Chapter Three: The Lark and the Lion
Lark felt a thrill in her throat, egging her onward, toward the day. Today would be a truly great day. Today...well, today she was going to be free.
The guards had been by the night before, telling her of her draw, of the announcement of the battle between two legends of the arena.
"Appeal to the crowd, Lark," Gregorius said, one hand against the cage as though he wanted to open it, set her free. He'd been one of her guards since she'd come into the ownership of her current Dominus, back before she'd been known as the Lark. She couldn't remember what they'd called her before Maggoria and her Sarmatian whore, back before she'd known what to do with a blade.
"I've never asked anyone to save me," she said. "If the Lion kills me, then he kills me. It will be past time."
"A man isn't meant to fight a woman in the arena," Antarion said, face creased in obvious dislike. Antarion had been a guard for many years before Lykopis had been born, and now, he held his position in name only. Rarely was he seen in full armor, but his son often did his work for him. In true Roman fashion, he'd named his son after himself, and the boy had taken to Lark back when he was still watching the games form the stands in the arena and not from the tunnels below.
"I've fought men before, Antarion. I'll live to fight men again, or I will die in the arena. My freedom comes for me."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Antarion snapped, wrapping hard against the bars once with his fist before stalking away into the darkness.
"There are ways to win the crowd, win the arena," Gregorious said once Antarion was out of sigh. "Win your rudis."
"The Dominus has no love for me other than what I bring him in coin. I have no love of him to beg for it. The crowd has always loved me, but they love me in the arena. Killing. Being killed. It doesn't matter. Go home, Gregorius. Kiss your wife and see your son grow. Tomorrow, watch me from the tunnels, and no matter whose blood soaks into the sand, celebrate the victory."
Lark stood behind the gate, Gregarius and Antarion flanking her, staring with sad eyes out into the sunlight. Her heart beat in her throat, promising war, blood...promising freedom. The light weight shield against her arm felt as it always did, an extension of herself, the curved blade in hand as if another finger. Readiness was not a concern, but something itched at the back of her mind that never had before. Something would change today, something would make it a truly great day.
"On this day, on this day, friends, we have a true spectacle!" The orator could be heard even down in the tunnels, and the deafening roar of the crowd followed it after half a breath. "The Lark-" Her gate opened, and she stepped through. The crowd screamed. A great day. One last good showing. "and the Lion!"
Lark spun on her heel, turning toward the center of the arena, where another set of doors opened. From the darkness, the man known as the Lion came. He was a large man, probably one of the largest that the arena had seen in years, with his namesake's mane hanging around his neck. He opted for a heavy axe instead of a blade, and a round shield, both far heavier than Lark's own weapons. It mattered little. A slight blade could end a life. A heavy one could cause a misstep. The Lion was a big man, though, and Lark had seen him in combat before.
The crowd screamed their joy at his presence, just as they had welcomed her.
A split crowd. A split decision. A truly great day.
Lark turned away from the Lion, raised her sword and waited. A silence fell over the crowd, and in that silence, she let the cry of her people rip from her throat. She turned in a wide circle, bringing her blade up for the crowd to see. It echoed her war cry back at her, pleased with her offering. Across the arena, the Lion screamed his own war cry, one that wasn't Sarmatian, wasn't Roxolani, but it was familiar to her as she ran at him.
The Lion took two hulking steps forward, raising his shield against her blade and bringing the axe around in a sweep waist high. Lark ducked under it, rolled forward, between his legs, and just missed tripping him up. By the time she'd rolled to her feet, he was on her, swinging his shield and axe both as weapons. She managed to dodge the axe time and time again, but the shield battered at her arms and shoulders, across her back and chest.
Again and again he swung, and Lark danced in and out of range, bringing her blade up quickly, making small, insignificant hits in the openings he allowed. Finally, he lunged too far, and Lark slipped along his outstretched arm, turning away from a blow from his shield and raked her blade along his chest. The crowd roared even as she danced away, unhappy with her blow and the knee he'd brought up last minute to knock the wind from her lungs.
