a/n: I'm getting the sense that you all want to see more Arthur and the rest of the knights. I hate to tell you this, but this is going to center around Tristan the most. I'll cut to Arthur a few more times (I can't tell you when though, b/c it'll give it away!), but for how this story will play out, it cannot focus on Arthur. That doesn't mean Arthur is bad and abandons Tristan or whatever—it's just that life goes on. I hope you all are willing to read along anyway, because I think you'll enjoy it. If not, well, at least I enjoy writing.

Run For Hell

Germanius came for him early the next day.

"Come," he said. "There are some people I wish you to meet." Tristan barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Was he to be paraded through the city to meet every Roman imbecile?

It seemed that way.

The streets were crowded by late morning, filled with bazaars and people of all stations. Rome was just as divided by class as any other place, a fact that made Tristan snort. And Arthur said Rome was all about equality.

What station was he now? He was bound at the wrists again, and escorted by 8 Roman soldiers. He imagined the Romans saw him as a common prisoner. Or might have, if it weren't for his appearance. He stuck out like the strange animals. Maybe it was that he refused to wear the tunics and dress-like sheets that Germanius almost forced on him. Or the kilt-like skirts. Tristan suppressed a shudder. Whatever the reason, the people of Rome seemed to stop what they did to stare at him.

Yet suddenly their stares changed direction radically. A hush fell over the street, replaced by awed whispers. Tristan glanced around to see what held the people's attention.

Another procession came towards them, this one larger and more heavily guarded. Germanius saw this and approached the guarded carriage with open arms.

"Your excellence!" he exclaimed, that smile on his face that Tristan hated. Behind the scout, the soldiers moved forward, peering at the carriage.

"It's the pope!" he heard them whisper to each other. One soldier bumped his shoulder as he moved closer. Tristan stood incredibly still, just watching the carriage. Germanius spoke with the pope through a curtain that shielded the man from view.

Another soldier stepped closer, and there was no doubt that all eyes were on the pope's procession. Tristan felt his heart pick up pace.

This was it.

He focused on the sides of his vision, checking that he was clear. Slowly, silently, Tristan stepped back, once, twice, and into the dazed crowd. He snagged a man's dagger as he slid through the masses, barely drawing a flicker of attention.

The knight cut the ropes binding him as he moved further away. He tucked the dagger in his tunic and started to walk with purpose. His step was light, cautious but graceful. He didn't look over his shoulder, nor into anyone's eyes.

Even so, the people of the bazaar weren't blind. The further he got from Germanius, the more attentive people were. They couldn't see the pope, and so saw the next strangest thing—him.

He came to a large building, by far the largest he'd seen. It was round, with layers of columns on each level. Its walls towered high. Not a bad place to hide.

A ruckus seemed to come from the street he'd cut through. Tristan glanced over his shoulder. People started to shout and point. Tristan quickly ducked into the large building.

He trotted through stone corridors, heading towards more daylight on the inner part of the building. When he reached it, he stopped.

The inside was hollow, filled with sandy ground. All the layers of the building faced inward, like . . .

An amphitheater? He'd heard of such things, but never seen one on this scale. It was empty.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder again before moving across the amphitheater's sand. He ran to the other side, and up the stairs where people must have sat to watch. He climbed higher until he reached a vantage point over the city.

The scout stood concealed behind a column, looking out over the streets and people milling about. Soldiers ran around below, frantically searching. Tristan pushed himself closer to the column.

More and more soldiers moved about. In the distance, he could see them running and searching. It wasn't just Germanius or his guards. The whole Roman army was on the lookout for him.

Tristan swore under his breath and sat with his back against the column. He would have to wait, for now.

Two hours later, Tristan ventured out of the auditorium. The soldiers hadn't been in the area for an hour. Now was as good a time as any. He moved quickly towards the nearest bazaar. One shop held several robes and cloaks. Tristan grabbed one as he passed. He turned down a dusty street, this one narrow and dirty, more of a passageway between buildings.

He shook the robe out, studying it as he held it in front of him. It would do. It was a blue-gray cloth, and more bearable than the constant reds that Romans favored. He pulled it over his head and let it fall around his body. How these were considered fashionable, he didn't know, but it would allow him to blend in. He ran his fingers through his hair, even though they caught a bit on his braids. Romans looked shaven and . . . just different from him. This would have to do.

His hair fell forward a bit, and Tristan left it there. It hid the tattoos on his face, something that would instantly mark him.

The scout rejoined the masses, pushing through the crowd at a productive but common pace. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but he followed his nose. He hadn't forgotten that smell, his first impression of Rome.

