a/n: Wow, so you guys are a tough crowd. I'll admit, the last chapter wasn't the most exciting, but it was necessary to get us to this next one. Well, I hope you all like this one. Personally, I'm excited about this one and the ones to come—there are some fun things coming up. :o) Please let me know how you like it—review!

Roma

It was the smell that caught his attention first. That strong, almost unbearable stench of fish, smoked meat, onions and human sweat permeated the air at the port. It reminded Tristan of the small markets set up at Hadrian's Wall, or in larger villages. But this was multiple times stronger, and hence that much worse.

His eyes roamed over the merchants and all the types of food they offered. Strange meats and sea creatures, odd nuts and green vegetables he'd never seen before . . . Tristan passed it all as the bishop's procession headed through town. Fresh wagons were loaded with what they brought from Britain. One of the wagons was more of a hand-carried bed, which Germanius rested in. Eight men—slaves, really—bore the burden of the bishop.

The soldiers formed a rectangle around the scout, and even though he walked with his hands bound in front of him, the soldiers' swords were drawn.

He couldn't focus on that long. A line of strange beasts passed him on the street. He peered over his shoulder at them—tall animals, a light brown color, with a strange, round snout and large bumps on their backs.

Suddenly the roar of another animal caught his attention. It was a fierce, sharp roar, and it demanded respect. Tristan saw the animal being carried in a large cage by a procession that crossed in front of Germanius's, It was a cat of sorts, but black, and bigger than any wolf that stalked the forests.

A scuffle distracted him next. Several men gathered around two children. They all seemed to be fighting over something, but Tristan couldn't tell what. The men hit the children, and each other. He saw a short figure fall to the dirty road.

The intensity of the sun disappeared quicker than any cloud could move. It made Tristan glance up at the sky. He stopped in his tracks.

The soldiers behind him yelled at him. One jabbed the hilt of his sword in Tristan's back.

"Move, Sarmatian!" he ordered. Another chuckled.

"He's never seen buildings like this."

Tristan resumed the pace, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the building. It was taller than any building he'd ever seen. Large stone columns appeared to support a spectacular roof, which was domed and etched with marvelous designs. Giant statues stood in front of the building too, and some of them spouted water.

"Wait till he sees the Coliseum," he heard a soldier snicker behind his back.

The overwhelming sights started to dull his reactions, and Tristan just took to flickering his eyes here and there to observe this . . . Rome. It certainly was larger than any city he'd ever known. And it was beyond different.

So far, though, he'd not seen anything to warrant the praise Arthur poured over the city and its people. The citizens stared at Germanius's procession, specifically at the scout. His strange garb drew their attention. He was overdressed for the heat, and his gruff appearance did little to disguise him. The Romans were cleaner, dressed in rich colors and fine materials. Even the beggars seemed better off than those he'd crossed in Britain. The air dripped with aristocracy, pride, and arrogance.

Snobbery.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and turned his gaze to a new street they turned on. A group of women stood on the sides. Their dresses were vibrant in color, and strategically draped around the body. Immediately they noticed the procession. Tristan watched as the women's eyes followed each soldier, sometimes encouraging a giggle or flirtatious look. Here and there the women waved at the men. And then their eyes met Tristan's.

The women gasped and turned to speak to each other in hushed tones. A few of them looked back, their eyes running over Tristan. Laughter broke out as he passed them.

Finally, the procession slowed outside of a large wall of stone and plaster. An iron gate creaked open. Inside were lush plants and trees, with large leaves and blooms. The building that sat in the middle of all the greenery was tall too, but not nearly as large as some of the buildings the procession had passed. If this was a home, though . . .

Germanius moved from the hand-carried bed and raised his hands to the building.

"Ah, home!" He grinned like the fool he was, and turned to face Tristan. "My estate. Come! A feast awaits us!"

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Tristan was silent during the meal. Germanius came close to chuckling to himself. Tristan was always silent. He'd been very interested in Rome. No doubt the city was already astonishing him. Maybe it was even intimidating him.

The scout picked at the food, eating a little here and there, but he was always composed. Though he must have been starving after the limited food on the ship, he didn't show it. He merely took a bit of food, and then sat back in his chair. His eyes moved around the room as he ate.

It fascinated Germanius. The man was so disciplined and extremely intent in his purpose. Hopefully he will be just as intent in his new purpose.

After the meal, Germanius called for his guards. With a pointed look to Tristan, he said:

"I've someone I want you to meet."

They went to another estate, even though it was dusk outside and darkening fast. Germanius saw Tristan constantly looking around. The way everything drew his attention pleased Germanius. His scout was uncomfortable here, but he would adapt.

Eventually.

"There you are, Germanius!" came a cheerful call. The bishop looked up from the street and saw Asellio. He waved down, dressed in a toga adorned in burgundy sashes.

