Another unfamiliar ceiling, high and embracing the darkness of yet another unfamiliar room.
Tiredly, the bronze eyes stared at the blurry cheap wooden ceiling. While the room he found himself lying in was very similar to the cell he had been held in, but though small and left to the care of dust and rustiness, it was definitely not a prison. He was lying on an old mattress, beside a table with a jug of water and small strange smelling bottles and many bandages; some new other discarded and drenched in blood, his own. The sight did not revolt him nor did the smell of hovering death that he could feel faint away. How did he survive while his body felt like a heavy pile of broken bones and muscles, he could not tell or remember what had transpired over the past few days.
Days? It was certainly longer than that judging by his hair length and the healing stage his wounds had reached to his own surprise.
As laziness took over his body, he laid down again trying to piece what might have had happened after the duels ended with his victory and the governor's pardon. More hails and cheers thanking the governor's "mercy" and welcoming the new hero, he could recall plenty of those. Then there was a man he had seen before, but right now could not remember his identity. That man escorted him back to the corridor he had entered the arena from then everything stopped and vanished into blackness.
A vast blackness filling everything. A blackness that engulfed his recent memories and events that led him to this later state, the massacre he had committed unlike the other hundreds before it as this one was his first as sheer act of murder. It had nothing to do with a knight's honor or duty, there was no honor or glory proclaimed by this battle but there was a reward… his life. But could he claim the latter as a reward when he himself was incapable of counting the breaths he still was inhaling as a reward? This life beating inside his body, could he call it as it is now chained and tainted, impure and degraded, a reward?
Another shade of blackness invaded his mind, deeper and darker. Were his actions justified? Were his brutality and savagery needed? That blood he shed, the reason for which it was shed, where they vindicated?
Now the blackness resided in his heart. Strangely and frighteningly, though resented, it was not regretted. Although forgetfulness was not acceptable to shroud these instants, they were easily discarded somewhere in his awareness.
He simply he had no hand in what had happened or what will happen next.
Fear? No, there was not any and that realization alone was frightening.
Pain? Yes there was, and a great one at that.
Everything ached; the wounds that mantled every inch of his body, the unprecedented thoughts that stormed his mind, the unfathomed feelings that wringed his heart. The memories he could not view the same anymore, the glory he shamefully obtained, the forgiveness he, humiliated, was shown.
Oblivion was an effective cure.
By the next time the lancer opened his eyes, Diarmuid was not alone. There was someone beside him, an unfamiliar black hulk, his simple old clothes suggested he was probably a slave as well. Seeing the gravely wounded warrior finally open his eyes with a fully revived consciousness and awareness, he nodded to himself in a self - congratulatory way, satisfied with his healing art and expecting no gratitude or appreciation other than the firm look he was shot every time these two ambers hazily opened.
"Where am I?"
The lancer asked, unable to anticipate any good or bad outcome from him being kept alive. The black man answered:
"This is Lord Sextus' house."
Seeing the answer did not quench the questioning in the injured man's eyes, the black man added to clear his reply in a bored huff:
"The owner of the arena."
Now the image of the unknown person who took him out of the arena before he collapsed came clear. He was the owner who did not find the Celtic prisoner worthy of addressing at the start of the match, then meekly and feverishly pleaded for that man's life and proudly escorted him at the end of it.
The reason for this change of heart was what the lancer could not figure out. Was he still on trial? Was he to go through a second round at that cursed place that tugged at his brutal instincts awakening them faster than any battlefield and released them to storm his senses leaving them blunted and numb at a dark corner of his mind? When the silence drew long, the slave who was monitoring the injured man with careful eyes, as if anticipating a second fit of blood lust at any moment, added:
"You realize this…" and he pointed around the small room, "is not the entire house, only a room in the basement?"
The Celtic sighed in frustration, covering his face with his hand and pushing the long black locks away from his eyes. Not only he was disappointed by his current weak situation, but by the fact that there was a slave next to him, thinking he is so dense and retarded to figure out something as simple as that. But could he really blame him? Butchering whatever stood against him in the arena like a wild animal, he probably seemed as dimwitted and mad as an animal is.
