a/n: Please review! I decided to post part of what would have been the next chapter, so reward me for it. I hope you enjoy it, especially the—well, read it.

Submission

"You belong to me now," Germanius said. They were in some dark corner of the bishop's estate. The stone walls were moist, and the air cool despite the heat Tristan had noticed in Rome.

Tristan stood in the middle of the stone room, his hands at his sides.

"You do what I tell you. You will serve me without question," the bishop continued. "You are mine, and you will bear the mark." Tristan raised an eyebrow at that. The bishop motioned to three soldiers, who seized Tristan. His first instinct was to struggle, but one look from Germanius made him still. It felt so foreign to be this compliant.

You have no choice.

He was forced to lie on his stomach on the stone floor. His shirt was ripped away, exposing his back. Two of the soldiers held down his arms, and the third sat on his back. A chill ran through Tristan as he heard the metallic sing of a knife.

He felt the tip of it cut into his right shoulder. His muscles strained hard, not against the soldiers, but against the pain. The soldier cut down on the back of the shoulder before lifting the blade and cutting in a new spot. Tristan shut his eyes. His blood flowed over his back and down his side to his chest.

The soldier made three more cuts before going back and recutting each one. Tristan bit his lip, his teeth drawing blood with the pain. But he didn't make a sound. He could almost sense the bishop's approval.

And it sickened Tristan. His stomach roiled, and his skin felt tingly and flush with sweat. As soon as the soldiers released him, Tristan felt his stomach revolt. He threw up any fluids in his stomach.

Germanius laughed, though he seemed disgusted.

"Your life could be easier here, Tristan," he said. "Maybe it will be one day. But for your disobedience, you must pay." He walked away, his footsteps echoing off the stone as he left.

Tristan slowly felt his stomach calm. He wearily rolled onto his back, more to one side so his right shoulder wasn't aggravated.

The soldiers grinned down at him. Tristan shut his eyes, knowing what was coming.

And knowing he could do nothing about it.

The first few blows echoed off those stone walls, and after a few more hits, Tristan's groans of pain sounded as well.

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The town was growing. News of the win over the Saxons and of the Roman abandonment brought more people to Hadrian's Wall. The people were eager to live this life of freedom and equality.

Woads, Sarmatians, any person could come here, and they had. What surprised Arthur was that they all hailed him as king. It was a bit daunting, but he felt the mantel of responsibility adjusting on his shoulders.

Guinevere settled into duties as well. As queen, she hadn't indulged in vanities but had quickly moved to help the people recover. She was out in the fields, helping plant new crops. She joined Arthur on hunts for all the settlement.

It was a peaceful existence.

Bors even found it enjoyable. The man seemed to relish being with his many children. Vanora even tolerated him being around all the time.

Galahad was ever the bachelor and trying hard to make a wonderful life for himself. The young knight had much to learn still, but he was a loyal friend, one that Arthur could not do without, as with all his knights.

Gawain had yet to find that beautiful Sarmatian woman. Something beyond that bothered the knight, but Arthur hadn't succeeded in discovering what.

They were out by a brooklet, trying to stem the flow of water for awhile for the fields. Gawain stood knee-deep in the water, swiping a wet hand over his flushed face. Arthur leaned against a wooden post, one of several they were trying to move to stop the water.

The two knights breathed heavily as they took a break. Arthur expected silence—but he was surprised.

"Do you ever feel like something is missing?" Gawain asked. He looked upwards at the clear blue sky, watching a pair of birds play.

Arthur studied his reflection in the water for a moment before answering.

"Perhaps. What do you mean?" he asked back. Gawain shrugged, raising his long hair with his shoulders.

"I expected life to be different," he said. "After . . . Rome." Arthur suddenly knew what he meant. He nodded.

"How did you expect it to be?"

Again, Gawain shrugged. He leaned heavily against the bank, still half immersed in the water and not caring.

"Happier." Immediately, Gawain's eyes darted to Arthur and sheepishly at the water. "Sorry. I don't mean that this life isn't a great—"

"Gawain, please," Arthur interrupted. "Go on."

Gawain sighed and splashed his hand over the water. "I had hoped it would be more complete. Maybe it's not having Lancelot, Tristan, Dagonet . . ." He sighed again. "I suppose I always imagined a lot of us still alive, and happy."

