Indeed, he had caused much suffering on the battlefields yet never wished to outside of it, but this house was a battlefield for the Celtic warrior and though he had no soldiers under his command or a weapon in his hands, he refused to accept the position destiny had cast upon him deciding in the same time not to bring any misfortune to the other souls serving in this place since they did not call for it neither deserve it. He shall fight on his own for his own sake, and for now the haughty look of disdain that resided in his agitated bronze eyes was his sole weapon to maintain his dignity, shot severely at the master of the house and to a lesser extent to the slaves who abided his treatment.
Having lost faith in them, Diarmuid no longer cared for their miserable souls. Not that he did not pity them, but nothing more. He understood their fear and despair, the terror that was inflicted upon them having to witness their friends tortured and crucified mercilessly for trying to fight back but Diarmuid was a warrior before all, and losing was an inevitable part a warrior would have to suffer at some point and he had already tasted from that cup but not to its fill. It was no shame, but dying without dignity and cowering at the thought of losing... this was unforgivable. To die on the battlefield was an honor equal to winning on it. Therefore, he shall never succumb to anyone. As a knight, he will only heed his lord's wishes but as he had no deserving one to declare his vows to, left astray, the only one he should be heeding is his own soul.
This wasn't just for himself, this was also for his little friend's sake, for Grainne's sake. He will never abandon them, he has to stay strong for them so he might reach them again one day.
Claudius was not oblivious to that look of rebellion. In the first place, that stare was not shot secretly or behind the lord's back, it was directly delivered, and not meant to be hidden and although the Celtic slave did everything he was ordered to silently, doing it with such eyes killed the meaning behind the command and act. To order someone means to have the upper hand and the authority over him, and to obey means to acknowledge that authority and accept it. However, the act of submissiveness was carried out with arrogant bronze spears that boldly penetrated the master's eyes to their core, turning submissiveness into charity. It was as if by complying to the orders he was given, the Celtic slave was doing the merchant a favor the latter should be grateful for, like honoring the man by the mere fact that he heeded his commands out of choice. Still, the merchant was a patient man, he waited the right opportunity to dispel that fake haughtiness and bring the man down the high cloud that floated in his head, to his knees literally and figuratively. He viewed the obsession as a sort of game he was willing to indulge himself in for the sake of the amusement it promised to fruit.
On the other hand, the slaves viewed that look of derision from another prospective; no matter who he was in the past, even if he was a king, now he was no different from anyone of them so why looking down on equals? Was the scornfulness they received from their owners not enough? Now they had a mere slave, in the same skin they wore, giving it to them and despite the brazen expression that savage slave's face maintained, he was not punished, not even verbally chided. How was he different from them? Gradually, contempt and jealousy trickled into the incensed men's hearts. Living for nothing, these feelings of resentment became a new source to feed their dying feelings and empty existence on.
***
One night, the merchant was having dinner entertaining his stomach and eyes simultaneously; pouring down to the depth of his eyes the pleasant enticing movements of the dancers the way he filled his belly with piquant food and aged wine. Apparently, the body curves of a certain new slave dancer left his heart burning but his throat dry by the incessant gasps he let out at every seductive gesture she displayed. Tipping his hands on the table along the rhythm of the music, he signaled for more wine. In seconds, the jug was delivered almost breaking the table like a drumbeat, few drops were spilled on the Damascus red tablecloth. The slaves attending to the diner service held their breaths expecting a burst out for wasting the expensive drink and spoiling the no less expensive rag, but apparently their lord was so indulged in his own amusement he did not bother to ruin his pleasant mood, merely raising an eye at the unlucky slave and as he expected, it was none other than the proud Celtic which added to his delight even more.
"I heard you folks appreciate a good drink, you can dry a cellar of wine in one celebration."
Diarmuid flipped his lips, not because he was offended by the comment, it was true after all, but he was rather disgusted to see the criticizer licking the spilled wine on his hand.
"We drink to boast about our victories, not to enjoy our senses."
He answered as crudely and coldly as he could sound, but it did not get him any rise from the half wasted man.
"Oh, you do?"
The merchant replied aware of the hidden offense and as if he enjoyed it being uttered from those disdainful lips, he licked the drops clinging to his wrist while exchanging stares with the man standing at his table, graceful in body and features, as if he was a guest not a slave serving wine at his master's table.
"Most of your people that I have seen and encountered have red or blonde hair, yet you have black hair like a raven's feathers. I heard you barged into the battle against Rufinus turning the scale momentarily on him, just like a raven of misfortune."
The scorning face now shone with pride as he looked down further more on the merchant, who again still considered this part of his amusement. Desiring to indulge in this contest even further, he requested.
"Show me, Diarmuid!"
The lancer cocked his dark eyebrows; bragging about their strength and victories was indeed a Celtic costume, these boasting contests could even turn into a real fight sometimes but to be asked to display his skills for the sake of a cheap entertainment for a drunkard, was an insult to these skills and the man who developed them. Unfortunately, refusal was not a wise choice at this stage of their back and forth confrontation for the merchant was serious, he was not as half-drunk as the lancer had expected. He desired to please his swollen eyes by the show of courage and muscles the same way he pleased them with the sight of tender bodies and naked breasts. The merchant motioned at one of the many guards he bought to protect his mansion and the fortune it hid, the toughest in his recollection, to be the Celtic's opponent.
"You fight with spears, right? I heard about this too…"
The merchant ordered another two guards to remove their spears tips and give them to the slave; leaving them mere solid sticks but as much as he enjoyed that look of haughtiness the blazing bronze orbs emanated with, he was no fool not to fear the wrath it hid most of the times.
Reluctantly, the lancer took the topless spears yet he was still not planning on losing, he considered this match a good chance to practice and an offered opportunity to humiliate that merchant since that was the latter's true purpose from this fight suggestion.
