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.

~

250. Write page 57 of your 300 page autobiography.

[cont. from previous]…told me that perhaps I’d remember the incident – that day – as a way to not plan skirmishes.

Winter came fast and hard in our seventh year; the snow fell in great, blinding torrents, and the men were grumpy and had periods of inactivity for so long that they became lumbering, angry, impatient beasts around one another. I cannot count the times I had to break up fights or ‘contests’ that involved throwing sharp weapons at other knights – ‘good practice,’ they would say. Tristan was the only one who refused to get involved in the shenanigans – perhaps he thought it beneath him. More than likely, he was bored by idle behavior.

Not being able to campaign, nor patrol, nor even get in pleasure riding almost spelled our doom – literally. Men who sit about, especially those that are used to physical activity, tend to get rambunctious at the wrong times. Two of my best and unfortunately least patient – Tor and Bedivere – snuck out of the fortress one morning, before the sun had even begun to think of rising, and, taking their mounts, had ridden all day in the wet, slushy mud and ice that covered the land.

When they returned, they were both flushed with exhilaration, and shaking with the exertion their activities – especially the fact that they had been illicit – had caused. I remember glowering most impressively at them…but their youthful joy and sheer pleasure in the act had caused me to go easy on them. I’d sent them to their quarters - no tavern time – and told them to report directly to me in the morning for discipline.

Of course I had nothing serious planned; perhaps a day cleaning the fortress’ bath house might give them pause to think before their next ‘adventure,’ but when they didn’t come knocking the next day, all chagrin and smiles, I became worried.

Fever spreads quickly in an enclosed place. By the time I made enough inquiries about Tor and Bedivere’s whereabouts, it was midday, and the sound of multiple men coughing filled my ears as I entered the valetudinarium.

Infection is virulent here the medicus had told me. He wasn’t sure either if the supplies he had available to him would be enough to stop the spread of whatever disease the two knights had picked up and obviously spread to parts of Camboglanna. I remember the brightness of the sun that day; its too shining glow reflecting around the large room as the sounds of illness echoed weirdly in the…[cont.]

There is a difference in policing the rabble and policing ones heart.

The sun had finally set.

Arthur had never been so glad to see twilight. His walk along the corridor toward his rooms was stiff and slow; unlike him. His body ached and his smart mind was a jumble of messy thoughts and words that made no sense to him anymore.

Pushing open his door, he was surprised to see the fire lit and food on the table – and then a groan escaped his chapped lips.

“I am not in the frame of mind for argument, Lancelot.”

Arthur shut his door, and removed the heavy, fancy cuirass he’d worn since sunup. Important to look like a ‘Roman’ for the locals. They seemed to respect him more when he dressed the part – or perhaps they were just afraid of the large sword he always carried. He prayed fervently that it was the first idea that made them listen to him.

The knight in his quarters lounged seemingly comfortably in one of Arthur’s tall-backed leather chairs. Clad in black as was his wont, the other man seemed to almost disappear into Arthur’s furniture – until he opened his brilliant dark eyes. The irises sparkled and caught the reflection of the flames in Arthur’s brazier.

“Who says I’m here to argue, Arthur? Can’t a knight merely bring his commander some food without it seeming like a trick?”

Arthur hung Excalibur in its place of honor on the wall, and before settling at the table, removed the iron cross that had been Uther’s from around his neck. He held the small thing in his hand, the size difference not lost on him – his dirty palms, calloused and work worn, looked strangely wrong next to the tiny, glittery thing.

He sighed and tucked it away into a spare pocket inside his tunic.

Sitting at last, he could not suppress a noise of pain as his back and neck twinged. Lancelot smirked – Arthur refrained from hitting the other man as he took a large swallow of the wine that the Sarmatian had so generously poured for him.

“Long day?”

“You should be aware of my schedule,” Arthur answered, his words muffled as he chewed a piece of warm bread. “Yes, it was…long.”

“I told you treating with the local pig farmers would go badly.”

Arthur swallowed his bread wrong, and had to stop and choke for a moment. He slugged down wine as Lancelot sat still and looked at Arthur, his expression no different than if he’d been watching paint dry.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Arthur snapped, and then shook his head, residual coughs making his chest ache. “They are more than ‘pig farmers,’ Lancelot. They are important to the area and they need to be made to feel that they matter. That is part of my job as garrison commander, and I do it with pride. It is no small feat to convince these people to work with the Roman Army rather than against it.”

