40 Late

Warning: Physical violence in this chapter. Read at your own discretion.

In the following two weeks Balan's body was sore and stiff. The cuts on his feet had become infected which made it very painful to walk. But among the knights this was considered good practice for battle. "It'll toughen you up," Bedivere had said.

The first few days Balan was skittish when Tristan sparred with him. "I won't beat you, boy," Tristan stated calmly. "Breathe. You're panting." Tristan observed the fear in Balan's eyes, but he detached himself from it. He had had his revenge. Now the boy would have to find a way to move on. "Forward pass," he instructed. "Focus!"

It was fortunate, perhaps, that they were condemned to each other. Six hours of rigorous weapons training per day gave Balan plenty of time to face his demons. In a matter of days he lost his fear that Tristan would lash out unexpectedly. The scout was back to his usual calm self and Tristan even resumed making small talk with Balan when they sat by the fire at night.

But Balan wasn't fooled. Not all was back to normal. Tristan often watched Balan warily and Balan remained cautious around the scout. Something had broken between them.

At the first opportunity Balan sought out Pelleas and Agloval and confronted them.

"Did you dump our weapons in that puddle in the stable?!" he asked furiously.

Pelleas' grin faded and his expression became very serious. "No Balan! As much as I love playing pranks on you, I would never do something as awful as that," he said sincerely.

"If we had done it, we would have stopped Tristan from beating you," Agloval added, putting some grease on his tack. "That was a terrible beating he gave you, Balan. We've been discussing who might have done it ever since."

"You have?" asked Balan, surprised. He forgot his anger. "You believe me then?"

"Of course!" nodded Pelleas. "When Gal told us that Tristan's sword had been found in a puddle, I said to the boys that I'd believe it of anybody, but not of you."

"Same here," said Galahad.

Balan was filled with relief and gratitude when he realized that his friends were on his side. None of the older knights had believed him when he told them that he hadn't done it.

"I suspect Lanolan," said Agloval. "Everyone knows that he hates you, Balan. Trust him to play nasty tricks like this. I came to the Wall with him. Never seen him shy away from cruelty."

"True, but he's changed lately, hasn't he?" countered Pelleas.

"He owes his life to Balan," said Galahad. "That seems to have knocked some sense into him."

It was true: Since the battle of the storage depot Lanolan had refrained from making snide comments about Balan and his bullying had ceased completely. He wasn't exactly friendly to Balan, but it was a huge improvement – if still a bit awkward.

"What about Lamorak, then?" suggested Galahad. "Perhaps Lamorak wanted revenge after Balan punched him."

"Lamorak had his revenge already," said Agloval dismissively.

"No need to add more," sniggered Pelleas. "Eh, Balan?"

Balan blushed and stared at his feet. A few weeks earlier Lamorak had made several belittling comments about Balan's lack of size and strength. Balan's temper had gotten the best of him and he had punched the older knight's chin hard. Lamorak was a heavy cavalry knight who had come to the fort in the same year as Tristan – and a proud man. Balan hadn't been able to sit for three days.

Unaware of Balan's embarrassment, Galahad, Agloval and Pelleas launched into a heated discussion about potential suspects. As evening progressed their theories became wilder and wilder. Balan sat beside them and listened without commenting. He wondered who had done it. If he ever found out... well, he'd have to think about that. For now he was happy to have his friends by his side.

A few weeks later

Early one morning Balan collected his bow from the armoury and made his way to the practice yard. He was alone today. Tristan had left the fort on a scouting mission and wouldn't be back for several days. Balan didn't mind, he was used to it by now. During the day he would train with one of the older knights and at night there was always someone to send him to bed.

As he passed between the barracks he was greeted by several locals. The small fort had once boasted a garrison of five hundred infantrymen and sixty knights. A few years before Balan's arrival in Britain, Rome had withdrawn half of its forces from the Wall, and barracks that used to house soldiers in bunk beds were now inhabited by peasant families. Balan had heard it said that Ruccius saw it as a lucrative source of income – and a way to feed his men.

Balan turned right onto the fort's main street and made his way through the noise and bustle of the market. Shouts and laughter reverberated through the morning air as merchants set up their stalls. Balan had to pay attention where he walked as several ox-drawn wagons trundled down the street. Soldiers and townspeople crowded around the stalls and wagons, eyeing the merchandise eagerly and craning their necks for a better view. People shouted and shook their money bags at the vendors to be the first to get their hands on the products of their desire.