She kept out of his reach as she regained her breath, on the run for the first time in years. Blood sang in her ears. A challenge. Possible freedom. A truly great day. The thrill distracted her, and she came forward without thought. In the next moment, the sharp edge of the axe was cracking through her shield, carrying her to the ground and pinning her there. Her breath left her yet again, and dazed, she stared up at the sky.
Clear. Blue.
A bird soared high overhead from one end of the arena to the other, and as it gave a great flap to it's wings, she was startled back to the reality of the sand. Lion's head was up, his axe poised overhead. The orator had spoken. She was to die. Still on her back with her blade at her fingertips, rage flooded her.
She was Lark.
She was war.
She walked with Nemesis.
She was not ready to die.
A flare of something lanced through her like fire, sparking her nerves and propelling her onward. In a moment, the blade was in her hand and she was lurching forward, using the Lion's thigh as leverage to pull herself up and bury the blade into flesh and organs. Blood splattered out, misting her face and dropping thickly against her arms. He fell forward, and she rolled clear of him in time to not be pinned by his body.
Painted red, she smiled up at the sunlight. Another day. Another great day, she might die. Today was not so great.
"Do you have no honor?" the orator shouted, and the crowd fell silent at his wrath. "You lay beaten, and yet you refuse to die with honor!" What was death with honor? Lark felt the weight of the arena watching her, felt the warmth of Lion's blood on her skin. To lay there and die would have been without honor. To give up without the effort.
A murmur ripped through the crowd, some shouting for her death, others her war cry. She stood as the gates opened on either side of her. The round shield was useless, shattered by Lion's last strike, but the sword in her hand would still serve. None came for several long minutes until finally, the guard filed out into the arena, flanking her at either side, their swords in hand. Gregorius and Antarion among them, Lark tipped her head to the sky and took a breath.
A truly great day after all, perhaps the greatest of all days. She would not see either guard killed for her life, for something she wanted taken. She slackened her grip on the blade, eyes still watching that circling bird of prey.
"Hault!" the orator shouted into the arena, both hands held toward the heavens. Lark glared at him darkly out of one eye. Slowly, his thumbs turned upward, and the guards slipped back into the shadow of the tunnels. Rage flared low in her belly. She'd never needed saving before, never asked for reprieve. She turned toward the orator. "You have been spared the arena!"
The words struck her sternum like a shield blow, sending the air from her lungs and making her knees weak. Spared the arena meant freedom. A rudius. A name. The crowd screamed out, some in joy, others in anger at losing one of their bloody gladiators. She nodded once, wishing she had the strength to throw her blade far enough to lodge in the orator's chest, and disappeared into the darkness beneath the Colosseum.
Gregorius and Antarion met her at the gate, smiles on their faces. She ignored their congratulations, their enthusiasm. Nothing in the world was free, and she'd not yet paid for her freedom. As was ceremony, they lead her to her cell for the last time, letting her strip off her armor and the blood of the sand. Bathed and in the clothes she'd been given for time between fights, she waited her wooden sword, her rudius.
The orator came later with one of the Roman Bishops, a pompous man that Lark had seen from time to time in the orator's box.
"Lark! You bloody creature," the Bishop said, holding his hands out to her through the cage bars as if he would embrace her. She did not rise from her seat against the wall, she simply stared at him, at the ignorance in him. She could have crossed the cage in a second, pulled his arms in close enough to reach his head, snap his neck, end his life.
"You would do well to thank the Bishop," the orator said, voice clipped. Still angry. Lark smiled at him, aware that it made the man uncomfortable. The orator had been down many times over the years, and each time he fled her smile. "It is on his favor that you were spared death ad gladium in favor of servitude of a Roman Commander."
Her blood froze. If there was freedom offered, it surely had been snatched in that moment. Service to a Roman. Service to another commander that stole someone from their home, killed indiscriminately.
"I will not serve!" she shouted, taking a step forward. As she did, the Bishop flinched backward, stumbling over the trail of his robe and nearly falling to the ground.
"You will serve!" the Bishop said, righting himself. "You will serve Commander Artorius Castus and his knights." He turned away from her to the orator. "See her prepared in the morning and brought to the stables by sun up."
They left her in her cell, more angry than she'd been in years.
