Pax Romana – 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of it.

Notes: Sorry I only left the crappy first chapter for such a long time – I went on vacation away from computers for two weeks. But anyway, I'm going to give the hinted history of Tristan and Isolde in my story before launching into the Britain oriented fodder. Also – in response to the questions about the history – technically, the differences in years between Britain's release from Rome and when Rome conquered Macedonia and Greece is several hundred years, not fifteen years, but I'm trying to justify it to myself as "using creative license for my purposes". However, Greece, at the time of occupation, was under mostly Macedonian control (ie: Perseus, last of the Antigonid line), the Greek empire having long since fallen.

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Mine had been a life of luxury, of comforts and blissful ignorance, of surrounding weapons for the men and soft hands for the women. It had been a life covered in lavish red drapes and burnished finely with gold leaf, built of fine wood from the heartland and scented with exotic perfumes from the Asia Minor. I had never known anything other than the lap of luxury until the Roman Empire challenged our doors.

Last of the Antigonid dynasty, we liked to whisper to one another. My father was Perseus, King of Macedonia and therefore of most of the ancient states of Greece as well. Greece was the dusky land of my mother, hidden like a fine gem covered in layers of sand. Even as a child upon my voyages to Greece and into learning and education, I thought Greece was like a mirror to peel back the layers with and to find your true self. My father, though, was no great lover of Greece (save for the wife it had given him), and so we lived our life of soft comforts in Macedonia, in a palace made for kings and conquerors.

Macedonia was great in its splendour, and widely left alone by invaders – perhaps protected by its history of Philip and Alexander the Great, who were ancestors of my house. The Greatness, I have come to realize, must have diluted over time and history, as my father and his fathers before him were not fantastical soldiers of old lore, and they were even worse military tacticians. Our country had gained a number of enemies of differing nationalities even before the Romans came to battle us. The army was scattered and not nearly as well constructed as the Roman phalanx units and siege machines. Soldiers were aging and the military no longer held any of the glittering allure of promise it once held, or any of the imposing presence. Fighting, it would seem, had lost its glamour in Macedonia.

In the time that I have since lived my life away from Macedonia, I have realized other things about my past. Upon reflection, I can pick out the traitors to the Romans among our nobles and servants. I learned that Macedonia was not a gem of opulence, as I had thought as a child, that its economy had been falling even before it was conquered and annexed by Rome. The splendour was not all it had seen – the gold worn and chipped, the scarlet drapery faded and torn. I also learned that among other things, my father had no great love for me.

This was understandable.

I was his only child at the time, only a daughter, and it seemed as though I would be the only child he would ever have. Some of his advisors were pleased. A daughter insures that the Antigonid line carries on, for a woman's matriarchy to her child cannot be contested. But the dynasty was useless without a man to be its leader, and a leader I was not. And so I kept to the shadows, because my father did not bother with me. It caused me no great ill or sadness; I was never taken with hysterics or depression because of my father's distance. I was kept by many different people, and so came out with a scrambling, jumbled education. I knew some cooking and sewing and cleaning – from the kindly servants. I learned upper-class etiquette and developed an overly diplomatic mind of politics – from my father's advisors. I learned ancient military ritual that was of little to no use to anybody – from the aging generals who were further and further disregarded. I learned some fighting technique with weapons so outdated they were not seen outside of our country – from discharged soldiers. But my favourite subject was doubtlessly philosophy – which I learned and discussed through no coincidence in Greece.

Mere days before the disgraceful and badly strategized battle in which my father lost Macedonia to Rome occurred, I was sent away from home – for my own safety, but mostly for the protection of the dynasty. Even as a child, I found it bitter to swallow that many only saw me as a soon-to-be fertile womb, with the tattoo of my house on my forearm, to produce Antigonid offspring.

I had not known I was to leave until a few minutes before I was swept away from the palace. Among my escort – or shall we say, escape party – was the worldly and fifteen-year-old Tristan.

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When it began, I was only just risen from the pallet in my chambers. I sat before one of my prized possessions, a mirror larger than I was tall, and studied the ornate, long and slim wooden box that had been given to me by a servant that morning. "A gift," she had said as she had handed the box to me, "from your uncle, and a note." I had taken these items inside with me, confident that my note had not been read by any others because servants were not taught to read or write.

I dug my fingernails under the crude clasps on the box, and it opened smoothly to reveal a soft inner lining of green. Upon this silk lay five glittering weapons, like modified knives – examples of what I said regarding outdated weapons. How like my uncle, I had thought, for he was a high commander in my father's army and had spent his days on release teaching me the uses of this type of weapon. They were pronged things, like over-large forks, the three prongs sharpened to points. The middle blade extended beyond the outer two, and measured with the wooden handle, each weapon was about as long as my forearm and hand. My uncle liked to call them tridents, after the mighty one said to be possessed by Poseidon, but these five 'tridents' were only burnished with metal plate to look very fine; the points dull and the edges as well. Overall, they were rather garishly glittery with little to no actual use to be made of them.

