273. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" (Who watches the watchmen?)

Arthur wonders from time to time just what his father would think of what he’s doing.

Not meaning his choice of lovers; Uther himself had been rather busy in that regard, and Arthur didn’t think his father would look twice at the man his son took to bed. An odd thing, really, but Uther had been mostly focused on one thing, and that was managing the war that Rome paid him to run.

Mostly focused. Arthur laughed at that phrase; it would be like saying a fish was mostly focused on swimming in the sea. His father had been – for as long as Arthur remembered – absolutely single mindedly dedicated to the idea that what Rome wanted, Rome got from him. And winning the battles that took place in sleet, in hail, in streaming hot sun, in icy wind that set the teeth to rattling as much as ones armor, in mud and blood and muck, well, that was the goal. The only goal, other than backing up the men that rode with him.

Uther never once questioned his abilities, or at least not in front of Arthur, or in front of any of the men that came to Arthur’s house to laugh and joke and discuss things out of earshot of Arthur and his mother. Then again, Arthur had been all of ten years old, and his father, despite Arthur’s begging, did not talk shop with him.

Arthur is thirty now, and he is not so sure that his legendary father did not question things. He’s not so sure that Uther didn’t worry, and he’s not certain that the elder Castus was as confident as the young Arthur had thought he was.

Arthur stands in the empty chapel, sweat drying on his brow, the fascination he’s always had with the plain crucifix that hangs over the alter distracting his prayers.

He feels a deep moment of chagrin, and remembers that he was successful today in his quest to make Rome happy, and more to the point – he didn’t lose any men. He smiles as he kneels, his armor creaking in the quiet, and Uther crosses his mind again as his tired eyes slide shut.

What would you think of me, father? Do I watch with equal pride and justice and leadership as you did? Do you see me on the front lines, and do you think I make a good commander?

Or do you think I am the one that needs commanding?

He bites his lip, the blood that springs new and fresh joining the old, crusty, dried dirt that lines his dry mouth. He moves his lips as he prays, and despite the offering being nothing new, he still hesitates as he asks God for blessings and for forgiveness for his arrogance and gall.

What would you think, Uther, as I ride out with my Sarmatians, as you did? Who am I beholden to, if not them?

Arthur has a feeling that even if his father were still alive, he wouldn’t say.

~

Arthur likes numbers. He also likes things ordered, and even, and where he knows they should be. As a child, he’d had exactly four tunics, two pairs of trousers, and yet only one pair of boots. That oddity had made him unhappy, and there were several birthdays upon which he’d been overjoyed to receive another pair. However, each time his footwear was replaced, he’d either tear up the old pair by accident, lose them (that time in the river had been Marcus’ fault, thank you), or somehow they’d disappear when he would go back to set the new pair next to the old one. Frowning, he’d place the new pair in the old one’s spot, and twisting his mouth, would conspire inwardly about finding another set, somehow, no matter the fact he was never allowed to go to the market alone.

As a youth in Rome, Arthur loved planting. Pelagius’ home, while not large by any standards, was rambling and shaded and had just the right kind of land to grow things on. Arthur grew tomatoes, greens, large gourds, and of course, wine grapes, as all good Roman estates did.

In a tiny part of the garden, he also grew flowers – marigold, mostly, and gave them to the daughter of their household cook as she told him they were good for all kinds of ailments. She also promised him she’d never tell anyone that a boy – the son of a well known and well loved dead and honored cavalry commander enjoyed putting his hands in the dirt.

One morning, Arthur slogged his way through the wet and messy land, the rain that had come overnight violent and damaging. He checked his vines; everything seemed to have come through unscathed, even the squash he’d planted only a few weeks previously.

Then he saw the flowers, and he ran, his breathing catching and his face echoing the dismay he felt – dismay and my…no!

The young girl that he’d shared his secret with was standing there, obviously having arrived ahead of him – she was up so early, working in the kitchens as she did – and her expression mimicked his.

“Arth – sir,” she said, her voice soft and full of misery. She touched the destroyed bed, the small yellow petals scattered and bruised. No matter how many times he’d told her to call him by his name….