Arthur stopped and stared at Lancelot – the other man had cracked a smile and finally began to laugh.

Shoving against the table, Arthur stood and lurched to his window, opening the warped glass, taking in great lungfulls of the crisp night air. His hands gripped the edges of the wall, his fingers biting into the brick until the pain reminded him where he was and what he was doing.

Lancelot was at his back, and the other man’s voice was as velvet when he spoke.

“You will drive yourself into an early grave should you chose to continue this.”

Arthur did not turn, but did not ignore Lancelot either. He lowered his hands slowly, and flexed his suddenly cold fingers as Lancelot went on.

“I watch you every day you do this, Arthur. Every night you return to your quarters, staggering and exhausted and your face, my friend. It is grey and has no life in it.”

Arthur pshhhawed, but Lancelot stopped his mouth with a light finger on his arm. Arthur turned at last, his hip resting against the lip of the window, his arms crossing over his middle as his green eyes met Lancelot’s bright brown ones. The other man’s words were soft and low, but Arthur had never heard his knight speak with such inherent intensity.

“I have not seen you for days. The men have not seen you for days, and Arthur, they need to see you. They need to see your face, impassioned and bold and full of the caring you dare to show us. You say those pig farmers are important.”

Lancelot took the step that separated them, and his hands lay on Arthur’s arms. His musk and familiar breath took Arthur’s away.

“Your knights are important. I am important. You cannot do your job without us. And none of them save me would dare say this to you.” He dropped his head briefly, and Arthur saw the worry and tension that had been there – only hidden so well that Arthur hadn’t seen it before. He was shamed and opened his mouth to say so.

“Let the garrison Optio handle this from now on. Choose the side of your men. Choose to be with us, even it be only routine patrol. It has been far too long, and far too many times you would rather be with unwashed heathens,” he laughed, only slightly bitterly, “that you do not know, than with ones that care about your well being.”

Arthur licked his lips, and Lancelot leaned forward. His forehead touched Arthur’s, and the commander arrested his breathing and his speech.

“Do this for me, as for my true shame, I cannot do with you gone so long from my side.”

The briefest of kisses – Lancelot’s dry, full, yet rough lips a fleeting touch against his own.

Arthur shivered in the chill left from the other man’s passing. He sucked in air, and found he could barely taste Lancelot on his tongue. He tried it again, and wanted to weep when it faded all too quickly.

The room was silent, left bare by Lancelot’s absence, and Arthur returned to his chair slowly, thoughtfully. He rubbed blankly at his neck; the skin there feeling the cross that was in Arthur’s pocket.

How can I do this? How can I make them understand – how can I bear to spend more time away from him?

God, help me. Help me to do what is right for all.

He had a horrid feeling that was asking for the impossible. It was imperative he worked out the treaty between the garrison and the locals – he shuddered to think what kind of reception the Army would receive the next time they tried to trade or even rode out if things didn’t end up the way they needed to.

And yet…his men.

Arthur’s head clunked on to the table top, and he shut his weary eyes, the cross in his tunic burning against him like a brand.

~

Puts stylus to paper, bites lip, thinks, then bends head.

Uther always taught me the first rule of negotiation was to hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst. As the head of this very large fortress, I would agree with that assessment.

sips wine, stares at walls.

In dealing with the locals, unfortunately, most of the previous commanders or legates here were harsh and violent in their tactics. I am not such a man. And yet – it seems to me that the days set aside for listening to troubles from the surrounding villages are longer than any day I ever spent in battle.

scratches forehead, toys with stylus.

Rule two, then, would be to choose a good venue, and a good day on which to treat with your fellows. If the weather is bad, or the hall is uncomfortable, the Briton folk here have been known to back out of discussions. They are a suspicious lot. I remember once a few years ago I had to have every piece of Saturnalia greenery replaced because one village elder said it made him sneeze, and that was bad luck, according to his people.

shakes head, sips more wine, taps stylus against teeth.

Rule three would be – once negotiations have finally gotten under way, make sure one sticks to the list at hand. Things can get out of control quite easily, especially if one chooses to have several very bored and randomly badly behaved Sarmatian knights as guards.

rubs bridge of nose, as head is beginning to pound. Drinks a bit more wine.

Rule four – when things break down, restore order oneself, and with force if necessary. Do not try and placate others by standing and trying to calm people by speaking in a soft, soothing voice. That does not fly here in Britain. If possible, draw one’s impressively polished weapon, and hold it still above one’s head. That usually garners at least a bit of quiet.

watches flames in the brazier, stretches neck, and, raising hand, touches very large, purpled, swollen eye. Curses softly.