Nevertheless, my etiquette had taught me to give thanks to my uncle for giving me such a gift, and so I tied my favourite blue dress with silver clasps at my shoulders and brushed my hair, and when presentable went to look for him, the box of weapons under my arm.

Looking back on this short moment in my life, there are times when I call this a time that saved my life, and there are despondent times when I believe that time when I was doomed to be a fugitive from a specific Roman for the better part of my life.

I walked down the halls slowly, hoping to happen upon my uncle, while giving good greeting to my fellows who also lived in the palace. But when I did find him, he was in deep conversation with a man whose features (dark, ruffled hair and prominent, unpretty bone structure, not to mention the scarlet cape blending with the shade of the curtains) were decidedly Roman. I had been taught almost from birth to be distrustful of the Empire – it was a widely held view to think that we were next on Rome's list of conquest. But before I could turn away to seek out somebody else, my uncle saw me.

"Isolde, my girl! Come here and let us see you."

The Roman man did not appear startled by my sudden entrance; he turned and looked at me with alert and watchful eyes. Under his scrutiny, I fidgeting uncharacteristically as I stepped forward and let my uncle take my hands in his, holding the box under my arm. "Good morning, uncle." And to the Roman, whose post I inwardly decided was below my own, "And to you, sir."

He only nodded, and I turned my attention back to my family member, who grinned at me. "I see you've received my gift. How do you like it? I thought you showed some promise with these when we last practiced."

"They're beautiful, my lord; thank you." I was mumbling into my collarbones, casting looks at my uncle's companion out of the periphery of my vision. The Roman's eyes were glinting dangerously, and he continued to study me closely. His gaze moved slowly, like water moving over my skin, down my body before coming to rest at the stark tattoo of the Antigonid dynasty upon my forearm. Then, he looked away to make a silent motion to his guard, who left immediately.

My uncle, meanwhile, was laughing at me. "Beautiful! My dear, weaponry is not meant to be pretty. So long as it does its job…" He smiled kindly at me, and then addressed the Roman. "Isn't that right, Darius?"

The man he called Darius gave a tight smile, but did not answer my uncle's question. Instead, he reached for the box. "What have you given…this Lady?" He had given an open invitation for introduction, and waited expectantly as I gave him the box.

"I am Isolde, daughter of Perseus, but you may call me 'princess'." My uncle howled with laughter, but the Roman only narrowed his eyes and answered some proper response.

He opened the box, and then let out a bark of laughter at its contents. "Why such ancient weaponry?" I took the box back. "Those can barely do any damage faced against the arms of today."

Sobering a bit, my uncle responded jovially, "Well, I can hardly give her a sword. She's thirteen years old!"

The Roman's guard came back into the room, followed by another. I became nervous.

"Perhaps I shall leave you to your business, my lords," I said. My uncle nodded agreeably and waved me out, but the Roman motioned again to his guards.

"No, no, stay! We enjoy your company." The Roman smiled at me, a vicious and self-satisfied smile. He paid my uncle no attention when he frowned and cleared his throat loudly. Behind him, his guards had stepped forward and bore the same stupid smirk. I felt an unfamiliar pounding in my chest, and clutched the box until my hands turned white, then turned away rather demurely.

"I am expected elsewhere, my lord. I beg your leave."

I had not taken even a step before the first Roman guard came forward and grabbed my shoulder, the armour over his forearm pressing into my skin, while the other drew his sword. I had gasped, and so had my uncle. It was Macedonian custom for none to touch the skin of any royal maiden, save for family. My uncle was standing.

"Your guards will not touch a member of the royal house, thank you!" There was a shrill treble to my uncle's voice that was entirely unfamiliar to me. The Roman released his hold on my shoulder, and then instead turned to him.

I mumbled, "Excuse me…" and I ran away from the group of men – but as I did, I saw the guards advance on my uncle, his face slowly becoming a deeper shade of purple. He let out a shout of rage as they tried to subdue him forcefully, and the Roman lord himself came after me.

His hand caught on my dress just as I reached the doors, and I panicked.

The box quickly unclasped, I whipped around and threw one of the weapons blindly, half-hoping that it would hit a target and half-hoping that it would not, for fear of the omnipresent political repercussions. My dress was released after a gasp of pain and I ran, looking halfway behind me to briefly see the Roman guards pulling swords on my uncle, and the lord Darius cradling his right arm, my weapon having stabbed the centre of his palm through. He held his hand up, its silhouette grotesque in the torchlight.

I ran from the room and down the halls amid the indigo swirls and billows of my dress, fearing anarchy and Roman upheaval and conquest and all sorts of other words that I barely understood. The box of – now only four – tridents was clutched to my stomach, and I fled blindly, not sure of where to go.

My decision was taken from me as I passed the voluptuous drapery in the oddly deserted main hall, and a single loosely muscled arm darted out from behind the drapes to clasp my shoulders and pull me into the drapery. Its matching hand came up in the dark to cover my mouth, and it was then that I heard his voice near my ear.

"A shame you've thrown away one of those weapons – I'm sure it was valuable. More so, having speared a Roman." I tried to scream to no avail, and his grip shifted. "Do not struggle. I am here to take you to Sparta."

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Well?