Chapter Two:
Of Golden Apples and Spilt Wine
"Galahad, wake up!" ordered Gawain, but not unkindly. The younger knight opened his eyes and blinked in the dimness of the room as his brother knelt next to his bed. "Always the last to wake and the first to bed, and now you insist on napping as well?"
"Didn't mean you had to wake me…" Galahad moaned.
"Didn't have to wake you?" Gawain repeated unbelievingly. "It is sundown. Don't you want your freedom, little brother?"
The knight, who had accidentally (whatever his brother may think) fallen asleep on his bed, sat upright with a start.
Seeing his brother now awake (and aware), Gawain began to leave and called over his shoulder, "The other knights are already there, I'm sure."
Galahad cursed himself and scrambled after him.
When he reached the large conference room, it was just as Gawain had said; the other knights, as well as Arthur, were already present. The centerpiece of the area was the Round Table, a large, dark wooden structure, hollowed in the middle and polished to perfection. It took up the majority of the space, and could seat thirty people, though now it usually held only seven. The drafty hall was made somewhat cozy by the large stand-alone fireplace that stood within the wooden circle, as well as the sconces spaced throughout the room, which was otherwise lighted during the day by clerestory windows. The walls, which included white engaged columns, were decorated with mosaics and gold leaf.
"Ah," said Bors when Galahad made his entrance. "We didn't wait for your arrival to start pouring the wine. Hope you don't mind."
"As long as I get some," he responded, taking his seat at the table, which was one down from Gawain. A few places to his brother's left sat Tristan, and a few down from him Bors, next to whom sat Dagonet. On the other half of the table sat Arthur, and a few seats away from him was Lancelot, a ways to Galahad's right. Seven, all told- seven out of the original thirty.
Because of the spacing, Bors, Dagonet, and Tristan had a wine carafe, and Arthur and Lancelot another. Gawain shared a carafe with his brother, and passed it to him as Arthur bid Jols, "You may fetch the bishop, now." Jols, who'd been standing near one of the doors, nodded and left.
"Where were you, anyway?" Bors continued the conversation.
Galahad grunted and drank some of the wine.
"Sleeping," Gawain answered.
He decided then to gulp down the rest of his wine and refilled his cup.
Noticing this, Lancelot couldn't resist. "Washing a bad taste out of your mouth?"
Galahad stewed a little in his chair as the others laughed, but, being the youngest, he was used to being the object of the others' teasing.
Gawain decided to come to his brother's rescue. "He wasn't with one of your women, Lancelot, I assure you."
Lancelot grinned and raised his cup to Gawain, acknowledging an even score.
Amidst the others' chuckling, Arthur stood up and raised his wine goblet. "Let us not forget that we are the fortunate ones." The laughter died down and the other knights followed their commander's lead. He continued, "Let us raise our wine to the gallant and extraordinary men we have lost, but who will be remembered for eternity."
All brought their cups to waiting lips and drank down some wine. Then Bors: "To freedom!"
"To freedom!" Galahad shouted with the rest, and emptied his goblet.
As they all sat back down, Gawain asked Arthur, "So what are your plans for after our release? Will you stay here for any length of time?"
"Stay here?" scoffed Lancelot before Arthur could reply. "Come now, Gawain, and use the gifts the gods gave you."
"Gifts the gods gave me?" echoed the other knight. "The gifts the gods gave me I use in battle- or in bed." The men again burst into laughter; Lancelot getting bested twice in one night was rare indeed.
Just then, however, one of the doors swung open, and the bishop's aide swept into the room, nose held so high in the air he could barely see over it. "His Eminence, Bishop Naius…" Slowly it seemed he took in the nature of the room, and especially the table. Obviously, it chafed against his haughty sense of propriety. "…Germanius," he finished weakly.
The knights stood to welcome his entrance (except for Tristan who decided to pour himself more wine before rising in a conspicuously nonchalant manner). Not noticing his aide's floundering (nor the grin Jols was trying to hide), the bishop glided into the room, wearing the same facial expression as the man before him, but decidedly more…sinister. His countenance morphed into disgust and concealed anger when he, too, finally noticed the Round Table. To cover this nasty shock, he forced out in his Roman Latin, "I was given to understand that there would be more of you."