And rule five?

Learn when to call it a day.

~

The tightness and leafiness of the trees began to thin out as Arthur rode along the edge of the woods. He had been weaving back and forth as he traveled; avoiding stray enemies and perhaps the out of place Woad had him moving in and around the forest in a strange pattern.

Night was coming, and he was hungry. His men probably were wondering where he’d gotten to, considering he’d told them he’d only be gone a few hours. Still, he rode slowly and became wrapped up in his thoughts easily.

The village had been a non-descript one, an easy place for him to get small supplies that weren’t available in Badon frequently enough, and he’d stopped for a rest in the main market square. The smells of cooked fare were mouth-watering, and the shouts and laughter of children amused him, so he lounged in hidden silence at a table in the corner of a food stall. His clothing was old and all black, and he’d left his armor and cloak at Camboglanna; the only thing that might have marked him was Excalibur, and that never left his side.

His dish was simple and tasty, and the wine he imbibed was well made and rich. The day was breezy, and the sun shone brightly – for once. Arthur found his thoughts wandering to something other than the campaign he was going to have to plan when he returned home.

A few shouts and a few notes of music had him turning his head; the market courtyard was suddenly filled with people and noise. A group of children ran ahead of a small procession, gamboling like dogs. Arthur sat up and swallowed the last bite of his potato, and rested his chin in his hand as he watched the parade passing by.

A young woman, dressed in a plain white shift and flowers that decorated her hair, lead the group, followed closely by a young man in a clean, although obviously home-made, tunic and trousers. Others of varying age trailed after them, and very quickly the collection of people and musicians had progressed through the square. Arthur heard a few of his fellow diners mention how lovely the girl had looked, and another said something about young lives being made one.

Ah. A wedding, then. His green eyes followed the very last of the celebrating folk, and Arthur suddenly found it a bit hard to finish the rest of his food. He washed the now stale tasting bread down with the rest of his bitter, no longer palatable wine, and stood quickly, checking for Excalibur as the diners around him seemed to be worrisome and perhaps – did that one carry blue marks upon his face?

Arthur’s mount was more than ready to leave the village it didn’t know, and his darkened mood probably affected the large white as they rode swiftly away from the obvious camaraderie and home like feeling he’d experienced while in the town.

He tried not to think on the wedding – tried to ignore the memory of the young woman, her face alight with happiness, her white clothing pristine and ethereal. Her hair had been long, a strange chestnut color that seemed to only add to the hazy joyful expression she had worn. The man, her suitor, had been smiling, and Arthur seemed to remember the young couple holding hands as they proceeded through the town center, from one end to the other – from the ending of their old lives, to the beginning of the new.

Excalibur clanked at his side, and the rain began to fall in fits and starts. The sun set, and Arthur hunched as best he could over his horse, trying to sink into his threadbare tunic in order to avoid the wetness that drained from the sky, the rain leeching any color the world had left from all of Arthur’s surroundings.

His stomach ached, and his head pounded in time with his mount’s hoof beats. The wind picked up, and his hands chafed against the wet leather of his reins.

The smells and the sights of the village faded when he reached the outer gates of Camboglanna, and as men and squires and legionaries and fortress folk and the normal sounds of garrison life invaded him, Arthur shut his eyes once. He tried to remember the feel, to call back the sentiment and the emotions and the idea of the small thing he had witnessed this afternoon.

All that came to him was the sound of the trees he’d ridden through on the way back, their leaves echo-y and shivery and crisp and dead.

The rain intensified, and Arthur made his way to his quarters, the silence of the hall welcomed over the wild beating of his disappointed heart.

~

He bites his lip, shuffles his feet. The armor he’s wearing is too heavy, so he decides to remove it. As he’s fighting with the buckles of his cuirass, the distinctive ring of hobnailed boots makes his head jerk up.

Damn it.

“What in the world are you doing back here? Don’t you have a squire to see to such things? And aren’t you the first one out of gear each night, rushing to the chapel to absolve yourself and us of our sins?”

Arthur twists his mouth at Lancelot. He hems and haws, and drops his eyes to continue working on the fastenings of his gear. Don’t make me do this, Lord. Please, I beg you. Let him leave – let him be angry with me, so I am not forced to see the look in his eyes –

“Gods, Arthur. Let me help. Imbecile.”