“The rain,” he said, his eyes squinting at the sky, still overcast and dark. He reached out, and picked up a bent stalk that had held one of the plants. A few were still standing, and Arthur stepped closer, ignoring the girl, looking, mouth moving silently, counting –

Thirteen flowers still braved the elements, still grew somewhat strong, only a bit ragged at the edges. Staring down at them, Arthur’s mind went back to Britain – to a home, a single home, with a single parent, a single child, one hearth, one set of furniture, one place to sleep – one sword.

Odd number out.

He jerked the surviving plants out at the roots, and scattered them on the ground, even as the cook’s daughter gasped in surprise and knelt quickly, trying to gather what was left of Arthur’s little secret.

He put a hand on her shoulder, the grip tight and strong, and when she looked up, she tried to back up a little, as she’d never seen such a … fire of pain … in the young lord’s face.

“Leave them,” Arthur had said, and she did, dropping the dead flowers and the second he let her go, she turned and ran back to the estate.

Arthur watched his feet as he methodically stomped on the remains of his marigolds, and buried the thirteen flowers in the mud and detritus of the storm.

Lancelot wonders sometimes why Arthur looks the way he does at Lancelot’s twin swords; but then he thinks Roman foolery and goes on about his business, never wondering why the commander shows such interest in his progress with the two blades.

He never wonders why Arthur always carries not only his large broadsword, Excalibur, with him at all times, but a small dagger in one of his boots as well. He shrugs, and the thoughts are forgotten, even as the Roman man watches as the Sarmatian walks away, the two hilts rising to rest at either side of Lancelot’s ears, even, perfect, and symmetrical.

~

The sun is bright; the window in the large room cracked open as the old man sits in his large and ridiculously ornate chair. The sounds of the day fill his ears. Children play at the edge of the hall; the doors are thrown wide and the smells of the kitchens waft deliciously through the air; his nose twitches as he imagines the crusty brown bread and honey he’ll treat himself to later.

His wife says he’s too thin in any regard, so he’s not going to begrudge himself one sweet.

Sire. The delegation from the Dumnonii are here, and they want to know when they can see you.

The King’s eyes are still deep green, and when he stares at the messenger, the man squirms as he’s pinned under the famous gaze.

Bring them to me. I am as I always am; I have no shame to be seen thusly.

The man bows and hustles off, and Artos of Britain sits up, the crown that had been lying at his feet now on his head, the shining silver hair the only thing daring to show his age.

He stands as the group of strangers enters his hall, and the children scatter and the smells and sounds of Camboglanna are gone – the tang of iron, the hush of booted feet on stone, and the muted conversation of self important and dangerous men replacing them.

He fingers the hilt of Excalibur at his side, and wonders if this will be the last time he does this.

*

The dead man’s face is slack and blank, and Arthur screams to the sky, wordless and angry and beyond hurt as everything that was anything in his short, bloody life is taken from him by the God he thought he could trust.

Unguarded, Arthur’s back is pierced by another arrow, and he slumps, his dirty and sweaty face taking its rest on the knight’s chest, their breathing matched again, slowing to a stop, as Arthur’s life force follows Lancelot’s to wherever the quick witted, sharp tongued, devil of man decides he will live his afterlife.

Arthur’s last conscious thought is a quick prayer – this time to his friend, in the hopes that Lancelot will allow Arthur to follow him now as Lancelot had always done in life.

*

The house burns unchecked, and Arthur, carrying his father’s unconscionably heavy sword, manages to shove the cart that’s blocking the door out of the way as his mother screams for him.

Her voice is raw, loud, painful to hear and process. But it’s all Arthur can hear, so he follows it, drawn to the fear and want in her words.

Artorius!! Artorius!

He pushes flaming boards out of the way, not noticing the heat that fires his tunic, not caring that his hair is burning, not minding the excruciating slash that’s dripping blood from his arm. He hefts the sword, and he sees his mother, cowering in the corner of their bedroom, and he’s in the door, and she sees him, and he smiles as she runs to him, her arms outstretched, and he drops the big weapon, and they only know each other as the world goes up in flames around them.

*

In a quiet, nondescript home in the hills north of Badon, an old man sits at the edge of the porch. He watches the sun set, and when it is full dark, he rises, and enters the home, makes his dinner, and when he ready, he climbs into his bed and sleeps, not able to remember if he’s spoken at all that day.

*

In a quiet, nondescript home in the hills north of Badon, an old man sits at the edge of the porch. He watches the sun set, and when it is full dark, he rises, and enters the home.