Galahad raised his eyebrows and a couple of the others scoffed as Arthur answered smoothly, "There were. We have been fighting here for fifteen years, bishop."
"Of course…" replied the clergyman.
As they'd been speaking, several servants poured into the room with platters which held ornate golden goblets, in a number more than were needed. As a pretty girl came up to Gawain and Galahad, the latter picked up one of them, and saw they all contained wine. Tentatively he sipped some, and was, despite himself, impressed by its quality.
The bishop had been speaking: "Arthur and his knights have served with courage to maintain the honor of Rome's empire on this last outpost of our glory." As he spoke, he moved around the table, holding aloft another of the goblets, and as Galahad looked he saw large jewels flickering on his fingers. This drew his attention to the rest of his attire; his robes were black with royal blue, red, and of course gold, and something about them rang familiar in Galahad's memory. Then he had it: were those not the same robes that the decoy had worn? Surely the Romans would not have duplicated such an expensive garment for a man who was undoubtedly serving a punishment. How long did they wait to strip the body? Galahad thought with disgust. What did they even do with it? A wonder he was shot in the head, lest the robes have gotten soaked in blood. Germanius continued, "Rome is most indebted to you." He stopped walking between Arthur and Lancelot; apparently, he felt that was the spot where he could muster the most honor. Raising his goblet, he toasted, "To you, noble knights, in your final days as servants to the empire."
"Day," interjected Lancelot. "Not days."
The bishop simply smiled and motioned for them all to be seated. When they had done so, he set aside his chalice and began with the appropriate pleasantries. "The Pope has taken a personal interest in you, and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the word of Our Savior, or-?"
"They retain the religion of their forefathers," Arthur informed him. "I've never questioned that."
"Oh, of course, of course," the bishop muttered under his breath thoughtfully. "They are pagans."
Galahad had been willing to tolerate the clergyman's elaborate dead man's clothing, his opulent jewels, his golden chalices, his silky way of smiling, the way his words slithered and wrapped around the air in his unfamiliar accent, his attempt to mollify them with good wine and hollow words about service to the empire…but why always with the missionary work, the implied insults of inferiority? The knight bristled in his seat.
"For our part," Germanius declared, "the Church has deemed such beliefs innocence, but-" Innocence! "-you, Arthur? Your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room."
The young knight found something odd in the way the bishop spoke of Arthur's monk, but his commander again ignored the tone of the clergyman, or was oblivious to it. "He took my father's place for me," he responded, a small smile alighting his face. "His teachings on free will and equality have been of great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome."
Bishop Germanius raised his eyebrows and stared a moment, but, clearing his throat, he returned the smile and moved on. "Ah, Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation. You are a hero; in Rome, you will live out your days in honor- and wealth." He beamed at the knights, expecting them to find this as wonderful as he.
None of them were enchanted with the idea; they would not be living out their days in honor and wealth.
"Alas," continued the Roman, feigning regret in his segue to true business, "Alas, we are all but players in an ever-changing world." As he spoke, his aide produced a long wooden box and set it in front of his master. "Barbarians," the clergyman emphasized, "from every corner are almost at Rome's door. Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts, such as Britain."
Gawain, Bors, and Dagonet all stood up, eyeing the bishop's box as he made to open it.
The bishop responded to this by adding more authority to his voice, "What will become of Britain is not our concern anymore." He paused, and in a deceivingly indifferent tone added, "I suppose the Saxons will claim it now." Running his fingers across its smooth surface, he unlatched the box.
"Saxons?" Arthur inquired sharply.
"Yes," answered the bishop calmly, standing up. "In the north, a massive Saxon incursion has begun."
Suddenly the pieces began falling into place for Galahad. The Romans had known about the Saxons' advancement for a long while, they must have, for the bishop to know of their position. For weeks or even months, then, the knights had been fighting here, when in the end…
Lancelot was trying to remain civil, but could not mask the anger in his voice. "Saxons only claim what they kill!"
"And only kill everything," added Gawain, in a deceptive monotone.
Galahad struggled from raising his own voice and fidgeted in his chair. "So you'll just leave the land to the Woads…and I have risked my life for nothing?"
"Gentleman." The bishop tried to make his smile appear genuine. Slowly he turned the wooden box so it faced the rest of the knights. "Your discharge papers with safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire."