Lancelot’s hands work smoothly at the buckles, and Arthur feels a rush of cool air to his over-heated skin when the heavy, metal plate is finally removed from his chest. He sighs and slumps against the railing behind him as Lancelot sets the armor aside.

The other man reaches out a hand, and Arthur hesitates. Lancelot rolls his eyes and flaps the hand in the air. “The rest, man.”

Flushing, Arthur removes his mail shirt and wrist protectors and hands them to his friend. The knight mumbles to himself in his native tongue; Arthur doesn’t speak much Sarmatian, but he is no green fool to not recognize Lancelot’s tone. He breaks into a sweat anew, and wipes a hand over his forehead. It feels strange, and he realizes he’s still wearing his gauntlets. Grunting, he takes them off as well, and runs his now bare hand over his face. Itchy dirt and the detritus of the day still cling to his cheeks, and he looks everywhere about him, save at the man standing in front of him. The man he has idiotic, Rome dictated news to impart to.

Fingers snap, and Arthur’s eyes are drawn to the noise. He focuses on the long, slender and all too familiar digits that are in front of his face. His gaze travels down the black clad arm, and finally rests on the darkly narrowed eyes that belong to Lancelot.

“Where are you?”

Now that Arthur can answer. Easily. With a tiny white lie that will leave no one the worse for wear.

“Like you, I am here,” he says, his tired face trying to stretch into a semblance of a smile. Lancelot pulls his hand back, and cocks his eyebrow, an imperious and mighty gesture that has Arthur cringing. That look – luckily for Arthur, Lancelot doesn’t know readily just what hold it has over the Roman.

Or perhaps he does. He moves forward, placing himself within contact of Arthur, and sneers along with the raised brow. For some reason, that one expression makes Arthur wants to melt into the floor. He hates that feeling, and yet….

“Speak it, Castus, or I will go to Tristan and find out. And that is not something I think you want.”

God damn it to Hell.

Straightening, Arthur sighs and meets his lieutenant’s gaze head on. Lancelot crosses his arms over his chest, and waits. Arthur thinks for a moment that he can perhaps duck under the Sarmatian’s grasp and run for it, but another look at Lancelot’s expression, and he knows he’s done for.

“The … legion commanders,” he starts, having to clear his throat once. “The other commanders,” he says, making sure that Lancelot knows he had no part in this, “don’t want you to have your midwinter festival this year.”

Lancelot’s haughty expression gradually melts into one of incredulity, and then pure amusement. Arthur finds it fascinating and annoying to watch the transformation; the more he observes, the more his irritation grows. He grumps and crosses his own arms as Lancelot moves away, his hands at his face, his smirk now a grin of mirth.

“That’s what made you hide out here? That’s what had you nervous as a virgin bride around me? Oh, Arthur. You are truly priceless sometimes.”

“I didn’t want to offend you – and fuck off, Lancelot. I was trying to be kind!” Arthur pushes off the railing he’s sitting on, and follows Lancelot, stopping short when the other man turns to face him.

“Do you actually think that pathetic excuse of a drunken party is the real thing?”

Arthur cocks his head, and opens his mouth. Then shuts it again. Opens – he stares at Lancelot, feeling rather like a fish that’s headed for the cleaver.

“I … well, yes,” he states, his tone clipped and uptight. Lancelot’s still smiling at him, and Arthur suddenly wants to hit the other man for all the worrying he’s done. And for no reason. None at all! Damn him. He’s enjoying this.

“Arthur – you are so innocent,” Lancelot laughs quietly. He smoothly crosses the few feet that separate them, and, raising a hand, touches Arthur’s sweaty cheek with those long fingers. “Find me that night – and I will render that particular trait of yours a fleeting memory.”

Swift as Tristan’s hawk, flying across the sky – tail feathers reflecting the sparkle of the moonlight – Lancelot, as dark and as secretive as that rare bird, leans forward and brushes his dry lips across Arthur’s frowning mouth.

“Lancelot,” Arthur starts, his eyes only able to stare at the other man’s mobile and full lips. He stumbles over his words, and then over his own feet as Lancelot pulls back from him.

“If you Romans knew the truth – you’d have butchered us long ago.”

