19 Questions

Evening wrapped the fort in a peaceful darkness. Tristan sat in his chair by the fire place, polishing his sword while Balan undressed to go to bed.

He studied the boy intently. Seven days had passed since the attack by the river and Balan had still not shown a sign that he was in any way impressed by the fact that he had killed a couple of Woads.

Nearly all knights and warriors he knew had reacted strongly to their first kill, regardless of their age. It was a common thing to happen: Some men would puke. Some would cry. And some would go quiet and not speak for days. Others would react with aggression, or with other odd behaviour for a while. But Balan had shown none of it. He had simply continued his life as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Balan noticed that Tristan was staring at him and looked back into the scout's inquisitive eyes. He wondered what Tristan wanted to know of him. Tristan smiled inwardly. The boy was not afraid of his penetrating gaze, like most of the other boys. Instead, Balan returned his gaze and subtly attempted to read the question from Tristan's mind.

Moments passed in silence, until Balan wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and walked over to the fire, waiting for the scout to speak.

"I noticed how you fought by the river," Tristan began.

Balan looked up.

"You've been in battle before," Tristan stated, certain that it was true.

Balan's eyes briefly strayed to the dancing flames of the fire. "Back in Sarmatia," he nodded. Memories of home began to flood his mind.

"What happened?" Tristan asked, his eyes encouraging the boy to speak.

He waited patiently when Balan allowed a long silence before he answered.

"We quarreled with another tribe over hunting grounds. It led to several battles. My uncle died in one of them."

Sarmatians were known for their horsemanship and battle skills, and were therefore rightfully feared by their enemies. But if the tribes were not holding together to fight a common foe, they were notoriously fighting among themselves. Tristan had fought in several of these tribal wars at the side of his own people before he had been taken to fight for Rome.

"When did you make your first kill?" Tristan asked.

Balan left another silence, the images of the past coming back to him.

"It was during my first battle. I was nine and my father had allowed me to ride on the edge of the battle with two other boys. I killed two enemies with my bow. And wounded three others."

Tristan nodded thoughtfully. He did not show his approval, but it was a good thing that the boy had already experienced what he needed to learn here: To stay on the edge of battle, shooting enemies from a distance.

"Did you always stay away from the fray?" Tristan asked.

Balan shook his head.

"During most battles I did. But during my last one I didn't. I was out of arrows so I couldn't shoot anymore, but my father was hurt. I rode to his aid and killed two enemies from close by."

"How did you do that?" Tristan asked. He wondered how the boy could have held his own.

"With my throwing knives and my father's dagger," Balan replied truthfully. "I threw a dart in one man's armpit when he raised his sword to kill my father. He dropped his sword and staggered and I slit his throat, so that he would not harm my father. The other one I hit with a throwing knife in the pulsing vein in his neck."

Tristan tilted his head. "Your father must have been very proud of you," he said with an approving smile.

Balan's expression saddened and he slowly shook his head. "My uncle died in that battle," he said softly. "My dad was trying to protect him. That's how he got hurt. After the funeral my father never wanted to mention this battle again."

They sat in silence for a long time. Balan staring into the fire, Tristan polishing his sword.

"Tristan?"

Tristan did not answer, but Balan knew that he was listening.

"How old were you when you came to Britain?"

"Seventeen," Tristan replied, lifting his sword and tilting it slightly to examine his work in the light of the fire.

"Did you make your first kill in Sarmatia or in Britain?"

"In Sarmatia."

"At what age?"

"I was ten."

Tristan continued polishing his sword.

"Was it then that you got your tattoos?" Balan asked with sudden excitement.

Tristan laughed.

"Boy, you need to go to bed. You are asking too many questions at once."

Balan considered his options. But one look at Tristan's face told him that the scout was serious. He stood up and walked back to his bed.

"Was it?" he asked hopefully, tugging at his blanket to tuck it under his mattress.

Tristan kept his focus on his sword and did not answer.

Balan slipped under his covers and glanced at the scout. "Was it?" he tried yet again.

"Sleep now, boy. Be quiet," Tristan's deep voice said calmly.

Balan realized that their conversation was over for the day. He rested his head on his mattress and drowsily stared into the fire. When Tristan put aside his sword and moved on to polish his daggers, Balan yawned and turned around to face the wall. He snuggled comfortably into his blankets and closed his eyes, allowing images of Sarmatia to fill his mind.

Before he had managed to imagine Tristan as a ten year old, living on the wide grasslands of their home by the Black Sea, he had already drifted off into a deep and peaceful sleep.