Author's note: extra kudos to the person who spots the reference to a different film in this chapter.
Six.
"Nice bruise," came the smart comment, and the currying brush that Lancelot had been using went flying through the air, smacking it's target clean on the skull.
"Bloody fuck – ow, damn it!" Galahad groused, rubbing his head. "Remind me not to make fun of you this early in the morning. What are you doing awake, anyway?"
Lancelot wished he had a clear answer for that; one that made sense to his brain as well as to his heart. He only knew that when he had woken up, alone in Arthur's large bed, he had to get out of there. The stately, beautiful room had felt nothing like Arthur, rather, it had felt like a lodging house that held no warmth at all. Lancelot had thrown on clothing hastily and scooted out before his skin could start to crawl.
Jols had found him snatching breakfast in the pantry, and informed him that Arthur had gone back over to the lady Ligeia's house to check on her, and to investigate what was left of the barn. Lancelot had mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of food, and had retreated to the stables, still the most comfortable place for him. It was the only place on the grounds that felt like Arthur.
Taking out one of the mares that belonged to Arthur, he had begun to curry her, and had just finished when Galahad had come in, making his cute remark. The other man sat pissily on a small stool, and kept rubbing his head, muttering about 'poor sense of humor' and 'get you one day.' Lancelot merely shook his head, and started tacking up the mare.
"Where are you going?" Galahad said, still slightly ticked off. Lancelot picked up the horse's reins, and led her out to the yard, tossing a comment back to the other man.
"Out. Away from here. I'll be back later."
The roads that led away from Arthur's estate and into the city proper were well kept. Lancelot found himself riding aimlessly, following a stream of people that were walking, being carried by chariots, or riding in carts toward the north gate. Arthur's home was a few leagues outside of the city, therefore Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad had not ridden through it on the way from Brigantium. Lancelot found his curiosity peaked, and kept going.
"The famous golden city," he said to himself, and stopped in his tracks just inside the main gate.
Lancelot was no stranger to crowds of people. He had also been to Londinium once, with Arthur and a few of the others back when he was green. But this – this was nothing like any city he'd ever seen, or ever imagined.
Absolute huge hoardes of people poured through the streets, and Lancelot was shouted at a few times before he managed to shut his mouth and move his horse to the side so he wouldn't be run over.
Sun glinted off the many temples and not a few churches; he was surprised to see as many crosses in the air as he did. "Pagans not welcome," he murmured, and spurred his mount.
Making his way along the main thoroughfare, he was yelled at, winked at, shown many many yards of beautiful and hideously ugly wares, propositioned (not just by women), and in general overwhelmed by the largeness of it all.
Arriving at last at the foot of the colleseum, he dismounted, tying his animal to a free hitch, whispered to her he'd be back, and strode determinedly toward the stone monstrosity.
Hearing cheering from within, he stopped, wondering what was going on, when a portly old man with badly dyed hair approached him, oozing oil and false charm from every pore.
"Good day, sir, and how are you finding our fair city?" He sidled up to Lancelot, taking in his dress and whistling at the sight of the double blades on his back.
"Swordsman?" he said, grinning, showing all eight of his remaining teeth. Lancelot rolled his eyes. "How did you guess?" he asked with as much fake enthusiam as possible. He tried to move away from the man, but the salesman followed, determined now that he had found a potential target.
"Interested in the games, sir?" the man said. Lancelot stopped, then turned. "Games?" he asked. The salesman smiled toothily again, and nodded vehemtly, some of his greasy sweat flying to land on Lancelot's cheek. Lancelot grimmaced, and wiped it off.
"Oh yes, sir. Some of the best gladiators in the world fight here. We have all sorts of exhibitions – animal fights, battle reinactments, and first blood matches. Although most people find those boring," he said, pooh poohing the idea. Lancelot wasn't exactly sure what 'first blood' matches were, but he had a vague idea it wasn't something he'd care to see.
"If you hurry, you can just make it to the next match," the man said, throwing a friendly arm over Lancelot's shoulders, then taking it off when his skin met the cold steel of one of Lancelot's short swords. "Maximus Decimus versus Tigris. Both very famous men. The latter is from Gaul – he's very fierce, they say."
"Do they, now?" Lancelot said, his patience wearing thin. "Look, friend, I'm just having a poke around. I don't need to pay to see anyone fight, trust me," he continued, his hands going to his hips, surreptitiously checking his small coin purse. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was still there, then moved one long fingered hand to rest on top of the hilt of the small dagger he wore at his waist.
