Walking down the broad paved roads no longer stirred wonderment in the Celtic's eyes, the wonderful architecture held no further enchantment turning to a habitual sight, the columned stadiums embracing death, the meticulous houses encompassing many hidden secrets of debauchery and ruthlessness, wide streets narrowed by markets selling humans and animals alike, all became a dull unenticing sight, being experienced and tasted by the foreigner prisoner.
The lancer felt the people's eyes on him, eyes filled with youthful infatuation and pure admiration which made him wonder, was this the greatness Sextus was raving about, the despised enemy prisoner becoming the hero whose jailers looked up to?
Rarely having the chance to freely wander the streets, Diarmuid did not waste a second scanning every face he encountered searching for Oscar to no avail. The young blond was nowhere to be found leaving the unpleasant thought of being sold to another province or town where his hands cannot reach him but he kept looking, heart beating in despair and lips praying with no less desperation. .
The search went on until the Celtic reached his destination. Reluctantly, he knocked on the door. He could think of one certain woman whom Sextus would serve obediently for some unknown reason, and her possible identity made him knock even more unwillingly and lazily, hoping no would answer. A maid opened the door and when he introduced himself as "Sextus' messenger" she immediately led him inside. Her haste indicated she had been given orders to waste no second when the man arrives.
Diarmuid knew the woman was the governor's cousin, Sextus had told him, but her house was not that glamorous compared to the luxury Claudius' estate and even Sextus' house seemed brighter and more inviting. While everything was simple and neat, it was also too organized and fixed to catch the eye. Not a single item reflected its owner's taste or interests, merely put on display without the intention to add any beauty to the rooms. While everything from the walls to the furniture completed each other like a tasteful painting, that painting did not have a single color.
The Celtic could feel the heavy presence of that blond woman from the moment he arrived at her door, but standing face to face with her, separated only by few steps, added more to its unpleasant impact.
"Sextus sent you quickly, that's good."
The woman remarked with the most satisfaction her cold voice could muster.
"What do you want?"
The Celtic asked crudely, he couldn't imagine why would that woman ask for him specifically. Whatever reason she had, he was certain it would not be of any interest to him and he was right.
"I am expecting an important item I have asked for to arrive today. However, the man to bring it can't enter this town. I want you to fetch it for me."
The Celtic stared at the woman from head to toe with angered pupils. He figured her need will be trivial but not that superfluous.
"Are you mocking me?"
In contrast to the man's frown, the woman calmly explained.
"I have been waiting for that item for quite a while and the roads are plagued by thieves and mercenaries. I can only entrust a strong man to get it. Unfortunately for you, you're the only strong man I know and serving Sextus, you will not betray."
The Celtic smiled in amusement; while she did not doubt his strength, she also was putting her faith in a probable loyalty. Unlike what had expected of these cold eyes of hers, she was a woman who ventured with a dangerous bet. Either she was no different than any other woman or quite the contrary, she was too confident in her judgment. The realization that the answer was the later, because he would not betray Sextus yet in order to find Oscar, irritated him. That woman's certainty frustrated his listless soul.
"And what could that important item be?"
"It is a piece of fine velvet."
The woman shrugged, not affronted by the light way the Celtic was handling that "important" matter of hers.
"So fine thieves would go after it and leave gold?"
"It is worth more than wasted gold."
"Huh? Then what did you buy it with?"
"My patience."
The woman wasn't making fun of him, her serious expression and composed tone assured this much. And though these were adherent characteristics to her appearance rather than a temporary facade accompanying tense situations, and therefore were deemed to dominate all kinds of situations, she certainly wasn't jesting now.
"Where?"
The lancer huffed in boredom as refusing felt more ridiculous than the demand itself.
"Two miles from the town outskirts there is a huge oak tree, you will recognize it immediately. Just wait there, the man will recognize you as well."
She obviously did not wish to elaborate the man's identity stirring one last question that had to be cleared as suspicions suddenly arose in the Celtic's heart.
"Why can't the man make it to the town?"
"Why do you think?"
The woman replied directly, no trial of elusive attempts . So it was more than a womanly purchase, it had some other significance, something illegal or dangerous. Noticing his discomfort, the woman assured him.
"There is nothing to worry about."
