Chapter 4: Befriending the shadows
Arthur had told the watchmen that they must not announce his departure so loudly any longer, and indeed they did not. He slipped away from Hadrian's Wall silently, befriending the shadows. Governor Decius had summoned him already; Arthur was hardly surprised.
His thoughts were distant to him, unreachable somehow. He was prepared for them to remain that way, perhaps for the rest of his life. Reality could not touch him when he envisioned his knights—Dagonet and Bors laughing heartily, Tristan smirking at the head of their procession, Galahad and Gawain embracing and Lancelot cracking some wry comment—as they placed their feet soundly back on Samatian ground. Scarred, yes; he could not protect them from that; but alive. Free and alive. This dream protected him from a harsh new life. Arthur Castus was a slave.
He was led to a new room, an echoing room, at the Governor's villa. There was an enormous oval of sand in the center, bordered by torches and a golden spectator seat, already occupied, of course. With whatever dignity was left in him, Arthur approached his new master.
"So far as good as your word, hmm? Any chance you'll…reconsider this deal, Arthur? It isn't too late, you know." A million biting remarks flew to his tongue; he quietly answered no.
"Excellent. Arthur, I'd like you to meet Drusus, the latest to join my team." Out of a doorway too dark for Arthur to make out stepped another armored figure. It stood ominously, two inches taller than Arthur, several pounds heavier with a blunt, heavy sword securely in one hand which it raised upon hearing its name. It was hardly a man; it was a machine.
Out came Excalibur as Arthur dug a heal into the merciful sand. The governor's single clap signaling the onset of his entertainment was echoless in the vast prison, hitting Arthur's ears brusquely. The giant across from him, eager, charged in the three quickened and far-reaching steps, dropping his weapon to meet Arthur's. After a few blocks and retaliations, Arthur knew his advantage: speed.
Drusus' thick arms produced a power Arthur perhaps could not contend with for long periods of time, but he didn't have to. Each crushing blow the gladiator aimed at him was avoided by a jump backwards, a tuck downwards, a dart to the left. And each time Arthur managed to reach behind the mammoth being, he let Excalibur bestow a greeting on Drusus' legs.
The gladiator's intensity rose with his anger; never had it taken him so long to defeat an opponent. Their battle had been a long one, both dripping in sweat, both growing sluggish in movements. Arthur had cleverly scampered away to the opposite side of the arena and stood calmly, waiting on the next gambit.
Bull-like, Drusus hurled himself forward. Arthur stood his ground, unmoving, not even lifting his weapon, until there was only a flicker of a moment left for his escape and he spun out of the destructive path, maintaining his balance as he formed a circle in the sand with his footwork. Arthur sliced at the back of the falling gladiator's knees, a pained cry breaking the long near-silence.
A few well-placed kicks to the ribs, and a decisive foot on the fallen man's weapon arm and Excalibur was aimed at Drusus' bared neck. Surprised eyes gleamed at Arthur, who almost sensed a fearful pleading. No pleading was necessary, however, and the Roman backed away even though his eyes remained locked on yet another defeated enemy.
But this was no battlefield, Arthur suddenly remembered. Reality crashed in all around him and his eyes blinked rapidly trying to piece together the fragmented images before them. That same hollow applause perked his ears.
"Well done, Arthur, well done on such an unworthy opponent. Your legendary sword skills were hardly tested here, but you forget your decorum in the arena. When your opponent is at your mercy, it is the emperor who decides if the defeated lives…" the governor shrugged before crossing his arms across his chest, "…or dies."
Arthur stood slouched, leaning much of his tired bulk on his sword, glaring at the governor in disbelief. The wealthy man's flippant hand gesture indicated Arthur should retake his previous stance over Drusus. Arthur obeyed, eyes never unlocking from the governor, silently demanding this remain only a lesson in "decorum."
Excalibur was again aimed at its mark. The governor's mouth twisted into a wide, sick grin. Arthur couldn't hold back a sarcastic snort.
"You see, Arthur? Here…," the governor raised his arms up and wide," I am the emperor. In Rome, it is not so, not yet perhaps. But here…we all wait for my decision…is this clear?"
Arthur's features remained so frozen in their deepening hatred for this fellow Roman, it looked impossible that the "yes, governor" whispered across the sand came from his lips. Arthur again began to relax his muscles, move his bloodthirsty blade away.
