could see the debris avalanche had come down just in front of them, not behind them and Lancelot and him had been the first ones to ride after Quintus…Quintus! It occurred to him suddenly. The decurion had been riding at the front. Tristan could see that the legionarii were mostly unhurt, but there was no sign of their commander. They were all looking around frantically, pointing, but Tristan's sharp eyes found immediately, where he should be searching.
Not waiting for assistance, he slipped quickly down from his horse and ran through the rocks now covering the street. He could see Quintus' horse through the dust. It had been hit by a large rock. Its body was smashed and it was lying close to the side of the street. Flavius' horse was next to it, but it was already struggling to stand up. The optio was lying next to his horse and he was just beginning to stir. Tristan coughed and picked his way over to the horses. There was no sign of Quintus. Unless…He walked closer to the ledge and looked down – there was Quintus, hanging on to the branches of a dead fir, just below the ledge. He was covered in blood and dust and looked as if he was hanging on with all his might.
"Give me your hand," Tristan shouted. Quintus looked up, amazement in his eyes. Then his look darkened. "You are too weak to pull me up," he shouted back.
"Give me your hand," Tristan repeated forcefully.
Quintus looked doubtful, but suddenly the branch he was hanging onto started to break and he thought better of it. Tristan took the proffered hand and pulled with all his might, pulling with both of his arms. He felt something tear in his arm, yet he still held on. Vaguely, he was aware of someone holding him from behind, helping him, and with their joint effort they were finally able to pull Quintus up. Looking to his side, he realised that a legionarius had come to his aid.
Tristan saw dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. He trembled, trying to suck as much air in as possible.
Quintus was lying just besides him, staring at him with something like incredulity in his eyes. "Why would you save me?" he rasped out.
"Because you are a just man," Tristan said simply. For him it did need no other explanation.
That night they rested in a grassy clearing. The Roman physician had put up a tent for Quintus and he looked grim, when he came out of the tent. He did not say a word. Everyone's spirits were low and no one spoke much. Thankfully it had stopped raining and they at least had the chance to dry their clothes by the fire.
Tristan looked silently into the burning embers and wondered. He did not want this Roman to die and it was a strange thing for him. Such a strange thing since Rome was his enemy.
Again, he wondered.
Thank you for your continuous support, BabSberry and Josje! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, everyone! Best, Sachita :)