The fish market and seaport thrived with activity. Men hauled fish and tossed it from one customer to another. If one wasn't good enough, another quickly replaced it. Tristan fought the churning in his stomach at the smell, and also the ocean. It was the quickest way out, and the only way he knew.

Three ships waited at the seaport. One looked like it just arrived. The second was tied up at the dock with no one on board or working. Tristan frowned and looked to the third. Roman soldiers swarmed it, moving back and forth on deck. It was a ship of the Roman navy.

That won't work.

Tristan turned from the port.

And right into a Roman soldier. The soldier was tall, with square soldiers. He reminded Tristan of Arthur, with curly hair that peaked from under the helmet. The soldier stared at Tristan.

The knight had seen this soldier before. He was one of Germanius's, though not one that dealt with Tristan too much.

Ortegius That's what Germanius had called him. Tristan abruptly bolted to the side, breaking out in a run as he weaved through the market. He heard the Roman shout behind him, echoed quickly by other shouts.

Tristan dodged people from side to side. He found every hole in the crowd and pushed through there. He glanced over his shoulder to see five soldiers not too far behind him.

Looking ahead, the knight saw four more. His eyes darted around for another route. Without faltering in pace, Tristan turned and ran down a side street. Carts filled with fruit and other merchandise lined the street. He pulled at one as he flew by, making the apples inside tumble out. The merchant screamed at him, but Tristan sped away, even with an apple in hand. He heard the Roman soldiers behind him trip over the apples, and smirked at the small victory.

The next street he came to was wide and busy. Thousands of people milled about, a few horses pulled carts and carriages, and more make-shift shops crowded everything. Do these people only shop? He shook his head and ran to the right, up the street.

Horses galloped towards him, ridden by soldiers. They spread out and blocked Tristan's path.

"There!" one soldier shouted, pointing with his sword at Tristan.

Tristan stopped and glanced from side to side. There were no side streets that split off, no large building to duck into. It was just him, against a contingent of soldiers. He heard the clatter of armor coming up behind him. Tristan pivoted to the side with his back to a wall, so he could see all the soldiers. He tore off the robe and removed the dagger he'd taken before.

The soldiers approached him carefully, their blades drawn and their step almost in rhythm as they tightened a semi-circle around him. Tristan fingered the apple he stole. He narrowed his eyes to take quick aim, then threw the apple at a soldier's head.

It split upon hitting the soldier. He crumbled to the ground. The others stared at the fallen man, then back at Tristan.

He smirked at them, and transferred the dagger in his throwing hand. A couple of soldiers took a step back.

Suddenly two soldiers yelled out their courage and charged him. Tristan took one step to them and twisted down to one knee. He slammed the dagger in one's gut, grabbed his sword and in one arc cut the other man from shoulder to navel.

He stood back up and took a fighting stance. He was perfectly still, just waiting for the next. The sword in his hands wasn't nearly as good as his normal curved blade, but it was still sharp.

Three more came at him. Tristan waited until they were in striking distance, then hopped to one side and stabbed his sword to the side. A soldier hung on the end of his blade. He twisted the blade out and brought it up to ward off a blow from another soldier. The swords clanged as they met. The scout pivoted and brought his blade down, forcing the other soldier's sword to the ground. The third soldier thrusted his sword at Tristan. Tristan stood high on his toes and sucked his body away from the blade. He kicked the soldier and elbowed the second one in the face. They both staggered a bit, giving Tristan time and room to end their lives. He swung up, slashing into the second soldier's chest. He let the movement of his sword continue up until it naturally came back down, right into the third soldier.

The remaining soldiers, which were many as more gathered, all stared at him.

"Kill him," one in particular said.

"No," came another. It was Ortegius. Tristan tilted his head to the side, waiting for them to make up their minds. "He is not to be killed, by order of Bishop Germanius." A few soldiers grumbled, but they all turned their blades back to Tristan.

A soldier suddenly went for a dagger and threw it at Tristan. It flew at his leg. Tristan moved out of the way a little late, letting the dagger catch the material of his pants but not his flesh.

Ortegius glared at the soldier.

"You didn't say he can't be injured," the soldier defended himself.

The soldiers glanced back and forth amongst themselves.

"At once," Ortegius said, standing back as if he were merely the supervisor here. Suddenly the soldiers charged, all of them together. Tristan's heart jumped, but he steadied himself.

He didn't bother thrusting the blade into anyone. That trapped his sword. Instead he slashed at the soldiers, succeeding in taking down two quickly.

