44 Scapegoat 1
Author's note: Saintlike Weasley, Sparks, Lex, NerdyChica, Lex, Guest, Book lover and alien94, you made my day with your wonderful reviews and encouragement! Thank you! It's heartwarming to see so many of you rooting for Balan. These chapters were plotted about a year ago and I am still following the original plan. All I can say is: There will be light at the end of the tunnel. ~Josje
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Balan was asleep in the hayloft when something heavy hit him. Reacting instinctively, he jumped up and drew his bootknife. But he was alone. On top of his blanket lay a small leather pouch, which clanged when he picked it up. Comprehension dawning on his face, he opened it eagerly.
Money!
In an instant he reached the ladder and looked down, just in time to see Tristan leave the stable.
"Thank you!" he called after the scout. But Tristan did not respond.
Moments later Balan was in the tavern, buying himself a hearty meal. Avoiding the knights, he slipped out of the tavern and climbed the stone steps to the top of the wall. He sat down with his back against the parapet, invisible to any knights who might be passing below. Ravenously, he tucked into his food.
When he had eaten all that he could, Balan hurried to find Tristan. He found the scout in the arrow depot, where he sifted through bundles of arrows, selecting only the best darts with a perfectly straight shaft. Tristan did not look up. Balan wordlessly gathered the discarded arrows and tied them into bundles again. As soon as Tristan had filled his quiver, he picked up his bow and left.
Balan ran after him.
"Should I bring any other weapons beside my bow?" he asked.
Tristan ignored him and walked away.
Balan went back to the armoury to fetch all of his weapons, then joined Tristan at target practice. But the scout acted as if Balan wasn't there. Balan made intentional mistakes to provoke a reaction, but Tristan did not correct him. He did not speak to Balan at all. Balan aimed an arrow at Tristan's target and broke one of the scout's perfect arrows, in hopes that Tristan would flick his ear, or hit him – or at least give some kind of response. But Tristan stoically kept his eyes on his target and refused to look at him.
Balan mustered up his courage and positioned himself right in front of Tristan.
"Are you going to train with me today?" he asked earnestly.
Tristan notched an arrow and took aim. Since Balan stood between Tristan and his target, the arrow pointed right at Balan's chest. Minutes passed. Neither Balan nor Tristan moved. Both were waiting for the other to back down. Balan knew that Tristan would never shoot him, so he kept his ground. Tristan knew that he had more patience than the boy and simply waited.
Sure enough, Balan's determination began to falter. He knew that Tristan could do this for a very long time. He stared at the dark eyes above the tattooed cheeks and saw no sign of impatience or irritation. The scout wasn't angry; he did not care that Balan challenged him. Balan felt a pang in his chest. This rejection hurt more than all the bullying he had endured the previous day.
Balan waited, but nothing changed. Tristan stood like a statue, his arrow aimed at Balan, unmoving. Balan lowered his eyes. It was clear that Tristan wasn't going to train with him. Not today. Dejectedly, he moved aside and resumed practice at his own target.
Lancelot observed the strained dynamic between Tristan and Balan and seized his chance. He sauntered towards the pair of them and picked up Balan's sword.
"I'll have this again, won't I?" he challenged quietly.
With an angry hiss Balan turned around and aimed an arrow at Lancelot's chest.
"Give it back!" he said in a low, threatening voice.
Bedivere, who stood nearby, quickly pushed down Balan's arm.
"You never aim for your brothers! Five penalty rounds!" he chastised.
"Why didn't you say so when he aimed his arrow at me?!" demanded Balan, pointing at Tristan.
"You placed yourself in front of Tristan by choice. It's not the same," said Bedivere.
Lancelot smirked.
"He took my sword, he could have chosen not to!" seethed Balan, infuriated by Lancelot's amused grin.
"You are reaping what you've sown. Now hurry up and do as you're told," chastised Bedivere, pointing towards the edge of the field.