Galahad stared at the box, which contained six beautifully white scrolls. Rising from his seat, he leaned his hands forward on the table, shaking slightly; it was his freedom, and for a moment he was deaf and dumb to everything else in the room. I have dreamed of this for so long! He had only to reach out his hand…
"But first," the clergyman interrupted his trance, "I must have a word with your commander."
The knights didn't budge.
"In private," he enunciated menacingly, sitting back down in his chair.
Arthur glanced quickly around the room, and immediately tried to pacify the situation. "We have no secrets," he told him, as an explanation.
The bishop slammed the box shut, no longer pretending to be civil. The sound reverberated about the room, as if a door that led to escape and beauty had been opened, and was just locked to their entry – perhaps, irrevocably.
After a thick silence, Lancelot sighed and lifted his golden goblet. "Come," he addressed the others. "Let us leave Roman business to Romans." He said 'Romans' like a swear word. The knight smiled in an insubordinate manner and mockingly toasted them before starting to leave.
Galahad frowned and looked down at the table, gazing straight into his own chalice. The wine still swirled within it. No use letting such good vintage go to waste. He picked it up and, following his brother, took it with him out of the room. He didn't want to think at that point…
Lancelot, leading, stalked through the building until he came to the exit. Ripping open the door, he turned to the outside wall and slammed his palms against it with a cry of anger. Gawain crossed his arms and steadily walked a few more paces before halting to contemplate the sky. Galahad leaned back and resolutely downed the rest of his wine. Dagonet stood still in the quiet street, expression unreadable as he regarded the other knights. Tristan held one of the large gold chalices in his hands, and was turning it over in the moonlight for a better look. Bors, who had also taken his goblet, chucked it at the building across the street. Wine splattered on the stones and dripped down sluggishly.
Sluggishly, like the decoy's cold blood.
"Why won't he just give us our papers?" Galahad moaned, trying to ignore how the wine suddenly didn't sit well in his stomach.
"Well, I don't care!" yelled Bors at no one in particular. "I'm not going to let the bastard ruin this night!" He calmed down some and pointed his finger at them all. "This night, this night marks the beginning of our freedom. I might not get those fifteen years back, but right now, I'm going to take what's mine, and I'm going to do what I want." He paused to look at the other knights one by one. "In celebration, I'm going to the tavern. Who's with me?"
- - -
Galahad closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to block out the sounds of drunken revelry around him. In his left hand an empty cup hung loosely, and he had half a mind to let it fall, just out of apathy.
"Hands off, now!" came a woman's voice near him, too loud for him to ignore.
No peace! thought Galahad. At this point he did let the cup fall, but it was so noisy outside the tavern, as it was a nice night and most patrons were outside, that he didn't hear it clatter. Crossing his arms, he resigned himself to the noise and looked for his fellow knights. Bors was off near the bar itself, as Vanora worked as a maid there, and was watching their (newest) child. At a table full of Roman soldiers was where he found Lancelot; he was playing with tali, and gambling, of course. Tristan was standing a ways away, drinking silently, and Gawain was chatting with Romans, along with a few local women. Dagonet was nowhere to be seen.
"I said no, sir, Titus had these ordered for himself, to be brought directly to his quarters this evening." It was the same woman speaking.
By the light of the moon and the torches flickering in their sconces, Galahad searched for the source. He found her quickly, as she was quite near him, and recognized her as another of the young women who worked at the tavern. Nearly at once, however, a bright flash caught his eye near her, and his gaze was drawn to what, exactly, Titus had wanted.
It was a basket of fruit, and glimmering juicily on the top was a perfect golden apple.
A wave of memory and emotion surged up and threw itself against him, a sweltering blow to his chest. A golden apple! At first he was embittered, but then…then the tide came and the sea ebbed, and it was replaced by a wind – a wind that filled his sails with hope, carrying him toward his freedom, which had moments ago seemed so intangible…
He decided that he must have that apple.
"Having trouble, Catriona?" he asked the girl without moving from his spot. He spoke in British; the majority of the villagers never bothered to learn Latin, nor did they speak the tribal language of the Woads.