As they came closer, Asellio noticed the strange scout, quiet as ever and certainly not Roman.

"The Sarmatian?" Asellio asked as Germanius entered his home. The bishop smiled. He'd sent a messenger to him as soon as they arrived in Rome.

"Yes, Asellio." Germanius glanced at the knight. "This is Tristan." Both he and Asellio studied the knight for several moments. Tristan merely stared back blankly. Asellio glanced away, a smirk on his face. He turned and clapped his hands.

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The Roman, Asellio, led Germanius and the guards to a room covered in lavish carpets and pillows. Once Tristan was forced to sit on the floor, the guards backed away, leaving the room completely.

Tristan wondered why. The bishop and his friend sat on some large pillows and began chattering away. They spoke of Rome and church matters. It bored Tristan, slightly because he didn't really understand it all. Everything surrounded a culture of religion, a religion that was practiced insincerely. Based on what he'd seen, these Romans were no more religious than they were honest.

He pulled his knees up so his feet were flat on the floor. He leaned forward with his arms over his knees. His hands were bound yet again, something that was really annoying him, but he was patient.

Judging by how they addressed each other, Germanius and Asellio were not just acquaintances. There was a level of familiarity and confidence that went beyond pleasantries. They spoke in hushed tones every now and then too, like conspirators. And then they laughed, exchanging insults directed at someone they spoke about.

They mentioned the pope, senators, wives and harlots. Tristan started to feel like he was around the tavern table with the knights. That thought saddened him for a moment. How he wished he—

A hanging tapestry rippled. Tristan didn't move a muscle, only his eyes. He could see the legs of someone moving behind that tapestry, and judging by their cautious step, they were trying to be sneaky.

Whoever it was moved closer and closer towards him. His muscles tightened. His eyes stayed on the figure.

Suddenly, the person yelled, almost a battle-cry. It was a man, and he held high a dagger as he pushed aside the tapestry. Seeing Tristan, he took three steps and dove for him.

Tristan reacted. He rolled to the side, dodging the man. Quickly the scout got to his feet. The man did as well. He was dressed in black clothing, and his face was painted with shadows as well.

An assassin. The knight frowned. The man yelled again, and charged Tristan with the dagger.

Tristan held still, waiting for the man. The blade was raised high, over his shoulder. Tristan quickly shot his hands up, catching the fall of the man's attack. He pivoted and twisted his hands around the dagger until it was fully in his grasp.

Something moved by the window, another darkly dressed figure. Tristan tossed the dagger at the figure, catching him in the chest. A gurgled cry escaped his lips. Tristan didn't even turn back to the first attacker. He just listened for another attack, and stepped into it.

He ducked beneath a blow and turned to face the attacker. The man's face was flushed—he knew he held little advantage anymore. Tristan solidified that by raising his bound hands over the man's head. He gripped the man's head and neck and suddenly twisted. A dull but loud pop echoed in his ears.

Tristan let the body drop to the floor. His chest heaved just a little bit.

Suddenly there was applause. Over on those lavish pillows, Germanius and Asellio watched without any concern about the assassins. They glanced at each other and back at Tristan.

"Well done, Saramatian," Asellio praised. Tristan didn't understand what was going on. He stared at the Roman, then to Germanius. He kept his face devoid of any emotion.

Tristan glanced at the two bodies.

"It was a test," he said aloud, though softly. It wasn't a question, but a discovery. Germanius nodded, and then there was silence as the men watched Tristan. The scout walked over to the first body and tore away the dark mask. Lifeless eyes of a teenage boy stared back at him.

Tristan merely went to the next body, and pulled back the mask. It was another boy, this one younger, probably only 14 years old.

"His skills will easily exceed Illiano's," Asellio said with a nod. Tristan moved his gaze from the fallen assassins and out towards the window.

Germanius and Asellio talked some more, but the Sarmatian knight didn't remember about what. He just trudged back to the bishop's estate, escorted by the soldiers. They led him to that small room, windowless and empty.

He felt empty. More so than usual.

The faces of those boys burned into his memory as Tristan sat on the floor, his back against the wall. It wasn't guilt, or sorrow for killing them. He'd killed hundreds over the past 15 years. How many had those boys killed?

Were they taken from their homes too, and trained to kill? Their faces reminded him so much of Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot, and even himself, all as boys when their hellish 15-year tenure began. At least now the knights were free, either by death or Rome's papers of passage.

Even those assassins were free. It was far too early for them though. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn't have reacted to them.

And what about me. . . .am I going to serve another 15 years?

Tristan stared at the locked door. His brown eyes bore into it, and he felt his body tighten with anger. He did not bother to hide how he felt, not now as he was alone. His fists opened and closed, clenched. His teeth ground together.

The next fifteen years would not be like the last. He would make sure of that.