-The Lion and the Lark-
"Your new slave," the Bishop said, arms held out to indicate her in a grand gesture. Uncomfortable on her knees with her day clothes stolen from her and forced into strips of cloth that some of the gladiatorix wore to win the crowd, she glared up at the man, willing him to step just a bit closer. Her shoulders ached, and the heavy feel of chains against the metal collar was unmistakable. Gregorius and Antarion-the younger-held either length, keeping the chain taught enough that if she moved, it would cut off her air. They were intelligent, fair, and she'd trained them well through the years with her disobedience. She shifted experimentally, checking the bar that bound her ankles apart carefully. It would hold.
The Bishop prowled around her, eyes trying to eat up exposed skin. Gregorius shifted not only once but twice to block the Bishop's view of her flesh. She resolved to not cause the man any more trouble until she left Rome. The man the Bishop declared her new Dominus was a tall man, with a strong Roman jaw and intelligent grey eyes. His men had been in earlier, when they'd brought her in. One was sharp eyed, slight but strong with Sarmatian tribal tattoos on his cheeks. The other was tall, bald and silent, build like Lion had been.
"Why is she thus bound?" the man asked. Lark could feel Gregorius and Antarion's eyes on her at that. She fought down a smirk at their glaze and glared up at the man that would call her slave.
"Lark is a bloody creature," the Bishop said. He made a gesture behind her back that had his own guards taking over her chains. She tried to hide the plan forming in her mind, the way that the chain started to sag on just one side.
"Hold her tightly," Gregorius cautioned. One of the men listened, the other did not. As the chain loosened to the point where it dipped below her shoulder, sagging nearly to the dirt, she caught the quick glance of Gregarius and Antarion. She gave them a small smile before pivoting on her knee, snatching the loose chain with her bound hands behind her back and rolling forward, forcing the guard to the dirt. She rolled backward, ignoring the pain in her hands at the movement, and pinning him to the ground with a knee again this throat.
His hands scrabbled at her skin, mind shut down in panic.
"Do you see?" the Bishop asked, making no move to help his guard. Gregarius and Antarion gripped her firmly by her shoulders and pulled her backward, planting her into the dirt with more force than they normally used with her. Her wrists ached at being pinned beneath her weight.
"Can't behave for five minutes?" Antarion asked, though there was a smile on his lips as she stared up at him.
"Is it my fault he couldn't listen?" she asked. Vaguely, Lark heard the tattooed knight swear and disappear from the stable. Good, she thought, as she lay in the dirt. Let them worry. "Should have killed me in the arena." And they should have. At least, ad gladium, she'd have had her freedom.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Gregarius said sternly, easing her up off of her shoulders.
"How many do I have to kill before I know about death?" she asked, too angry to lash out at the slack chains until they once again had them in hand. Germanus stood in front of her in the next moment, glaring down at her with a riding crop in hand. She smiled up at him, willing him to lash out. It would be nothing but a memory from another time, when she stood silent and took the lash.
"Insolent bitch," Germanus breathed and brought the crop across her face, forcing her head to the side. The sharp taste of blood bloomed along her tongue, and Lark smiled up at them, teeth bared and pink. "You will pay for this far more than I have," Germanus said to Arthur as he turned back to him.
"That I do not doubt, Bishop."
"Perhaps you should learn to beat the dog before you get out on the road with it. I know you have a soft heart for such beasts." Germans held out the riding crop, and as Arthur hesitated, Lark urged him to take it. She wanted him to grip the weapon, lash out at her as Maggoria did or even as those that had trained her in the years since.
The big man put at end to her silent will as he reached out and took the crop, placing himself between Germanus and Arthur, as if a slave had such a place.
"Arthur would not dirty his hands. Her punishment will fall to me," the big man said. Lark knew it to be true. She'd seen such things in the past. Some slave owners won the loyalty of their brood by never personally putting them to pain. Lark would not be such a creature won. "And you are so masterful at it, I doubt she would think to disobey again so soon."
Lark had to give the man that he'd put the Bishop on his heels. Angry at being denied his showing, the holy man puffed and adjusted his robes, but he couldn't say anything with the compliment the slave had slipped in.