The couple men who had been pestering to have some of her fruit backed off when they saw they had caught the attention of one of the Sarmatians (no matter he was several years their junior), and Catriona smiled at him in thanks, then ducked her head and fiddled with her long, blonde braid. "No, Galahad," she answered, regaining her confidence. "I was just about to deliver this basket to one of the officers."
"Surely, though, I deserve a little something, as well? You realize, we are free tonight." Grinning winningly, he sauntered up to her and placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to return his gaze.
Her breath caught. "But Galahad…" She was blushing furiously.
"Very well, Catriona," he said. "You deliver your basket. But you could, perhaps, spare…an apple?" he picked up the yellow fruit in his hand, and propped it up on his fingers in display.
"All right," the girl giggled. "But tell no one!"
"Naturally," he responded, bowing and stepping out of her way. Galahad watched her leave the area, then held up the fruit for inspection. The contents of the basket must have been washed, for there was hardly a speck of dirt on it, and it seemed even to the knight that it was of exemplary shape and balance. He imagined also its taste, that it must be the correct equilibrium between sweet and bitter: the glory of promise. Now, I think I know what compelled Ivan…He brought the apple to his lips, intending to bite into it, until he heard Vanora's voice.
"Would you like some more, Tristan?"
Galahad glanced up to see Tristan extending his cup out to be filled by Vanora, who held a pitcher of wine. No, no, thought Galahad. This apple should not be for me. After Bors's lover moved on, the younger knight approached the older. "Tristan," he said simply, offering the apple to him. "Here."
The other Sarmatian first drained his cup before turning to regard him. He raised his eyebrows and with a hint of condescension replied, "An apple?"
This was not lost on Galahad, but he would not rise to his bait, not tonight, not for this. "Not just an apple, Tristan," he clarified. "A golden apple. We have won this battle, beaten the Romans! And this…" He paused, wondering if the knight, with so many responsibilities, and who was so...adult even had any recollection at all.
At first it was indiscernible, but slowly it seemed Tristan's countenance changed, as if it were made of wax and was too near a fire, yet not close enough to soften completely. He gazed steadily at the younger knight, and through his eyes Galahad knew that he remembered, and he understood.
Tristan took the apple and melted back into the crowd.
"Galahad!" Gawain, shouted, smacking him on the back. "There you are, little brother!" Clearly, he was beginning to get tipsy from the wine. "How about some knife-throwing, for old times' sake?"
"A friendly competition?" grinned Galahad. "Of course. However," he added, deciding to take advantage of the fact that Gawain was slightly inebriated (and ignoring that he himself was as well), "let us heighten the stakes. After every throw we must drink, and whoever can keep hitting the chosen target wins."
"I will set it up then!" cried Gawain. "Come, Rhona!" he invited one of the village girls to join him.
"Some wine for us, Vanora!" ordered Galahad at the outside bar. "In a pitcher, if you please. A large one."
"I don't think you could handle it by yourself, lad," teased Bors, who was leaning against the counter.
"Gawain and I are to have a contest." Bors grinned in response as Galahad turned back to Vanora. "Three parts wine, not two."
"Three parts?" asked Vanora.
"Ah, let the boys have some fun," said Bors, and that was that.
Galahad carried the pitcher and two cups over to a nearby table, next to which Gawain was standing. His brother had taken a chair and put it on another table. "We must hit the back of this chair – the side of it, really," he announced.
"Excellent," replied the younger knight. "And, as this is a celebration, I have opted for two parts water, three parts wine."
"Then let it begin! After you, Galahad." With that Gawain sat down and pulled Rhona onto his lap to watch his brother, her dark hair mixing with his own lighter locks.
Galahad extracted a small knife from a leg sheath and made sure it was still in good condition (though there was no reason it shouldn't be). It was a fine, thin blade with an ivory hilt; a gift Arthur had given all of his knights after his first battle as their commander. Satisfied, he focused on the slender piece of wood, raised his arm, and threw. A split second later, it stuck out perfectly horizontal from the side of the chair back.
"Not bad, little brother." Gawain stood up and gave him a cup full of wine, then, drawing his own ivory-hilted blade, got ready to repeat his brother's feat. Galahad sat and put his arm around Rhona, gulping down his drink. Thud! Gawain's knife landed a few inches above Galahad's own.
"Good aim," complimented Jols, who had come up behind them to watch with a few others.
