Chapter 21

When Arthur, who had no interest in gossip, or the time to hear it, considered the youth, he wondered again at Tristan's motives for purchasing the lad. He was as small and slender as a reed with distinctly un-Roman long hair.

Appropriately solemn, the boy didn't even try to catch his attention, and showed no interest him, beyond respectful obedience. Usually such boys would be either terrified of strange men, or outrageously flirtatious.

So when Arthur observed the lad waiting for him the next morning, he took a moment to reappraise the lad closely. The small, perfectly shaped mouth… those large, wide grey eyes framed by long lashes… that beautifully smooth voice and the graceful movements… The half-Roman foresaw innumerable opportunities for trouble. Perhaps he could convince Tristan to cut the boy's hair off – it was a particularly striking feature, and would certainly fire lewd imaginations. Maybe mark his face too. Another measure would be to keep the boy indoors, attending to paperwork and out of sight.

Arthur could at least see to that last part himself.

But the last thing he wanted was for Gawain to create another ruckus in the stables by exhibiting the boy on a warhorse. Once had been more than enough.

The boy looked clean and neat, as he stood (not lounged) by the door to Arthur's rooms. Those extraordinarily clear, watchful grey eyes flashed like a hawk's as they caught Arthur's gaze when he spoke. Intent and sharp.

"Ah, you're already here. Good." He said, fishing out a small ring of keys. "Come in and I'll tell you what needs to be done."

He pushed the door open and strode into his study, which doubled as the official records room, Kation close on his heels. Arthur turned round sharply and saw the boy studying his room, an inscrutable expression on his face. Arthur glanced around the room and winced. The place was a shambles. Papers littered every surface, boxes and cabinets lay open in devastation, as if a storm had ripped through the place only seconds before.

"Please relax: I don't beat slaves unless they really, really deserve it." He said wearily, slumping into a chair. Kation seemed to calm slightly, but otherwise didn't move. "Your duties are as follows: you will rise with the sun, as usual, and prepare all your writing equipment: there is a little box where the previous scribe kept all his things. Then you will attend me and take down any and all notes or letters I dictate. Depending on the nature of the work, you will then write them down in the calendar or sort them in the larger cabinets behind the desk. That desk is mine, but you may use it when I do not need it. You are in charge of keeping all documents organised and under control." He paused. "How is your mathematics?"

"Proficient."

"Excellent, then you'll be in charge of accounts as well. I need everything to be completely up to date. Additionally, I will also need you to courier highly sensitive messages to other forts, you may request an armed escort if you want one. Can you do this?"

"Yes sir."

"Excellent." Kation nodded and turned away, moving to the writing cabinet and inspected the inks, papers and pens. Pulling out a stylus and a small 'booklet' of wax tablets all tied together, perfect for quick notes, Kation continued to explore, happily engrossed in making an inventory of equipment.

But when the slave began muttering crossly to himself in a language that could have been Egyptian for all Arthur knew, he really felt the need for some fresh air. So he made some excuse about inspecting the training quadrant and escaped the battlefield that had once been his unruly, but somehow chaotically organised office.

~oOo~

It took an entire week to sort Arthur's 'office'. After assembling and sorting all the papers into even piles; I stacked, made lists of lists, and threw a lot of what was clearly rubbish away. Arthur's previous scribe had known what he was doing, but lacked anything near a 21st Century filing system. And Arthur had only compounded the problem by not knowing even the first thing about documentation.

I found a carpenter the next day and commissioned him to build about thirty shallow wooden trays just larger than the papers to hold all loose documents inside the cabinet. Once they were finished, I spent a very bloody day trying to carve labels into their frames. When Kahedin (who had taken to visiting Tristan and I every day) saw my clumsily bandaged fingers, he 'wigged out'.

"What did you do to yourself?" he exclaimed, pointing to my hands – they had almost stopped bleeding through the bandages.

"I was carving," I said with as much dignity as I could muster, reaching to take the cup of wine he offered me. But at the sight of my injuries, he handed it to Tristan (who wasn't really allowed to drink) and started unwrapping my attempts at first aid.

"Hey!"

"Shut up." He said, gripping my wrists tightly. And something about his tone defied further argument, so I was left to watch miserably as he examined the cuts and nicks all over my fingers and hands. I was almost proud of the wedge of flesh I'd taken out of my right hand. It took a masterful degree of clumsiness to do such a thing to oneself.

"Rascal…"

"Oh Kat…"

Two simultaneous, despairing sighs and nicknames I could have happily done without. Not to mention Kahedin's unbearably gentle treatment. I wasn't actually particularly delicate or helpless, and didn't appreciate the way they treated me like a sort of helpless young girl. I would have to kill someone to get the point across.

"Seriously, you can't do everything yourself… and girls can't carve." Kahedin smiled at me from under those long dark lashes of his, and I suppose he was trying to beguile me. Fat chance.

"We can, if we're given the chance to learn." I argued, the sole representative of Gender Equality this place was ever going to encounter.

Tristan snorted derisively at the very idea, while Kahedin merely shrugged and went back to bandaging my fingers, dismissing the suggestion with a tad more elegance.

In the end, Tristan offered to carve the labels into the frames – he said he had nothing better to do, and convalescing in silence was almost as awful as being trapped in a room with me for any length of time. I didn't hit him, because I wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. It was bad enough having to share a room and bed with him. So I wrote down what I wanted carved on each tray on the wax tablets and left him to his task. He seemed happy enough, and if he happened to destroy his hands, then I would have the perfect opportunity to say 'I told you so'. Very loudly. He also picked up on my failing good humour (if it ever existed in the first place) and carefully avoided teasing me too much in the evenings. Hell, he even went as far as to shift to one side of the bed at night!

So while the knights went about their daily duties and Tristan healed (slowly), I had the joyful, fulfilling task of actually reading everything in that god-forsaken room and sorting it into its appropriate box or file. Honestly, one slave was not enough for this: 'Killing me slowly with his neglected paperwork…'

Okay, so it's cheesy to doctor a classic to fit your personal misery, but it gave me pleasure and kept me from attacking Arthur every time he walked past the door. I think he sensed my antipathy, because he avoided spending unnecessary time with me.

~oOo~

Arthur returned from a very productive week of evading the documents room, to find Kation intermittently scribbling something on a stylus and glaring at the unbelievably neat room. His hair was a little wilder than before and he seemed tense.

"Well this is impressive." Arthur said, meaning to gently surprise the scribe. Kation didn't so much as blink as he turned round to face him.

"Everything is in order, sir." He said, putting the tablet on the table as if waiting for something to happen.

"Good. Excellent." Arthur nodded. He had a distinct feeling of awkwardness around Kation, as if the skinny youth was waiting for him to say something. He was the Roman commander, not the slave from half way across the world. "Have you eaten?" He asked suddenly, aware that the boy probably hadn't ventured from this room all day.

"No, sir."

"Well go to the tavern and tell them that I sent you."

The boy nodded and left, as silently as ever.