"Then take the beast," Germanus ordered. Anterion and Gregarius passed off her bindings to the two men that flanked Arthur. They held her firmly, but not unkindly, not tugging or making her lose her balance.
"You're ready to leave?" Arthur asked his men, as though their thoughts mattered. Lark watched as both men looked to their own horses, packed and ready to make leave. "Get her a horse."
"You put her on horse, and she will be gone," Germanus said, face turning red in annoyance.
"Then she will be gone," Arthur agreed. "After all, she is mind to do with as I wish." The words made any good will left in her heart whither and die. Lark would hate this man, as she had hated all those that came before him.
"I belong to no one," she hissed, pulling at her bindings to check for weakness. When she found none there, she only raged further. "Kill me, Roman, or you will regret it for the rest of your numbered days." Arthur considered her a moment, and simply nodded, turning to his horse.
"Her her a horse. Bind her down." Lark thrashed against the two men that lead her to her feet and toward a stall door. The sweet ring of metal from a sheath was the last thing she heard before something struck her head and darkness reigned.
-The Lion and the Lark-
Lark feigned sleep as long as she could as the horse swayed beneath her. Her legs had long since gone numb, and her arms, bound behind her back, were no better. The easy movement of the beast kept her calm longer than she'd have liked, but soon her unease drew attention.
"Untie her," Arthur said, his voice strong. As if his word had gone to the horses themselves, they ceased their slow walk. "We'll rest the horses."
The blindfold that had been settled over her eyes was taken away suddenly, and the harsh light of day made her blind for several long minutes. When she finally blinked her eyes clear, the sharp eyed man looked down at her.
"You will listen," he murmured, voice hard. "I am going to untag you, and unbind your legs from the saddle. You will not kick me. You will not bite me." He said everything as if it were fact, as if he knew that it would be instantly obeyed. It was equal parts impressive and maddening that he thought he could control her with words.
She relaxed her face, forcing it into the half-dull, half-serene look of a warrior on the battlefield. The gag went first, and she worked her tongue along her teeth, grateful for the freedom, if only for a moment. The moment he freed her second leg from the stirrup and binding, she rolled sideways, off the far side of the horse and took two stuttering steps before her jellied legs rebelled. She slumped to the ground, glaring heatedly at the stinging limbs, as if they'd offended far more than they had.
The sharp eyed man came around the horse and crouched in front of her.
"You will not run," he said simply, voice calm as if he were talking to her horse or a stray cat. "You will listen to Arthur, and you will behave yourself."
"And you will get away from me before I cut your cock off and stuff it up your ass," she threatened, but he only quirked the corner of his mouth at her. She had to admit that the threat was just a threat. Her hands were still bound, her legs would not be of use for some time yet, and she was without a weapon.
"Hostility will get you killed," the other man said, drawing her attention away from the one that still smirked at her. Her eyes flickered between them, qualifying the ease with which they held themselves, the confidence of their backs. She wondered, for a moment, if she'd found men that could kill her.
Perhaps, there was one great day awaiting her yet.
"My name is Arthur Castus," the commander said. "You will accompany me until we get back to Briton." Lark's heart rebelled at more orders, yet more demands of her. And yet such was her life still. "From there, I don't care where you go, but I will not leave you out where the Romans can take you back." Take her back? She nearly laughed at that. She had gone quietly once, many years ago, before she knew how to defend herself. It would not happen again.
"What power do you have, Arthur Castus, with which you claim my life? Gold? Coins that you earned by trading other slaves?"
"I offer you freedom, and you do nothing but spit like a viper," he said, voice coloring with annoyance. Lark felt something almost like pleasure curl in her stomach at that.
"My freedom was offered!" she shouted at him, lunging forward on her burning legs only to be caught around the shoulder and forced back down. "I had it!" The notion that it had been there, in the arena, at the hands of Roman guards as she killed as many as she could...her last freedom had been there, and this man...this Roman had taken it all.
"Your death was offered, girl. Arthur saved your life," the third man said, and she looked at him through a predator's eyes, through the eyes of the gladiatorix of the arena. She'd seen men like him how many times? Aodhan had looked like that, before... Something thick and dark rose in her throat, spat out on her tongue.
