The palace was as active and amiss as it had been for the past few months' with meetings still being held every few days fruitlessly, arguments and plans suggested helplessly, accusations and threats exchanged foolishly. All while the soldiers and warriors roamed the corridors, gardens, and the city's streets seemingly in a uniformed format but clearly aimlessly for any beholder. Caecilius was the most perceptive of these beholders, unable to deny that Germanous was exhausting all his means to reach the thugs hiding place or capture one of them, and to protect his vandalized citizens but something still did not sit right with him. Though deploying the usual motion and routine as futile as they were, it seemed to be a coordinated act, an orchestrated play. The impudent blond took advantage of his previous break down after the bedroom incident and tried to exclude him little by little from attending every meeting or urgent gathering, excusing his "interference" with his worry over his health and praying "faithfully" for his fast recovery. But if the imperial ambassador was not the fastest man to heal from a physical illness, be it fever or food poising, or any mental disturbance, including waking up to six mutilated children, then by gods' names and priests he did not deserve his position and authority. Few words were spoken to him, especially when he noticed the absence of a certain man whom he vowed revenge against, Laurentius. There were a rumor about him getting kidnapped or killed, but no official report was made and Caecilius could not believe a single letter of that rumor. Not because he had a high esteem for the counselor, but because he believed death itself would not want to associate with such a dreary boring figure, death would probably find no entertainment or potency in extracting his soul. The only answer he received was "The counselor is ill." Illness would have the same problems with that man as death, so he remained unconvinced. Turning to his Roman companion, Plinius, he discovered the latter was as much in the dark as himself. He cursed at the man inwardly for his failing hopes in the arrival of a general whom he thought would be his undisputed alley, but turned out to be more bothersome than all of these city's inhabitants.
Then the rumors grew and grew that the "Justice Pallbearers" had killed the counselor, the evidence, though lacking and indeterminable, presenting as the counselor's cape hung at the city's center, raised a chaos the city had not gone through during the entire ordeal. Still, the majority remained uncertain, specifically the palace officials, but the common people feared and speculated. As for Caecilius, he did not digest one morsel of that ludicrous evidence.
Passing by the hallway to return to his changed chamber, as he had nothing of importance to do this day, he glimpsed a familiar figure that was not supposed to be in palace, and that if left to his decision, would be crucified or hanged by now. He followed the Celtic dual wielder, wearing a simple green robe as disappeared inside another hallway. His heart was jumping inside his chest, desiring to follow him and see what was going on, especially after he had noted that the way the lancer was guided to, by a single guard no less, led to Germanous's own chambers. He mused about following his hunch and going after him, but the servants swarmed the place like bees. Then remembering the blond's antics, depraved thoughts flooded his mind and he rushed back to his room.
Was that the reason the young governor protected the obviously conspiring gladiator? He did not refute this idea, but then there was also Plinius testimony. Damn that lieutenant once again! Still, that did not stop him from sitting at his disk, running to it as if it was the last remaining chair or lounge in the world, and start writing his daily reports.
***
Diarmuid wondered around his surroundings with open eyes, he was being led deeper and further inside, not to the usual governing or meeting halls, or to the governor's beloved balcony. He was not afraid but a little suspiciousness trailed unconsciously into his heart, making his five senses alert and on the go. The guard was silent and did not speak to him, and he did not seem to care for the gladiator's invitation or presence not concerned in the slightest. The lancer thought maybe the blond wanted to meet him in a different place, to break the routine he seemed to hate. Maybe there was another grander balcony, or a secret garden or simply an isolated room where two persons, he would not use the term friends or governor and slave, could meet and talk peacefully uninterrupted, out of boredom or whatever emotion the fragile blond was going through and he was certainly going through a lot on his own, no less.
They were similar, somehow.
