The sound of the whip being struck in the air tugged at every nerve in the lancer's scourged body. He tried to stand up but quickly lost the power to keep up standing. This happened since two days ago, so he clenched strongly to the ground instead and raised his head in defiance.
"So here you are!"
The same merry repugnant voice from the general's first day arrival came out, it was the same guest who came to see the general's prize and who invited himself in making sure his dress is not dirtied by the warehouse.
"The servants told me you have important business, so I reckoned you would be here!"
A stupid laugh rang in the place where it did not belong nor was welcomed or shared. The general did not care to show openly his annoyance from the intruder's interruption of his pleasure.
"What have you done for gods' sake?!"
The guest whooped in shock when his little glinty eyes fell upon the body of meat and blood that was laying on the ground in shackles. There was almost nothing left from the elegance of the Celtic slave that had enthralled him at first sight.
"I cannot believe you have actually done this to him, and he was such a fine slave! You want to kill him?!"
The fat guest exclaimed as if the loss was his own. Irritated by latter's comments, the general explained in irked frustration:
"He is my property, and I have already told you I shall never sell him to you or to anybody else."
"But…"
The guest mumbled still in shock by the waste of that fine finding. His exaggerated reactions triggered even the tortured man's annoyance.
"Ten thousand auerus!"
The guest declared loudly forgetting he was not at an auction, but his voice carried determination, his amused smile no longer revealing his sharp teeth. He stood tapping his feet nervously on the ground, waiting an answer for the offer he had just made and which left the general agape. That was no little sum, it was a fortune. Perhaps had he decided to sell the lancer before what he had inflicted upon him, the man would be worthy of such a sum but as he was now, a resemblance to a corpse readied for the ravens to feast on, he did not amount to a single denarii. Hell, even the most beautiful virgin or educated slave on earth would hardly worth this ridiculous sum.
"Twenty thousands."
The guest repeated slowly yet insistently to help the astonished general comprehend the price. His entire military savings and loots would take him ages to get his hands on such amount of money and now it walked right into his hand, without a battle or a fight, or more accurately, it was laying half dead on the ground. The whip shook along the general's hand. His lips wavered with words and his head was raided by thoughts and desires. Diarmuid cast a quick glance upon his capture's face, the sonless father whom he had made thus. The general did not fail to catch that amused glance, and it knocked him back to his senses, if not entirely. He started mumbling to himself.
"I cannot… I possibly cannot… that fiend down there… that man had…"
"Twenty five thousands."
The mourning father took a step back, hitting the lancer's head accidentally with his foot. He kept mumbling the same words, and out sounded, they were aimed at the prisoner and the noble wealthy man, like a mantra of excuses necessary to disguise the shameful acceptance that flickered in his eyes. And the moment the glint of greed revealed itself in the man's eyes, the fat man countered it with an expression of fake boredom to entice that greed and silence that parental grief. A weak laughing was heard, as the third party of the deal, who was the center of it yet had no part in it, the lancer, laughed in mockery at the "grieving father" but he was hushed by a strike from the whip that turned his laughter into a cry of pain but did not erase his interested smile in what was occurring. The general then threw the whip angrily at the ground, and muttered in a low tone:
"I agree."
The wealthy nobleman raised his head, feigning not hearing the latter's answer, forcing him to repeat it louder, for the amusement he was sharing with his slave to be.
"Old friend, I knew you would!"
The guest exclaimed rubbing his hands together in excitement, as if he had stumbled upon a lost treasure, not a man tortured and flagged to the bones.
"Let us write the bill!"
The noble vendee stated in haste and left the ware house ordering one of his servants to prepare the needed papers. He called for his friend, the general, but the man did not follow him immediately, standing still at the warehouse by his son's murderer's head feeling an urge... a forcible duty to justify the act to that man.
Diarmuid, writhing in pain, laid on his side to have a clearer look at his previous "owner", the vengeful relentless father.
"So this is the price of your dead son?"
He smacked his parched lips together, asking in disdain, a victorious glint blessing his reddened eyes. The question asked with disguised honesty penetrated with a perfect aim the father's heart, the same way his spears never had a single miss at his targets.
Another call from the noble outside reached the warehouse, hurrying the general in fear of a sudden mood swing, but the man did not leave the spot he was standing on, silent as a stone, head buried down in thoughts. Diarmuid realized that he had just let his pride take over, and by doing so, he probably blew away his hopes of surviving the ceaseless torture with these few words, and he could not understand why he had uttered these words. Nevertheless, it was too satisfying to see how the mere mention of golden coins could betray one's feelings. If he had in his previous days did the same and betrayed his friend and king, then it was for a pure affection not a tainted temptation. And although the similarity of the two situations crossed his mind as he spoke these words, he refused to acknowledge it.