His chuckle and his scent are the only things he leaves behind. Arthur snorts angrily, and rubs his dirty fingers over his mouth, still tasting Lancelot’s skin. He leans on the railing again, and contemplates Lancelot’s words. Not so fierce as he’d like to imagine, that one. And yet – Arthur’s mind always turns to him, be it in anger or passion or longing or when he’s in his cups, or after a battle and he feels the need to dissect strategy, or when it’s raining – God forbid, Arthur loathes storms – or when he’s bored and wants company that understands him.

Arthur thinks again on that; perhaps that’s a large lie.

Lancelot doesn’t necessarily understand him – he just knows him well enough to twist him in whatever way the knight has a desire for. And that to Arthur is….

“Fucker."

An uncharacteristic curse, and then Arthur is rapidly picking up his discarded armor, and following his lieutenant’s trail out into the garrison proper.

~

Arthur's Journal

That is one of my favorite questions. I could discuss the merits of honor and loyalty all day. I could expound on love for your fellow man and humility in the eyes of God. I could argue until I’m blue in the face over what makes a man ‘good’ and righteous.

Instead, I’ll just drink my wine, clean my sword of its most recent spattering of gore and blood, and say that the principle of staying alive is sacrosanct in my world right about now.

The skirmish – a bloody, fucking mess. Anything that could go wrong did. It rained when it had started out sunny, miring the horses and my men in their heavy armor in the muck. The Woads had 4 score of men with them, not a dozen as reported. The extra legionaries I took with me were either chopped to bits right off the bat, or hung behind my knights, afraid of their own shadows on the tiny battlefield beside a very old section of the Wall. Hadrian’s entire great monument is old – Hell, it’s over two hundred years since the great emperor came here and had it built.

*drinks*

I’m glad I snatched this Hibernian from Lancelot. He wouldn’t know what he was drinking. Lout.

We’ve been here almost seven years and we are tried and true and blood brothers unto death. I must stay alive for them. If I am to be killed in battle – it will happen, mark my words – when I am killed in battle, rather, I fear for my men. I sweat and shudder and bite my tongue at the ideas that float through my brain. The legion commanders would use them for target practice, or they would be forced into true slavery, made into cooks or camp boys or armor bearers or squires for the ridiculous remnants of the once grand Roman Army that still resides here.

I must live. I must avoid the sword blade that slashes at my neck; I must retaliate against the archer that targets my red cloak – so, so visible in the early morning fog of Badon Hill. I must appear strong and invincible and unkillable, so my men will have the strength and the vision of me as command as they ride toward their own possible deaths.

I could wax poetic about love, about loyalty, about honor and duty.

Instead, I will drink my wine, and clean my Excalibur until she shines like –

*ink blotch*

Give me my damned wine, Castus, and you will live to see another battle. Since you seem so keen on torturing us with your presence for so long.

Aye, Lancelot. I will always do as you say. Take my wine, throw it away, drink it yourself, and drag me by the hand outside, where we shall sit on the battlements and talk of little save what we desire in this world. Not of blood and mess and fighting, but of home and families and simple lives and perhaps, once, you will meet my gaze and I will be mesmerized by yours, endless lashes and dark irises and long fingers and hands that soothe instead of kill.

Good night. *hiccup* I go where he wills it.

*unintelligible scrawl*

~

Arthur's Journal

Perhaps most people would think Merlin is my ‘scary’ person. Not so. Perhaps even Pelagius, when I was a child and he was my guardian? No, not him. The thought of Bishop Germanius, coming here eventually to give my men their papers of freedom? To take them from me at last and deliver to them the one thing we all have dreamed of? That eventuality is frightening, but more so for me than them, as I am not sure what I’ll do once that truth is mine.

The scariest person I’ve ever encountered is myself.

What – am I in my cups? No. I am rarely drunk these days; we are in the midst of heavy campaigning and I fear not owning my mind or my control for any length of time, be it short or long. I am extremely, most efficiently, unfortunately sober.

There is a man that dwells within me. He is nameless, and the only face he has is mine – he must borrow it when he makes himself known. He is fond of the smell of blood and fires, and he likes the sound of screams and dying enemies. The large blade I carry is his closest friend, closer to him even than any lover I’ve ever had, or that he’s ever dreamed of. His skin is metal; it is made from rings of iron and was smelted in the heat of a forge in a faraway place I only occasionally still think on.

His hair is coarse and brittle – it is red and borrowed from a stallion that lived long and fought well. The steel covering that protects his head is shiny and old and from a time that most inhabitants of this land are beginning to hate and more likely are forgetting – and gladly.