Balan eyed the food stalls hungrily. He had already had breakfast, but he was a healthy boy and the overwhelming scent of honey cake, meat pies, hot stew and dried fruit made his stomach rumble. He saw a vendor who sold cheese. Cheese! His hand automatically went to the small money pouch on his belt. But no, it was stupid. Tristan had given him an allowance for three days only. He would need his money to buy meals until Tristan returned. If he wasted his money on cheese, he'd have to go hungry for a few days. Balan didn't like to think what Tristan would say upon his return, much less what punishment the scout would dish out. Balan knew full well that he was to use his money for his meals in the tavern only.

A merchant roughly shoved him aside and he nearly tripped over the remains of a broken crate in the middle of the road. A woman yelled at him and he hastily backed away, only to be startled by a roar from behind. He turned and found himself nose to nose with an ox pulling a wagon down the street. Leaping aside, Balan squeezed his way between the shoppers to the side of the road. Slipping behind stalls and between waiting townspeople he slowly made his way towards the practice yard. He knew that taking a side street would have been much faster. There was so much to be seen on the market, though; he did not want to miss any of it.

Balan stopped in his tracks. To his left a door stood ajar. It was only the second time he had ever seen this door open. Driven by curiosity he inched closer. Tristan was not around to urge him on, he might never get another chance to take a better look. He glanced around, but no-one was paying him any attention. He opened the door a little wider and peered inside. A steep wooden stairway disappeared into the darkness below. It was a cellar! His father had told him about these once, he had said that Romans built underground rooms. Balan had found this incredibly hard to believe. In Sarmatia he had lived in a tent. The world had been vast and empty in his mind and he had not seen the purpose of having an underground room. However, the Romans not only built fortifications and cities of stone, they also dug rooms beneath their buildings. These they used for all sorts of purposes: Storage, escape routes, prisons… Balan inhaled deeply. If his nose did not mislead him, this cellar was used for the storage of apples.

A hard push against his back thrust him forward. He tumbled down the steep stairway, banging and bumping his head on the way down. He thrust out his arms to break his fall and his bow disappeared into the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs he landed on a cold dirt floor. High above him the door slammed shut. Groaning and cursing, Balan groped around in the dark until he found his bow and hastily climbed back up to the door. But it was locked. He banged on the door with his fists. He yelled. He rattled the door. He kicked it. But nobody came. It was too noisy outside. Nobody heard him.

The buccina sounded the next watch. Balan cursed. He was late for practice! Arthur would be after his hide now. He grumbled when he thought of the extra chores this would entail. Not to mention the reprimands he would get from Arthur and from Tristan after his return. He kicked the door. Then his heart stopped. Now he remembered: Ruccius was overseeing practice today! Ruccius would kill him! With renewed vigour he threw himself against the door. He banged and hammered at the wooden planks that barred his way, and he yelled himself hoarse. He had to get out!

His hands were bleeding when he finally gave up. Exhausted and sore, he made his way down the stairs and sank down on the floor, feeling utterly miserable. He would have to wait here in the dark until he was found. Or – he gulped at the thought – until the market folk left the fort. Someone was bound to hear him once the noise died down. He sighed. How he wished that he could eat an apple! The delicious scent made him hungry. But he knew that the apples were out of bounds. He hadn't paid for them, so he couldn't touch them. He wrapped himself in his cloak and leant back against the wall. He did not notice that he drifted off to sleep. Neither did he hear that above him, the latch of the door was quietly opened. In his dreams a wooden door barred the entrance to his father's tent. He tried to get in, but the people of his tribe laughed at him and Tristan rode past on a goat, eating an apple…

A loud curse startled him from his sleep. Blinking in the blinding light from the door, he instinctively reached for his bow. A shadow moved in front of him and two rough hands yanked him to his feet.

"What are you doing here?! Taking a nap after your stolen meal, thief!?" snarled the owner of the cellar, shaking Balan hard.

"I'm not a thief, Crispus! I fell down the stairs and someone locked the door!" protested Balan.

"Don't try to be smart with me, boy! The door wasn't locked! You're a thief and a liar!" barked Crispus, cuffing the side of Balan's head. "But don't I know who you are? You are that little Sarmatian boy! I'll take you to Arthur Castus, son. I'll have my recompense for my stolen apples."

"I didn't steal anything!" said Balan hotly as Crispus dragged him up the stairs by his ear.

Several knights stared when Crispus marched Balan onto the practice field, still holding him by the ear. If Balan had nurtured any hope that his absence had gone unnoticed, his hopes were dashed when he looked into Ruccius' bulging eyes. While Crispus spoke with Ruccius, the commander's face turned a deep shade of puce and a vein on Ruccius' temple throbbed dangerously. Balan recognized the signs of a full-blown Ruccius-tantrum in the offing.