"And you?" she asked, fixing him with the look she'd learned made even men fear her. "Has he saved your life? Stolen your one last freedom?" The big man started, staring at her for a long while before turning back to see to the horses. She watched him go with a grim satisfaction before turnign back to Arthur, who had crouched down in front of her, one hand on the ground as if the world had moved from under him.
She felt guilty for a moment—a very brief moment—as he stared after his man.
"Don't tell me you couldn't tell," she said. "I don't know him, and even I can tell that man wants to die."
"You know nothing," the sharp-eyed man said, cuffing her ankle as if he would a misbehaving child.
"I have given you my name," Arthur said, as he shook himself free from whatever darkness that had claimed his mind. "I would ask yours, if we are to travel together until Briton."
"Call me Lark, for that is who you bought."
"I bought no one," Arthur countered, voice hard, and for a moment, she almost believed his lies. "I do not travel with people whose names I do not know."
"Then you can't travel with me," she countered. He had the look of a determined man, and she went cold at her heart. She had no name to give him, even if she'd wanted to.
"Do you remember your name?" the sharp-eyed man asked her. The little sliver of cold blistered outward, splintering and freezing her still for too long.
"You don't remember your name," Arthur said, voice too close to sympathy.
"Lark was the name they gave me when they sold me to the arena. Lark is who lived in the sand. Whoever I was before is dead, Arthur Castus, under the heel of your Roman Empire. I have been the Lark, Roxolani, Morrigan. Your people, Roman, your people called me slave. Take your pick because any name will be more true than my own."
She had hoped that her anger would unsettle him, propel him away from her and keep him that way. Instead, he settled onto the grass, that soft look still on his face.
"This is Tristram," Arthur said, pointing to the dark-eyed man beside her. "That is Dagonet. I was not lying for your benefit. When we get to Briton, you will be free to do what you will. If you leave my company now, Rome's hands will follow you. You will find yourself alive in a dungeon, for the rest of your days. Follow me, willingly, and perhaps, when you remember your name, you'll have someone to tell it to."
She considered him a moment before nodding.
"Fine enough," she said. "A deal, then? Give me my hands, and I won't disappear. I won't kill your men, and if you take this collar from around my neck, I will ignore that your man said he was going to be taking flesh from my bones."
"And you will behave," Tristram said easily, as if he could make her obey. Judging from his confidence, he might have thought himself man enough to try. The boredom to his tone infuriated her, and she sat in the dirt, quietly vowing to make him use something more than that bored tone.
"The women, they don't much care for you, do they?" she asked, hoping for a flash of pain or some remembered slight to rise in his eyes. Almost immediately, Arthur had thrown his head back in laughter, baring his throat. It would be easy, even bound, to lung forward and teach the man that humans may have forgotten they were gifted weapons, but that some still bared teeth for more than smiles.
"No, but the wolves don't mind his smell overmuch," Dagonet said, and there was a smile on his lips and his voice that was unsettling. Lark was sure the man might light the entire world, if only he had a reason to smile more often. It nearly made her sick. Arthur make a choking noise, and in a second, Tristram was up and stalking toward Dagonet, taking his own horse beyond the next rise.
Lark watched him go, recognizing the sullen retreat for what it was, a warrior licking his wounds.
"I didn't..." She bit into her tongue viciously, ignoring the sharp tang of blood. "If he can't deal with the consequences of being a domaneering ass, he shouldn't act the part."
"You didn't hurt him," Arthur said, his eyes settling on her. "He's uncomfortable and not admitting his own feelings at the moment." He rose, rubbing at his knees like an old man. He pulled a dagger from his side and cut her hands free. She felt the blade slip against the outside of her wrist, and as the rope gave way, she twisted, catching the blade in her palm and wretching it free from his hands. Blood pooled and ran between her fingers as she flipped the weapon and brought the blade up and back.
"Remember, Arthur Castus, that while you own my life, I owned yours, right now." She looked back over her shoulder at the commander, who swallowed against the tip of the blade. "For the breadth of a breath." She opened her palm, letting the dagger and blood fall to the ground. Arthur relaxed and dropped the rope that had bound her wrists.