Swearing loudly, Balan put aside his bow and quiver and started running around the practice yard.
"Skip the foul language, boy. Be glad it wasn't my belt!" Bedivere called after him.
The older knights took advantage of the situation and took away Balan's weapons as he ran. Tristan did nothing to prevent it. He kept his eyes stoically on his target.
"You! Boy!"
Balan cringed when a familiar sharp voice rang across the practice yard. Ruccius had arrived to oversee practice.
"Get your butt over here, boy," called Ruccius impatiently.
Balan reluctantly approached the commander.
"I hate boys who are idle," glared Ruccius. "Resume practice or you'll taste my belt!"
Balan glanced at the knights. All except Tristan were watching him.
"Where are your weapons?" demanded Ruccius.
Balan eyed the knights nervously. He noticed that most of them looked apprehensive. If Balan answered truthfully, there was no knowing how Ruccius would respond. It was not unthinkable that Ruccius would whip the knights in Balan's stead. 'And serve them right!' Balan thought mutinously. Would he betray them?
He remembered his father's words: "Never betray your brothers in arms. Not for something major. Not for something minor. If you are to be punished for something your brother did, then take the lashes proudly and get even with him afterwards. Betrayal is never forgotten, Balan. You will be fighting with your brothers for many long years. A day will come when your life may depend on them. Taking a whipping is a small price for the trust you might otherwise lose. You're Sarmatian, son. Keep your honor. Always!"
Ruccius huffed impatiently.
"Answer me, boy!"
Balan bit his lip.
"I don't know, sir," he said in barely more than a whisper.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" bristled Ruccius.
Balan mustered all of his courage.
"I don't know where they are, sir. I…I've lost them."
Ruccius hit Balan so hard across his face that he staggered backwards and fell down.
"You lost them again?! You useless boy!"
Blood dripped down across Balan's chin and his eyes watered so badly that he could not see. He scrambled away from the seething Roman, but Ruccius seized him by the neck of his tunic and dragged him to the edge of the practice yard.
"You again! Always you!" raged Ruccius. "I will have no more of this! Did you learn nothing when last you left weapons lying around?! I would have assumed that your recent whippings were enough to make you mend your devious ways! But I see that you are a tough nut to crack. I will tame you, boy!"
Ruccius threw Balan across an empty wine barrel and pointed at two Roman soldiers. "You two, hold him down. Bare his back." Then he beckoned to a passing officer. "Bring me the oxtail. Let's see if I can break him."
Alarmed, the knights looked on as the soldiers prepared Balan for his whipping. The oxtail was a single-tailed leather whip, similar in size and shape to an ox's tail. If used with force it was capable of cutting a man's flesh.
The first two lashes had Balan screaming with agony. His high voice rang around the practice yard and he struggled to break free from his captors. The knights exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Bors looked on grimly. "He deserves it," he mouthed to the others.
The third lash drew blood, as did the two strokes that followed it. Galahad stuffed his fingers in his ears so as not to hear Balan's screams.
When Ruccius raised his whip again, a loud voice interrupted him.
"Stop! This is my fault! Don't hit him!"
Lancelot walked forward, holding up Balan's sword.
"Hit me if you must. I am the reason he did not practice. I took his sword from him."
Ruccius stared at Lancelot in disbelief. "What is this?" he demanded.
The other knights grouped around Balan and quietly returned his weapons.
"Please don't hit the boy, sir," pleaded Lancelot. "It is not his fault."
Ruccius' eyes narrowed. He glanced from Balan's bleeding back to the returned weapons, then glared at the knights. He nudged Balan with his foot.
"Alright! Get up then, boy. Off with you."
The two Romans helped Balan to his feet. Balan glanced at Lancelot and wordlessly expressed his gratitude. Lancelot nodded, but most of the knights still stared at him with dislike, suspicion and anger.
