The following days passed smoothly for the Celtic lancer. After a month and a half or rest and careful treatment not offered to dying kings, to the surprise and spite of every inhabitant of the absurdly large and extravagant villa, his wounds had finally healed enough for him to walk around and do some simple chores, again, to every slave surprise and jealousy. The new comer almost did nothing, roaming the place like a complementary statue or vase. Everyone assumed upon seeing his finely tuned body that he would be assigned for the rigorous work, but none of that happened. The lancer could tell he was not quite liked by most of the other slaves for the shamefully displayed favoritism but he did not care for that. The few that approached him, mostly female slaves were kind to him but he paid them no mind either, the only thing going around for him was asking about a young Celtic blonde lad named Oscar, but no one had heard of the name or the description. Indeed, it would be a very miraculous chance to end up in the same place as Oscar so he had to find means of searching. At times, he thought of asking the favor from "Lord Claudius" but he was not certain of his status yet, despite being treated nicely and given his own little chamber but his pride would not let him accept his deprived supposed savior favor and his pride stood in the face of any chance whenever the fat lord came to ask about his health. Besides, the latter was always busy with work and out of town.
Claudius' depravity was not something the lancer assumed or came up with out of spite. It was brazenly shown in the taste of the statues, the murals, the female slaves clothes and the feasts of pleasure during the perverted night – long parties he held upon every one of his arrivals or departures.
Having found no clues about his lost friend, Diarmuid spent these quite days giving his wounds the time and rest they needed to heal properly so he can on the move when he needs to, unhindered and unmatched. Regaining his strength was the top priority if he were to do anything later until a slave came in one morning, intruding happily on the new "marvel" of his master.
"It is time for you to get to work, your wounds should be healed by now."
The slave stated looking with unnecessary or useful authority at his new mate lying lazily on the bed but the lancer could understand the reason. While he laid for more than a month doing nothing beside healing in his room and exploring the place, the other slaves always got up to attend to their jobs from the early hours of the morning, sometimes even before the sunrise, just to gain few hours of rest before the loop repeated itself in a dull yet strict routine, as it seemed, like that general, the gracious Claudius was not immune to anger and inflicting harsh punishments from the tales the lancer had stumbled upon. Yet despite the sympathy Diarmuid felt for those miserable overworked souls he could not but answer, rather question the poor man at his doorstep, demanding of him to get on to his "work" with a scowl.
"Work?"
A sigh of boredom mingled with exacerbation came out of the old slave as he started explaining in the tone of someone who had given this same speech countless of times, uttering the words automatically without the need to remember or think about them.
"Son, you understand your position here, do you not? Lord Claudius had bought you with a price no one dreams of,
therefore you are, to your pleasure or dismay, his property and are obliged to do as he
asks of you."
"I am not obliged to do anything for that man!"
Diarmuid replied incensed at the notion but not without a sense of devastation. Still insisting on refusing the reality of his "current circumstances", he still could realize the truth in the other slave's words.
"Please do not cause troubles in this house, and do not cause ones for me. If I were to spend another minute here and you kept refusing to come with me, I will be accused of stalling and time wasting!"
The lancer puffed irritated, yet still couldn't find it in his heart to bring punishment to the poor skinny old slave who stood at the threshold almost begging after this short exchange, the authoritative look he started with vanishing as fast as a footstep in the rain, as if his eyes had long lost the ability to shine with such bright, or in truest scenario, had forgotten how to altogether. So he followed the latter quietly as he lead him around the house. He excused his behavior by empathy and a chance to work out his fatigued muscles.
It was not the first time the lancer had had a tour in this house, but the man was offering him a more detailed one through long complex corridors that led to numerous large fancy rooms furnished with long sofas and crimson curtains that were hung up to reveal the equesite accessories from around the world arranged in a fine taste on the round small tables and shelves along statues of holiness and debauchery enriching the aura of wealth that did not need any more proofs to its existence but still greedily sought to. He thought he had the place memorized but as the tour went on, he could not keep track of the many yards that separated the various sections of the house, each adorned with its own share of carefully gardened plants and flowers, and a fountain with various deities and animals carving them and differing in design in accordance to every garden's main theme of flowers or fruits. Similar to his reaction when he and Oscar first arrived at the city, the eyes used to the simplicity of the Briton villages, widened with hated admiration at the art that constituted the house. This place alone equaled in size more than ten of his village houses and to his displeasure, the sight of the fountains in particular brought a sense of distant yet craved familiarity to his mind, as the sound of the gushing water calmed his uneasiness and reminded him of the waterfalls he trained along his comrades around, and hid with eloping lover behind. Nevertheless, contrary to the crowded Celtic houses, this one was silent as death. There was no sign of a wife or children, only friends who visited and feasted at late nights. The merchant probably viewed the matter of a family the way he viewed his newest purchase, an accessory to complete his prestige, shown at important occasions and ignored for the rest of the year somewhere in this goddamn maze of a home.