Dinner is made, and he and the other man – also silver haired, though still quick of tongue and sharp of wit – smile and joke as they eat.

When they retire to bed, the old man doesn’t remember what they spoke of that day – but the stars shine outside and the room is quiet save the soft snoring of the other man, and he is at last content.

~

The blood sings a metronomic path down his face; I turn and run as fast as I can, but it’s sluggish and slow and God forgive me, I’m too late. Lancelot falls gracefully, musically, his body sliding through the air as if he’s running his fingers down a harp or some bard’s instrument.

Things speed up and I reach him just as his darkly curled head hits the frozen ground, and I scream my anger and loss to the sky, his lips moving just barely, his eyes already freezing open – dead and empty, as he never was in life.

My mother is ashen grey, her mouth in a grim line as my father bids her farewell from atop his horse. She crosses her arms, and turns from him, entering the house with the unhappy gait I’m very familiar with, even as a boy.

He touches the top of my head gently, and wheels his animal about. The arrows that protrude from his back somehow haven’t killed him, but he leaks copious red liquid as he rides away, the horse skeletal and white.

My knights surround me, the new table gleaming and golden red in the light from the brazier. They raise their glasses of ale or wine, and we shout to their ancient gods and my one true Savior – our thanks that we survived another day, another winter, another year on our service.

They all look at me, and each one is … melting. Flesh moves down their faces, like the ice that drips off the trees when spring comes.

Bors turns wet, brown eyes on me, and says but I loved you, Artos.

My wife walks next to me in the corridors of our palace. She is blonde, and small, and smiles gently as we travel slowly hand in hand. Her belly is swollen, and as I reach out my thick fingers – only used to a sword’s hilt – her stomach spasms and she collapses on the floor. I call desperately for a medicus, for her midwife, for anyone, but the last thing I see before the blackness is her face, shining and contorted in a rictus of pain.

Your future, my King.

Slick tiles, the sounds of feet running, hushed voices, and all is –

Empty.

My lip is worried enough to bleed sluggishly as I shoot upright in my bed. I am coated in sweat, and my tunic is too oppressive and confining, so I tug it over my head, tearing it in the process. It lands somewhere on the ground, and I hug my knees to my chest as I sit, bare skinned, in my bed, as I think about jumbled images and what the future could possibly have in store for me.

The body next to mine moves, the voice slurred and unintelligible, and I spare a glance for the pale shoulder that can be seen as the furs shift. Reaching out an uncaring hand, I pull the pelt back over the tender flesh, and go back to my musing.

My eyes slide shut at last, and my chin jerks a few times as I try and nod off while sitting up.

His dark eyes, empty and frozen, are the only image I remember from my mixed dreams, and they do not go away with the coming of sleep at last.

Rather, they imprint themselves in my conscience, and despite his warmth next to mine, I cannot help but feel the chill of death and see the white of bone that is not there.

Not yet.

Soon?

My mouth moves as I sleep, in quiet and desperate prayer.

~

Arthur sees every battle he’s ever been a part of, easily, and with great clarity.

The chapel is quiet and empty as is its wont, but he’s not sorry for that. It’s a selfish desire he has when he comes here, to be alone and uninterrupted, if only for the half a candlemark he takes to pray and to supplicate. Some days he’s allowed a lot of time to offer up obeisance to his God, but he rarely stays the full day on those instances, the pressure of his duty and his worry and his men always, in the end, crowding out God and Arthur’s whispered wants.

This day he’s on his knees, but not clad in the heavy armor he wears most times. This time, he’s wearing a simple black tunic and deerskin trousers, the worn, thin material of the pants doing nothing to stop the chill from the hard floor that seeps into his skin. He’s alright with that. His chafed and dry hands are wound together and held at chest height, the bleeding finally having stopped since the medicus smacked at his ears and told him he’d tell Arthur’s senior commanders if he didn’t stop picking at them.

His head is bare and his face unshaven, and yet he took the time to wash his body as cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.

His beloved sword hangs in his quarters, and Arthur, simple and tired and worn down and sad, moves his lips as he remembers the previous days’ skirmish and the two men he lost.

