Not a single citizen of the city that had been a prey to assassinations, kidnappings, torture and death remained in their returned safe homes once more. The elderly, even those needing sticks or support to walk went out, men and women from all classes, little children, even held infants, went down the vernal path leading to noble Lieutenant Plinius and his no less noble and courageous soldiers burial site.
A giant tombstone over - shading a depthless hole, engraved upon it verses of chivalry and sacrifice was standing unwavering like the honor of those buried never to be forgotten.
Though the dark cloud that drifted across their sky, drifting the souls of innocent and guilty alike, the young and the old, the men and the woman, and which had befogged their existence in horrible terror and constant fears had finally dissipated, trailing a rain of tears to wash the nightmares and losses away, the impact was still written on the citizens faces, the ordeal traces carved into their hearts, painfully burned into their memories and the same way that fog took almost a year to disperse, the memories would not do the same any faster.
Laurentius claimed no honors, rejected every prize or compliment. It was his duty and a man is not thanked for what he is supposed to do unless he was a jester, asked to perform a badly scripted play. But his resort into the shadows once more, did not mean no one knew of his feats, and of the fact that it was him who killed the beast commanding that gang. Caecilius was the first one to know of this fact, that that tall slim vague son of a bitch that barely had any muscles to show was the one to slay what the surviving soldiers described as an massive Egyptian pyramid taking the shape of a man, and learning of this fact gave him nightmares for many nights. Adding to his misery, is that fact that everyone knew, through that cunning blond, that he had no role neither in planning or leading the attack, failing even to guess or investigate the gang's true lair or be informed of the decision in the first place. All the credits went to one man, the governor, who with his cleverness and genius could connect the dots and decipher the hidden messages of the gang's symbol to discover their location, and then with his quick wit and wisdom planned the attack and ripped victory from the enemies wails of pain and suffering. His lack of knowledge on this matter, and the reason it was kept a secret from him, although he was the imperial ambassador, stirred many rumors faster than a torch lighting a dried piece of wood, adding to his never ending vexation. The only witness, the man he claimed to be his company and aid in this journey, had stupidly died like the idiot he was, unable to use his presence in the battle to extract a testimony of his involvement by any means, that he was the one who sent him as a cautionary measure, a part of the plan. But even if Plinius remained alive, everyone by now knew he came volunteering under no one's orders, knowing by coincidence from some gladiator of the plan, and his morals and duties did not allow him to stand aside. He sacrificed himself for no victory or gain, but for his fellow citizens.
Germanous, in his crimson robes of victory, tuned down by some black embroidery and golden sash that gracefully flew like his locks crowned with an auerus piece of accessory, since this was no great battle to wear a bay , followed by Laurentius returning to his black usual outfit and the others mourning masses, headed the group into the funeral site. A proud look on his face to convey the victory to every eye that dared divert from his presence, yet with a solemn dignified countenance to show his sympathy and sadness over the noble lost souls.
Caecilius was walking behind like a dog following his master, although Laurentius had offered him to step ahead of him, directly behind the blond which he accepted stating it was natural and not a courtesy, thinking the tall – haired man was insulting him indirectly though knowing if the latter had wished to, he would be able to make him laughing stock for his ignorance regarding this important terminal subject. Still, the ambassador decided to give the naïve blond lad this little joy, walking with no less pride or greatness, because it would add more to the entertainment once he crushes him down.
Despite his injury, Ilianus was attending the ceremony, not feeling guilty for inviting the man because without his aid, this victory would be a wishful dream, but he harbored a deep sorrow over his death, even more than the grieve he felt for losing the use of his arm of battle. But since these were outcomes dictated by fate, just like him being enslaved and separated from his family, he accepted them with a calm mindset. Such were his way and beliefs.