Dissatisfied with Ruccius' offer of compensation, Crispus released Balan's ear and left the practice yard in a huff.

Ruccius towered over Balan with barely contained rage.

"You dare to skip practice to steal apples?!" he hissed, spraying Balan with drops of saliva.

"I didn't touch the apples!" said Balan angrily, wiping spit off his face. "Someone pushed me down the steps of the cellar and locked the door!"

"A likely story," sneered Ruccius. "Crispus said the door wasn't locked when he found you."

"It was locked when I tried to get out. Look at my hands. Look!" Balan said, holding up his chafed and bleeding hands.

But Ruccius refused to listen. He had served in the army for far too long to be wasting his time with excuses from recruits. "Enough!" he bellowed. "You are a liar and you are late. I will not have sloppy soldiers in this fort." He seized Balan by the back of his cloak and threw him on the ground at Bors's feet.

"You there! Whip him!" he ordered curtly.

Balan blanched. Was he to get another whipping for something he hadn't done?

Bors pulled Balan to his feet and put his hands on Balan's shoulders. The short-haired knight stared at Ruccius insolently, sizing him up.

"You want to whip him for being late?!" Bors asked with barely concealed contempt. "Why don't you just let him do some extra chores?"

Ruccius' eyes narrowed. He approached Bors menacingly and growled, "You will do as I say, if you know what is good for you."

Bors was not in the least intimidated by Ruccius, but Balan's safety was at stake. To diffuse the tension he pushed Balan aside and motioned for him to take off his tunic. Balan eyed him nervously, but Bors winked and gave him a comforting smile. Then he turned back to Ruccius.

"And what if I don't?!" he challenged. His raspy voice rang around the practice field. All knights stopped sparring to watch.

Ruccius took another step forward. He came so close to Bors that their noses almost touched. Little drops of sweat ran down the side of Ruccius' red face and the Roman's chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to contain his rage. His bushy black eyebrows quivered as he glared at Bors.

Bors was not impressed. He chuckled lazily and grinned at the other knights, waiting for Ruccius to make the next move.

Ruccius leant forward so that his mouth was right next to Bors's ear.

"If you don't whip the boy, I will do it myself," he said in a low, threatening voice. "And when I am done, there will not be an inch of skin left on his back."

These words wiped the smirk off Bors's face. The broad knight protectively put his arms around Balan and stared at the commander, incensed.

Ruccius pointed Bors to a large barrel and huffed impatiently.

Dagonet raised his hands placatingly at Bors. "Don't make it worse," he seemed to say.

Bors grimaced and muttered curses under his breath. Then he let out a sigh of defeat. He put his hand on Balan's shoulder and led the boy to the barrel. He looked at Balan ruefully, then pushed him down over it.

Lancelot stepped forward and handed Bors his belt. Balan looked up gratefully. Bors had an enormous, heavy belt which would have done a lot of damage to Balan's back. Lancelot's belt was much lighter and narrower. Dagonet grasped the boy's wrists to hold him down. "You have to be strong, boy," he whispered.

Bors stepped back and raised Lancelot's belt, ready to begin.

But Ruccius held up his hand and added silkily, "For your insubordination, you will whip him twice as hard, and twice as long."

Bors closed his eyes and swallowed. He struggled to restrain himself, for he longed to rip the commander's head from his body in the most painful way imaginable. He had meant to be easy on the boy.

"Get a move on!" Ruccius roared.

Bors reluctantly cracked Lancelot's belt across Balan's back.

"Harder! Much harder!" barked Ruccius.

With a grim face Bors hit Balan harder.

"Harder, man! Or must I do it myself?!" Ruccius bellowed.

Bors feared for Balan's life if Ruccius should decide to whip the boy himself. With tears in his eyes he proceeded to give Balan a very harsh whipping. The boy's screams tore at his heart, but he knew that he had to do it.

Balan's back was a bloody mess when Ruccius finally allowed Bors to stop.

"Enough! Take him away!" Ruccius barked.

Dagonet wanted to lift Balan in his arms to carry him to the infirmary, but he was stopped by Lancelot, who pointed at Bors.

"Stay with Bors, I'll take him," Lancelot whispered.

Dagonet followed his gaze. Bors had walked away and was muttering at himself through his tears. Dagonet nodded. Lancelot lifted Balan over his shoulder and carried him away.

To be continued…