He clanks when he walks, and the only regret he has is that the weight of his body slows him down. He could butcher many more Woads if he were only to dress as they do, and to become the savage he puts down frequently. Down into the mud and muck and bloody ground of this place.

And yet – he is not a stranger to me, for I see him each night after battle, in the small piece of electrum Jols brings me to shave with. I scrape my skin raw each night – hoping that maybe this time, I’ll discard him as well, as easily as I do my growth of beard. As easy as it is to wash the blood and gore from my face.

The helmet and the armor and Excalibur are stored away for the night, and I sit in my tent, in tunic and breeches, barefoot, staring into the piece of polished metal, examining it this way and that, my face reflected there. Clean skin, clear green eyes, my father’s nose, the dimple in my chin my mother had as well and that my men make fun of.

And just as I’m about to put the electrum down, he’s there. Smiling gently, wearing my face, my bone structure, my skin and my expressions.

I throw the shiny metal across the tent, and it hits a pole, smashing to pieces with a quiet tinkling that I cannot block from my ears no matter how hard I try.

He is the scariest person I’ve ever met. And I’ll always know him, and always hate him for being what I should not be, must not be, and yet – am.

~

The Roman army is particular about its dress code. A man in command must look neat and well groomed, his clothing in good order, his armor gleaming and oiled, his boots spit shined and in perfect shape, his personal demeanor one of tidy fastidiousness and obvious neatness.

Arthur was always very proud of his appearance. His father had left him nothing save Excalibur – which, in theory, was the best thing Uther could have left Arthur – and therefore the young commander had had to save his own funds and acquire his own supplies. He had done it, by scrimping and saving and making friends with tailors and village women that were skilled at sewing. He’d learned the art of cobbling his own boots; not to the extent of a professional, but no one could ever say that Arthur Castus’ footwear ever looked ramshackle. He kept his face shaved, his hair short and lightly fragranced with an unguent, and his constant training and sparring allowed his body to retain the shape it had when he was a younger man.

And then, the Sarmatians came, and Arthur was aghast. Bald? Men with facial markings and locks of hair that hid their murderous expressions? One had hair as long as any woman; just as blond and better taken care of than any harlot that lived in the fortress.

And then Lancelot – springy, dark curls that had the look of texture and traps. Arthur had a feeling the other man liked his locks; he seemed proud of his beauty in a way – until one day, a few years in to their assignment, Arthur noticed his lieutenant was sporting a thin, half-grown in goatee.

What is that crawling over your face, Lancelot? Did you lose your razor? Don’t forget, we do have servants in the baths that will care for that for you.

Arthur, normally too shy and too busy to be so caustic, was a bit taken aback by his own words. Nevertheless, he had said them, and raising his head, met Lancelot’s black eyed, glittering stare dead on.

Galahad wears a beard. As does Gawain, and Peregrine, and Tristan, and sometimes that hairy lout Bors. Although I think he is just lazy and forgetful. I may do what I wish with my ‘personal hygiene,’ may I not, commander?

Lancelot’s statement had been short, his tone clipped and blank. Arthur’s brows descended over his eyes; the other man stood before him, body tight and still. That wasn’t Lancelot. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, and really looked at Lancelot.

Aside from the new hair, his friend carried a torn lip, a healing purpling eye, and one cheekbone that was red and sore looking. Arthur cocked his head.

Did you get in a scuffle? Lancelot…are you hiding things from me again?

He’d meant the words to be funny, but Lancelot didn’t react. In fact, he hadn’t looked at Arthur at all.

Anything else, commander?

Uhm…no. I’ll see you at dinner, Lancelot. Could you gather the others? I have some things I need to go over.

Aye, Arthur.

His lieutenant had turned on his heel and walked away without so much as an insult or a tease or a fare you well. Lancelot seemed to be limping, and he was favoring his left arm. Arthur’s frown had pulled deeper; he had made a mental note to speak to Dagonet about the hottest head in their group.

Lancelot’s sharp and dangerous beauty remained hidden well by that goatee – he allowed his hair to grow longer, and it flopped in his face, covering his narrowed eyes and the treacherous stare that could still frighten even Arthur some days.

The Roman army cared naught for how their conscripts dressed – as long as they remained alive and carried the correct weaponry and armor, they could wear paint and put their hair in plaits as the northern tribes did. Arthur found as the years passed, he too got used to seeing the difference in his men.

He liked it, after a fashion. It was a mark of their heritage, a way for each one of them to have a say in how they expressed their own being.