Someone knocked into him, tackling him to the ground. Tristan held firmly onto his sword and brought the hilt down on the man's back. But the damage was done. On the ground, he was vulnerable. The Roman soldiers converged on him, four of them pinning him down with their weight.

Even so, Tristan struggled against them. He kicked someone, and tried again until a soldier sat on his leg. The soldiers all seemed to take an appendage, sitting or pushing down on his limbs so he couldn't move.

Ortegius stepped into the foray, his sword out. He pressed the tip of it against Tristan's throat. Tristan stilled but his eyes glared into Ortegius. Ortegius just pressed the blade harder into his throat.

"Should I make the silent scout silent for good?" he asked aloud. The soldiers around him laughed and cheered. Tristan tilted his head back, trying to stretch his neck to alleviate the pressure of the sword. Ortegius pushed even harder. Tristan stopped breathing as the tip bit into his neck.

"Let him up." Tristan's eyes darted to the newcomer—Germanius himself. He looked dissatisfied, like he'd eaten a bad meal. Even so, he waved for the soldiers to let him up. The soldiers peeled off of him but still held fast as they got him to his feet. Tristan stared at the bishop, keeping his face blank but his eyes boring into the supposed man of God.

The bishop slowly smiled.

"Ortegius. Assemble the army. They make for Britain," Germanius said. Tristan's glare faltered. "They will kill anything in their way, and bring back the bodies of Arthur and his knights."

He's bluffing. He had to be. Germanius waved his hand again, and suddenly a soldier slammed his fist into Tristan's stomach. His legs buckled a bit, but the soldiers around him kept him standing. Tristan coughed and straightened up. Another blow came his way, this one again to his stomach. Someone hit him in the face too. It stung but quickly became numb.

"Bring him," Germanius said. Suddenly something crashed against Tristan's head. His vision went black and he vaguely remembered falling.

When he awoke, the sun had moved far into the west. It blinded him, which made Tristan wonder where he was. He sat up, triggering frantic movement to his sides. Three soldiers scurried for their weapons and held them to Tristan.

The scout blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was higher than everything.

A roof, he figured. Judging by the familiar grounds below, they were on top of Germanius's estate.

Germanius stood by him. He didn't stare down at Tristan or admire the setting sun. His eyes looked over the city. Tristan found his eyes following the bishop's eyeline.

Soldiers hurried below them, littering the streets as much as the commoners. He could hear the call for arms, to gather and ready for battle. Tristan glanced to Germanius. The man was staring at him now, intently and with a hint of fury. Tristan looked back over the city.

Battalions of soldiers gathered and marched towards a central point of the city. There were caravans, weighted heavily with supplies and animals and weapons. The city buzzed with energy, an energy Tristan recognized. It was the anticipation of battle.

Germanius's threat came back to him. Not just the threat he made in Britain, but the order he gave Ortegius. Tristan felt his chest constrict. He couldn't draw enough breath. He looked over at Germanius.

"When they return," the bishop began, "I will have them string up the bodies of the knights in your room."

Tristan swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. It's not a bluff. Rome's army was massing and readying, even in so short a time. They would leave and march on Britain, on Arthur. Arthur was strong, but the country was weak. Even he could not defeat an army such as this.

"No," Tristan said. It came as a whisper.

"What?" Germanius said. Tristan glared at him.

"Call them off," he said, his voice rising for the man to clearly hear.

Germanius just smirked at Tristan. "I told you what would happen if you tried to escape. I make good on my words, Tristan." The bishop turned back to the city, watching with sick pride.

Tristan's muscles tensed. He swallowed again.

"Call them off," he said again. Tristan shut his eyes. He hated what he was about to do. "I'll do what you want."

"I thought we reached that arrangement before," Germanius said. "I cannot trust you, Tristan."

Tristan drew a deep breath. Trust wasn't something that he granted Germanius in the least, not when he'd already stolen his freedom after granting it in Britain.

"We have an agreement now."

Germanius laughed. It was a strange sound, artificial and laced with an angry tone. The bishop stepped towards the scout. He stared intently at him, his face close to Tristan's. Suddenly he stepped back and hit Tristan across the face. He quickly hit him again, this time drawing a bit of blood on his cheek.

Tristan's eyes flashed for a moment, but he quickly calmed himself. He had to, for Arthur's sake.

"Call them off," he repeated. "Please."

Suddenly Germanius grinned. He grabbed Tristan by his tunic and shoved him back on the roof top.

"You are lucky, Sarmatian, that I am forgiving." Germanius glared at him and then straightened as he turned to one soldier.

"Summon Ortegius. Tell him to cancel the march on Britain," the bishop said with a serpent-like glance towards Tristan. "And take the scout below."