However, what the Celtic gladiator was not expecting was to be led into a private chamber, huge oaken doors opening to reveal a bed room, cladded in crimson and red, with many different types of flowers and paintings, a statue of two lovers, and a certain blond sitting on his bed, his chest hugging his knees as the red bed sheet was warped around his small figure, held tightly with whitening fingers, his golden lucks barely visible under the thick cover. The guard left silently the way he remained the whole walk and closed the doors behind him, leaving the two men in a strange meeting circumstances that was solely awkward to the lancer. His heart pounded not just for the pitiful sight of the governor wearing constantly a mask of arrogance and confidence, but because the situation also resembled the night Grainne sneaked into his room, pleading for his help and love.
"I am glad you have agreed to come, Diarmuid."
The lancer was not new to this way of humble melancholic way of speaking, both knew had not the option of refusal, yet somehow Germanous seemed to believe that he would, or could, and did not mind, appreciating his acceptance to meet with him.
"How can I be of assistance to you?"
Diarmuid immediately jumped to the point, knowing it would displease the blond, but he honestly got nothing to say. Maybe they had so much to share, mere friendly banter perhaps but he did not allow himself this closeness yet, or ever.
"Always serious… but you have every right to… it is not easy speaking to me…"
Germanous commented miserably, not meaning the difference in their status, but referring to his labile mood and weird changing interests. Pity growing stronger in the lancer's heart, taking once more to his role as a mentor and a "loyal" comrade, he answered with a whiff of a smile which to his immense surprise, was not forced or acted.
"I have been told I am always a good listener."
The blond cuddling himself chuckled, a sigh of relief and a hint of a smile brightening his tired face. But despite this assurance, he remained silent for a few minutes, biting his lips before he finally crawled his head out of the covers, partially, and said with a more composed serious tone.
"I need you lancer, I need you to clear my name!"
Diarmuid did not have to think long to understand what the governor's words implied. The problem was, that he himself was still implicated in the incidents in the eyes of the ambassador and the governor's counselors, and all of them were truly clueless to the threats origin and men behind them.
"With your pure blades, with your honest heart… only you can clear my name… only you I want and have to depend on! "
The knight's heart fluttered with these words, but he did not permit the happiness to last. That was still a command from an owner, a king he crowned in his own mind during moments of despair and thirst for past glory. However, the task itself was not repugnant, he had no excuse not to fight these criminals, not only for the sake of innocent people despite being his enemies, but for his own defiled pride by that cheap display of stealing and replacing his sun woven spear. The issue was with the phrasing. His blades were not pure, and his heart was not honest.
He was knight who betrayed his king and stole his bride killing his loyal comrades by this defiance. His honest heart was defiled long before getting to this game of playing the gladiator, a slightly less humiliating word to his real position, a slave.
"My spear will not hesitate to slay these bastards… but you have chosen the wrong man if your desire is to clear your name and brighten it."
Germanous fully uncovered his uncombed hair, eyes widening as he heard the lancer's words, words he could not comprehend, his stares conveying this with a loud protest.
"I am not the knight you think I am… I have betrayed my king for the sake of a forbidden love… I have killed those whom I have fought and battled with, drank toasts and shared sheds with… and now I am merely a jester for the crowds' amusement."
Diarmuid spoke frankly, feeling no shame upon mentioning these facts for the first time, as if the man he was explaining this to was certain to understand, was capable of judging fairly, although for the lancer, in his case, only one judgment could be passed. A sad smile accompanied his melodious narration, the memories playing the words a sorrowful yet grounding tune. Germanous listened patiently, waiting for more, but the lancer had said all what he had wanted to confess. Germanous raised his head at last, the red cover slipping off his body donned in a sleeping robe, revealing parts of his light colored skin. He glanced upon the warrior standing in front of him, the color of his green robes coursing through his eyes like an infinitely extending field, where many flowers of opportunities and dreams could be seeded and sawed. His hand trembled a little, then stayed in its place holding to the cover. Closing his eyes to this vision, he shook his head in denial to the former knight's words. Then he opened them looking at the man again and spoke with a soft voice, laced with yearning and lament.
"You are wrong, Diarmuid."