Tristan alone had remained on the other side of the practice yard. The scout kept his eyes on his target and shot arrow after arrow into the bull's eye, apparently unaware of what had just happened. Balan wasn't fooled, he knew that Tristan hadn't missed a thing. But Tristan had done nothing to interfere.
Balan felt tears burning in his eyes. He wanted to put his tunic back on, but one of the soldiers held him back.
"Someone should wash out those cuts, or you'll get an infection." With a glance at Ruccius, the soldier said, "Come, boy. We'll take you to the infirmary."
That night Tristan found Balan asleep in the stable, curled up in a blanket. Apparently the surgeon had released him from the infirmary, but the boy hadn't bothered to try to return to their room.
Tristan grimaced. He wanted nothing to do with Balan at the moment. But he knew that the boy should not sleep in filth with those wounds. Tristan glared darkly, but then he bent down and rapped the boy on the shoulder.
"Hey… Come!"
Tristan took the sleepy boy back to his room and put him in bed. Then he sat down by the fire and brooded angrily until the last embers died.
The following morning Balan tried to talk to Tristan, but Tristan point blank refused.
"I need your help!" said Balan urgently. "Someone is framing me. Your weapons in the mud, the cellar, the knights getting poisoned and now theft!"
"Be quiet, boy!" said Tristan grumpily. He regretted that he had let the boy sleep in his room. He pushed his blankets aside and got out of bed.
"You have to help me!" Balan persisted. "I can't do this alone."
Tristan turned his back on Balan and reached for his water jug to quench his thirst.
Balan obstinately sat down on Tristan trunk, on top of the scout's clothes.
"What if it happens again?" he argued, as Tristan effortlessly pushed him aside and picked up his clothes. "What will happen next?"
Tristan ignored Balan and began to dress.
Balan was getting desperate. He grabbed Tristan's tunic and pulled with all his might to prevent the scout from putting it on.
"What if someone dies next time?" he urged.
Tristan yanked his tunic out of Balan's hands. But Balan grabbed it again and held on to it with all the strength he could muster.
"What if the Romans kill me?"
A loud smack reverberated around the room when Tristan cuffed Balan's ear. He pushed the boy aside, put on his tunic and – slipping into defensive mode – prevented the boy from coming near him as he put on his breeches. Balan retaliated by snatching Tristan's belt from the bed and throwing it out of the window.
Tristan rolled his eyes.
"Desist, boy," he growled.
But Balan grabbed Tristan's boots and ran to the window, clearly intent on making them follow the belt. A brief struggle ensued, then Tristan pushed Balan down to the ground, took back his boots and sat down in his chair to put them on.
Balan couldn't let Tristan leave the room. He had to speak with Tristan in private. When Tristan stood up to collect his knives and gear he kept getting in Tristan's way. Tristan shoved him aside, but Balan continued to hinder the scout as much as he could. Tristan looked out of the window to see where his belt had fallen, then turned around to leave. In a last-ditch attempt to stop him, Balan clung to Tristan's arm and tried to pull him away from the door.
With a growl Tristan pulled his arm free, grabbed the neck of Balan's shirt and hurled him back into the room.
"Leave me alone," he warned.
"You're the best scout for miles around!" protested Balan. "If anyone can find out who's behind all this, you can! And you are my brother! You said you would be there for me. I need your help!"
Tristan swore inwardly. As far as he was concerned, he no longer was the boy's brother. He regretted the day the boy had been assigned to him. He grabbed a fistful of Balan's hair, forced the boy to look up at him and growled, "If you don't leave me alone, I will tie you to a tree, strip you naked, and not come back for you until a day later."
Tristan saw fear in Balan's eyes and felt the boy's tension slacken. Good! He released his grip and left the room.
Balan stared blankly at the open door. He knew that Tristan would not hesitate to carry out his threat. But Balan had to try to convince him. He had to risk it.
To be continued - This is a double update, part 2 of this chapter has also been posted!