270. Thirteen
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.
~
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.
~