IV: The gods of death
Harsh coughs came from Quintus' tent in the night, speaking of his agony. Tristan could feel death hanging over him. He had known death intimately for years: Life was harsh in the Sarmatian prairie. He had had his first meeting with death as a young boy. There had been the eyes of a playmate, of a boy, who had just broken his neck falling from his horse staring back at him - broken grey orbs, shining with the knowledge of their death like stones gleaming wetly after a long rainshower. The mother of the boy had wailed, tearing out her hair. They had buried him with enough food and wine as well as a small wolf figurine made out of bronze. "The gods will claim him," Tristan's mother had whispered into his hair, holding onto him tightly. "They always claim us. There is need to fear the gods of death."
It were her words that stuck to him now, as he stared into the dancing flames of their camp fire that greedily devoured their firewood. He had volunteered for the night watch, together with three Legionarii. One sat opposite of him, saying nothing. He seemed forlorn.
The others were standing at the edges of the clearing they had made camp on, staring into the night. Tristan meanwhile kept staring into the burning embers. The sound of a fire singing in the night had always been a source of comfort to him. His people believed deeply in the god of fire, and as such, the fire sang words of comfort to him as a mother might do.
A man joined him at the fire. It was Flavius, Quintus' second-in-command. He first said nothing and instead joined Tristan in staring at the dancing flames. "What comfort do the flames bring you?," he enquired then bitterly, clearly showing Tristan that Quintus' condition was detoriating. Flavius was a silent man, a lot less inclined to joke and laughter than Quintus was, but on that night his humour seemed especially sour.
"The gods speak to me," Tristan said matter-of-factly.
Flavius looked at him tiredly. "What do they speak of, boy?"
"They speak of death."
In a gesture of rare despair, Flavius lowered his head to his knees. "Fifteen years I have known him and loved him like my brother."
Tristan was silent. "I was told that the gods of death do love as well," he said quietly.
Flavius stared at him for a long minute and then got up, disappearing in the tent once more. He came out no five minutes later.
"He wishes to speak to you," he said shortly.
Tristan rose, leaving Flavius to take his place and opened the flaps of the tent silently.
Quintus was lying on his bedroll and was covered with blankets. Next to him, an oil lamp flickered through the night. He was breathing shallowly.
His face was starkly pale and yet sweat drops had gathered at his temples.
When Tristan stood next to him, unsure, Quintus opened his dark eyes.
"Tristan," he smiled weakly. "Sit."
Tristan sat carefully down and kept his face blank.
"I have thought about you. You are very perceptive. I'd like you to train with Silvanus. He is our best scout and I believe that being a scout will benefit you."
A scout...Tristan thought. Being a scout meant to regain some freedom in movement, at least. He felt excitement rush through his veins.
"I shall train with him as you command," he replied curtly.
"Excellent," Quintus commented and he smiled.
Speaking seemed to be difficult for him and he had once more closed his eyes. Tristan, taking that as a dismissal, got up and wanted to leave.
"Tristan," Quintus' weak voice called him back. "Do Sarmatians venerate the dead?"
Tristan paused. "We honour them," he replied quietly. "If it is in our might, we put the finest silver and gold in their graves, so they will lead a good, honoured life among the dead." Quintus opened his eyes and looked at him silently.
"In Rome," he said carefully, slowly, "we also honour the dead. We believe the grain to be a symbol for life and death: In winter, it is sleeping in the ground and only in summer it lives. We celebrate the dead." He paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Pluto is waiting for me," he said painfully. "Only a merciful god could save me now."
Tristan looked at him. Quietly, he said: "I shall pray to my gods for your recovery."
Quintus was very still. "You are a fine boy, Tristan," he said quietly. "For saving me I thank you. Only the best of men prevail and I can see that you will, too."
Tristan inclined his head. He said nothing to the praise, but Quintus noticed that it made him uncomfortable. Painfully, he continued. "We can't wait here any longer on my behalf."
The dark boy nodded soberly. "I can smell snow on the winds." A shiver ran down the Roman decurio's spine. "Then we need to leave tomorrow," he spoke gravely. "Send Flavius to me."
Tristan obeyed, went outside, and relayed the message to Flavius.
