When the door to Sextus's home opened, Ilianus was already standing near it readying himself to leave, but the man he was ordered to look for had just returned saving him the search. A clomping tap to the lancer's back welcomed the man arriving with a sour face, to which he responded with unnecessary and unexplained rage, holding the arm that tapped him and throwing the giant over his shoulder, sending him to the ground with a loud thud, using his foot to scoop the giant's leg off the floor to aid him in this maneuver, considering the huge weight and size difference.
The Greek was stunned, head turning by the unprovoked attack more than the undeniably painful impact.
"Maybe it was better if you were attacked or kidnapped by the mercenaries!"
Ilianus stated humorously despite the attack he had just received. He rubbed his burning head and was not surprised to find blood, but he was surprised by the strength and intent resolve behind the assault. Diarmuid did not apologize nor respond to the giant's comment. Instead, like an owl knowing her trail in the darkness, his golden eyes darted toward Sextus who was watching from the safety of his room, eyes filled with owe at the lancer's strength of arm. The lancer, retrieving his twin weapon and tightening his grip around them walked in the frightened man's direction, who looked afraid like a wife doing her husband wrong by suspecting his late arrival. With only his head partially visible behind the door he sank behind it more and more as he watched the Celtic gladiator approach him, two spears held tightly in one hand, as if the door was a magically woven shield that could protect him.
"What is up with sending someone to fetch me back like a lost dog? Or is that I am lacking your trust currently?"
The words came flying out of the lancer's mouth without giving the poor frightened Sextus a moment to utter a reply or change his facial expression. He was dumbfounded, unable to understand the man's fury preferring to remain silent for few more seconds before he answered in a low tone.
"I was just worried about you… you know about…"
But his answer was unnecessary, as the lancer headed straight to his room banging the door behind him.
Diarmuid threw his spears and let his weight pull him into the bed. He knew Sextus was truthful in his worries over him, and this annoyed him even more. He was certain the latter was not questioning his loyalty, merely fearing his late stroll had taken him to the thugs den, but he still threw the accusation nevertheless, and the lancer sought to face himself and not to defend it against Sextus's nonexistent doubts.
Caden, the Celtic squire, now a slave like himself, failed miserably to touch his soul with his reasons and plans, only a sorrow for the misguided path he was treading left a painful injury in the lancer's heart.
But still, if his words did not lull the curtains of his thoughts that began all of a sudden to rush into his mind, why was he then fidgeting with unreasonable anger and unjustified guilt?
Was Caden's path just and right?
No, indeed it was not.
Were his reasons and motives noble? No, but were they justified and needed?
Diarmuid kept quiet, deafening his ears to the answer he believed in.
***
The next morning, when the lancer did not show up to train or even to eat, Sextus quietly crept toward his room and huffed before he knocked the door. There was nothing more dangerous than cutting one's sleep, especially if that one was professional at slaying tigers and lions. When no answer came, he opened the door soundlessly and peeked inside. The whole situation was strangely reversed, he had the right to kick the door open with his foot, barge in and yell at the gladiator to run a hundred laps in the arena but he did not even think of this method of treatment when it came to the Celtic dual wielder. In place of that "proper" manner he possessed every right to use, he chose a more "polite" approach.
Diarmuid was awake, staring at the ceiling, the intent of getting up clearly present. His eyes were fixed on a single spot but his thoughts were clearly travelling thousand miles away, taking his body along the journey in the form of vivid memories of times gone by. The arena's owner did not know what he should do, was it wiser to leave the man in his own realm of thinking or was it more dangerous to allow him to stay there longer? He coughed to draw the dreamer's attention and a stabbing gold met him. Seeing the man still trapped in his foul mood he came back in the other night, Sextus preferred to use the usual yet carefully shortly answered question, in an attempt to figure if anything new added to the lancer's irritation.
"Celtic, how are you feeling today? Are you all right?"
"I am not a kid to check up on."
The way the lancer responded definitely made him sound like a irked teenager, but this solidified the idea Sextus had theorized and believed in.
"Ilianus was worried about you for different reasons than what you were thinking."
Diarmuid was not interested in what Ilianus was thinking or wanting but the unexplained mischievous grin the arena's owner spoke with reminded him of a pimp's smirk for some reason.
"He was afraid you were having some fun without him… he said you have never accepted his invitations… and claimed he would feel betrayed if you had sought these offers behind his back…"
Diarmuid sat up in his bed, knitting his eyebrows at the riddles Sextus was giggling with like a village idiot, having no idea of what his nonsense was supposed to mean. When the latter watched the confusion on the lancer's face, he sighed waving his arms in hopelessness.
"Come on lancer! You can never play at being a shy maiden!"