"Well then, if you're sure," the slimy man said, backing away at the sight of the bearded foreigner fondling his blade, "but be sure and stop in on Verdana street – my sister owns the food stalls there, and she makes the best lamb you'll have this side of Greece."
"I thank you for the tip. Good day to you."
The old man tilted his head to Lancelot, and slipped away through the crowd, hoping to find an easier mark. Nutty foreigners. Man had to be ex-legion for sure.
Lancelot shook his head as the man left; he had absolutely no desire to see any fighting, much less a fight he had to pay for. He walked slowly around the colleseum, the roar of the crowd and the smell of cooking meat making him slightly sick at his stomach. Passing the statue of Colossus, the namesake of the monstrosity he had just circled around, he saw the aforementioned Verdana street, and decided to take a detour.
The road started out as a nicely done wide affair, many shops and homes decorating the sides. He kept walking, enjoying the sun on his face and the smells of Roman life. Perhaps the city wasn't as bad as he had thought. He ought to have of given Arthur a second chance to speak of his home. Smiling wryly, he made his way down the street. Not that Arthur was any more from Rome than he was from Britain. The man didn't have it easy. But then again, he didn't choose to make it easy, either.
As he walked, Lancelot thought on the events of the night before, his hand coming up to rub at his bruised and still slightly swollen lips. If he shut his eyes, Arthur's body ghosted up around him, and he shivered, skin pricking even in the hot day. The man would never release him.
Shaking his head again, this time in self recrimination, Lancelot didn't notice the change of scenery, or the fact that the street had narrowed to a one way lane.
He snapped out of his daydreaming when he heard shouts again. He looked up, and cursed silently.
At the edge of the thining street, the houses widened out again, this time into a circular area that held a small, pathetic park, two or three trees fighting for the same tiny spot of soil.
There was a ring of wood planks, with a few bedraggled, soulless looking women roped together, and their obvious broker was working the crowd. Lancelot spit, clearing his throat, trying to get rid of the thick taste of bile that rose up at the sight of the slave traders.
He could abide some things, but slaving? Not one of them. His own life had been way too close to that for him to be able to stomach it. A snatch of one of Arthur's empassioned speeches on free will suddenly snuck into his mind, and he was rooted to the spot, his dark eyes narrowing at the sights that assailed him.
On another corner, a man was spouting loudly to anyone who would listen. Lancelot thought at first he was yelling gibberish, until he caught a few words that sounded like 'house of God,' 'Jesus,' and 'ultimate sin.'
He was finally able to make his feet move, disgusted by the sights, and ran straight into a youngish girl and a waifishly thin boy. They didn't say anything, merely stared at him as he muttered apologies. The boy clutched a small linen sack, which Lancelot was pretty certain contained all their worldly possessions. The girl turned her head very slowly, and looked back at him as they moved on by.
He swore later that the girls eyes were colorless. Or perhaps it was that he couldn't remember the color, due to the overwhelming sores and marks on her face.
He had seen abject poverty before, but nothing like this. He stumbled over his own feet, swore again, and began a fast trot out of the cul de sac, going in a different direction then he had arrived in.
Moving down a different side road, he looked straight ahead, studiously ignoring the tiny children, the women aged before their time, the whores, both male and female, that called out their prices to him as he passed, and the smells of rot and decay that seemed to waft from everywhere. He barely avoided stepping in an overturned waste bucket, and had to leap over a snarling, bone thin dog that was sure Lancelot was trying to take over it's territory. He also ignored the smear of blood on the mongrel's mouth.
Bursting out of the end of the alley, he turned back onto the main street, and came face to face with the most gaudily bedecked building he'd ever seen. Not two feet from the end of the hideously underprivileged road, stood a church, obviously new, gleaming in the sun.
Lancelot stared, his mouth slightly open, his eyes dazzled by the gold of the crosses that topped its spires.
Is this the work of your God? Is this how he answers your prayers?
That tiny little underground prison; every one of the poor landworkers dead. Including women and children.
Lancelot gagged suddenly. He raced around the corner of the church, and promptly brought up the little breakfast he had had. Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, he strode back toward the colleseum, his feet echoing sharply, his head swirling with anger and outrage. He had spent more than a decade fighting for this city, and one day's exposure to it's 'sights' was enough for him.
Finding his neglected horse, he soothed her nose, then mounted, racing through the crowded streets, some people yelling at him as he almost ran them to ground.
He couldn't leave the city fast enough.