Diarmuid, of course, had to be there. And he was asked to walk behind the governor, a demand he could not refuse when looking into the blond's grateful eyes. They held so much gratitude, the lancer was ready to kneel and ask for his head to be taken for the coward deed he committed but his legs failed him, and his mouth remained shut. His face showed no happiness for the governor's blessing and honoring, remaining mute and silent like the dead soldiers they were carrying. The crowds who attended the arena looked at the grim looking gladiator, his two lances fastened to his back, a proof of his reclaimed honor. The golden one retrieved and purified of the attempts of defiling it through the gang vicious crimes, beckoning to the golden hair and sash of the triumphant governor and to the haughtily rising sun, dignifying both men's names once more. They viewed him with owe and admiration. He was a name never to be sullied.
***
The night before the ceremonial funeral, when returning along the dawn's rays from the fight to Sextus's house did Diarmuid learn of Ilianus serious injury. Sextus was very distressed about it, not because he had a lost a precious asset, he was not that low, but because he could understand what losing the ability to fight meant for a warrior even if he was not one. The lancer visited Ilianus in his room, and found his mood swinging between accepting destiny and mourning mentally over the loss but reaching the conclusion that nothing could have changed this, and if it was destined to happen, it would have at this battle or at another one. This was his fate and this thinking granted him some peace that was difficult for the lancer to comprehend. Still, he pretended to encourage his friend before excusing himself after Ilianus began asking him about his own encounters and victims in the battle.
The next morning, the giant stood beside Sextus to join the funeral. To their surprise, Diarmuid showed some hesitation. What… he will walk in the man he had killed treacherously funeral, proud in his victory and sorry for his loss? Ilianus urged to come faster, but the lancer remained dazed to their surprise, head cast down though he was to be hailed and honored. He should not go, he knew but then he decided against this, just to torment himself further and further.
The mourning procession walked in a steady rhythm and carefully calculated steps, taking the longest road toward the city's walls, where beyond them, the burial ground bloomed flowers and buds from the deceased she embraced. Diarmuid was wearing black, like everyone else, except Germanous who shone in his robes of victory, a proof of triumph and an honoring to the sacrifice. The lancer looked at the governor's shoulders, he had delivered his promise, he had fulfilled his first vow to him but will the price be always the same? So hefty and agonizing? Will he with every word he vows to the blonde, lose a piece of himself?
No, he could not blame the governor. What happened was his choice and decision. He thought, were he to let the lad live, will the burden be less heavier? It was a question that would never be answered but self – loathing will without a doubt keep festering inside of him even if he had spared the Celtic boy. He looked around, Ilianus who had suffered a great loss, who was truly noble and was the first to barge into the hyenas den at the cost of the use of his arm, was walking in the back. No one mentioning or gesturing at him while he, Diarmuid, received all the admiring and grateful eyes, a ploy meant to happen when Germanous called him to walk close to him. He expected Oscar to be with him, but the boy was not by his side or anywhere else which reminded the lancer that Oscar was of the soldiers who left as the building started collapsing and did not wait or attempt to follow Plinius, presuming him dead within the first chance he could make the assumption. The thought should have added salt to the wound, but his wound was already rotting and impossible to suture, no hot water or alcohol could clean it, no needle and thread could put it back together as one piece of flesh, and no salt or coal could worsen the pain. Him wearing black was a sick joke. He had confronted Sextus he would not wear black nor attend the funeral to begin with which made the man almost faint, unable to go through the Celtic's mind, thickening with stubbornness day after day but the knight was finally persuaded when he saw Ilianus ready to go despite his injury. The giant did not have anything to do with these people, he owed them nothing, it was quite the opposite, they owed him their gratitude yet showed him nothing till now aside from cheap words. He lost an arm to his jailers yet still was not regretful about volunteering and helping them just out of his ability to do so and sense of humanity and perhaps some honor he did not care to show much of, unlike the lancer.
Diarmuid's acceptance was not alone due to Ilianus reproaching him about not going, he knew he had to. A mysterious force drove him to change his mind, him going was an alibi to his crime… as if he if refrained from coming , it will look suspicious, especially since he was the one who witnessed and told the others of the lieutenant death.
The grieving procession finally arrived, a large sarcophagus towering over the other ones welcomed their sorrowful stares. Made of fine marble and engraved with poems of bravery and sacrificial heroism. Small depiction of Mars riding his horse and wearing his helmet as his cape flew like an intimidating current was carved and painted, a reminder similar to the same manner the dead soldier had arrived at the battle in. Caecilius made the remark that the brave lieutenant had been denied to be buried where he deserved, in Rome among her greatest heroes. Germanous did not comment, nothing the ambassador or anyone else would say could spoil his joy.