"Keep it," Arthur said, eyes locked on the blade. "Here." He bent and picked it up, handing it back to her, handle out.
"You don't want me armed," she said, standing.
"I don't want you useless should we need you," Arthur countered. "You've already pledged not to kill me men. Why should I fear you?"
"I swore not to kill your men; I was mute on the subject of your life," she said.
"Go on, kill me then," he offered, holding his arms out wide. "You're armed, and if you're quick enough, you could get to your horse before Dagonet could kill you. Of course, Tristram could kill you no matter how far you'd gotten before he knocked an arrow."
"Oh, I don't know," she said, holding the handle of the dagger out to him. "Your guard dog seems to be watching me close enough. I think he could get that war hammer off the ground in time to cave my skull in."
"I said if you're quick enough," Arthur said, and the little smile on his mouth make Lark want to take the dagger and reshape his face. Arthur took it before she could act on the anger. "Best remove temptation."
"Best," she echoed and sat back down. Tristram had built up a fire, and Dagonet had settled the horses down into the grass..
They rested the horses in silence, the three men relishing in their release from Rome and Lark trying to decide if she liked the feel of free hands and feet or if the phantom ache against her wrists and ankles was because she missed the familiar. Her neck ached as she bent forward to take an offered piece of bread, and she knew the answer.
No, she did not miss it. The ropes chaffed far more deeply than her skin.
"You bleed," Dagonet said, eyeing her critically.
"Everyone bleeds, or did you think you were a god?" she asked, glaring up at him. Even seated, he was tall enough to make her look up at him. His perpetual frown reminded her of Aodhan as he glared down at her. Except Aodhan was gone. He'd been gone.
The crowd roared as the Celt stepped out onto the sand, his executioner's blade hanging from a hand. Lark watched from beneath the arena. Her own fight had gone well, and she'd spent the better part of the day watching the games. She'd never missed one of Aodhan's fights, never forgotten her first teacher, her first instructor.
Aodhan never saw to the crowd's pleasure, never postured for them or considered them. What he did was punish those the crowd hated, and he did it screaming.
Three chained men were marched naked into the arena, their skinny little limbs shaking from the weight of their fate. The orator spoke on their sins, and Lark ignored them. Instead, she watched the Celt. Normally, Aodhan considered the men that he was to execute more readily, but today, he stared up at the orator as if the man held all answers.
The normal pride in his back was gone, replaced with a resolved look in his eye. Lark watched him as the orator shouted out for the death of the three men. Aodhan turned away from the orator then, away from the men and looked to the door across from him, where his brothers stood, where Patrion and Natrius stood watching before finally looking over to her.
The old Celt raised his executioner's blade, flipped it with a flare he rarely used, screaming as he turned back toward the three men. One stumbled back, eyes wide with terror, piss running down to wet the sand. The other two held their ground, jaws set in preparation for the afterlife.
The blade spun one final time, came down and around, buried deep in flesh.
Lark heard the crowd silent for the first time in her life. Aodhan stood on shaking legs, his own blade buried deep in his chest. Lark heard a shout from across the arena as Aodhan fell to his knees, staring stubbornly up at the orator's box.
Lark did not scream out. She did not mourn. For the first time in her life, she knew death as something more than a punishment. She knew death as freedom.
"No, you're bleeding," Dagonet said, startling her from the past. She knew. How could she not know? The game she'd played with the Roman guards in the stable hadn't been without pain, and her pathetic escape attempt had ripped open any scabbing around her neck. Blood had soaked through the rope and rolled down her back and chest.
Dagonet stood, pulling a dagger from his boot and stepping toward her. She shifted sideways, attempting to put more distance between herself and the big man. "Be still," he chided as he pushed the tangled mess of her hair over her shoulder so he could see.
The blade was cool as it slipped between her skin and the rope. The bloodied constraint ripped away, taking little pieces of scab and skin with it as it went.
"How long as that been on you?" Arthur asked, eyeing the strip of tortured flesh that run around her throat.