"Don't make me laugh..."
The Celtic commented before turning to leave but he was stopped by the woman who threw him a dagger.
"I told you the roads are clumped with thieves."
***
The outskirts of the town were crowded with carriages and wagons carrying and taking different merchandise in and out of the town but the moment the Celtic headed further from the town's border, the roads got more clear and silent and by the time he arrived at that oak tree that stood out immediately to his eyes, not a single soul roamed that detour making him wonder of this sudden emptiness was brought by true fears of hiding bandits. He held out the dagger she had given him preferring him to defend himself with an undistinguished weapon rather than his renowned spears. She did not want him to be exposed in case something happened, which meant something was probably going to happen. His irritation kept growing, he did not wish to get involved in any affairs that could hindrance his search for Oscar. Throwing glances carefully over the place, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If anything were to prove dangerous, it would be that woman.
Beneath the shades created by the intertwining branches like a mosaic painting, Diarmuid waited impatiently.
A weak breeze blew, bringing a memory just like it passed, fast and transient.
Hiding in a field, Grainne suddenly craved berries. Holding her on his shoulder, she joyfully searched every tree until she found the desired one where Diarmuid seated her on a firm large branch. From her high seat, she happily pointed:
"It is so warm here, I love this shade! Look, the branches are waving wonderful shadows!"
"I hate shades, there is always someone lurking there."
"Don't be cruel to these little beautiful fellows!"
Grainne laughed as she picked few berry fruits.
Diarmuid smiled at the happy princess, heart squeezed in pain. The red dye the juice of the berry left on her mouth was the only rouge she could use to adorn her dried lips. The little time they could spend resting beneath a tree shade or inside a cave was the only time that helped slightly to preserve her soft white skin from browning and chapping. While he was used to a life of roughness that only engraved more brightness on his handsomeness, the princess was gradually losing her majesty and beauty to the same life style.
He was a knight who protected his princess from her enemies but not from hardships or sadness, one's most vicious foes.
Shaded by a similar large mulberry tree, the two lovers found themselves hiding embraced by thick branches while their pursuers searched unproductively. A young fruit threatened to reveal their hiding place, swaying under their weight but held by Grainne's hand, it calmly resided on the soft creases. Once the King and his men left, she remarked:
"See, the shades you hate have protected us!"
"I will gladly spend my life in the shadows if a beautiful woman like you were lurking for me!"
Grainne smiled, the truthful words soothing her broken heart. He still found her beautiful although she knew very well how her beauty was starting to fade day after day.
Indeed, to be with her, the shadows were the perfect and only place.
A gasp of surprise awakened the dreaming man.
In front of him stood another man in the suit of a soldier. Seeing no other passengers for about twenty minutes, he was probably the man that woman was expecting but the gasp he let wasn't that of recognition, it was of shock and his stance was that of fighting.
The messenger coming from the capital was carrying a letter to the province where Diarmuid resided. He had received a word of a spy, presumably a foreigner, lurking for him and so he proceeded with caution only to be faced openly by the enemy, without any surprise attacks or tricks. The Celtic's foreign features were distinguishable, there was little to no mistake in him being the spy.
Without a warning, Diarmuid found himself being attacked and the soldier didn't seem willing to listen, the letter he was carrying worth his life, and with his life did he pay indeed for Diarmuid was forced to defend himself against this unwarranted unyielding attack, and in the end he could only subdue the man by killing him, his warrior's instinct, honed ruthlessly by the ever looming threat of demise the arena promised.
"What has just happened?!"
Before the lancer could come to grip with what had just transpired, something was ripped out of the man's clothes, a piece of red velvet, yet the Celtic could spot no hand or detect no physical presence pulling the deed. Lightly and briskly, a shadow crept among the trees with the loot, the lancer tried to skewer him with the dagger but he vanished into thin air. Diarmuid tried to follow that black trail with his eyes to no avail. The item he was entrusted to get was stolen, but something did not sit right with him. If the man was to recognize him, then why did he attack him? Did he make a mistake by killing him?