The addressed man did not protest to this conclusion, for he cared only for his own conclusion, the one reached to by his conscious and soul, and that verdict was final and undisputed but then, though the sentences flowing out of the blond's lips resembled a feeble breeze, it shook the giant tree deeply rooted in the knight's heart, never to be plucked or shaken yet these fragile zephyrs managed to in spite of their weakness.
"You are a knight, and you will remain a knight. What are warriors without a legacy of love and sacrifice? You are a valiant example… of a legend… you are a legend... and legends are judged differently but always admired… you have lost nothing that would cost you the admiration you deserve… unlike me…"
The blonde talked without meaning to relay a weakness of will or confidence, only sorry truthful facts. The lancer cast his eyes down at the speaking lad who went on, watching him as the latter's eyes radiated with a faint shine.
"You and your love story is a poem that will remain sung and played… I am a mere verse, uncompleted, with no rhythm… unsung…"
The blond's words flew like a tune played a cracking flute, beautifully broken and viciously stirring the listeners to mend that flute and add more layers to the song.
"Legends have their dark and light moment, and love and courage will light your own… you will remain an eternal story… an aspired dream… I am only asking of you to lend me some of that light of yours…"
Germanous spoke, half beseeching without wavering or displaying infirmity, and at the same time without ordering or commanding. It was a favor implored like a prayer and urgent like a demand.
The Celtic knight's eyes glimmered at the words, the lies he had never stopped to try and convince himself of their possibility. However, hearing them from the domain of his own mind only confirmed their falsity. Now he was hearing them from a different place, as far from his heritage and beliefs as the moon from the earth. Could that validate that verdict of innocence?
"Still…"
Diarmuid awakened himself from drowning in renewed delusions but the blond cut him off, to finish asking for his favor.
"Dreams come to everyone, some act upon them and some do not, but that does not diminish their light and beauty. Some dreams have a happy ending, but most lead to a tragic one. I do not wish for that… I do not want that!!"
At last, the nobility and unwavering determination of the governor showed itself, as in the rare occasions Diarmuid had witnessed the lad in action. Reaching his hands to the green robes, he finally let go of the bed covers and held to the vernal clothes startling the lancer despite his gentle touch.
"I want to realize my dreams' happy ending by your side, with your lances and bravery… with your honest heart… I need you to create and defend these dreams with me… by my side!"
Diarmuid did not care for the city's well - being or renovation, but it could provide a new start for him, a start from where he can return to his past glory, to his unfading love, to Grainne. He had already vowed a knight's oath to the blond governor who did not hesitate or waste a second to remind him of.
"Was not that your knightly oath to me?"
The lancer reached in return his hand to the one gripping at his clothes, tightening his fingers around the younger's knuckles in a comforting gesture, a reassuring manner. Germanous did not let go of the hand. His eyes sparkling more strongly with every passing second their hands remained intertwined. He looked at the lancer deeply and stated.
"Laurentius will tell you about all of the details."
The lancer was not shocked in the slightest, he did not believe the rumors. His instincts as a warrior perhaps failed to estimate to which length the man's physical power extended, but he could tell with certainty that he was not a man to be won against or killed off easily. Diarmuid nodded upon hearing these words, pledging his allegiance to the governor silently and assuring him with a heartfelt smile and tender looks that surprised him the most, by how genuine they were. He felt he had not given an honest reaction or experienced a tender feeling in a long time, whether toward himself or toward any other being, as he was not blind to the poorly executed play Oscar tried to carry.
The man was extracted from his thoughts, his smile fading and eyes twitching in a startled reaction. The movement of the blond was as gentle as it was sudden. Still holding to the lancer's hands who was unconsciously trying to pull them away, noticing that the act had lasted longer than it had to for propriety's sake at least, but Germanous held the lancer's two strong hands together with his enfeebled ones, and rested his forehead on the tightly clutched warrior's hands. Diarmuid did not know what to do, so he did nothing. The blond did not seem to care for time, as he closed his eyes, shielding his reddish irises from the ugliness of this world, surrendering them to the peace of the blackness of his eyelids, soft breaths caressing the lancer's calloused hands, as if every breath was counted and meant to heal every bruise or wound those hands carried, to soothe every callous and injury, nesting in return on the warmness of these caring hands, as he whispered:
"I put my complete faith and trust in you to clear my name, my knight."