Besides, out here on the Wall, who gave a damn what they looked like? They were Barbarians; expendable, millable grist for the machine.

Arthur’s own hair became wild a few seasons later, and his chin became stalwartly shadowed, no matter if he shaved each night and each morning like he had religiously as a young man. His green eyes still shone brightly from his tanned, craggy face, and he was still Arthur Castus, Ala commander and serious leader of the most fearsome group of warriors he thought this part of the world had ever known.

The few dedicated legion men that were left at Camboglanna might scoff, but Arthur’s thoughts on his appearance filled about as much space in his life as did the time spent on thoughts of baking bread and raising sheep. Not much, in other words.

Except for once, when he’d been in the baths alone – examining his lined expression in a small piece of electrum – and a voice had floated almost seemingly out of nowhere.

You look like us.

Arthur had turned, but no one was there. He spoke anyway.

Lancelot?

No answer, except the shade of a quiet laugh, and Arthur’s slowly echoing smile.

It was strange, what rules one forgot in the passage of more important things.

~

The whistling sound of the whip reminds Arthur oddly of a noise his father used to make when calling for his men.

His eyes are already closed, so he just pictures Uther, stately and tall and smiling about something the young Arthur doesn’t quite understand. When he tugs at Uther’s arm and asks him to explain, the older Castus twists his mouth in a wry smile and crouches down next to where Arthur stands near the door to their home.

My son – ah, now there is something I cannot explain to you. You must feel it, experience it for yourself, see it in the eyes of your own men.

He cuffs Arthur about the ears and strides away with Bedwyr, his lieutenant and first knight. The dark haired man glances back at Arthur, and winks at him. Arthur scowls, angry at being left out of the ‘joke,’ thinking the fact that Bedwyr, a mere Sarmatian, knows more about Uther than his own son does a bit strange.

A twinge of guilt makes Arthur say a few prayers of forgiveness – God loves all men equally, even the Sarmatians who do not believe in Him. Arthur knows the strength and power and loyalty the conscripts carry, understands their importance and knows that they serve a vital purpose in the Empire’s design. And yet – how could he be jealous of Bedwyr? The soldier has never been anything but kind to Arthur; on more than one occasion he had allowed Arthur to hold his set of swords, had shown him how to cross the two over each other, letting him experience the dance of war, as Bedwyr called it. Arthur’s mother had frowned, but Uther had smiled gently and clapped Bedwyr on the back.

crack.

Opening his eyes, Arthur sees his own Sarmatians ringed about him as closely as they can; tall, silent Dagonet, arms crossed and face impassive, Tristan, pale as the grave and just as quiet, Bors – Arthur wonders if he’ll have to watch for the safety of the officer who is administering this punishment.

There are others; they are all there, save one – and that one is part of the reason Arthur is here, now.

He wonders if Lancelot will be angry when he wakes, and he hopes the knock to his head will not hurt for long. He had made Tristan promise to be gentle about it – but after all, it would hardly have been worth it if Lancelot’s unconsciousness didn’t last long enough to keep him away from this scene.

crack.

Arthur looks at his men – tries to, as sweat stings his eyes and makes it difficult to see clearly – and sees exactly what his father must have seen with Bedwyr and the others.

They watch him, pain on their guarded faces, a few of them with clenched fists as they allow their commander to be beaten for the ‘crimes’ of one of their own. Arthur knows that’s how they see it, knows that they are angry and outraged at the wrong done to him, hideously, awfully angry at the Empire that requires this idiot justice. They hate Rome, hate everything it stands for, hate the men who wield the whip that scars Arthur’s skin and hate even more the rules that were put in place that brought this stupidity about. He also knows they are just a bit angry with Lancelot for getting them this noticed in the first place…but not so angry at what he did to get noticed. They believe in their own form of justice and respect as well – no matter what the Army says.

crack.

The whistle again – Arthur allows his eyes to slide shut – thinking this time on what his father and Bedwyr could have meant by their expressions and their touches and the kind smiles they always gave one another. Even in the midst of sorrow, of battle, of death, Uther and his first knight were what some of Arthur’s Sarmatians would call ‘sword brothers,’ no matter their background or history.

crack.

“Thirty.”

The whip wielding soldier stops, and Arthur squints up at the sky – is that rain? He realizes when the sound of booted feet fades and the courtyard becomes clear, that the punishment is done. He attempts to stand, and wavers, the blood dripping down his naked back wetting the waistband of his leathers.