He remembers them all, past, present, the ones that are yet to come. He sees himself in his shining Roman armor, Excalibur held high, his face set and serious and his lips shouting orders that seem to come to him from on high or from some voice that has murmured in his ear his whole life. He sees hordes of invaders, men in boats, blonde, dangerous men, men that hack and slash and burn everything in their path. He sees the blue painted warriors that Rome wants him to defy, and he sees the men that were once boys that played in oceans of grass carrying blades and weapons as wicked as his own.

His face is wet, and he sees his mother wave to him from the banks of the river where she does the washing, and he sees Uther winking and joking at him as the elder Castus rides off for the last time.

He sees himself, old and bent and alone, a strange thing resting on his head that is not a helmet.

He sees the faces of his knights, one in particular, and he sees dark brown eyes mesh with green ones and he sees the light of the sun that illuminates the power and the grace and the love so powerful he is overwhelmed and cannot breathe –

and he cries out, and whispers Jesu, and feels finally, that the past is the present is the future, and by heavenly God, but that is the only truth that matters to Arthur.

His knees ache and his back hurts and the floor is cold and his hands crack and he smiles, brightly, as he closes his eyes and sees – the blackness of the inside of his lids.

~

Jason. No…too much trouble with Talos, and I truly don’t like sea voyages.

Jupiter. Well, maybe not him either. I think as a child I relished the idea of being able to throw lightning bolts at people that were cruel to me, but now? I try to reason with them and see their side as well. Charred flesh and an angry god might cause problems when one is trying to negotiate.

Marcus the Magician. This was a young man in a story my mother told me – he could conjure things out of thin air. Birds, rabbits, flowers, conveniently needed objects, and the like. But his downfall was his pride, and despite the novelty of being able to get with a presto! whatever I needed, in the long run, going about things the damnable ‘hard way’ is generally the best. I know I’ve learned much in this struggle.

Hrm. Well, upon introspection, I know the character in question is a lady, but…one of my favorite Greek Gods was always Aphrodite. And not because of her beauty; although her appearance in the middle of the sea, framed by a giant conch (nude, of course) was a bit shocking while reading the story as a child. But most Greeks, who wrestled and argued and a lot of the time died whilst in ‘discussion’ or in concert with their Gods, might actually be pleased to see Aphrodite, as she was, after all, the one responsible for love and passion in their lives.

And sorrow. And heartbreak, and ill will, and jealousy, and temper tantrums, and pain and fear and doubt and self loathing and hate and fights and distance and by God, I am so very happy to be Arthur Castus at this moment.

Even if I’m the one who brings some sorrow and ill will into men’s lives. I can also have the opportunity to bring peace, and a bit of happiness, and in the end, freedom.

I am Arthur. That is enough.

~

Communication is an important tool. I don’t know if I’m the right person to determine what people can and cannot speak about, especially local folk who have never been given the means to learn the high and ancient languages. One is forced to make do when one does not have the tools to educate oneself.

And by God, do I sound pompous.

There’s one I’d give almost anything to never hear again.

Canis. Dog.

Conscript is another. Barbarian. Heathen.

Slave.

There will be one day, one glorious, God granted day, wherein I will take the keys to the metaphorical chains that bind my men and throw away the clinking, rattling, rusting, blood soaked links that hold them to Rome and servitude. And then, on that day, I will never have to hear the words dog, conscript, barbarian, heathen or slave strung together ever again. That will be a day I will drop to my knees and thank the Lord for His generosity in allowing me to see it.

Some nights, when I’ve imbibed a bit too much, I have to wonder if I’m truly being magnanimous in my desire to see my men go home – or am I being cocky, in thinking I am the one that has the ‘power’ to hand over their freedom so seemingly easily?

Am I being self serving, a brash, conceited bastard of a man who only hopes for the oft-longed for freedom so I can say – ‘here you are, men. I gave this to you.’

God in Heaven, I pray it is not so. I wish with all my heart that all my intentions are the right intentions, and that He will reward my prayers with as many knights still alive at the end of the fifteen years that can be.

Canis.

I will never own dogs, the longest day I live.

~

Lancelot would spit when Arthur spoke of Rome.

“Can you not see it for what it is – a vile place, land of arrogant fools and inbred, spoiled rotten-rich families.”

Arthur, ever the nobleman and lover of defense, would calmly state to Lancelot that how in the world could you possibly know that; you’ve never been there?