"Ha!" scoffed Galahad. "He won't be aiming so nicely after this." He held a cup out to Gawain, who handed him his blade in return.
And so it went for several rounds, until the brothers were somewhere between pleasantly and roaring drunk. It was Gawain's turn; he took his knife and set it on top of his boot, then shouted, "This is how you do it- balance is the key." He whirled his arm like a windmill.
"Enough fooling, Gawain!" laughed his brother. Undaunted, Gawain flicked the knife up with his boot, caught it, and swiftly let go of the blade, which still landed neatly in the chair, now notched and battered. He guffawed loudly and stumbled up to retrieve it. Galahad swigged out of the refilled pitcher (as he had lost his cup some time ago) and laughed with him, but didn't bother now to get up, as it would mean removing Rhona from his lap. "No, no, you're supposed to leave it there until I go!"
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Gawain. "No matter! I shall do it again! Give me a drink!" Jols handed him one, and he downed it before taking up his stance again. This time, he did not wait as long to throw it. He still managed to have it lodged into the wood, but it was a bit further down than usual. "Your turn, Galahad, and I'd like to see you do better!"
"As you shall!" he promised. Galahad turned to the woman in his arms. "Wish me luck." She laughed and kissed him thoroughly before he stood up to take his turn. Taking a deep breath, he unsheathed his blade and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and hurled the knife, which landed at a desirable longitude, where a man's heart might be. Galahad grinned amid the applause as Gawain made a noise indicating what he thought of it.
Suddenly, however, another ivory-hilted blade sprouted out of Galahad's.
The knight whirled around to locate the culprit, and found a man with a partially carved yellow apple in his hand. "Tristan!" He really, really might have known. So much for the moment they had shared earlier; the older knight was back to his old vexing self.
"How do you do that?" Gawain asked him.
Tristan swallowed what apple was in his mouth and pointed at his knife wedged in the other's ivory hilt. "I aim for the middle."
Trying to stem his anger, Galahad stomped up to the chair and ripped the blades out of it. He tossed Gawain's to him (who caught it), sheathed his own, and then marched up to Tristan, who calmly plucked the remaining blade from his hand and continued carving the fruit before he could threaten him with it. Galahad frowned, but before he could say anything, Bors yelled above the clamor, "SHUT UP!" Everyone did. "Vanora will sing."
Vanora's protests were lost in the resounding cheers of approval from all members of the crowd. "Sing about home," suggested Galahad. He knew Bors had taught her some songs from their native land, and her voice wrapped very sweetly around them.
"Don't drop the baby!" laughed Gawain, as she was holding hers and Bors's youngest.
"Sing!" Galahad shouted again with the others.
Finally, with a shy smile, she stepped forward. Then, imagining her baby was her only audience, she began. "Land of bear and land of eagle, Land that gave us birth and blessing..."
As quickly as it had come, Galahad's irritation vanished to be replaced with a lessening of weight he hadn't known he'd been carrying, along with a hint of melancholy. Not when he saw the bishop's carriage, not when he saw the scrolls neatly set within the polished box, but now, now was when he felt it was real, it was truly happening: he was going home.
"We will go home, singing our song. We will go home…"
Her voice flitted through the air, surrounding him and arousing memories of the long forgotten past. Suddenly it was not Vanora singing, but Busana; she smiled as she sang, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder and tickling Galahad in the face. The small Galahad sang with his mother this lullaby, while the grown-up one in Britain closed his eyes and mouthed along to the words.
"Hear our singing, hear our longing. We will go home across the mountains. We will go home, we will go home…"
"We will go home," Busana sang softly.
"I'm sorry mother," wept Galahad. "Will you forgive me, now that I'm home?"
His mother smiled and tucked the small boy in with the threadbare blanket. "Of course I forgive you, Galahad. But do not ever disobey me again."
"Never, mother. I have caused too much blood and death to ever do so again…"
"Arthur!" shouted Jols in greeting.
Galahad snapped out of the fantasy, forgetting it as soon as he saw Arthur standing near the edge of the street apart from the crowd. It was he their leader that had kept them alive, with minimal bloodshed, as well as minimal bitterness, and now his own dream of returning to Rome would be fulfilled. He, too, had something to celebrate. "Arthur!" Galahad grinned and grabbed the pitcher of wine from the table. "You're not completely Roman yet, right?" he asked, poking fun at Roman stoicism.