A pang hit Arthur's heart. He was quite familiar with how Gawain felt. For him, it magnified tenfold with guilt. How he wished Rome and its cause had been truly worthy of the lives sacrificed for it. How often had he hoped Rome would really live up to what he thought. But he had been lost in dreams.

"What about you?" Gawain asked. "What did you expect?"

Arthur looked over his shoulder, back at Hadrian's Wall and the growing town. He saw Guinevere teaching a young lad how to use a bow properly. It brought a much-needed smile to his face.

"For years, I thought of returning to Rome. Maybe showing you and the other knights how great and precious it was." Arthur shook his head to himself. "I didn't expect to lose so many of our brothers." He heard Guinevere cheer as the lad she taught hit close to the center of the target. "And I didn't expect any of this." He gestured to the settlement.

Gawain nodded. "It's turning out all right though." He grinned, easing Arthur and their somber mood. Arthur chuckled.

"That it is."

They stood and stretched, readying themselves for another try at their sorry dam.

"Do you still want to see Rome?" Gawain asked suddenly. Arthur stopped his work. His brow crinkled, pondering the question.

Did he want to see Rome? After so much pain in learning that Pelagius had been killed, after Rome's dishonorable dealings with him and his knights . . . after so many useless deaths of his knights . . .

He sighed.

"I spent most of my life with Rome on a pillar. Since the Saxon incursion, I've felt nothing but anger and betrayal in thinking of the city," he said. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking. "But maybe one day. Part of me wonders what the city is really like after all these years."

"You think you would go?" Gawain asked with a smile. Arthur laughed to himself and smiled at Gawain's good nature.

"Perhaps, Gawain." He stared up at the sky, seeing a familiar hawk peruse her usual hunting grounds. "Perhaps."

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Germanius and the soldiers left him alone for four days. Tristan needed every moment to rest and heal. The cuts on his shoulder were still crusted with blood, but he could feel the scar that was forming. It was somewhat intricate. It was meant as a brand.

And it meant he belonged to Germanius.

The beating he sustained was far from pleasant. Bruises covered his body, purple and yellowing blobs over his chest and back and sides. His jaw was tender from a few kicks there, but he could move it without too much pain. Eating wasn't really pleasant the first day, so he didn't bother, but by the second day, it was that or make it harder for him to heal without nourishment.

Someone was coming for him. Tristan heard footsteps outside his room. He pushed himself off the floor so he was sitting up.

It was Orteguis, and another soldier.

"Come with us," he commanded. Tristan tried to stand, but his legs wavered. He placed a hand on the wall, trying to steady himself. His left arm cradled around his stomach and ribs that ached still, but he finally made it on his feet and followed Ortegius. The other soldier followed Tristan—some form of guarding, he guessed, although neither soldier had a sword ready.

You serve Germanius now. There is no need for weapons.

He hated himself.

Ortegius led him to a room filled with steam. The floors and columns were marble, and in the middle of the room was a pool of water. Orteguis stopped and motioned to the pool.

"You're to bathe. Germanius will not tolerate filth," he said with a haughty snarl. Tristan just watched the man. He couldn't help he was dirty—he was still bloody from the beating, and his clothes were tattered. His shirt alone was almost non-existent.

"Your possessions have been cleaned." Ortegius motioned to a pile of clothes and armor. "Germanius will allow you to dress as a Sarmatian. Even your armor and weapons. But if you try anything, there are several that are instructed to destroy Britain."

The soldiers left Tristan to ponder that. Germanius was counting on his threat to protect him.

Sadly, it would. Tristan glanced at the pile of armor. At least he'd feel slightly more comfortable this way.

Tristan tugged at the remnants of his tunic. A groan escaped his lips as he pulled the shirt off. For that moment, his vision was obstructed, but as soon as it cleared, he saw he wasn't alone.

Three women entered the bath house. They were dressed in loosely-draped fabrics, just plain and light colors. Various bracelets adorned their wrists, but the women seemed very simple overall.

Servants, Tristan thought.

He watched them, unsure of why they were here. The women nodded to him, and came closer. Tristan froze physically, but his eyes traced their movements until they were right in front of him.

