The days of violence the city had been living and suffering, now, by the dawn following the execution parade, seemed nothing more than a cloud that hanged for counted hours, the bleakness brought by it nothing more than leftover drizzles waiting to evaporate within the following morning heat. The dead were long buried but a religious ceremony was held for their sake and their salvation. Those who were still kidnapped, were assumed dead, the ever – budding longing and hopes overtaking their families hearts were trimmed cruelly by the ambassador's announcement and presumption. But in spite of the haste the ambassador wanted to move to the next phase with, convinced there could possibly not be any remaining thugs, these missed people were still remembered as they got their names engraved on a stone held to their memory. The stores, closing their doors for over three months, gloriously reopened pumping the veins of the city with life. Steps revived the dulled stones of the markets and passages, chatters delighted the glittering sky and refreshed the mourning souls of the province citizens.
From his balcony in the palace, the governor of these "wretched souls solacing in a mass funeral" watched life spading the remnants of memories and the toll of sorrow. Those who died simply died, leaving nothing; not their characters, not their names, not their unsightly manner of death… nothing remained of these behind. The stone holding the lost names was simply to erode at the next winter storms whereas those left behind, awaited a proper gravestone.
"I never agreed to build that memorial stone at that hill."
Germanous stated while looking in the memorial stone direction.
"We could not offer to debate further about it."
The disapproving blond, surprised by the heavy tone new to his advisor's usual disregarding answers, turned at the seemingly troubled long haired man, realizing that Laurentius had stopped him earlier from arguing with the ambassador about the gravestone location solely due to his position and duty as an advisor, and that choice was not in accordance with his personal opinions on the current matters as well. He simply did not wish to deepen the fracture between the two governing forces.
"Is not an advisor supposed to state his opinions?"
"In regard to the well – being of his master, yes."
Germanous grinned at his advisor's devotion. Dutiful as ever, he presented no place for personal feelings and desires on the table of obligations, which apparently extended to every aspect of his life. A man abandoning his own feelings in the name of a greater goal, which is in Laurentius' case is merely to fulfill his role, is a man who has a drive for nothing, not even the greater goal he claims. The ambiguous fears the governor had accumulated toward his advisor now turned into disgust and disrespect.
***
"Perhaps that is the reason I ordered it built there!"
Idling about the same matter, the location of the memorial that promised its corroding and thus its forgetting with the next harsh wind and weather, the ambassador and the glorified lieutenant seemed to reach an opposite end as always.
"Repeat this to me again?"
The soldier asked neglecting the slightest decorum of speech with the superior man.
"When I reign over this province, the shame brought to it and to the entire empire by the previous incompetent governor shall be erased along his name. Only prosperity coupled to my days shall be remembered!"
"You won't even accept comparison to him? Are you that afraid of him?"
"Huh?"
The ambassador straightened in his seat, looking thoroughly at the man in front of him to discern mockery from seriousness, and before he could answer proudly, the soldier left.
When Plinius joined the army, the appealing harmony of order and commitment matched the lingering soul of the solider, laying the perfect setting of peace to his anxious heart. A constitution based on regulations, where people from various backgrounds and habits were united by the simple influence of order. Soldiers on the field, brothers in the camps, partners in the reward. But that methodical world soon proved more complicated than what the hoping man had imagined. Commitment alone was not enough, and order was a punishment more than a gain. Soldiers on the fields, they were all equal in death and losses, but reward was never satisfying or equal, praise was never fulfilling, and going forward seemed for some of them no different than standing still while going back was never in hand. As firm as this constitution was, as unforgiving and incomprehensive it was, it was still a fresh soil for the seed of gluttony and schemes. And even as the young soldier had managed to reach a respectable ranking with his own efforts and no one's support, holding commands over a few while still in the commandment of many, he still had to admit the need for connections aside from his loyalty and hard work and in some unkind twist through his fresh carrier, the ambassador was placed in his way, offering him the most accessible and shortest way to rise up as Caecilius was a man of great influence and limitless power, he was a master of the game board he was still a pawn on. The more effort he put into going along with the ambassador tides, the more difficult this path turned out to be, and the more painful it proved. Despite his decision to overlook certain aspects of row beliefs about chivalry and honor, ignoring through necessary moments the right to reward a man in comparison to his achievements and merits, he still found it difficult, almost near impossible to keep up with this deceitful game. He had just started climbing up on his arduous way toward the top his deeds deemed him fit to, and he was already feeling that he was losing more than what he was ready to offer.
Plinius was a solider above other soldiers, a forward swordsman with a blade that never hesitated, a reflection of his unbending will. His sword tip reached the target intact, just like his soul that never faltered . A sharp blade with a wise sheath. And in the past few days, for the first time, the soldier had witnessed something similar to his own image though dusted and wearied. He, through his pure eyes, could see the image lying behind that façade. In the glittering of the two blades of red and gold he had met before, the shadow was weaved and in the oath he'd witnessed yesterday it was beautifully brightened and colored. In the image of an owned slave, Plinius unveiled an honorable knight that kept struggling to held to his nobility even when chained so what excuse he, a free admired general, had to sell his ideals on his way to the top?