But if the soaring knightly feelings awakened in the prisoner, it failed to, or struggled not to, in the general, silenced by the exorbitant price he was about to receive. The general wiped his face with his hand to school his expression. The days he had spent gazing lividly at the chained man, staring directly into his unyielding eyes in a continuous trials to dim what little shine was left in them, but only succeeding to his unawareness in reviving a fleeting feeling of guilt in the prisoner's heart as he stared back with the same stubbornness at the features that brought the ghost of the young soldiers he had killed back. But at that moment, those eyes that used to prim with anger and hail vows of endless revenge did not dare to look down at the person those vows were sworn for. He did not have the bravery to do so but in his hesitant stance, the lancer knew he was seeking a justification for what he had just agreed to, failing to find one, failing to find an explanation to a slave he owed above all, though forgetting their statues, for they were no mere slave and master, it was what he needed the most right now yet still could not so he walked out fearing to cast a single glance, a final look at the knight who killed his son and still held proudly to the act.
"Is this the price for your son's blood?"
The spear - man repeated but was answered with the shut doors. Diarmuid found himself furious for no reasonable cause. In a sense he was saved, but at what cost? Money? The vows of knighthood meant nothing in this cursed place, beyond the eyes of furry and the armors of crimson, the golden coins controlled everything. It was what had controlled his fate right now, and apparently, though only realizing, what he needed to control his own fate and Oscar's.
Such vile exchange for bravery and chivalry, the tools he was still determined to use to save his young friend and return home.
A salve entered the warehouse and enchained him silently, disgusted by all the splattered blood and skin, making sure to make the least contact with the newly sold slave as if he was a leper. Unconsciously, Diarmuid sighed in relief. The slave knew very well what that sigh meant.
"I know, you are certainly lucky."
The lancer made a nonchalant eye contact with the man unchaining him, and the latter shrugged with the same indifference though envy showed temporarily in his eyes leaving the Celtic spear - man wondering where did this feeling fir in the picture? Did the man wanted him to remain a venting escape for the other slaves from their master's rage? Or was he jealous of the ridiculous price that deemed his worth in the others' eyes? Was he headed toward a better place? What place could be better while still branded with the disgrace of slavery?
The noble's laughter reached the warehouse, probably echoing through the entire house he had not seen any part of except where he was held. Only a truly wealthy man could blast such an ingenious laugh while losing that amount of money. If the general had held him here for revenge, then what did that fat bastard want from him? Clean his house or hold his fan? The lancer bit his lips in contempt. Logically, he was ought to be happy about this exchange, but the feeling did not emerge completely and bless his heart. At least, here he was held as a prisoner and tortured for his bravery in battle. Now, he has become a mere slave, can be bought and sold like any item. He could no longer hold to his honor, he will be left with nothing to be honored by.
But to escape that immeasurable torture, was not this what he had been for secretly, whether by the bless of death or some miracle? But what had transpired few moments ago in front of his eyes was no miracle by any means or definitions. It was a farce, a disgrace to him and the general.
A shiver ran through his cold body when he remembered these nights that he had given up on counting long ago. If he had to abide by any rules now, it was only until finding his young friend first.
Who was contradicting himself now?
But this was not the first time. It happened before when eloped with the bride to be of the king and friend he had sworn loyalty to. And again when he wore to faces in this same warehouse. Had he not acted all tough and proud against the general's wrath then whimpered in despair and pain at night where no one could see or hear him, praying for any form of release, most of the time, blurring the image of Oscar and Grainne from his anguished mind?
Did he already master the art of duality? Was this sole prayer hypocritical of him?
What would Oscar or Grainne think of this? Would they hate him? Probably not Oscar who would be mortified if he was to learn of what was happening to him in the last months, but he could not tell Grainne's thoughts, or dare to. She was honest, forward even in her unreasonable demands. Would she hate him?
Grainne, the path back to her had just suddenly gotten longer.
Diarmuid thought back to the transaction that had just happened. The brief joy at being freed from this hellish place he felt had already vanished like a feeble gust in the wind. He should have won his freedom by the metal of his stolen blades, that's what a knight stands for, not by a blood money. And even while that joy he felt was fleeting and insincere, it still perceived it like an act of hypocrisy. But no, This was not the same situation, the general and himself were not in the same positions but under different circumstances and titles. There was nothing hypocritical about his betrayal to his king or his ideals right now.
If only he could hear someone's voice reassuring him of this truth.
Two slaves of Claudius, his new master came inside to help him out into the yard where the fat noble was waiting, grinning with delight much to the spear - man's indignation as resolve seeped into his heart once again. The resolve of a hailed knight, of a true knight. He cast one last gaze at that irritatingly high ceiling vowing he would not yield to these Roman masters.