Flavius entered the tent no minute later, his red cape slung tightly around his chest. "It's cold outside," he smiled, but it was a weak smile.
"How are you feeling?" The decurion smiled back. His lips were blood-stained and as he coughed, more blood smeared his lips. "Like a waggon ran me over."
Flavius looked at him in uneasy silence. "The blood on your lips-" Quintus laughed faintly. "Don't worry. I bit my tongue, fool that I am. However, I seem to have broken some ribs. Breathing is difficult, but the medic said he will try and stabilise my chest later."
He inhaled painfully. "We need to leave tomorrow. Get the men and the boys ready."
Flavius protested. "But you would not survive!" Tired, Quintus closed his eyes. Quietly, he rasped: "Only Pluto can decide my fate now. I shall come with you. Tie me to the packhorse.
If the gods will it, then I shall prevail." Technically, Christianity was now the official religion of the Empire, but a lot of the legionarii still held tightly onto what their families had believed in for centuries. And they were far enough from Rome as not to fear any repercussions for it.
Flavius finally recognised the reason behind Quintus' words. He nodded, unhappily.
"But I would like to ask you to ride with me, decurio," he said carefully.
Quintus protested against adding an extra burden to Flavius' horse, but Flavius would have none of it. "At least for the first day, decurio" he pleaded. "I can't condone tying you to the packhorse in your condition. If you ride with me, I can at least make sure that you do not have to suffer the harsher bumps of the road."
Quintus was too tired to protest. "Alright," he mumbled. "Thank you, Flavius." He was then silent for a while. "When I die," he whispered, "I want you to bury me with a grain ear. I do not want to be buried in the modern way of the Christian god. The old gods have always spoken stronger to me. Don't forget Charon's obol, my friend." The last part had Flavius nearly weeping. He choked on his words, as he spoke. "The ferryman will receive you with honour, brother."
"Good." Quintus smiled and then closed his eyes. Flavius inhaled heavily and tried sorrowfully to regain his composure, then went outside to make his preparations. He'd be damned if he let his decurio die. Fifteen years had tied them together as if they were brothers.
The next day, they were on their way already early in the morning. Quintus rode with Flavius. Most of the time he hung, half-conscious, in the Optio's strong grip.
Morale was low and the legionarii rode taut and alert. Suspicion was edged more deeply on their faces as they looked at the boys.
"It's not our fault the decurio is dying," Galahad snapped in Sarmatian. "If they had never come to force us away from home, none of this would have happened."
Tristan found himself remaining silent, as did the other boys. The sky was obstructed with grey clouds and again he felt like he could smell the snow on those greyish expanses of heaven.
Sometime in the early afternoon, the scout of the troop rode up to him. Tristan did not know much about him, only that he was called Silvanus and he had dark skin to the likes that Tristan had never seen it before.
"I am Silvanus," he introduced himself tartly. "The decurion ordered you two to ride ahead with me. I am to teach you how to observe and how to scout." There was another boy at his side that Tristan knew only under the name of Parzifal. Also, a second Roman legionary accompanied Silvanus. That one had a flat, dead stare that made Tristan want to look away, yet he held his look. Something told him that it was important. Then, with a smile that Tristan could only describe as feral, the other looked away. He did not introduce himself and Tristan did not know his name, but he had a feeling that right now it was not too important. Something told him that this man had higher expectations for them than Silvanus, who seemed to be infinitely more open.
The other boys looked on as they rode off, some looking envious. Tristan could not help but feel some kind of relief as they increased the distance to the troop. There was a part of him that rejoiced in being able to leave behind the depressed silence hanging over their riding company.
Parzifal, who apparently had an inquisitive tongue, asked of the Roman legionarii: "Why do you even feel the need to scout ahead? I thought we are in friendly territory."
They exchanged a look. "It is nothing we need to speak of to you," Silvanus finally said sternly. "Only know that there can always be danger ahead on the road and a man who trusts in peace will be betrayed first."
Tristan could not help but agree with that assessment. Life in the praerie had always been dominated by fear of the Scythians, their neighbouring tribes and one of their greatest foes. It was said that they liked to capture men alive and then take their scalps to hang them to their belts. He wondered as to whether the Sycthians were not more deserving of the title "barbarians", that the Romans liked to adorn them with.