Shame on him indeed.
***
No matter how hard Diarmuid thought about it, how precise and thoroughly he recalled things back, he still wasn't able to imagine how his golden spear could be pulled away right under his nose. The details of the act, and the way in which it was executed was blurry from his usually observant recollection. And to have such a grave insult go unnoticed by his sharp eyes meant that he was up against a no less sharp foe.
"Perhaps he was a sorcerer."
Ilianus raised his voice in a suggestion as he wore a thinking face, but the silly idea he presented was to his surprise affirmed by Sextus who said:
"Some people already believe these group of people are sorceresses. The way they executed their violent crimes and how they were able to reach any person they targeted prove them to be such."
And after a careful look at his beloved lancer, examining his frowned face, he added carefully:
"But Diarmuid, where could your spear be? Where do you think?"
"Where do you think? It's with them, most probably."
"But Dia, they claim they have wiped the entire gang at that game.. How will we know where is your weapon?"
The lancer glanced at his happy – go master, who was deluded just like the rest of the province.
"You know this isn't the end of it, why do you desperately want to believe this?"
"I would like to think that my business will go on uninterrupted. Are you suggesting that this wish is improbable?"
"Suggesting? I am sure!"
The dual wielder, left with one spear for now, left his seat wandering off to the window, his sight trying to reproduce the scene and his memories struggling to highlight the trick.
"This is true, no way such a grand gang who was capable of committing those terrible crimes could be erased that easily. One of them still survives."
Ilianus spoke, referring to the man who had invited the lancer to join them, the one who had probably stolen his spear to implicit him and force his arm into joining them to save his life, and who remained free, escaping through his friends sacrifice.
The whole ordeal flowed like an illusion.
There was an unprecedented lightness that skipped they lancer's eyes, an act of deceive so perfect just like the false peace this city was deluding itself into believing it had regained. This, beside an astonishing keen perception and perceptive ability of replicating things. Their efforts to recruit the lancer, even if forcefully, could only be accepted by the man himself as an invitation to war. However, they only managed to gain a persistent enemy instead of a helpful ally. The lancer's strength had only grown in the shade of a dear pledge and a costly oath, an oath that retuned the glamour and beauty to the dulled radiant face. His determination to bring down that man was not directed at the trick he used on him, it was more fearsome because it was directed at himself, at his soul that had been dulled in the arena while emptily flourishing there, like a bubble filled with tasteless air yet radiating colorfully as it reflected the surrounding colors. How could he not recognize this farce? How could he still hold to and cling to a false weapon? This was unforgivable! Did his heart rot that much? How far had he been poisoned by this new life? How much had he forgotten? But now, with his rekindled spirit, with his re - found will, the loyalty he was denied back home, the one he was granted here in this foreign land, unconditioned or tested, his long red spear shall rise again calling to its twin brother without fail.
***
What the city desperately wanted to believe it had ended; the days of kidnapping and terror, the sleepless nights of fear and anticipation, the nightmares and the longing, turned out to be, opposing to their wishes and prayers, a mere prelude to the violence to befall them.
The call for revenge was loudly cried, its misfortune and sorrow echoing with more gore and violence and weaving a mournful shadow over every wealthy house and residence.
"A devil" was the only word the ambassador was left able to utter as he collapsed in his bed, holding to his sheets and covers like he was holding his soul from escaping his shivering body. The window was closed against the rushing wind, the door tightly shot and guarded. Hearing his terrifying screams, Caecilius was found by the soldiers untouched and unharmed, but he was terrified and delirious, his screams of horror resounding through the halls. His eyes shrank in their sockets by the terrible scene that befell them, which despite the need to escape in order to preserve their owner's sanity, they could not avert away from it. Red drops streamed coldly and steadily like the ambassador's sweat over torn limbs hung heavily in the room like the dread weighing down his extremities. Gauged eyes stared down at him, lifeless yet judging at the same time like his conscious.
The ambassador stared blankly at the maimed and dismembered bodies of six little children, their remaining shreds of clothes indicating their noble birth and rank. These poor little bodies hung in all four angles of his chamber, surrounding him, trapping his vision and senses in the cruel ugly image they created. Their wounds and injuries reechoed the style of the execution game and their severed fingers barely latching to the flesh of their arms and legs by a thin nauseating skinned muscles held chains that clanged together in a solemn yet warning chime. A revenge called forth by the inhumanity of the trial, designed by a ruthless cruelty and enacted with an animalistic brutality. Yet at the same time, at the same mourning perverted time, it was carried through the injured bond of comradery, willed by the sadness of a sacrificial friendship, justified by a remorseless innate need for justice.
The era of transgression and horror Caecilius claimed proudly to have ended, the burden of sorrow and longing he was leading the people looking up to him to move over violently and savagely returned. And the upcoming peace and prosperity he promised these same people with were cut from the womb of wishful expectations and hopeful visions.
The debauchery was revived by the persistent presence of inequality, and enlivened with the scorching desire for justice, feeding on the provoked helplessness of hope, and moving through the wounded limbs of pride and comradery.
The prelude had ended, and the true play was beginning.