Sextus laughed, closing his eyes and holding his waist, almost bending over. A man who loved life, with all its pleasures and challenges that added more satisfactory taste to the prior, enjoyed the thought of hearing the godly – beautiful lancer's stories of love and infatuation. He was a warrior, a gladiator constantly battling, he had to vent his frustration and hone his wrath and power in some other way, the way all gladiators did which was usually controlled by their owners, but again, the exceptional lancer was given his own free will over these matters, but Sextus was ready to use his authority to hear the depraved tales. When the man opened his eyes, tears from laughter latching to them like small leeches, he found the irritated man standing right in front of him, his foul mood having multiplied ten folds.
"Do you view your dream knight an animal of instincts?"
The lancer posed the question to the paling man, needing not to hold his spears or raise his first to intimidate him. On the battlefield, he had allowed his intuitions to take hold of his fighting for far many times to his own liking. But he needed to survive. However, this was a different matter, warping carefully around a sensitive passionate love like closed petals waiting for their opportunity to bloom.
"I did not mean to… it is after all natural… I mean…"
Sextus stumbled on his words, failing to understand why this subject stirred the lancer's anger. He was beautiful but perhaps rough in bed as in battle, so ladies avoided him. Or perhaps, there was another reason which was more interesting to the staggering man; maybe the Celtic had had his eyes on a certain maiden and wanted none other than her. Still foolishly entertaining his ideas, Sextus offered once again, but wording his curiosity more carefully this time:
"It is normal for you to feel lonely. You have been here for more than a year and never had a companion to lighten the load of your loneliness! Just tell me…"
"I want nothing of that sort… if you have found my fighting had declined to you and your audiences liking, then you can free me right now!!"
The lancer demanded, offended by Sextus's ideas as Grainne's name suddenly echoed in his ears through his entire body, rebounding off the two lances like a wave traveling miles to hit the shore, a memory journeying for miles to reverberate a purpose.
"If you have your eyes on a certain woman… I know none dare refuse you...
they all certainly thirst after you!"
In spite of this being a true and well known fact, often shyly discussed between young maidens in the arena and openly among the deviant women, it was not something the Celtic was proud of. When he was younger, his handsomeness birthed more lives and fortunes to his luck and glory, always boasting between his friends merrily, until this beauty turned into a curse in his last adventure.
Sextus foolishly kept talking and suggesting, seeking to relief the warrior of his "assumed" agony but he immediately regretted his last words. Not for their untruthfulness, but because of the warrior's provoked stance and speech which hinted to him that this was not the case at all. There was a matter of love indeed, but like everything associated with the knight in Sextus's mind, it was a chivalrous poetic love story. A woman who could never be substituted, a love that could never be put out, a vow that would never be broken. Sextus gulped and retreated a few steps back, nearing the door before he dared to open his mouth.
"Is your beloved here? I will bring her to you at once! Do not think about the price or her freedom, she will remain yours!"
Though his body language conveyed otherwise, Sextus was speaking with all seriousness, making a true offer, believing he was indebting the haughty knight to an ordinary man like himself, and what honor and joy did that bring his misunderstanding mind!
"Do not you dare humiliate a Celtic Princess!!"
Diarmuid was not threatening or warning, he was ready to break the man's neck with one hand, and recalling the incident with Ilianus last night, proved the lancer was about to do it so Sextus bowed in apology that did not shake the lancer's feelings about his owner's humility and readiness to apologize when wronging someone, even a slave. But after that display, he, Sextus, in the first wise idea that finally came to him since this morning, ran out of the room immediately.
His fears from the knight's fury while defending the honor of his lost princess soon morphed into an honorable elation for the man. What legendary prose was he becoming a part of? What poetic verses did the warrior's cold heart and bellicose blade engrave upon themselves, hidden behind pride and steel? The picture of a valiant knight serenading and courting his shy yet powerful princess dominated his mind, he even wished to paint it could he draw, envisioning what the woman who captured the lancer's heart and reigned over his loyalty despite the long separation looked like.
While his mind was almost always occupied with retrieving his freedom and looking for and after Oscar, seeking to free the boy as well, the vibrant picture of the princess in her green velvet gown, where upon its back trailed her auburn long lucks along the darker green cape. A golden crown casting a divine bright on her braids and reflecting the majesty of her eyes and the honesty of her heart.
These moments in which she was absent from Diarmuid's mind, and which became abundant in the few months, were all moments soaked with longing and regret. Questions never to be answered burned the blood coursing through his veins and one particular idea kept probing at his mind and conscious.
Were he to refuse her and let her marry Fionn, would she have been happier now?
If he were to take a glimpse at his future and read along the stars his waiting fate, would he have refused her? Would he have the courage?