Arthur sighed and kicked at the ashy remains of Ligeia's barn. He hadn't found much left, except for melted metal that had obviously been part of horse tack or machinery, and more bones and pieces of horseflesh than he had hoped to find.
"Damn it," he swore, "what happened?"
Gaius, Ligeia's steward and head of household, approached him and the men he had brought with him. They had spent most of the day cleaning up, and searching through the wreckage for anything that could be salvaged. So far, not much luck.
"Gaius," Arthur said, and the man tilted his head. "Anything, Lord Castus?" the steward asked, and winced a little when Arthur pointed to a small pile of debris. "Scrap metal. Bones. Dead horses. Nothing to go on," he said, running a hand through his sweaty, sooty hair. Gaius sighed, but nodded. "I will inform my mistress," he replied.
"You can inform her now," came the lady's voice, and both Arthur and Gaius turned to greet her. She looked a bit pale, and was dressed very simply, but Arthur thought he hadn't ever seen such strength in a person before.
Actually, looking at the lady's hair and her combs, he was reminded he had seen courage like hers before.
"I'm truly sorry, Ligeia," he said, going to her and taking one hand in his. "There's honestly not much left. The three horses we managed to save I'll send back tomorrow with some men," he added, "they're being cared for at my home now."
"I appreciate that, Arthur," she answered, squeezing his hand gently before dropping it. "What have you found here? Anything of use?" She walked slowly to the edge of where the barn had stood, staring at the small pile of detritus Arthur had gathered, frowning down at it.
He followed her, and crossed his arms. "Not really. Not anything usable. Ligeia," he hesitated; she turned to face him. "Is there any reason someone would want to harm you or your home? Anything you can think of?"
She shook her head vehemently. "No, none. How could anyone want to do this on purpose?"
"What about Marcus?" Arthur asked softly. "Was there anyone – or any reason someone might want to get back at him, through you?" He hated to bring up the option, but Ligeia's husband hadn't been an angel in his life. There was always the possibility someone would still hold a grudge – and would do something like burn her barn out of spite.
"Oh God," Ligeia whispered, her hand going to her mouth. She looked down at the pile of metal scraps again. "Well – I would hope that wouldn't be the case – but Arthur, I just don't know. I'll have to go over his accounts again," she mused. "That might tell us something."
Smart. Arthur nodded. "Yes, do that. I'm going home to check on some things, then I'll be back to see if you've found anything. We don't want something like this to happen to you again if it can be avoided."
He turned to find his horse, when she spoke. "Arthur – are you positive this wasn't an accident?"
He faced her again. "No. But I'm not ruling out the idea of arson, either. There were no laterns lit, no lightning strikes. What would have caused the entire barn to go up before anyone even smelled smoke?"
She shook her head sadly. "I wish I knew. But I do know one thing," she added, walking to him, "I know I'm a very lucky person to have such a friend as you."
Arthur smiled, but raised a hand. "It's no less…" "Than you would have done for anyone, I know," Ligeia said, finishing his sentence. "Arthur – one day you will realize just how worthy a man you are. Until then, it's up to me and your other friends to remind you."
She squeezed his fingers one more time, then turned back towards the remnants of the barn, and her household staff. "They need to be fed," she said to herself, "and I can see to that. Arthur," she called out to him as he began to leave, "please thank your Sarmatian friends as well," she said. His lips flapped; how did she…? "I see it in their eyes," she answered, "they would follow you anywhere. They couldn't be anyone else."
Arthur stood frozen, then merely bowed to her. Finding his horse, he mounted, and rode back toward his own estate, and the problems he didn't want to face.
Lancelot was pacing in the small orchard, kicking a few of the fallen apples, when Arthur finally made his way outside. He was tired, his back was sore, and his eyes were red from going over paperwork from Marcus' household accounts. The man had been meticulous, that was one good thing. The bad thing was that Arthur was sure there had been book cooking going on; he just couldn't quite find it.
"How's your lady?" Lancelot asked rather sharply, seeing Arthur walking toward him. Arthur, being distracted, didn't react to the tone. "She's scared, and confused. But I think I might have come across something in her husband's records," he mused, and sat on an abandoned short ladder that had been left by one of the trees.
"Truly," the other man answered. Lancelot's ire was rapidly growing into full fledged anger. He had felt ill all evening after arriving back from the city; Gawain had tried to get him to talk about the visit, but he had refused. The other knight had backed off, seeing the haunted look in Lancelot's dark eyes.