He takes a shaky step, but they are there, surrounding him, holding his arms, helping him to walk to an overturned barrel that sits in the shade.

He winces as one of them begins to clean the viscous stuff off his back, not wanting them to see the true pain he’s in. Someone hands him a mug of water, and it’s so clear, so clean, so cool that tears spring to his eyes when he takes a sip. The hands that had given him the mug steady it, and Arthur drinks his fill.

He passes the thing back, and meets the eyes of the man who has helped him - ah, Christ.

The angry redness in the lump on Lancelot’s forehead is nothing compared to the rage that fills his dark eyes. One by one the other men drift away, Dagonet having finished seeing to Arthur’s back. He is the last – a few words in Sarmatian to Lancelot, and then he too is gone, with the rest of Arthur’s knights. His brave, loyal, brothers in arms. Arthur’s eyes burn again, and he lifts a clumsy hand to wipe them.

Lancelot opens and closes his mouth a few times, looking comically like a fish that’s found itself on someone’s dinner plate. Arthur waits for the inevitable, but nothing comes. He watches his first knight bite at his lips, obviously wrestling with himself for the right words. At last Lancelot sighs angrily, and stands, holding out a hand for Arthur. Before he can rise, Lancelot stoops over and presses tightly furious lips to Arthur’s forehead.

“You are a most righteous fool, my dear friend.”

The words float away on the wind, and Arthur stands with Lancelot’s help. They hobble together to the infirmary, and Arthur closes his eyes, knowing Lancelot will guide him well.

He flashes on Uther and Bedwyr’s faces as he’s seated on a table in the hospital – the medicus fussing about like a small white bird – and by God, but suddenly he sees –

You must feel it, experience it for yourself, see it in the eyes of your own men.

The green of Arthur’s eyes meets the brown of Lancelot’s, and he understands.

~

Arthur's Journal.


I could be dramatic and say I live where The Empire and God sends me. Or that I live in the hopes that I will fulfill my duty and get my men home.

But I think, just this once, I will be forthright and answer a question straight as it’s given to me.

As of now, I live in Northern Britain, in a fortress called Camboglanna, which is near to the center of Emperor Hadrian’s great Wall. It is one of the larger milecastles as they’re called, and I command what is left of the once great and fearsome Sarmatian Cavalry unit that was originally created almost two hundred years previous. My father, Uther Castus, held the same job I do – with one exception – he married a native lady and remained in Britain until his death on the battlefield.

My father loved my mother, as evidenced by the fact he stayed here, in Britain, longer than he had to. His term of service and his experience allowed for him to choose where he wanted to be posted; yet he remained with my mother, and fought alongside his friends and knights until he was taken from this life as I myself expect to be some day.

The land is lovely in the spring and summer – full of green and red and pink and yellow and all sorts of animals and marketplaces and local folk and laughing children and quiet streams. It is a contradictory place; I both love it for its majesty and beauty, and hate it for the chill and the snow and the killer ice in the winter. I have lost many a knight to flux in cold times.

The Wall itself is breathtaking and awe inspiring in its effectiveness and clever ingenuity. When or if I have a spare moment, there are times I take to wandering behind the fortress, examining the structure of the brick and the way things are laid out. The Wall runs across this country; some of it is built with peat and mud but the majority is brick, Roman engineering, and the sweat of the thousands of men who labored on it. It is a marvel and a wonder that more did not perish in the creation of it.

Lancelot says I daydream of walls and buildings, rather than the open road, as I ought to. I understand his reasoning – he is in all actuality a servant to the Empire – a fact that I hate, but try and accept the reality of. However, his desires and mine are different things, and we cannot possibly all want the same thing. I will go home to Rome when I am through here, and he and his brothers will rejoin their families in the land of their birth. I pray for it nightly, that both he and I will live to see peace and are able to leave Britain with full hearts and the knowledge that we have done our duties for Rome and for God.

Of course, he doesn’t think that. But I do, and I can think it for him, and offer my thoughts to our Lord in Lancelot’s stead. He doesn’t need to know that I do. And yet…some nights I think on what would happen if we were both not to go our separate ways, but to live in a manner of our choosing, not necessarily what is expected, but what is done by me or by him. Period. I know I am selfish to want this. He deserves to go home, but yet…there it lies, in my brain, and I cannot completely ignore it.

So here is where I live, but my home is something else entirely.

Be it a place of stately, ancient buildings, or that place where I can see his dark eyes laugh into mine.

~