But despite the lack of a caring wife, everything inside that house was well - organized, even the servants movements were adjusted like fine strings playing a harmonized tune; one woman was rowing eggs in baskets, she did not even need to look down and see if the basket is full or not yet, the size of every basket and the number it could contain were already engraved in her mind like her name. Perhaps even more rooted. Another one was sweeping the grounds, she looked thinner and more fragile than the broom she was using and no matter how many times the wind blew the dust and leafs again, she would continue her job without waiting the wind to calm down as if trapped in a curse of everlasting repetition while a huge man still swung his arms though he had long finished cutting today's wood. Everything they did was meaningless and brought no benefit to them, yet they continued to do it as if that job was an inborn part of their mindset and an essential one to get by; it was not originally but it slowly and trickily became one.
In an identical sense, Diarmuid had to serve his new lord silently and obediently. Despite his obvious strength and fit body that made him more suitable to a guarding job than a domestic servant, he was assigned simple housework tasks, more fitting to a woman servant and even when he tried to divert his attention thinking of those tasks as a work out for his muscles the whole idea was ridiculous to the point of unacceptable, what exercise was in dusting the furniture or aiding in setting the food table? Did his state seemed that frail even now? He even felt idiotic in the white robes he was given, not used to the comfort of silk, he itched for the steel of armors. One slave mocked that Lord Claudius does not wish to damage his new precious doll. A tasteless joke the lancer silenced and buried with a single stare.
However, while he did take care of his assignments to avoid getting into troubles temporally, since he was not keen on getting the same treatment he had had in the general's house and reopening old and new wounds rendering himself useless again, finding means for escaping occupied his head. Should he pretend to be the good servant, gain the household's trust then get the opportunity and escape? No, that was too despicable and low, and even if it was for his freedom, it suited a weak coward and did not suit his chivalrous spirit. Despite the surrounding circumstances, he still considered himself a knight before everything else. He shall strike his way out, with his power. If only he had his two spears, then no force on earth could stand in his face or stop him. Any weapon he could lay his hands on would be fine, but he could not help but think nostalgically to his two stolen companions of gold and red.
Just then, after deciding on pretending to be docile for the time being, trouble invited itself in the lancer's presence. A scream echoed in through the house. Every servant and slave working in the backyard, including Diarmuid, dropped what they were doing and stared at the head of the slaves, who was also a huge robust man, dragging behind him a young slave girl. The poor creature was begging for forgiveness but the man did not listen, nor did the other slaves who merely stood and watched the scene; they probably felt sad for her but did not dare to show sympathy for that was punishable too.
"What is going on?!"
Diarmuid asked an old woman standing next to him, and who answered shaking her head in sadness:
"She probably broke something expensive or messed up her work, or perhaps she was caught flirting with somebody… "
The old woman gazed at the imploring girl for seconds then shrugged her shoulders, the sighs of sadness weighing her voice already breaths in the blowing air.
The woman then turned her back with the intent to carry on with her job while mumbling to herself. Of course, this was not what Diarmuid was asking about; he was demanding why the others were not reacting to the ugly scene unfolding itself in front of their wide - opened eyes but it was clear from their bland or curious stares that none of them intended to interfere, even with a mere comment or a plea for the girl's sake.
The head of the slaves motioned at another slave who fetched him a rope and a whip.
"No, I beg of you! I cannot take it anymore, I will die this time for sure!"
"Then perhaps you were ought to stop messing around!"
The sturdy man replied cruelly to the girl's imploration, deafened to her entreating just like everyone gathering in the yard, and though the poor girl knew it was futile, she kept on begging and yelling for mercy.
"You cannot do that!"
The head of the slave gazed in an angered shock at the insolent slave, trying to free his wrist to no avail from the iron grip that seized it in the flash of seconds, so fast and nimble he did not even sense the new comer taking hold of his hand, adding to the humiliation he felt as he struggled in vain unable to break of the Celtic's grasp in front of everyone watching the incident. He was supposed to teach the others a lesson but with the imposing Celtic it seemed as if their places had been swapped, the Celtic directing how this show goes, and he did not miss the flickers of silent mockery in the surrounding eyes.
"You dare command me around here?! Do you know who I am?!"
"Right now, I am simply asking of you."
Diarmuid spoke calmly with a neutral tone and expression, but even his quiet stare was enough to stir fear and caution in the one receiving it.