The two men took their position facing each other, only few meters separating between the soon to engage weapons, a sharp sword and a pair of spears turned into harmless sticks yet both men had the same confident stare.
It was a ridiculous match, the guard thought, why should he hesitate to attack an opponent armed with an old man's sticks? Without giving much thought to his movements, the guard sprang toward the slave determined to end this with one blow and please his lord, but contrary to his hopes and expectations, things did not go as he imagined they would. The target was suddenly not there in front of the anticipating eyes, and the strong grip handling the sword was weakened by unknown pain, followed almost simultaneously by another strike on the stomach. The bent down guard turned his eyes around until they spotted the Celtic slave standing ten steps near him and away from his original place. Such rash random attacks were the easiest to dodge for the lancer, it was like the first lesson of a trainer who does not know anything about fighting. Infuriated, the guard straightened himself as the pain from the first spear that hit his hand and the second one that landed on his stomach lessened. He regained his hold over the sword and proceeded to attack more prudently; that Celtic agility excelled that of the young dancer watching behind him, Claudius gleefully thought as he embraced the latter woman feigning fear and fragileness to gain her master's attention but the master's eyes were focused on the slave fighter. His two spears, one held behind his back and the other in front on his body, unfolded like a pair of wings ready to flutter and swoop down anything that stood in their way. The merchant adjusted himself in his seat, to gain a closer look, excited by this fighting that was nothing close to pretend, the lancer using a technique he had never witnessed before. What precision and carefulness one needed to control to weapons together yet they floated like parts of his own body, a true masterful dual wielder. But despite his amazement, he still had hopes in his guard to teach the impudent slave a lesson in superiority.
The lancer met his now totally focused enemy's stare with a provoking smile. Now, it was his turn to end this duel in one strike but the guard was not threatened, he had the upper hand no matter what; it was just his weapon that could inflict real pain and damage and how eager he was to do so.
This time, the two men launched their attacks at the same time, the guard swung his sword straight to the heart forgetting this was meant to be a show but it did not reach beyond the boundary of the lancer's clothes trapped between the two spears shafts.
The look of surprise and agitation on the guard's face was there for everyone to see. The merchant bit his lips irritated; it was the first plan of his making to fire back at him; that damn Celt never failed to underestimate him. Noticing the smile that lingered on the face of every slave in the room, he exclaimed more irritated:
"What are you smiling about, you filthy scums?!"
The smiles faded instantly but not the joy of the small victory the slaves' broken souls felt. Despite their envy of the new comer, he had proved himself more than a handsome figure to decorate the mansion, and watching one of their master's men humiliated at the hand of a slave under the master's own request, satisfied the revenge they could never exact or dare to dream of.
Claudius stood tossing his long chair in the process to see the end of the match, still hoping his best guard would pull something but there was no time given pull anything, the spears shafts trapping skillfully the most fragile part of the sword, the middle, crushed it down tearing it from its holder's hand then like a flash the upper spear rose again to land the final blow across the chest sending the guard moaning on the ground. Pouring all of his frustration and wrath into that strike, the Celtic delivered it so strongly and vengefully like a thunderbolt.
Every eye in the room was enchanted by that display of talent and strength, even the defeated merchant found himself agape by the end of the duel. He give a short applaud to the victorious lancer, but that did not mean his anger was absorbed yet.
"You have won your battle, but still did not finish it!"
The merchant remarked throwing a knife between the slave's legs. The act was answered with a questioning frown. Claudius explained:
"I do not have a need for a guard who could be defeated by a slave!"
The guard's eyes widened in terror, he could not believe what had just been ordered; that merchant would allow his death that simply by the hand of that vengeful slave who has no reason to hesitate to take his life as a sort of his mad revenge?! But what shocked him more than his lord's abandonment was the unexpected answer that came out of his enemy.
"I will not, there is no meaning to it."
There it was, Claudius' features finally revealed their true colors, as his patience ran out at the slave openly defying him to his face. Giving him one last chance of "redemption", he resorted to the same tools the Celtic was using, tugging at his nerves and honor.
"That guard had joined in the last campaign against your people before leaving the army. Who knows how many of your friends he had killed?"
The lancer's expression deepened in darkness, and the merchant saw that opening and kept on.
"You still will not quench your desire for revenge, but this is a perfect chance I am bestowing on you!"
The terrified guard stared blankly at his lord; does he want him dead that badly provoking the beast inside that Celtic warrior?! His eyes slowly moved to the latter whose long locks hid the expression drawn on his face. The other guards held their breaths muttering among themselves, grateful for their luck.
"Were we on the battlefield right now, I would have gladly done it, but even if he really was at the battle that day, killing him here or now is meaningless."
The knife was returned to the merchant who reluctantly took it back; his temper remaining composed for now while the guard got up eyes streaming with gratitude for the noble knight. Still determined into turning this little victory into humiliation, the merchant raised his glass of wine in his hand, half emptied, and offered it to the victor.
"You amused me well tonight, Diarmuid. Here is your reward."
The merchant motioned at the Celtic to come and get it the way a master plays with his dog. "Your little play of victory is over now" He thought sneering at the complex face the slave had.
"I will pass."
The lancer replied turning his face into a vacant expression and without another word, left the dining room without being ordered to.
***
"Why did I spare that man? Have I grown weak?"
Diarmuid thought on his way back to his room, he had faced such a frightened faces before and coldly relaxed them with death. Back then that act was as source of pride, it was another number to add it to his record but now while laboring under the chains of slavery, it was truly a meaningless act.
Yes, that is right… he had long realized what he had fallen to but still refused to accept it at the same time.
Those eyes of haughtiness were nothing beside a meaningless façade but it still gave him something to hold on to, to remember who he was and should always be.