And each time, the Sarmatian knight would laugh in Arthur’s face, and cock his head, and rest his hands comfortably and confidently on his narrow, leather clad hips.

“I don’t need to go there, Arthur. I am Rome’s slave. What more must I possibly experience to make me certain it is Hell?”

Arthur would try to come up with a grand answer for that – and despite his knowledge of Rome’s history, of its success in battle and its heritage, its philosophy, its rich culture and many tiered society – he could never quite find the right words to speak his truths about his home.

Not to Lancelot, whose own truth was so different from Arthur’s. Arthur could not find a way to lay bare his heart without hurting his closest friend’s feelings, and by God, but Lancelot was right.

Rome, the brilliant, shining light of his soul, that place he’d been allowed to be a child again after the death of his family, the rolling hills and the aqueducts and the magnificent baths and the Senate - Julius Caesar himself had been killed in that very room for the audacity of being addicted to power – the place he’d grown to be a man and the place he missed every single day.

The place that had taken his lieutenant and lover from his family and lands by force of violence. The place that dragged young boys, unwilling and sobbing, from the grasps of their parents, only to ship them to the wilds of Rome’s borders – fodder for the machine that was the Roman Army.

The place that held slave markets and slums on every corner – corners they shared with large churches and temples, their glass windows and brightly polished metal blinding the eyes of the men, women and children that were bound together on the corner in tight, frightened groups.

The place that allowed a man to be a second class citizen because he had the nerve to be a foreigner to almighty Rome.

The place where his mentor lived and fought the good fight every day.

The next time Arthur brought up Rome and Lancelot began his vitriolic diatribe, Arthur stopped him with a gesture.

Lancelot cocked his brow as per usual, but crossed his arms, and waited.

“Have you ever bitten into a rotten piece of fruit?”

That question resulted in Lancelot’s eyebrows shooting even further up his forehead. “I’m sure – why?”

“Have you ever looked at it after you discover it’s old? Do you see that the flesh of the fruit looks just as good as any other piece; shiny, bright color, good texture?”

“Arthur – where are you going with this?”

“And then you turn the fruit over, and it’s black, and dirty, and unfit for anything other than the trash?”

Lancelot opened his mouth, and then closed it. Arthur did not see this, however, because he was staring at his hands, flexing the fingers, rubbing them together as if there was some unseen detritus on the skin he could not remove no matter how hard he scrubbed.

“I’m going to the baths. Meet me in the offices later – we have drill reports to handle.”

Arthur did not wait to see if the other man followed him or questioned what he was doing or finished his delayed tirade on the evils of Rome. He walked through the garrison, his feet taking him to the baths; but his eyes were only for his hands, and the dirt from the Seven Hills that would not scrape off.

~

The day my father died. I held Excalibur for the first time that evening. I could not lift it for more than a few seconds.

The day the Woads decimated my village. I can still hear my mother crying for me.

The last day on our journey to Rome after Pelagius became my guardian. I had never wanted to see something so badly – other than my family, alive again and with me. The golden city was almost – almost – as beautiful as that sight would have been.

The first day of my first commission. God heard my voice many times that day.

The day I met my Sarmatian knights. My knees had been trembling; thank goodness the garrison commander had thought it smart to put me on a horse.

Our first skirmish. That was the day I realized just how important it was to have your armour fit correctly. My loose cuirass might have been the death of me – I will always be grateful to Gawain for that reason, among many.

One winter solstice, the evening after a horrid defeat and the funeral for too many men.

The day my first, beloved warhorse – Argos (I do love the Greek stories) – was cut down under me and suffered a great and terrible, if noble, death. He will always be missed.

The first time Lancelot and I argued and did not reconcile for many days following.

The first time he and I rode together, for pleasure, not in battle, and found the creek that runs behind the northernmost section of our bit of the Wall.

A winter’s even, spent indoors, drinking and reading and just knowing him.

The day and night we … did not leave my quarters at all.

…I can only pray that I will be not be present for the possibility of his dying in the field; I will beg God to take me first, so that I will not have to kneel over his broken, quiet body and weep for what was lost.

That would be not only the longest day of my life, but the last one, as well.