"Your wounds have properly healed and closed, but you have lost a lot of blood and your left hand almost tore, you need plenty of rest and you should not use it much yet."
The slave explained calmly and steadily, keeping a safe distance between himself and the mattress upon which the lancer was lying. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, it was apparent that the slave was a little frightened, like a child who happened to find a stray dog, seemingly quiet and calm, but he was still uncertain whether it is safe to approach it or not.
"Thank you."
The Celtic whispered in weak voice, smiling caustically at the image people had created about him.
"It was Lord Sextus' orders, I could not defy. For some reason, he was very worried over your life."
That was a plain way for the black slave to demonstrate that he did not give a dam about a monster's life were he given the choice. The other slave replied with the same sardonic smile. So now he belonged to this Sextus, and he was still hated among the other slaves, his "fellas" of the same predicament.
Few moments later, the arena's owner walked inside the room. Apparently he was headed somewhere else but stopped when he noticed his new fortune had at last woke up.
"Good job Nigrum , your skills in healing are impressive as ever!"
The excitement in the entering third man's voice revealed what slumping state the Celtic must have been in at the end of his battle. Indeed, it was a miracle that he survived and that he was still functional somehow.
Nigrum, the black slave, stood and bowed his head humbly accepting his lord's praise. Witnessing this display between the two, Celtic realized he belonged to this new lord now but did not attempt to show any gestures of respect, still enjoying the slight comfort his straw mat provided but the owner did not seem to notice this or care for it if he had as he was busy frolicking over his new prized item.
"Good, good… you're in a good shape now, I assume… no, no! You definitely are!"
The new lord murmured to himself, his mind clearly wandering elsewhere, perhaps to the future battles this strong man lying in front of him is ought to engage in bringing him fame and money.
"I cannot have you lying all day and night, you should move and regain your strength before getting dull! Nigrum, lead him around the place and let him do some chores, do not exaggerate though."
Lord Sextus ordered before he left the room throwing another careful examining look
at his new slave.
***
A new boring routine awaited the lancer who did not bother to think about it. He did as he was ordered silently avoiding any unnecessary interactions with anyone, earning himself cold stares from the other slaves, but this hostility did not matter to him. He has long given up on them and now he had his was occupied with postponed urgent matters; finding means to gain his freedom and looking for Oscar. So, just as when he first arrived at Claudius' house, he waited patiently and worked on regaining his full strength. Gradually, the tasks trusted to him toughened as if his owner wanted to rebuild his muscles' strength and tolerance after the severe injuries he had sustained. Seeing his new "master" was none other than the arena's manager and owner, Diarmuid knew the man's intentions; he was probably preparing him for other confrontations on bar with that battle's caliper and although the warrior himself was not keen on wading any similar experience unless to safe Oscar, he did not mind this intention for now since it did help him to stand at full power again.
"Wait me, Oscar!"
He promised.
***
Lord Sextus' house was not a fancy residence like Claudius', with luxurious furniture and lavish decorations. The number of slaves was lower as well, but then Diarmuid discovered these few souls were the domestic slaves, there were plenty of other slaves at the arena who spent their entire day training to improve their skills and agility while challenging each other and using the various
various weapons their lord offered. These were Sextus' fortune, the gladiators he owed. When thinking of it, the Celtic did not like the idea of having to join these wretched warriors later, though powerful and dreadful - looking, he knew they were no less pathetic than the animals their owner kept locked by their side, fighting for survival in the most dishonorable savage way.
Similar to what he had done back at that arena.
He did not answer himself, he did not want to.
***
The birds tweeted bathing in the morning dew that glistened the front yard flowers, but these sweet chirps did not reach the Celtic's ears, who was cutting wood for the night fire at the back of the yard, nor did the loud greetings and casual conversation between the lord and his guest. He did not even know if that "How are you doing, Sextus?' belonged to a male or a female voice. Focused on his work, rather on his imaginary revenge, as with every piece of wood he chopped down a detestable face from the many Romans he had encountered appeared, he did not bother to turn and glance at the new guest. Not that guests were rare at this house, most of them were other merchants and slave traders, sometimes friends or family members, and he was not interested in his new lord's social life.