***
The night fell fast yet hovered lengthily as Diarmuid returned to Sextus's house. The man asked him what the governor wanted from him, and his guesses were correct. He
feared for the lancer's life but he also knew he had to reclaim his honor and would not, by principle, waste the chance to punish cruel murderous criminals. After the brief talk, the two stared silently at each other. The arena's owner could easily foretell what was roaming his knight's mind and Diarmuid did not hesitate to open this subject once again, this time with more determination fusing with a muted anger.
"I will participate, and you know that."
"I never had any doubt or objection."
"This is not of my affairs, but I still hold to the vows I thought I got rid of."
"You never did, Diarmuid. And you never will."
The two men spoke in short brief sentences, realizing what they wanted from each other.
"If I am to succeed and kill the leader of those bugs, you have no right to restrain my freedom any longer. I have been paying a debt I should not owe you to start with."
The lancer was stern, his eyes never faltering. Even his heart did not bound strongly at the thought though it was molded with passion and hopes that had betrayed him times after times. But this was his right, Sextus had nothing to counter this truth with, if they wanted to speak man to man as the latter preferred, and not as a gladiator and his owner.
"Promise me my freedom."
Sextus kept silent, he was not thinking or pondering over the matter. He appeared rather afraid but then he nodded.
"I want to hear these words out of your mouth, a man's promise."
The arena's owner lips trembled a little, like there was a secret he feared to spill, or as if he was haunted by a curse he dreaded its retribution, but then his eyes shone with a wiliness to uphold to the promise.
"I promise you your freedom Diarmuid, when you return victorious."
Hopes were raised again, though not showing on the lancer's face or beating along his heart. His soul did not soar with that promise, but he still held onto Sextus's word.
***
Laurentius in his armor was a completely different image. Prudence and patience remained, the ambiance of disinterest and boredom did not leave, but a quality of power, determination, absoluteness, and potency shone through the man's dark armor and flowing untied hair like the tunes of fate, written long ago, strummed strongly, and promised to befall the unfortunate souls it targeted. He marched amidst his chosen soldiers including some volunteering gladiators who wished to claim fame and freedom with their participation, and among them was Ilianus. Oscar was there as well and when the lancer sew him he felt unease, fearing for the boy's safety out of habit. He concluded firmly that Sabina had intentionally volunteered him just to spite him and distract his attention. However, he could not dwell on the matter, the boy was already there, clearly proud of his presence and weapon. Diarmuid was there for the same promise of freedom but also for another one that occupied his mind equally.
The one made for the governor.
The counselor did not exchange any looks with his troops nor wasted time in a courage honing speech. His eyes met briefly the lancer who was now left with a lonely read gleam for now, refusing to replace his golden one with any other spear Then their stares separated. Everything was planned and discussed, no needs for reminders. Life and death meant nothing, they were a mere fated chance but victory was the sole option.
The troops were divided into small groups so they would not cause a loud motion and noises, taking different routes through alleys filled with pups and whorehouses yet all leading to the destroyed ominous previous palace of justice, and they wore over their armors and hidden weapons civilians clothes in order not to attract attention, passing as drunkard fools. These "Justice Pallbearers" were owls of the night and bats of the darkness and not a chance could be risked in alerting them. Laurentius was hoping they were deluded with false celebration about his death, even if their leaders did not believe this, it was wise to fool their followers to boost their wills. He was not a gambling man, he never placed a bet and tonight was no different. He merely thought the way he believed a leader of such a group would think and seize chances. He did not even risk sending a spy to confirm the location. Tonight could not bear the weight of any risky behavior.
With a sword at his waist, a dark blade with no adoration or engraving, even without a name bestowed upon it, Laurentius gave the command.