Tristan had always thought of Sarmatian culture as sophisticated. They were a people, who tried to live in the pace of nature. They were hunters and nomads, mostly. But they were artists also: Tristan remembered admiring the intricate gold smiths' works and the artists who crafted silver bracelets where deer and horses were entwined in a refined pattern that only grew more and more intricate, the longer you looked at it. They sung and danced to celebrate their goddesses. And when they had to fight, they fought fiercely. Tristan had always particularly admired the beauty of their women warriors, although they had become less in numbers as Roman cultural influence increased over his people. Sarmatians knew how to hunt and how to fight. He wondered whatever possessed the Romans to call them "barbarians". The more he understood that Romans were part of a sophisticated society, the more increased his ire at being called "barbaric". It would have been better to be called "barbaric" by the scalp-wielding Scythians, he thought.
Then at least the insult would have carried no weight.
Silvanus bade them to be quiet then and Tristan revelled in the silence. The road continued unobstructed for a good hour or so, then Silvanus had them stop with a closed fist.
"See the animal traces in the snow?"
The road was slowly coming down from the high mountain pass. They found themselves on a kind of high-altitude plateau, in the midst of a grassy clearing covered with a fine sheet of snow. The road led across the clearing and then into dark firs, which told Tristan that they were on their way down the mountain. He had learned that there was something called a "timber line", which meant that above that altitude, no trees would grow. In higher altitudes, only bushes or shrubs would grow, and if you went even higher, then there was nothing save the bare rock in an area so hostile to life, that anyone crossing over the Alps there was worthy of nothing but the highest respect.
There were about four different animal traces in the snowy clearing.
"A fox, two deer and -" Parzifal broke off and Tristan and him both stared at the fourth animal's tracks.
"You don't have them in Sarmatia," Silvanus said helpfully. "It's a chamois, a kind of goat, only found in the mountains areas of Germania, Norricum and the mountains areas of Italia, as well as Gallia. These animals can climb all steep slopes that there are. When you are a scout, you have to be able to climb just like them."
Tristan and Parzifal both looked at him quite comically.
"And we start learning how to climb - right now?" Parzifal, ever outspoken, asked.
"No." Silvanus laughed. "Now we hunt our dinner."
Tristan understood and he smiled. "The deers' tracks are still fresh."
"How do you know?" Parzifal gazed at him in betrayed silence, but Silvanus was appreciative. "The tracks," Tristan said.
"They are still fresh because the edges remain firm. Plus, it snowed during the last hour and still no new snow covers the tracks. They have been here only a good ten minutes ago."
"I agree," Silvanus nodded. "A good dinner should uplift troop morale."
Tristan looked at him. "Is that the scout's task as well? Looking for food?"
The unknown second soldier, who had been silent so far and had only taken to look at them with his disquieting flat stare, now interjected: "Being a scout means you have to look out for anything that will uplift the troop's morale."
Silvanus grinned. "Yes, and sometimes that does mean that finding food is on top of the list." He winked. "Actually, we quite enjoy that part."
"I can imagine," Parzifal mumbled and even Tristan couldn't stifle a small smile.
As they went to look for the deer, a strange thought crossed Tristan's mind: There had been no thought of home in his mind for the entire day.
Somehow, that thought struck him as odd.
Thank you for the wonderful rewiews you left me, Josje and FFAMasquerade2005:) I know it's taking me ages to go on, but I will try to go on. Life is just not getting easier, but I won't make any excuses. However, I am sorry, that it is such a slow-paced story.
I hope you do like this chapter though!
There was a festival in Rome called Mundus patet. Romans celebrated the dead by opening a ceremonial stone in Rome called the Mundus, believed to be the entrance to the underworld, and offering the fruits of the harvest to the dead. Also, when someone died, it was customary to place a coin in their mouth in order called Charon's obol, so they would be able to pay the ferryman Charon, who ferried the souls to the god of death, Hades, or Pluto, as he was known in Roman society.
The Scythians were a nomadic people who lived around the same time as the Sarmatians in the steppes. They were assimilated by the Sarmatians in the 3rd or 4th century AD.