30 Anticipation
4 months later
A bitter cold firmly held the northern half of Britain in her grip. A blanket of snow covered the fields and forests. Man and beast alike struggled to survive in the frozen lands. But not the Romans. These masters of planning and logistics always made sure that their vast armies were supplied with sufficient food and provisions, no matter where they were stationed in the Empire. In the small fort at Hadrian's Wall new tasks had been delegated among the men, such as shoveling snow, keeping the stairways of the wall free of ice and filling buckets at the well to flush water through the waste channels of the latrines. Children who were fortunate enough to have warm clothes, were delighted by the endless possibilities the snow offered them. But Ruccius had been quick to ban snowball fights within the walls of the fort.
Balan listened to the howling of the icy wind. He bent over his tack. He was greasing it with olive oil to soften the leather and prevent it from drying out. After that he intended to rub his tack with beeswax to protect it from rain, dirt and mold. Balan carefully checked all buckles and straps for signs of wear, as it was vital that his gear remain in good condition. Galahad sat beside him, white-faced and grumpy, quietly working on his own gear. The soothing sound of horses chomping on hay filled the stables. Neither of them said a word, but the unspoken tension between them was palpable.
Finally Galahad broke the silence. Angrily scrubbing at a bit of dirt that wouldn't come off, he burst out: "We are not ready! We are no match for the Woads!"
Balan said nothing. Galahad had been having these outbursts for two days now, ever since Ruccius had ordered them to join the cavalry's next mission, which was imminent now that raids on storage depots and granaries had increased alarmingly.
"Have you ever managed to best one of the knights in a fight?" Galahad demanded of Balan.
Balan shook his head.
"Neither have I," came the bitter reply.
Silence stretched between them. Balan surmised that the Woads must be hungry, just like the locals and the wolves. His thoughts wandered to the large pack of wolves that regularly passed within view of the wall. The loss of livestock to the cunning, large animals rivalled the loss of grain, meat and peas to hungry Britons and Woads. The guards of the granaries were having a very hard time, as were the herders and hunters. Balan sighed. Woad, Briton or wolf: Hunger emboldened them all.
Galahad pulled an apple from his pocket and took a bite, but he did not appear to enjoy it much. The sixteen-year-old got up, walked to the stalls and fed the rest of the apple to his grey stallion. The fierce war horse lifted its upper lip in delight and nuzzled Galahad's curly hair, slobbering all over it. Galahad caressed the animal's nose and for a while he leaned against the powerful flanks, lost in thought. Finally he returned to his gear and went back to work.
Balan said nothing and kept his eyes on his gear. But Galahad would still not let it rest.
Before long he bitterly spat, "As of tomorrow, we will have to risk our lives so that Rome can keep occupying these lands. Do you want to die for such a cause?"
Balan remained bent over his tack and wondered what he should answer. Finally he replied, "Not for Rome. Bedivere says we fight to uphold the honour of our ancestors."
"Which honour?" Galahad snapped. "They sold their sons into service to save their own lives. What honour is there in betrayal of your own kin?" He spat on the ground and rubbed more oil onto the straps of his bridle. Then, barely audibly, he muttered, "My father would never have sold me to Rome. He was willing to die when he tried to prevent the Romans from taking me."
Balan looked up. This was the first time he had heard Galahad speak of his departure from home. "What happened?" he asked.
But Galahad shrugged and did not elaborate.
Silence grew as both boys wordlessly worked on their gear.
Balan looked at the boy beside him. "Have you been in battle before?" he asked.
Galahad stared blankly at the floor. "No," he replied curtly.
"Are you afraid?" Balan asked hesitantly.
Galahad looked away and clenched his fists. But then he sighed and muttered, "Yes."
Balan bent over his saddle. Without looking up, he shared, "The night before my first battle my father said to me, 'Don't be afraid to die. Focus on killing as many enemies as you can before you die. And if you fight well enough, you may live another day to fight another battle. Such is the life of a warrior.'"
Galahad glared at him. "Don't you want to live and return to your family?" he demanded.
Balan said nothing. He thought back of the day when the Romans had come for him.
Petrified with shock Balan stared at his father, who was negotiating with the Romans in rapid Latin. From where he stood beside his mother, Balan only caught a few words, like "Later…", "…in a few years…" and "...too young…" It wasn't hard to fill in what his father was saying. The Romans had come for Dinyar and Jem, the eldest boys of their tribe. But Dinyar had died along with many other members of their tribe when the disease had raged through the lands, a year earlier. In the ensuing hassle between the weakened tribes, who had preyed on each other for territory and livestock, Jem had been killed in battle.
Balan knew that it was his destiny to be conscripted into the Roman army, like his father before him. For as long as he could remember, his father had been preparing him for this duty. But Balan was not yet of military age, like Dinyar and Jem had been. He had believed that his time had not yet come. The Romans would leave and come back for him a few years later, his father had said. But the Romans had chosen otherwise. The increasingly desperate look in his father's eyes told him that he had failed to sway the Romans. It felt as if the ground beneath him disappeared and he was falling…falling… His mother held him tight and he felt her tears dripping into his hair.
That night their family wept together. The Roman caravan and the recently taken Sarmatian boys were encamped on a nearby riverbank. Balan was to leave with them at dawn. His mother and father helped him pack. Dinadan gave Balan the sword he had used during his own years of service. "It is too heavy for me," Balan objected quietly. "One day you will be strong enough to wield it. Take it!" Dinadan insisted. They also packed Balan's lighter sword, his bow, quiver, a supply of arrows and four throwing knives. Then Dinadan untied his boot knife and gave it to his son. Balan gripped the knife firmly and all of a sudden hot tears rolled down his face.
"Come with me, son," Dinadan urged.
Balan followed his father to the corral behind their tent. Here the former knight knelt in front of his son and placed his large hands on Balan's shoulders.
"Don't promise that you will return," he spoke softly, in his calm, melodious voice. Balan opened his mouth to protest, but Dinadan silenced him. "Remember what I taught you: Live in the moment, don't think of tomorrow. A warrior has no future, only good fortune if he lives another day."
"But I want to return to you," Balan protested.
"Think again, Balan," his father spoke gently. "I am an old warrior. These lands are torn by war and strife. If you survive your service to Rome and return to these lands, I may no longer be here."
Balan stared at his father. He had seen enough death to know that his father spoke true. He began to cry. Dinadan hugged his son tightly and wept with him.
"Let us go, Balan," he whispered through his tears. "I know that it seems harsh, but it will make your life much easier. Remember us, and cherish your memories. But do not think of returning here until the day the Romans release you from your service."
Balan glanced sideways at Galahad. He wished there was something he could say to console the older boy.
"Maybe you'll return as a great war horse someday," he tried.
Galahad stiffened and clenched his fists. He stared at the ground for a long time and angrily brushed away a tear.
"I want to return to my family as a living man," he choked.
"Then fight, and stay alive," Balan answered timidly.
Darkness crept into the stables. Uncertainty and fear grew in the hearts of both boys until even the horses became restless and stomped in their stalls. Outside, snow began to fall, covering the tracks of wolves and Woads alike.