Just like a hired assassin, he was forced to flee the sight of his crime and dispose of
the weapon. Heading back to that woman's house, the failure did not bother him because of the woman's disappointment but because it bruised his own ego. However, his frustration was instantly turned into anger when he faced Sabina again, who was still waiting him in the same room from earlier, but this time, a piece of red velvet concealing a letter within was held in her hand.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
The Celtic demanded furiously, piecing the threads together. That woman had armed him with that ordinary dagger for this sole purpose, killing the messenger who was ought to recognize him somehow and then get her damned letter via another minion. But why? Diarmuid bit his lips, he was used as a decoy, she had trusted him to kill the man, she had trusted his silence, but for some reason she did not trust him to get the item.
"Nothing against you, really."
The woman replied, storing the letter away. Her eyes firm and unyielding as if she had not manipulated the facts the same why she had manipulated him.
"Woman, I am not your personal assassin! When you ask for someone's help, you better trust them to the end or never ask! I am not a pitiful pawn for you, nasty Romans!"
" I have not lied with a single word I have told you. However, circumstances have changed suddenly. But tell me, are you angry at the deceit you propose or at the lack of trust you assume?"
The woman questioned him. She did not seem happy with the way things had turned
yet she maintained the façade of indifference trying to flip the table at the Celtic, as she received the warrior's wrath calmly, and went on.
"Were I to tell you the truth, would you have heeded my demand?"
"Of course not!"
"Then, I had no other choice."
Wishing to conclude the conversation, she turned her back to the enraged man but the dialog was far from over. The proud knight was just used as a mercenary to perform an unnecessary kill, his honor was manipulated and his trust was violated.
"Just who do you think I am? I am not some hired killer coward like the one you used! At least you use men who can kill not just steal instead or do your men lack the courage?"
"Why? Why do you find shame in killing that Roman soldier? You have killed dozens if his like on the battlefields."
"Because killing him this way and for your gain is meaningless to me, there is no point in it!"
"Then you only act seeking glory and honor. That pitiful soldier did not suffice."
"While it is true I seek an honorable fair fight, this is not the matter. I can't forgive someone who had used my blade with trickery, and stained it with pitiful affairs that matters nothing to me!"
The words of anger reluctantly left the man's mouth, admitting that he had fallen to the woman's trick angered him to no limit but he was still willing to face her.
"And this is because you are…"
"A knight who only raise his blade to fulfill his king's wishes and protects his people.
The woman was sharply interrupted. Closing her eyes, she mused for a second before engulfing the Celtic in her heavy aura, penetrating his eyes with her green ones.
"Then allow me to say that I find your act no different than the act of a clown. To serve a man is stupid, to serve a rule that's honorable. People change but the law never does."
Diarmuid frowned, the furious look he wore was enough to send shivers down a whole army but not that woman who maintained her firm stance and resolute stares.
"Is not a clown someone who seeks the help of a man he cannot trust as well?"
Diarmuid stated before he barging out of the room. Cursing, he promised he would never indulge Sextus ever again.
"He is the first one to detect my presence, I deeply apologize, lady Sabina!"
An apologetic voice whispered from the walls surrounding the blonde woman. Without seeking where it came from, she merely replied with composed anger.
"I did not order you to get involved. You need not compare yourself to that Celtic
gladiator."
A sound of protest remained in the mysterious man's throat, hiding there the way he was hiding in the room. He was not intent on upsetting his lady, but he had to prove his worthiness.
"You didn't have to call for him, killing that messenger and getting the letter would have presented no trouble to me!"
"If you have not injured yourself during training, I would have left the job to you, but I wasn't sure you could aim precisely with your current wound. At least, I am actually surprised you still managed to get here before him."
"That wound is nothing to me, it is half healed already!"
"And this letter is no trivial matter!"
Sabina silenced the man who was objecting in most meek manner and tone and when his lady raised her voice a little, he shivered like a wet dog whispering a chain of apologies.
"Really, every man has his limits, you shouldn't try to surpass them. A rope gets torn if pulled more than its given capacity."
The woman stated as she laid on the coach, getting the letter out to study it. She did not believed in extensive training beyond the point of one's capabilities. Every man is gifted with a certain prowess, and so one shouldn't try harder, it will be futile and will fire back at him; this was one of the many facts she believed in.
"I apologize again, my lady."
The voice repeated, retreating back to the shadows he dwelled in in shame.