Rufinus, the soldiers, the slave traders and their guards, Claudius, the slaves, the gladiators he fought, that woman who kept staring at him emotionlessly, the smug governor though he hadn't grasped the slightest of his features, all those idiot Romans responsible for that dishonorable detour his life had descended into, they appeared in front of his eyes and he cut with the axe hardly chopping the piece in two. If hateful eyes could do this alone, then his axe was dull and unneeded.
Diarmuid gritted his teeth, hand squeezing the axe almost to a tiny stick. Apparently, he had stroke the last piece of wood so powerfully it flew in the air shattering into unequal pieces, and the cut trunk used as a table for chopping cracked on the surface.
"You there, be careful! This is not a battle!"
Sextus yelled annoyed at the noise that disturbed his lovely chat with his guest yet at the same time, his tone hid joy, joy over the powerful new gladiator heavens was gracious enough to gift him with.
"Did I not tell you he is strong?"
So Sextus and his guest were still at the yard? The place was a lovely garden suitable for enjoying the cool refreshing breezes of the morning and evening, and Sextus often entertained his guests there. Many times did the Celtic fantasized about attacking the careless people and running away, the thought seemed even more alluring now as he was equipped with an ax, but this would prove as futile as killing Claudius, and he would only find himself facing another trial.
"These bare warriors are incredible I have to admit, I heard terrifying tales about them from the soldiers who fought them in Britain. I am certain you would love to hear some of these tales…"
Sextus said merrily, reaching to pour more wine into his guest's glass when he noticed that the latter had not even touched her first glass before he remembered that this guest never drinks wine or anything intoxicating.
"I can understand surviving the battle, but the deadly wounds he emerged with? His will to live is miraculous!"
Sextus indulged in his frenzied chatter. Now what? They were having a conversation about him and his people? What right did they have to? When did he became that important? The Celtic thought enraged and annoyed as he put another large piece of wood ready for the chop.
"This is no miracle, both these conclusions are very simple and natural."
The piece of wood remained one, the axe did not cut through it, it was not waved in the first place.
"It was not just his desire to live that saved him. On its own, that desire would have failed him."
The ax in his hand and his very hand… in fact his entire body was frozen. That voice was colder than his homeland deadly winter.
"It is because he has such strength that he survived…"
And just like frost, these words bit viciously.
"It is a law, an absolute one."
Simple words, stating one's opinion but in the most unshaken tone as if it was a common fact everybody was ought to know and understand. This certain tone, held enthusiasm, only absolute certainty and conviction. Not meant to insolent anyone, this tone was still able to make the listening ears submit to it, to the absolute truth they carried and preached.
This certainty was unbearable for unstable minds.
For the arena's owner who had had this guest before on many occasions, her tone was nothing unusual. He was used to listening to this person's cold words but for the Celtic it was different. Though he was hearing that person for the first time, the true nature of this apparent indifference reached him.
Insult, haughtiness, disdain.
Just who did that guest think she is? What did she think of the lancer?
The guest's reply stirred every nerve in the Celtic's body, the true meaning of these words seized his heart, secretly reaching inside of him like a tricky message.
Gritting his teeth, the Celtic turned for the first time since he started chopping the wood, his enraged golden eyes met a calm green ones, like an agitated wave broken against a resilient rock.
That guest was none other than her; that woman who was staring indifferently at him from the stadium.
In the midst of the whirl of cheering and shouting, she stood silent, unaffected, and stared at him with dead emotion piercing every emotion he himself had and now, facing each other again, nothing was different.
She was there sitting on the chair, the glass of wine untouched between her hands, and with a dead gaze harboring nothing but conviction in her own words, she stared at him once again.
Faced by these mystic eyes, he could do nothing.