"Oh?!"
The head of the slaves who in order outranked the lancer guffawed raising a brow, a brow soaked in the sweat of his embarrassing failed attempts to free his hand. The lancer repeated in the same composed tone:
"Stop this, you do not have to do it."
The head of the servants and a slave, a one himself who was promoted, was used to this kind of situations especially with the gullible new comers who still had a the fire to resist, facing it numerous times, but he was surprised to learn such incidents were still liable to happen as he thought it had been erased from this house with memories of punishments and the stories poured into the head of every new brought servant but this new slave as he had recognized the Celtic favorite seemed neither gullible nor bent on death, and yet somehow he still managed to interfere in the problem composed to the degree of incensed envy. The head thought to himself that this was not as bad as it looks as he will have the long awaited chance to that bad to discipline the new comer as well and make sure he does not fuss about anything anymore than his own safety.
That if he could pull his arm first from that unyielding fist.
"After I am done with that slut, you will be next!"
The sound of something cracking was so close to be from the kitchen or any other room. Smiling with mean politeness in response to the threat, the lancer only needed to tightened his grasp a little bit more before breaking the vexed man's wrist bones before finally succeeded in extracting his hand from the lancer's grip causing more pain to himself than he did to his foe and refusing to admit that he was only able to do so because the latter lessened his grip around his wrist before shattering it . He waved his huge fist at the impudent new comer smug face but it landed nowhere near his target as he was blinded with fury and humiliation. The lancer only needed to move his head a little bit to the right and the hand that was meant to land on his handsome face smashed brutally against the pillar the girl was meant to be tied to followed by a loud hiss of pain but no broken bones till now, fortunately for now.
"You see I am still asking for now, do not let me force your hand!"
Diarmuid said nonchalantly, expecting the others to cheer and rush to his aid, but none of this happened to his disappointment and rage as they retreated few steps back to avoid the brewing whirlwind.
"That idiot, he is only worsening things for himself and the poor girl!"
A slave whispered to the one standing next to him, no one was impressed by the act. Just like that old woman, they had witnessed such incidents throughout their service in this house and other houses, and they knew very well the tragedy they usually ended with. For Diarmuid what he was doing came naturally to him, like an instinct, the act to save a mistreated girl was part of his vows of knighthood, but none of the other slaves could understand why on earth would he risk his life and cause this uncalled for havoc through their peaceful mourning routine.
"You surely are tired of your life!"
The mocked "head" roared like a wounded animal and launched his second attack with the whip he held, Diarmuid managed to avoid the real impact but the whip's tail did hit his cheek leaving a burning scratch. The head of the slaves laughed loudly like he had achieved something huge, and returned order to this house, but his laugh faded immediately into alertness when he saw the true flash of the bronze eyes above the stung high cheekbone, the flash of a true warrior who needed no weapons or whips to impose his wrath. Now he was not so sure if only his hand will be broken, his neck will be added to the list for sure.
The old slave who had guided the lancer on his tour of the house and showed him what he was to do, rushed to the scene after being informed about what was going on in the eastern yard. He arrived panting, his soul struggling not to leave along his hitching breaths. He bowed respectfully to the head of the slaves asking him meekly to seize this and turn his eyes blind to the "unintended insult" as he will personally deal with this out of line new comer.
"You dare say this to me, old man? Are you all tired of your lives?!"
The head snarled like a beast, but the old man approached him with his bent back and whispered in his ears trying to maintain his anger:
"The master has paid a huge sum of money on that one, and though he is strong he stuck him with simple housework. I am not sure he will be pleases to skin off the expensive gold he had put on him! Let the master handle this, and when he orders you to teach him a lesson, then do it unafraid of the consequences!"
Apparently, the old man's words easily convinced the agitated man for these words were true enough to his displeasure. Burning with the chance to tell the owner of the house of this insolence, the head of the slaves clutched to his whip and declared looking loathly at the Celtic:
"I will report this to Lord Claudius, and you better believe me you are not on the shores of safety yet!"
Leaving the defying Celtic unharmed despite what he had just done was not what brought surprise to the staring slaves, it was seeing the man forgetting everything about the girl who was the cause of this incident in the first place along with her punishment.
"She has the devil's luck!"
Someone remarked in what sounded like a begrudging tone, and the others agreed. Another commented:
"But I am not sure about the other one!"
"Poor thing, he still believes himself to be a warrior or some knight of justice!"
"Only Lord Claudius justice reigns this place and keeps it in order!"
"I hope he does not cause any further trouble with head of the slaves, we finally started to learn how to avoid his temper!!"
They all looked at Diarmuid who was taken away by the old man.