"It does not matter where you are buried, as long as people will not forget your deeds and courage."
Diarmuid found himself answering out of place, earning a scandalizing look from the ambassador but satisfied one from Germanous. Gods, he knew he was right by calling him to his side and ordering him to march in his shadow. Caecilius wanted so bad to start a lecture on manners and people's places and ranks but Laurentius added to the lancer's words.
"The body will fade, the memory will stay but for how long? No one knows. Memories never last forever, but the impact an action leaves is what persists and that's
why Lieutenant Plinius burial here will externalize his defense and saving of the city."
The lancer and the counselor both looked at each other before turning their heads away almost instantly. Did they just see eye to eye for the first time?
The recovered crushed body was placed into its final resting place. People hailed the dead and wept him. Diarmuid watched silently, wishing he could jump into the tomb with his red lance, not to bury his shame, it would never be buried or cremated, even if it were to, it will be exhumed over and over again. But he wished to do so that he could have a rematch with Plinius, a fair one, and allow him to take his revenge as many times as he needed, even if he wished to stab him from the back, he would turn it willingly and happily. But he knew someone like Plinius would not return a sinister slap.
Diarmuid lowered his head but then raised it again, watching every part of the ritual and ceremony. It was the least he could do, the least he owed the man.
Plinius was buried, so were the other dead soldiers. A near year of slaughtering and mutilation ended with a peaceful ceremony of death.
How long will the memory keep it? And which will be remembered longer, the tragedy or its delightful finale?
***
After returning from the funeral ceremony, Diarmuid could not bear the trapping of the walls of his room, so he sat quietly beneath a cherry tree shade, her budding blossoms carrying the same color as his red lance. Sextus watched him from afar, unable to tell what was going through his beloved knight's mind. Surely he was not shaken from the battle, he was a knight and a warrior! But maybe he was sorrowful for Ilianus's condition since he would definitely understand and feel it better than Sextus would. The Arena's owner knew there were some Celtic slaves among
the rebellious group, and perhaps that was an additional reason for the lancer's lack of joy or prideful boasting that usually accompanied similar occasions. His admiration grew bigger and bigger toward the man who had chosen righteousness over siding with his own criminal kin but that did not deny him the right to feel some unease and sadness. Then another explanation donned on him, woven of his infatuation with chivalrous tales; maybe Diarmuid was thinking of his own funeral… as a slave and a gladiator… what would remain of his knightly elegance? What grave will stand grand enough to embrace and eternalize his deeds and victories? Sextus took it upon himself to arrange for the knight if he were to die, a no less ceremonial funeral, already forgetting his promise of freeing him.
Preferring not to bother the man, though he wanted to hug him for returning safe and retrieving his spear and clearing his honor, Sextus retired quietly to his room.
Diarmuid did not feel Sextus's presence, his senses veiled by the atrocious way he had violated his honor with. He considered it more sickening than what Claudius tried to force him into. He looked with empty eyes ahead, and her shadow did not show and for the first time he was thankful for that. What could he say? How could he explain? What disdain and disappointment would her eyes reflect? Would she regret her choice in having faith in him and not marrying Fionn? At least the Celtic King did not stab anyone from the back as far as he knew.
It became unbearable.
Suddenly, like a violent breeze announcing winter, the defiled knight stood laying his red spear between his two hands, as if he was cradling a precious relic that had lost its value. He grasped the spear, his two hands close to each other on the lance ready to break it in two. No one but himself could perform this act, no one had the demanded strength to break it or even scratch it. A memory whiffed through his troubled mind, on a drunken dare, one of his previous comrades claimed he could break the crimson spear in two and Diarmuid agreed to despite the protests of his friends and fellow knights; his weapon was said to be carved by the gods themselves, it was peerless and they tried in vain to stop him from accepting and tune down his pride and confidence to no avail, he even vowed to give his beloved hounds to the man if he was able to break the lance, making his friends pull at their hair and bite at their nails because they knew how much the dual wielder was attached to his hounds but the latter's pride and confident was no joke or mere boasting, the daring man broke two of his fingers while failing to crack the shaft even slightly.