"Good," the governor shouted suddenly, freezing Arthur. "Kill him."
Arthur's head swiveled, eyes bulging with disbelief. He searched the governor's face for any sign of jest. He found nothing but hard cruelty.
"Kill. Him." He said again, teeth clenched. Arthur couldn't understand, couldn't believe—one of his own men, so dispensable? So worthless?
Mostly, Arthur just couldn't relate.
"Damn it, Castus, in this arena every fight will be a fight to the death. And you will follow my orders in so doing, unless you'd like to send your knights in to do it for you. I could really use another fellow Roman spectator." Arthur shook his head quickly, only whispering, "No…"
"As I thought," the governor growled before stepping forward, drawing a small dagger from his wealthy robes and lifting Arthur's chin with the blade. The cold metal stung his hot flesh as it slid back down to rest on his Adam's apple. In defiance, Arthur swallowed deeply, testing, pushing the blade away.
The "emperor" bared his teeth wickedly and sickly, as he made Arthur pay for that insolence, by carving a shallow path with the weapon in a half-circle around the front of his throat.
"Don't make me ask again, gladiator…or the band around your neck will grow too deep."
Without removing his eyes from the governor, Arthur pushed down on Excalibur swiftly, harshly, his face scarcely flinching as he did so. Soundlessly, life left the bulk under Arthur's blade, by Arthur's hand, staining Arthur's conscience. Again.
Thankfully, for Arthur at least (the knights grumbled a great deal), the next morning was dark and blustery and he could wear clothing to cover up his exposed wound. It still seeped sluggishly and would continue to do so; there was no real way to bandage it.
The patrol was ten days in length and more miles than Arthur cared to remember. He was wondering what he would do if the emp—governor—requested his presence while they were gone. Would Jols read the correspondence? No, of course not, that was a useless worry. But what would the governor's retaliation be?
Arthur shivered stiffly and glanced quickly all around him, spinning almost fully around in his saddle, counting their faces to make sure no danger had befallen them—Gawain, Galahad, Dagonet, Tristan, Bors, Lan…
Where was Lancelot? Arthur felt sweat sprinkle his forehead in moments. "Lance--" he began to raise his voice.
"Arthur, I'm right…I'm right here…" Lancelot chuckled out, shaking his head partly in worry, partly in confusion. He was riding at Arthur's left hand side, as he always did and he had just asked him a question. Instead of answering, Arthur had looked around frantically, distracted.
Arthur's dreary eyes locked in the dark orbs next to him and he visibly deflated in relief. Before Lancelot could remark on his behavior Arthur asked him to repeat "whatever it was he had just said."
"I just asked when you were planning to make camp. Tristan says the rain, or snow, whatever it may be, will be falling in less than an hour." Arthur nodded once, mechanically, only because he heard Lancelot's voice stop, not because he had listened to the words. Arthur was too busy asking God to protect his men from Decius' wrath should he not be able to personally.
"Thank you for the information, Lancelot, and yes, of course we should stop soon. Let's ride just a mile more and then make camp." Lancelot mocked loudly, eyes never leaving Arthur drooping face.
Arthur wanted to ask why Lancelot had been talking to himself, but soon he understood what the nonsense pouring out of his first knight meant. He feigned amusement.
"Why don't you and Tristan ride ahead a little and stake out a suitable camp? Try to find something that will stay dry at least for awhile if you can."
"Why don't you tell me what's going on?"
"Apologies, Lancelot, my behavior must seem strange."
"Solid understatement, Arthur."
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"You never sleep well."
"Lancelot…"
"Arthur…" He copied back. Both men sighed, nearly in unison.
Conveniently, Tristan rode up next to Arthur's right, breaking through the fog of tension surrounding the two men. Or rather, not conveniently on Tristan's part, as Lancelot mused, but quite on purpose indeed. Tristan did not speak, assuming Arthur already knew his report. Tristan never wasted words when there was no need for them.
"Yes, Tristan, please ride ahead. No more than a mile." The tattooed knight galloped off instantly. Lancelot's acute eyes never left Arthur's grizzled face. After watching Tristan disappear around a bend, Arthur flicked his eyes at Lancelot and away again, not liking the cold questions he found there.
Lancelot snorted. Figured as much. He spurred his horse after Tristan's.
Hmmm, not so much the place I wanted to stop, but at least I finally updated. More is already written (mostly) so please review. And to all my faithful reviewers you guys really are the best.