He would have certainly hated himself for failing her, but was he not now hating himself all the same for failing her in a more brutal hurting manner?
***
The day was not planning on carrying on without disturbing the agitated lancer. Although Ilianus, contradictory to his annoying habits of pestering, did not bother him or even speak to him and ask about the reasons of his last night's angry behavior, and Sextus left him locking himself in his room without inviting him to meals or training, there was third man, an unexpected one, who insisted on seeing the Celtic dual wielder.
Seeking to ignite the lancer's anger no further, Sextus sent a servant to tell the restless man of the visitor. And when Diarmuid asked about his identity, the slave truthfully answered that he did not know. Diarmuid thought, was it Sabina? She had recurrent visits to the arena's owner, but she would not shy from mentioning her presence. Was it Oscar? No, if it was then Sextus would have excitedly told him to quench his morning anger toward him and to cheer him up. Definitely, it was not the fallen squire Caden donning some stupid disguise or attempting a no less stupid murder plan in broad day light just to prove his worthiness to his "fellow" warrior. When Diarmuid ran out of options and despite not being in the mood for speaking to anyone, he had no choice but to leave his room and meet the man.
Diarmuid entered the guest room like he owned the place, and found Sextus standing with visible nervousness he did not even try to hide. The third figure that demanded to see the lancer was tall and dressed in grey, his dark hair cascading neatly past his robust shoulders. The lancer was indeed far beyond surprised at seeing the counselor that stood out from his other fellows by his long hair and preference of silence.
"Thank you Lord Sextus, for answering my request."
The counselor spoke first, hinting at the curious man that he wanted to be left alone with the gladiator. Strange it was indeed, as these two never truly encountered one another. Bad premonitions overwhelmed the good ones on Sextus's mind but he had no choice but to obey and leave silently, excusing himself out like a guest,not even pretending to have more important business to attend to or pressing matters that could not be delayed as that would be an insult to the counselor, though he himself asked him to leave, more than a preservation of his dignity.
The two men, left by themselves in the spacious room, stared silently at each other. Diarmuid showed no display of greetings or being honored by the demand. Not that Laurentius was expecting or wanting any. After a short while of uncomfortable overbearing trials of mind reading, the counselor finally started talking with a single comment.
"Lord Sextus holds you in high regards, allowing you to stay in his house as a part of his family."
Since Diarmuid sensed neither slight nor praise in the said words, he did not reply, waiting what the odd man came to say.
"It had come to my awareness that this group of murderers calling themselves the "Justice pallbearers" has tried to contact you on many occasions, stealing moments of your attention and time. "
The counselor's visage did not indicate he lacked eloquence, which if he had liked to use would have without doubt reached yet an even higher rank or position. He could speak on bar with philosophers and authors but the careful wording and phrasing, aiming not to accuse nor clear the lancer, passed as a simple inquiry but still as one which the addressed man could not ignore or keep silent about. If the long – haired counselor already knew this much, there was no point in bending the truth or coloring it. In the first place, there was nothing lawless or shameful about it to improve or twist.
"This is correct."
Diarmuid answered with these few words since the counselor seemed fond of short and direct messages and answers. Laurentius went on clearing what the lancer did not waste words on.
"They want a public figure, one that is not a representation of authority or nobility, yet equally powerful and influencing."
Again, these words were not meant for praise or raising the fighter's self – esteem. They were facts, as the green – eyed woman would state. For a man who addressed perverted Sextus as "Lord" out of there was still an air of subdued arrogance in his tone, whether conscious or not while speaking to the dual wielder, making it very clear that despite his seeking of the man, that man was still a slave.
Maybe it was another peculiarity of his character; reminding every man of his place.
"You can sleep soundly in your bed, "Lord Laurentius", I have declined their offers."
The lancer concluded the discussion in a way that Sextus would frantically describe as sticking the crime to his name. He answered mockingly imitating Laurentius voice and mannerism in speaking, addressing him with the same tone he addressed the arena's owner with as "Lord".
"I know you have, and I am thinking that you perhaps should reconsider."
The lancer shook with anger, his arms twisted instinctively
looking for his lances. Laurentius had a thick skin, an impenetrable visage no dagger or sword could cut through no matter how honed or sharpened they were, but the Celtic's own instincts rarely failed him, and he could trace no treacherous intentions or double play in the counselor's suggestion . Allowing himself a moment to calm down, Diarmuid got the message.
"You want a spy?"
Laurentius did not confirm the answer as it needed no clarification. However, he explained the reason behind this idea:
"These men are lunatics, and that is why it is hard to deal with them. But since they are recurrently after you, they will idolize you, trust you boundlessly and reveal everything to you… "
"Are you that desperate in front of a gang of mercenaries?"