Only Diarmuid could break that holy spear that had became cursed, not by fate or gods, not by chance or wiles, but by his own choice and action. His hands shook a little, this tainted spear was still his beloved weapon, a part of his soul, the pen with which he wrote his tales of glory.
When did he become this weak?
When did he become this hesitant?
He did not waver at the choice of the two vile kills he performed at the palace, but now he was wavering and shaking like the tree's leafs above him when faced by the right choice?
A ripe cherry fell onto the lance, and the spear – man crushed it under his hand by accident besmearing his already bloodied weapon with more redness resembling freshly spilled blood. He gazed at the scene… even if he were to break the weapon, this would not erase the act. This choice of destroying the proof of his downfall was true cowardice. He would not run again as he did at the palace and at the funeral, he will bear this guilt to the end of his life, he will carry this burden like the crosses carried by convicted men, tell its story when appropriate , after fulfilling his vows to Germanous and Oscar, and then end his proclaimed honor as it deserves.
How many vows had he pledged by now?
How many remained maintained and how many were broken?
***
The hour was so late into the night, when Sextus's door was being banged crazily. For a moment, the residences of the house thought the gang had returned or their ghosts were haunting them, Ilianus volunteered to open the door, expressing his thrill to see a ghost but the sent messenger was nothing of the sort. He was sent under Germanous's command, to escort Diarmuid because he needed him. Diarmuid was still at the garden, not opening the door out of unwillingness but when he heard the messenger's words and his eyes fell on Sextus's urging ones, he had no choice but to comply. When the sleepy messenger noticed that the gladiator was leaving his spears behind, he said:
"My Lord wishes to see you with your twin spears."
It was not a weird request, the governor's fixation on these twins was nothing new since he first retrieved them for the Celtic convict. But everyone attending there
there could not but wonder why? Was the governor paranoid of the gang returning or some followers of them seeking vengeance? Or was he afraid of an assassination because of his risen popularity and Caecilius hovering over him like an irritating fly? No matter, Diarmuid grasped the two lances, his hand shaking in despite of himself when he reached to the red one.
***
When the lancer arrived at the palace, he was once again led silently with the guard's eyes shifting occasionally toward him from the side in a mixture of owe and curiosity. Diarmuid had the mind to tell him off but retrained himself for unnecessary venting of anger, in the wrong place, on the wrong person. And once again he found himself in the blond's sleeping chamber.
The image of victory and confidence, the high self – esteem he was prancing gracefully with, the challenge to gods, nature, the men who doubted him, to Rome itself, nothing of it was there at the poorly lit room. Germanous was in a simple white rope, probably his sleeping garment, and he was gazing out of the window like usual.
Diarmuid remained silent, waiting the other man to start talking because he felt that if he were to make the smallest sound or movement, the youngster in front of him will shatter into thousands pieces and he was right in his assumption. When Germanous turned to face the guest he invited his eyes, his brownish red mystical eyes, revealed everything.
Mortality, the enemy of every man.
He had just returned from a funeral procession, witnessed the rituals and watched the remains of a once whole man being buried inside the Sarcophagus, closed never to be opened again, denied of air and light and rain… things that corpses would not need or feel in the first place.
Mortality was humanity's enigmatic foe, the only thing remaining truthful and consistent throughout centuries.
Philosophers discussed it, poets tried attributing a meaning to it, warriors gowned it with honor and courage.
It was, ironically, an everlasting question despite its nature of termination and finality.
Diarmuid was a fighter, he faced death many times, against foes and friends, against slaves like him and wild animals, against thugs of his own blood and heritage. He did not fear it, all the knights he knew did not fear it, and praised those who perished in battle, but to win a war, to survive a battle, to return to your home, did that not mean evading death and escaping it since it cannot be dodged when it strikes? Is not that a form of fear in itself?
So no one could be completely spared of that fear.
"I am glad you made it out alive, Diarmuid."