"How long was I in the arena?" she asked. They'd placed it after she'd been bought by her Dominus, and with each misbehavior, it had tightened in retribution. The question sparked the idea of time in her mind, of a duration spent on the sand. Dagonet rubbed a gritty paste into the wound, stinging and raw. Even with the biting pain from rough fingers and the ache from torn skin, she felt better.
Nothing to hold her. Nothing to mark her a slave. Perhaps Arthur had been honest with her. Perhaps he'd...
"Did Dominus...did he tell you how long I'd been there?" she asked. The Roman word for master felt heavy on her tongue, too scripted. In the arena, failure to address your Dominus as such resulted in starvation, and while she'd not ever bowed a knee to Maggoria, she'd been brought to heel quickly enough by her Dominus.
He'd been an older man, straight backed and wrinkled, Roman to his core but fair. Rebellion was handled with quick pain and quicker dismissal. A cane against the back was the most common punishment, and Lark felt it many times. Still, despite his holding her collar, she couldn't help a grudging respect for the man. He was old, even by Roman standards, and he still ran his house without the embarrassing displays of Maggoria's house. There was no screaming or posturing, no abuse of his slaves for his own failure.
Unless disrespect was offered. Lark knew the pain that failing to respect her Dominus brought. She had no desire to feel it again, but the word was too heavy on her tongue.
"No, but Bishop Germanus mentioned some fourteen years," Arthur said, and she nodded. It had felt longer, but surely she wasn't older than forty, and thirty felt right. She was thirty years old. They sat there longer than they'd planned, and as the sun started to disappear over a rise, Arthur ordered a halt to their progress for the day.
Tristram kept on with his mare, disappearing into the failing light.
"Where does he go?" Lark asked, uneasy at the disappearance. In the dark, men could appear like wraiths. There had been a games in the dark of night once as punishment for a poor showing. As she dismounted, she wondered at the feeling in her belly.
"Scouting," Dagonet said, turning from her to start a fire. "You are safe. Tristram will see anything coming from long off."
"And who watches your scout?" she asked but was ignored. It was odd, wondering after the safety of anyone other than herself. It had been years since Aodhan's suicide, and everyone else in her life was as gone as he was. Cetius was no loss, especially at Netius's brawling fists. It was the blade that severed Netrius's neck a moment later that she mourned. Pation's leaving wasn't to be mourned, not with the wooden rudius in his hand, not with his freedom bought and paid for with his handsome smiles to the crowd and his endless victories on the sand.
Lark hadn't thought after the life of another being in years, and now sitting in the dark as Dagonet started a fire, her sharp eyes watched the darkness for their scout and for the men around her.
A fire going and their horses unsaddled, Arthur and Dagonet settled to eat from a pack that had come from Rome. Thin strips of salted meat were a delicacy, but Lark had known them before. She quietly took a chunk of bread Arthur offered, but the meat was ignored.
She slept that night without chains supporting her arms. Free to toss and turn in the grass, she found for the first time she had no desire to do were stars overhead, stars she hadn't seen in fourteen years. In the early hours of the morning, when the daybreak chased the last of them away, she rolled over one last time and slept.
-The Lark and the Lion-
Arthur woke the next morning sluggishly, and as he sat up and stood, Lark watched him vomit into the dirt, falling to his knees in the weakness that came with sickness. Lark had watched the scout go in a similar fashion a few minutes prior, and it was only her knowledge of the salted Roman meat that made her smile at the commander as he emptied his stomach contents.
"Tris?" Arthur called, settling back on his knees. "Are you well?"
Tristram grunted from behind Lark, where he lay on his side, dry heaving into the air. "Never trust a Roman," he said once he'd finished. Lark was almost gleeful at that.
"Never trust your own stomach," Lark countered, pleased when Arthur jumped. He'd not seen her standing with the horses brushing out the animal's mane with calloused fingers. "The food is too rich, and when they ride out, they soak the meat in salt. You will not die."
"You knew this?" Arthur asked, holding his rolling stomach.
"Everyone in Rome nows this. It is a trick they played in the arena," she said simply. All Roman soldiers had grown used to the salt on their long rides. It was clear the Commander had been long from mother Rome.