"Rus!" shouted Bors, as all of the knights (including the hitherto missing Dagonet) went to meet their commander, and everyone else went back to their prior occupations.
"Knights," addressed Arthur. "Brothers in arms." Galahad was too drunk to really take notice of his serious tone, and took another swig from the pitcher. The Roman continued, "Your courage has been tested beyond all limits-"
Bors nodded. "Yes."
"-but I must ask you now for one further trial."
"Drink?" asked Bors. Galahad nearly choked on his wine as he chuckled.
Arthur ignored this. "We must leave on a final mission for Rome before our freedom can be granted." Galahad and a couple of the others laughed, and seeing this reaction, their leader plunged forward quickly to avoid prolonging it. "Above the wall, there lies a Roman family in need of rescue. They are trapped by Saxons. Our orders are to secure their safety."
The smile slowly faded from the young knight's face as the reality sank into him. A final mission? A final mission! I should be going home, not jumping amidst a bunch of Woads and Saxons!
"Let the Romans take care of their own," retorted Bors huskily. Our freedom…the night of our freedom!
"Above the wall," said Gawain, reverting back to the monotone he had earlier used with the bishop, "is Woad territory." Fifteen years! Fifteen years of service and this is what I get?
"Our duty to Rome," spat Galahad, no longer able to hold in his anger, anger that was quickly becoming something like his Rage with the fiery aid of the wine, "if it ever was a duty, is done. Our pact with Rome is done."
"Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you." Bors pointed at Arthur, voice lowering dangerously. "For you. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? Our blood?" His voice began to rise. "You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?"
"Bors, these are our orders," Arthur replied firmly. "We leave at first light and when we return, your freedom will be waiting for you; a freedom we can embrace with honor."
"I'm a free man!" Bors yelled back, silencing and drawing the attention of all others outside. "I will choose my own fate!" His baby started crying, sensing his displeasure.
"Yeah, yeah," dismissed Tristan coolly, still working on his apple. "We're all going to die someday. If it's death by a Saxon hand that frightens you – stay home." This last he said whilst staring at Galahad, not Bors.
The Rage, aided by his pain and betrayal, broke down Galahad's defenses, already weakened by the wine. "Well, if you're so eager to die, you can die right now!" He lunged at Tristan, though his fist still held tightly to the wine pitcher.
"Enough, enough!" shouted Lancelot, coming between them. Arthur didn't move, either deciding not to interfere, or incapable of doing so.
"I have something to live for!" Galahad shouted at Arthur, since his way to Tristan was blocked.
"The Romans have broken their word," Dagonet said suddenly. Everyone paused to listen at the sound of his deep and even voice. "We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough." The word of Arthur! Arthur, who preaches equality and honesty, leading us on this mission! Leading us to suicide! Galahad seethed inwardly. It wasn't helped by the fact that Tristan was still staring at him. "I'll prepare." Dagonet turned to leave. "Bors, you coming?"
"Of course I'm coming!" he roared. Hearing this Dagonet began walking away, with Tristan behind him. At their backs Bors bellowed, "Can't let you go on your own; you'd all get killed!" Before he stomped after them, he turned back to yell at the others, "I'm just saying what you're all thinking!"
"And you, Gawain?" Arthur asked the man calmly, who had just stepped back to the group from ordering another cup of wine.
He sighed. "I'm with you." He looked over at his brother, stewing where he stood, ire focused completely on their commander now that Tristan had left. "Galahad as well."
Galahad whipped around to look at his brother. How dare he answer for me! But of course he had known all along, as Gawain had known, that he would go on the mission even if he went kicking and screaming and complaining the whole way. Arthur, who preaches equality, and honesty…and honor. Of course, he never would have admitted the victory, nor would he ever be happy about it. Galahad laughed at the futility of resisting; nor would he ever stay behind when his brother knights needed him. But this night…this night! He clenched his fists and noticed that in his right hand, he still held the pitcher of wine. Just moments ago he had felt so elated, exalted, free. Holding the jug in front of Arthur, he tipped it over until every last drop of wine had splashed to the ground. Then he drew back and threw it at his feet with all his might.
It shattered.
That is what I think of your Rome.
And he stalked away.