The blond spoke, they were the same words Sextus had greeted him with upon his return, but now they were uttered with a different sentiment. There was no thrill or excited happiness. Instead, there was a sad sort of happiness if such feeling could exist, and it could in the mysterious heart of the blond. Diarmuid thanked him briefly, which surprised the governor and made discontent dawn more on his face. He was not angry, he was just afraid.
The lancer could tell this very clearly, it was a look he saw in Oscar's eyes many times, though not these past days, and in the governor's stares the fear was not spiritual nor material. It was just pure fear.
"Many men died, from both sides."
"This is what a battle results in."
Short answers again. Germanous could tell the lancer was not in the mood for a conversation but he still went on and did not let the man go home, though he knew he probably should.
Germanous, in his white garment that was so thin it could be seen through, adding more to his paleness and revealing additional details to his fragility sighed closing his eyes. The thin slim small body sat on the edge of the bed and motioned at Diarmuid to take a close seat to him, which the latter did silently. He had so much to confess and say, but he had no one to hear him out, even if he spoke, the humiliation would kill him so he would rather punish himself by himself. But the blond did not deserve that, he deserved a listening ear.
"Plinius is no more, and I have just dined with him few weeks ago."
"That is the path of a soldier."
Diarmuid spoke quietly, not as boastful as Germanous had expected him to utter these words, even his lips trembled a little, as if he was shivering from sudden coldness, and his eyes were cast down, and the blond could guess it was not out of respect.
"But you have returned."
"Not to the place I desire."
Germanous spoke with a never heard before sincere relief, that even Diarmuid who had seen the man in many moods did not hear a tone like this one coming out of him before tonight . In spite of this, his reply was cold and harsh and not devoid of
sadness, a sharp one that made the eyes rind with tears the way a lance made flesh seep with blood.
"Diarmuid…"
The addressed man raised his head at the coldness of the smaller hand that reached out to his, to the hand holding the red spear and suddenly his heart bounded. He wanted to present a beautiful image the skeptical youthful governor could believe in and he failed himself and the man too.
Germanous's hand squeezed the lancer's hand and the spear it held.
"Red is the most contradictory color of all. It is so deceitful yet bewitching. It is the color of roses, the most beautiful thing in the world, and at the same time, it is the color of blood, the ugliest site in that same world. It represents the flower and her blossoming yet it represents death and its finality as well."
Diarmuid looked down at the contrast of the pale hand against his tanned one and his crimson weapon. He wanted to draw the lance away, not desiring to soil that pure hand with it. Germanous felt the lancer's hand's muscles twitching so he gripped more tightly to that hand and lance, preventing the act. He looked Diarmuid right in the eye and said:
"I know something had happened there, something that you regret, maybe it was fighting your own kin… and I respect this as much as I respect and admire your will to take the righteous side…"
Germanous spoke quietly, like he was lulling a child into sleep but that child had always been rebellious, and harsh answers seemed to flow more effortlessly tonight.
"You were not at the battle, you did not witness anything, just the aftermath, a funeral procession that whether you win or lose is the only successor to any battle. The most consistent, always announced and claimed, besides…"
Germanous retreated in his bed as the lancer's face kept darkening, but he was not afraid, nor did he expect a murder attempt. He was surprised by how much he belittled what he thought was worrying the lancer. Though he had no clue to that, he felt since the funeral that something was wrong, that his beloved dual wielder was not himself. Something went wrong in that attack, and he could not know what it was exactly. But at the same time, he did not ask anyone questions, letting the lancer take his time until he was ready to speak, if he would be ever ready or willing to. But this cherishment was blown hard by the subsequent words Diarmuid added:
"You were only the righteous side at these specific circumstances."
The lancer was not meaning Germanous himself, and the latter understood this and this answer gave him more insight into the lancer's dilemma.
"I am sorry."
The apology left the governor's lips so easily it put Diarmuid's fit of anger into shame. The lancer took a long breath and sighed nodding in an exchanged apology but Germanous, now holding with his two hands the lancer's hand and his red spear, smiling bitterly, affirmed the ugliness of the situation.
