The Roman
"The Roman"
November 2009 Challenge~Writer's Choice
Word Count~500
Characters~All
Warnings~None
Disclaimer~Nothing you recognize belongs to me, I make no profit from this.
A/N~ Turma was the basic unit of the Roman cavalry, consisting of 30-32 men, depending on the time period.
“I don’t like it.” Galahad says, leaning over the half-door of the stall. “Why should he dismiss us after morning muster?”
“Roman holy day?” Dagonet guesses absently, broad hands occupied with a horse’s hoof. Tristran, behind him holding the destrier’s head, snorts softly and cuts a predatory look towards Galahad, the same look he reserves for the squirming mice he uses to gentle a fresh-caught hawk. Dagonet suppresses a smile; not only has Galahad’s persistent refusal to die in battle lost Tristran a pocketful of coin, Dagonet is personally astounded that the silent scout hasn’t slit the boy’s throat simply to still his incessant grumbling.
“He doesn’t like being cold and wet anymore than we do?” Gawain queries mockingly, hair damp and lips still faintly blue under the mustache that’s coming in thick and full as summer barley. Galahad catches the bit of sacking Gawain tosses at him, scowls crossly at his second-mother’s eldest son and grudgingly begins to dry his hair.
“Why not ask him?” Lancelot says, angling his sword to catch the winter sun trickling through the high-set windows and sighting carefully down the blade. The edges are unnicked; he reaches for the oiled cloth and realizes the two younger men are staring at him as if he’s ordered them to sprout wings.
“He’s not completely Roman; he’ll not flog you for a simple question.” The two are staring like half-wits and Lancelot sighs in audible annoyance. “He was born here; he trained with my first turma for a few months after his mother was killed in a Woad raid, before he was sent away to his father’s people in Rome.”
His eyes are on his sword, but he sees Gawain’s shoulders shift against the memory of his mother, dead by enemy hands and Galahad, silent for once, scratches thoughtfully at the downy growth on his chin. “He bleeds red, we saw that last week.” Bors rumbles from the hay bale he’s sitting on, mending a bridle with thick fingers that are surprisingly dexterous for the bull-like man he’s become. He tugs experimentally at the reinforced leather, grunts with satisfaction and heaves himself up.
“All of you join me later at the tavern; we’ll drink to my new son.” He rounds menacingly on Lancelot, who merely lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “Start yammering that this one’s yours, I’ll have your dice winnings for feedin’ the lot of ‘em!”
His bellow of laughter hangs in the air as they all drift out, the unexpected day before them. Silence settles along with the dust motes, after a moment, Lancelot sheathes the gleaming blade, saunters to the farthest stall in the back of the stable and leans casually against the wall.
“Has she foaled yet?” He calls softly into the stall.
“Not yet.” Arthur’s face appears over the half-door; he glances out towards the main stables. “Their Latin has certainly improved since this morning.” He observes drily.
“And will no doubt improve more tomorrow.” Lancelot replies, black eyes gleaming with satisfied amusement.
November 2009 Challenge~Writer's Choice
Word Count~500
Characters~All
Warnings~None
Disclaimer~Nothing you recognize belongs to me, I make no profit from this.
A/N~ Turma was the basic unit of the Roman cavalry, consisting of 30-32 men, depending on the time period.
“I don’t like it.” Galahad says, leaning over the half-door of the stall. “Why should he dismiss us after morning muster?”
“Roman holy day?” Dagonet guesses absently, broad hands occupied with a horse’s hoof. Tristran, behind him holding the destrier’s head, snorts softly and cuts a predatory look towards Galahad, the same look he reserves for the squirming mice he uses to gentle a fresh-caught hawk. Dagonet suppresses a smile; not only has Galahad’s persistent refusal to die in battle lost Tristran a pocketful of coin, Dagonet is personally astounded that the silent scout hasn’t slit the boy’s throat simply to still his incessant grumbling.
“He doesn’t like being cold and wet anymore than we do?” Gawain queries mockingly, hair damp and lips still faintly blue under the mustache that’s coming in thick and full as summer barley. Galahad catches the bit of sacking Gawain tosses at him, scowls crossly at his second-mother’s eldest son and grudgingly begins to dry his hair.
“Why not ask him?” Lancelot says, angling his sword to catch the winter sun trickling through the high-set windows and sighting carefully down the blade. The edges are unnicked; he reaches for the oiled cloth and realizes the two younger men are staring at him as if he’s ordered them to sprout wings.
“He’s not completely Roman; he’ll not flog you for a simple question.” The two are staring like half-wits and Lancelot sighs in audible annoyance. “He was born here; he trained with my first turma for a few months after his mother was killed in a Woad raid, before he was sent away to his father’s people in Rome.”
His eyes are on his sword, but he sees Gawain’s shoulders shift against the memory of his mother, dead by enemy hands and Galahad, silent for once, scratches thoughtfully at the downy growth on his chin. “He bleeds red, we saw that last week.” Bors rumbles from the hay bale he’s sitting on, mending a bridle with thick fingers that are surprisingly dexterous for the bull-like man he’s become. He tugs experimentally at the reinforced leather, grunts with satisfaction and heaves himself up.
“All of you join me later at the tavern; we’ll drink to my new son.” He rounds menacingly on Lancelot, who merely lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “Start yammering that this one’s yours, I’ll have your dice winnings for feedin’ the lot of ‘em!”
His bellow of laughter hangs in the air as they all drift out, the unexpected day before them. Silence settles along with the dust motes, after a moment, Lancelot sheathes the gleaming blade, saunters to the farthest stall in the back of the stable and leans casually against the wall.
“Has she foaled yet?” He calls softly into the stall.
“Not yet.” Arthur’s face appears over the half-door; he glances out towards the main stables. “Their Latin has certainly improved since this morning.” He observes drily.
“And will no doubt improve more tomorrow.” Lancelot replies, black eyes gleaming with satisfied amusement.