"How long?" Tristram asked.
"The vomiting for a day. You'll be weak another day after." In the arena, they'd given the meat as a false reward. Those that took it and lived through their next bout never again touched food reward passed down by the guards.
"Are you unless?" Dagonet asked as he eased upright, face still heavy from sleep.
"Too much salt in the meat, Lark claims," Arthur said. "Did you not eat?"
Dagonet shook his head. "I do not trust the Romans. I have something that will calm the stomach let me—"
"Tristram is ill as well," Arthur cut in. "If you could make a tea?"
"I will boil water," Dagonet said and moved to his saddle. Lark spent the better part of that day lounging in the sun and laying in the grass, pleased with the feel of it cool against her skin. A few times she'd made comments to Dagonet as he nursed the two men, but mostly, she just relished in what felt a lot like freedom.
The sun long set, and as the stars came out, she felt uneasy. Arthur still slept on, having caught fever during the day. Tristram had woken hours ago, but he only sat sluggishly by the fire, willpower more than anything else keeping him upright.
"Don't look so might not up on your horses," a voice called from the shadow. Lark was on her feet in a moment, back to the fire, ignoring the words that were said but pinpointing the voices in the darkness. At least five voices had spoken before the first came into the light. He was not a large man, not particularly intimidating, and he only held a blade. Tristram was uneasy on his feet a few paces off, and Dagonet stood, his war hammer too far away, tucked into his saddle.
"Girl?" Dagonet called to her as the rest came through the fire. She smirked at him knowing full well the question in his voice. What would she do?
Six in all came into the firelight, all with hand to hand weapons. Lark launched herself at the first man, slipping under a short sword's stroke and snapping her elbow up with her own, shattering the joint and easily taking his blade. Behind her Dagonet had taken out two men already, and Tristram, sluggish as he was, dealt with a fourth.
"Arthur!" the scout's panicked tone made Lark glance at the Commander, still asleep on his bed roll, a man over him, both hands gripping the hilt of a long sword. There was a choice to make, in that moment.
Her body moved before it was made, diving in a roll toward the fire and grabbing one of the burning branches. She brought it up, smashing into the side of the man's head. He crumpled sideways, and she snatched his sword from the air and bought it spinning around to split the last from shoulder to sternum.
Tristram and Dagonet spoke quietly behind her, and she stared down at the sleeping Commander. Unease in her belly, she tossed the brand back into the fire and buried the sword tip into the dirt.
"Arthur?" Tristram called.
"He's fine," Lark said. "No one touched him." Lark watched as Dagonet moved to check on him anyway until he sat back, looking from Tristram to Arthur and back again. In the span of a few seconds, both men were laughing.
"You've lost your minds," Lark said as she bent over one of the corpses. There were things she needed, if she was to survive out here, in this world beyond the sand. They laughed themselves out as she pocketed several gold coins and a dagger.
"Probably," Tristram said.
"We do not loot," Dagonet admonished her once he realized what she was doing. He didn't stop her though, as she strapped a short blade to her calf and bucked another to her hip. She deftly rolled a series of daggers into a bit of leather and tied it up with boot laces. It was easy, this searching, she decided. In the arena, when a brother or sister died in their cell, taking what they had sat far more uneasily in her stomach. She gripped the man by his armpits and drug him into the darkness, away from their camp.
"What are you doing?" Tristram asked as she returned from dragging away another body.
"You want to sleep with the dead?" she asked as she went through another corpse.
"Would not be the first time," Dagonet said. She took another corpse into the darkness, and when she returned, they were still speaking.
"If she wanted to kill us, she'd done it when I was ill," Tristram said.
"Too easy," Lark countered. The last of the men had been drug far enough away for her liking, so she settled to the grass by the fire. "If I'm going to kill you, you'll be awake, well and armed."
"An honorable killed," Dagonet said.
"Isn't that all that separates these men from you?" she asked. "Or is it that you follow Arthur instead of another?" She stared up at the sky, the stars lulling her again. Briton, she supposed, might not be such a terrible place, if it had stars like this and Arthur Castus kept his word.