"You are right."
The lancer knew he was right, him being in this chamber as an escorted slave proved his point. But it was still words that should not be spoken by a governor but Germanous was like no other king or prince he knew or came across. His apparent honesty and transparency grew a little bud of fondness inside the Celtic's heart that he was not aware of.
"Listen Diarmuid, I know I am younger than you but I will tell you this… your spears can never be tainted and if they were I am ready to bear the burden, because they fought for me, to clear my name, and they vanquished my enemies, persons and rumors alike! I am in your debt as much as you were in mine when I returned these spectacular twins of art and bravery… and I ended up spoiling them like everything else I touch or try to do… so the blame is mine. A knight you remain, my knight!
Your burdens are mine just as my mandates are yours."
At that moment, there were no governor and slave, there were no king and knight. There were only two souls sharing the same loathsome load, though each unaware of the other's. And maybe this ignorance of the other's nature of plight was what solidified this moment and donned it with honesty and nobility. Diarmuid looked at the governor's lamenting eyes and knew there were still so many dreams that pair of mysterious red wanted to realize and see, and his two lances were the thread where he knotted his hopes.
Will he have to stay here forever? Will he mind this anymore?
The Celtic was lost in his thoughts and self – questioning when the blond lowered his head and kissed the crimson spear, a tear seeping down his moon – c
colored cheeks. The lancer watched this unfold in front of his with awe, that young man, the one others called him an idiot, an unpractical dreamer, a whimsical brat, was the only one able to tell that something had marred some way or another the knight's pride, and that it concerned this red lance specifically, so he tried to purify whatever had happened with a kiss and a tear.
Diarmuid was not stunned as he was supposed to be, or appalled. Strangely, he felt some temporary peace.
Bowing his head just a little to the governor and excusing himself, the latter held to the man's arm as he turned around to leave.
"I do not want to be alone tonight, Diarmuid… I do not wish to face my mortality tonight… "
The lancer did not know what to say or how to answer, but the unspoken suggestion was so inappropriate and not appealing at all to the Celtic. Germanous, with what seemed like the innocence of a child, gestured at the large bed, and lifted the covers, showing the confused lancer that there was enough space for both, but that was the last thing on the Celtic's mind at that moment. Still, he could not resist those beseeching eyes.
"Sleep well, my lord. I will take the lounge. I am not used to this luxury."
Diarmuid found an escape, although he believed Germanous meant nothing bad with his childish acts but he still preferred to resort to the man's company in the distance of comfortable silence. The twin spears lying side by side once more on a cushion nearby the sleeping governor as if they were a charm warding off troubled events and melancholic thoughts, already sworn to his protection.
Diarmuid laughed in irony, the tainted spears harboring great sins where were the poor blond could find peace and safety.
****
The next morning, Diarmuid was surprised to awake alone in the room. Germanous was not in his bed and was not seen anywhere. However, it was plausible, he must have so many things to attend to after the last battle, but the lancer was still a bit surprised at this ultimate trust given to him. He fixed his appearance and left the room, eyed silently yet curiously by every guard he passed by without being questioned or stopped. He did not fail to see the soldiers looking at him then at each other, as if they were confirming a bet or a rumor but he did not care until one servant approached him and told him that his presence was requested in the meeting hall. He knew he should not have any foreboding feelings, he was a hailed hero more than a gladiator now but still, something told him things were not going to continue in a flourishing path.
He had blocked that path himself.
When he arrived, holding his two spears, the scene seemed so natural as if he was not a stranger and no one objected to his presence, even Caecilius. But the aura was unsettling, and Germanous looked grim and Diarmuid could tell it was not because of last night's fears.
Something new was about to happen.
"Lancer Diarmuid, your efforts will not go ignored or unrewarded regarding the battle against the cursed wretches who named themselves the "Justice Pallbearers"…"
Germanous started talking, strangely in a solemn tone but the addressed lancer wanted no reward. He would play the fool but not wear his clothes, and besides, his reward was already promised by Sextus, the only man who could offer it.
"However…"
The lancer raised his gaze to meet the blond who now became hesitant and started to weigh his words, clearly thinking how to put his mind into suitable sentences but the ambassador could not wait any longer and interrupted.