And now to see Arthur not even noticing his mood? Only caring for the well being of a woman he had only known less than a tenth of the time he had known Lancelot?
He knew he was being petty, but at the moment, he really couldn't care less.
"I saw your city today," Lancelot began, still pacing, the timbre of his voice dangerously low. Arthur looked up from his hands, his attention at last where Lancelot wanted it. "Oh?" he said carefully. "And how did you find it?"
"Well…how to begin," Lancelot said, sarcasm in high evidence. He sat on the ground across from Arthur, his knees bent, his elbows resting on them. "To start with, the gladiatorial games? People actually still pay to see things like that? What a forward means of entertainment," he said, tongue fairly dripping acid. "And what classy citizens they use to hawk the games. Oh, and don't let me forget the slave market! Selling thin, broken women for pennies a body. A bargain to be sure," he said loudly, stroking his chin. Arthur hadn't moved except to lean toward Lancelot, his eyes never wavering from the other man's. "Oh, yes, the best part? The homeless children and animals living in the midst of dumped waste and offal, not two steps from the biggest, richest church I've ever seen! A grand city. Something to be proud of, my friend. I don't understand why you ever left and joined the military; who would want to leave such an advanced place?"
The breeding ground of arrogant fools?
Ordered. Advanced. Civilized.
Arthur's head dropped into his hands. He was silent for many minutes; Lancelot began to feel a little niggle of worry creep into his heart, but he pushed it away. He was disgusted and hurt, and he was damned if he would back off now. He never had before.
"Why didn't you wait for me?"
Lancelot's ears perked; he leant forward. Cupping a hand behind his ear, he smiled broadly at Arthur, a baring of teeth that left no question as to his true mood. "I'm sorry, what was that? Why should I have waited for you? So you could show me the cleaned up version of your home? So you could have extra time to spend on a woman who didn't follow you to hell and back for fifteen years? Answer me, Arthur! Would she have shed blood for you? Would your precious church have cared if you had died for this place?"
And there it was. The same argument, the same thing they had always clashed over. God, the church, Rome. Arthur's war with himself over his ideals, and Rome's thoughts on duty.
"God damn it, man," Arthur said, so quietly Lancelot could barely hear him, "don't you dare start that. I will never forget – can never forget what you gave for me. I wear it like a weight around my neck. I will wear it til the day I die. Oh, Lancelot," he continued, his eyes soft, his body the picture of abject misery. Lancelot began to chew on the inside of his cheek worriedly. He might have gone too far this time. But gods! What would it take for Arthur to see reason?
"Arthur," Lancelot answered, finally moving to kneel at the other man's feet. "You are free of your service now. You can do whatever you wish. You're free – just like the rest of us. And yet, here you sit, stuck to your old fashioned ideals. Look at your city, friend. They killed your mentor for merely having the balls to say what he believed in. The church abandoned you in Britain to fight for a cause not your own. You let me leave," and his hands clutched at Arthur's knees, harder than he had wanted, "…you let me leave." He had so many other things to say, but when those four words came out, he trailed off. You let me leave.
Arthur's hand went to Lancelot's face; his fingers tripped along the high cheekbones and familiar plains like he was touching the rarest of old parchment.
Lancelot stared up, waiting for an answer. Any answer.
Arthur's mind was blank. His famous ability to wear people down with speech had abandoned him. Truthfully, he could never gloss over anything with Lancelot. The man had the uncanny ability to bring out every single piece of crap that Arthur never wanted to deal with in the first place. Arthur wanted so badly to be able to lie to his friend, to tell him whatever he wanted to hear, but he knew if he even opened his mouth, everything he didn't want to admit would pour out.
"Arthur? Don't you have anything to say?" Lancelot whispered. His heart sank into his stomach. Oh, gods. He had really done it this time. He had finally made Arthur so angry that he was going to leave Lancelot alone. Again.
You let me leave.
"Gods," Lancelot breathed, and stumbled back from Arthur on his knees, his hand going to his crimson face where the familiar weight of Arthur's fingers had been.
Had he dreamed it?
"I'm sorry to have bothered you with this," he said, his voice flat. "I should have sent a messenger ahead when we had planned to visit, so you could have known we were coming. I apologize for intruding upon your life."
His back hit one of the apple trees, and he stood, his world tilting, his bowels like water.
You let me leave.
"Get some rest, Arthur," Lancelot finished lifelessly. "We'll be out of your hair soon."
He turned, and made his way stiffly toward the main house.
Arthur felt the vibration of the door shutting, but didn't move.
end six.