~

The first time Arthur heard Pelagius speak to a crowd in Rome, his eyes had burned and his throat had been parched because of his inability to blink or to swallow. He thought if he moved or made a noise, the magic he felt flowing through the crowd from his teacher would be lost or broken.

The young men – and a few women, Arthur took note – stared transfixed at the brown-clad man, whose voice was as affecting and powerful as any pope or member of the senate, no matter if Arthur breathed or moved or not.

At that moment, Arthur knew he could not be what Pelagius wanted for him – to be a learned man, a champion of the downtrodden, defender of the weak, wielding the blade of righteousness that Uther Castus had done. He could not speak like that. Not like that!

Pelagius had been electrifying. He made weekly stops at the foot of the forum, his simple clothing and easy manner of word snagging many passersby and catching them unawares – the man was gifted.

He wrote monthly when Arthur received his commission in Britain; Arthur smiled as he read the reports of how each speach had gone and how many had listened – his mentor didn’t really care about that, but Arthur knew that Pelagius wished for even one true believer among all the hangers on.

About five years into it, the letters began to slow to a trickle. Worrying at first, Arthur wrote back to Pelagius, asking for details, how is the campaign going? Do they believe in good men at last?

The answers, when they came, were short and non-descriptive. Everything was fine – he’d had to move his location, as some of the ‘higher ups’ in Rome weren’t too pleased with how big a crowd Pelagius would draw. Arthur shouldn’t worry about it, and didn’t he have enough to do with those new Sarmatian knights?

Rain pelted them like stones on a winter evening; the skirmish they had ran into that day had ended in a bloody, muddy mess, Arthur’s ala eventually walking away with what could be called victory. And yet, his men, his true and full of such heart men, seemed downtrodden and angry and weary. Arthur sat with them at the edge of the fire they’d managed to build despite the pissing sky, and he laughed weakly at their jokes and ate the bread they’d brought and tried to steer conversation away from the dead knights they’d buried along the road back to Camboglanna. It was a four day trip back and they did not want to be burdened with too much weight; Arthur had felt sick to his soul giving that order, but Lancelot had taken a short, sharp look at him, and then had barked the order back to the others without pause.

They understood – he hoped.

At last silence ruled, the only sound the pattering of the rain onto their damp and exhausted backs and heads. Arthur’s gaze fell on each of his men in turn, and without thinking about it, he stood, water sliding off his heavy armor to soak the already sodden ground.

“Knights,” he called, his voice ringing solid and true around the campfire. “We are the lucky ones. We few who stand or sit here still this evening. And yet, we will – we must - never forget the blood shed for us by our brothers; those same men whose valor and spirit will honor this land.”

He licked his lips, but found his desire to speak was not abated.

“You want to go home, alive. I want for nothing else. I have my duty – you have yours – and despite what I feel in my heart, I must listen to my head and do what I was born to do. We will beat back our enemy, defend this outpost of Rome’s glory – but my friends, my dear and noble friends, I promise you this,” the volume of his words rose, as if he wished for God to hear as well.

Drawing Excalibur, Arthur raised his father’s large broadsword until its tip seemed to graze the heavens. “I will expend every breath and every piece of my body and soul to see you get home. Every one of you that is lost is a bit of me that will remain here in this land – and if I must shed my own blood and leave my own flesh behind so that you can achieve your freedom,” he lowered the sword, and with a sharp, quick slash, opened a cut on his palm. He slammed the blade home into the wet earth, the sword quivering with the violence of the motion – and lifting his bloody hand into the air, he squeezed until the viscous fluid dripped onto the soil that they defended.

“So be it, my brothers.”

Arthur did not doubt one word –

the knights around him stood in twos and threes, and each man saluted him, and each man cried one thing.

Artorius!

Lowering his bleeding fist, Arthur nodded at each man, and turning, left the campsite, the mud and rain sucking at his booted feet as he walked swiftly to the edge of the area where they had set up for the night.

He found his horse and steadied himself by sliding a hand over the animal’s neck.

He then promptly bent in half and vomited on the soil of the land his knights were buried in, the land he was sworn to protect with his life.

Arthur stayed kneeling on the ground, his great white war horse nudging him gently with its nose. A few tears leaked from his eyes, and he wondered for the hundredth time if Pelagius knew just what sort of influence he’d been on a wide eyed, easily impressed young boy.

He had a bad feeling it would only prove worse.

~