"You know of another Celtic gladiator, a blond spear wielder like yourself… what was his name… mmm…"
"Oscar."
Germanous filled the gap casting his eyes down for a moment then meeting the frowning lancer once again.
"What about Oscar? He fought nobly and deserves his reward as well."
Diarmuid answered immediately, emphasizing his kin's name and deed, then sliding into a voice of mockery at the mention of reward. But Germanous gulped, his face turning unreadable as the ambassador burst into an ugly laughter.
"If you had managed to prove your innocence then he insists on his guiltiness!"
Caecilius spoke wiping his tears, enjoying every word and the show to follow this speech.
"After the battle, he went into a frenzy and killed many of our soldiers, not sparing even the wounded ones, in the name of justice for those he was just fighting against, revealing himself to be on their side."
"Lies, and everyone who was there can testify to that."
Diarmuid answered with undisputed certainty, daring with his bronze stares Laurentius to offer his testimony, not lending one ear to the ambassador's baffling. Laurentius was not afraid of the truth, and he stepped up and started to speak without hesitation or gestures, relating facts.
"While I am not sure of his relation to this gang, he did indeed, as witnessed by many of the soldiers I trust commit these crimes."
"His relation to those bastards does not matter anymore! He proudly claim to be one of them, and he killed our loyal soldiers! He is a traitor!"
Caecilius barked like dog whose tail was stepped on, while Diarmuid knew Laurentius had no benefit from falsifying this account, and he could be trusted not to lie and not to be swayed. He could tell from his resolute face. There remained one last beam of hope, as Diarmuid looked at the governor who nodded confirming the story.
"You call him a traitor, a traitor is someone who betrays his own people and you are not our people!"
The lancer spoke with a threatening tone, eyeing the ambassador like he was looking at a bag of rotten meat, but the irony of the statement and him being the one to announce it reopened every wound he thought was healed with the play of hypocrisy he was sinking into without knowing, the truth showing itself to his mind only now, at this critical moment, but truths only confronts oneself at critical situations, because of its ruthless honestly and that what made a thing or a saying "true". Nevertheless, he went on defending Oscar despite realizing that he cannot gain the governor's support this time, not due to his unwillingness but due to the presence of witnesses and evidences, headed by Laurentius. So he roared sharply at the ambassador who was stunned and frightened at the same time by the slave's impudence. He tried to hide his fear, wiping thick sweat off his face and argued back.
"I would like to throw you at the same cell with him, but you're a fortunate son of a bitch, do not think I was not about to… but Germanous and Laurentius defended you… "
Caecilius exclaimed, half rising from his seat, foaming at the mouth and going on:
"You belong to us, you are unworthy of being Roman, you are our property and any action against your owners is considered betrayal! We are you king, emperor, tribe… or whatever uncivilized titles you claim… for your insolent defiant tongue you deserve a thousand lashes!"
Diarmuid kept staring at the obese man, daring him to give the command as his spears shook in his grip, ready to show the man what uncivilized slaughtering he was capable of and proud to demonstrate it on him, but Germanous stepped in once again guessing the lancer's intent.
"He is speaking facts, these two are foreigners… an accusation of betrayal is unfit but of murder… this cannot be disputed…"
The ambassador stroke his chain half satisfied, while the lancer looked at the blond who instantly escaped his gaze and focused with the sadness it bore on an empty wall.
Diarmuid had no right to feel betrayed by the governor. Deep down he knew he did his best to conceal or deal with the matter differently, but his position, the testimonies, Oscar's own declarations gave him nothing to help.
So that was why he had not seen Oscar for the last few days… he was in prison, proudly claiming to be one of those ruthless shameless bastards, topping this show with an overt evidence by killing some soldiers in front of every witnessing eye.
But why? What did Oscar hope to accomplish by that? What was his aim? He could ask Sabina for his freedom as a reward, the strings lied in his hands yet he chose to strum a different illogical tune.
That day did not witness just Plinius funeral, it had also witnessed Diarmuid's former self funeral and Oscar's as well.