"Are you that indifferent to the suffering of innocents?"
The two men exchanged verbal blows where it hurt the most. The counselor lacking resources to capture and exterminate these criminals kept him awake for days none knew of. At the same time, he spoke to the lancer's chivalrous spirit, the pride he always boasted about, seeing more than any other person his just noble heart, as he without hesitation believed that the former knight would not take delight in civilians' suffering, even if they were his own enemies. Laurentius offered no promises or rewards, he was speaking to a former knight, and waiting patiently, not ignorant of the possibility of refusal yet giving it no importance. It was a trial someone had to go through, a sort of strategy he came to, reluctantly, after the reports he had received about the gladiator and his nightly adventures and fights with the wanted thugs.
"You have just said yourself that they would idolize me and put their faith and trust in me…"
The long – haired counselor raised his head. Now it was his turn to analyze the other's words and meanings. Despite his current position, and regardless of the inhumane strength and brutality he showed off with during his battles, he knew there was still a fair warrior behind that image woven to impress the people and protect his status, so he would never be swayed with prizes or loots. But then the man shook his head in understanding, it was once again his pride interfering.
"I am a knight, I would fight them one by one, or one against all, without any fear or hesitation. But I am not a spy… I could never be, even to murderers who falsely adore me and believe I can symbolize and solidify their front."
The counselor remained silent needing not much time to weigh the words, and he found no wrong in them. The lancer went on to clear his conscious to the last bit.
"Besides, the innocents are suffering via underhanded means and cowardly assassinations, torture, and kidnappings. It is only just to them to fight these thugs in the light of our pride and strength without leveling to their murderers' tricks and soiling our honor and the victims."
The long haired man nodded, agreeing to the lancer's words. And although he knew war was a game of tricks and plots, and using them was not cowardly, he still disliked that aspect intensely. However, his hands were tied with Germanous incapability and Caecilius intent on using the massacre to his advantage. An open fight was his perfect choice, and the vicious beast of a gladiator strangely was on the same page as him.
So as he thought, truly, there was still a knight there somewhere.
"It is good to see that my nephew still has good eyes."
"Did you ever doubt that?"
The Celtic asked out of place, but the counselor who was also the uncle and who carried these two duties with equal importance and with the same lining proper guidance did not find it necessary to answer. He merely remarked.
"It is just a good sign that our estimation of men is nearly similar."
Diarmuid knitted his perfectly drawn eyebrows at the counselor's comment. What scale did that strange man use to estimate men? For the Celtic lancer, Germanous's approval and admiration was a suitable redemption for him, till now at least.
***
Laurentius left the house without bidding Sextus goodbye, who immediately rushed to hear what happened, too afraid to be caught by the ghostly counselor eavesdropping.
"He was merely asking me about my encounters with the mercenaries."
"And?"
"Nothing else, there was nothing to discuss."
Diarmuid added the last sentence to prevent Sextus from prying any further. There was nothing important he needed to know about and he did not have the energy to deal with his fretting if he knew he had turned down the governor's uncle offer. Failing at getting any more information, Sextus left the room with disappointed sighs, yet a relieved mind as he wanted to believe there nothing dangerous was discussed or had to be dealt with.
Diarmuid was still tired and confused by his conversation with the assassin boy Caden, his beliefs that would allow him to exact a befitting cruel revenge upon the men who enslaved him, and the conversation he had just had with the counselor, one of his enemies, and who did not threaten or object to his refusal of playing the role of a spy. Instead, admiring the choice to some extent, as admiring would be a big word for the counselor's range of feelings. In between these two matters, the young governor's dreams and frailty, his beseech of his help and support flew like a distant chime, forced into muteness. The lancer walked toward the sculpture Sextus had pride in, adorning the huge wall of the guest room with. A sculpture of a woman lying down, her hair spread in place of her dress, awakening coquetry from her nap and raising her delicate arm to meet that of her lover's, coming from afar on the back of his horse. Their fingertips were barely touching yet their carved but vivid eyes relayed all the emotions and feelings that weaved their love story.
How many times did he come back from hunting or misleading the enemies to find a tired Grainne sleeping in the refuge of a huge tree or a large shrub, just to open her eyes at the sound of his footsteps and reach her pale arm to hold his calloused hand and bless it with tenderness and love?
He was her knight, she was his princess, and although fate had separated them in the most painful way possible, he still refused to give up on her less and less visiting shadow. The part of his mind where their memories where stored, the sorrowful numerously more than the happy ones suddenly flooded his whole body. He reached his hand to that distant shadow shaping and maintaining his chivalry and honor as a knight till now, praying it never to depart. He extended his arm in the same the warrior did in the sculpture, imagining handing the sleeping princess a red rose as he had done countless times.