The first woman reached for his tattered tunic. She took it from his hands, while the second woman reached for his hair. He tensed when she fingered the braids in his hair.

He pulled away, stepping back to distance himself from this new . . . situation.

"The bishop asked that we bathe you," the third woman said. She and the second woman reached again for his braids and started to undo them. Tristan leaned back and caught their wrists.

"No," he said shortly, releasing their wrists. The women glanced to each other before nodding. One of them grabbed his hand and tried to pull him towards the water.

Tristan frowned and planted his feet so he wouldn't move. Are they supposed to . . . wash me?

The women again looked to each other before one spoke. "The water, sir?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow. A choice phrase came to mind, which he didn't utter aloud.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

Yes.

Tristan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Another thought came to mind: did Germanius get him . . . women?

Why, especially after having beat him so thoroughly?

Again, a woman reached for his hand and pulled him to the water's edge. Tristan found himself feeling like a doe as an arrow flies to kill it. His body was still, unnaturally so. The first woman came towards him and reached for his waist. Her fingers pulled at his pants.

Tristan stepped away, although a bit clumsily. He bumped into the second woman. Again he stepped back, this time into the third servant.

"Have you never had a Roman bath?" one of them asked. He wasn't sure which one. This whole situation was making it difficult to concentrate.

"Is that what you call it?" Tristan mumbled. He coughed, which instantly aggravated his chest and bruises. He gasped and wrapped his arms around his torso. "Leave."

The women stood there, dumbly. Their faces were twisted in a sort of shock. Tristan rolled his eyes.

"Your services aren't needed," he said, this time more forcefully. "Leave me."

They quickly bowed and scurried from the bath house. Tristan sighed and shut his eyes. He drew in a deep breath of the steamy air.

Opening his eyes again, he was pleased to find he was really alone. Even so, he left his pants on and stepped into the pool of water. It was hot and soothing. Tristan leaned against the pool's edge, his eyes darting around the room, just in case.

He knew Romans were different, but the bath incident now just solidified the alienation. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"Romans," he mumbled to himself.

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Tristan's clothes felt . . . different. Clean. And they smelled . . . nice. It kind of bothered him—flowers, or something. The only thing that evened things out was his long leather vest, which hung past his thighs and tied in front of his chest.

His long sword, curved at the tip, rested against his back in its scabbard. He didn't wear his full armor, partially because it was so hot. It was also because if he happened to get killed in an attack, he wouldn't complain.

Germanius had that look on his face. It was pride, unabashed and gloating—knowing he had control over Tristan. The bishop kept glancing over his shoulder at the scout as they walked to Illiano Constantine's estate. Tristan was silent, unwilling to speak to Germanius. The bishop wanted Tristan to act as his guard, for now. Somehow, he sensed there was more to the task than that.

The estate was large, lavish, and frankly boring. These Romans loved finery and luxury and wasting money. It made Tristan snarl at the thought, especially when he saw all the beggars on the street.

You're thinking like Arthur. He smirked.

If he knew the truth about Rome . . . .

Germanius turned to Tristan as he entered the gate.

"Pay attention to the estate," he said. "You will need the advantage." With that, he turned back around and stalked regally into the main house.

Tristan blinked.

He followed inside. The halls were dimly lit, even in broad daylight. It opened up to a large room, with a smaller room on the side. A roman man emerged from there.

"Germanius!" the man greeted.

"Illiano," the bishop replied, with a touch of coolness to his tone. Tristan glanced at him, then at Illiano.

"Come to my gardens," he said, taking the lead. "It is a beautiful day out, no?"

Tristan contained a sigh of boredom, and tried to focus on the estate. It would help to know why Germanius wanted him to pay attention, but he had nothing to go on. More rooms, more Roman tapestries, more Roman decorations, servants, a child and a lady . . .

And finally the gardens.

Illiano gestured widely to stone benches, surrounded by bright orange and fiery red blooms on prickly green bushes. The man himself laid himself on one of two sofas. Germanius took the other. Both laid on their sides, leaning on an elbow and appearing quite relaxed. For Tristan, it looked uncomfortable. He remained standing, leaning against a column.

"The pope expresses his gratitude for your support of the church," Germanius began. "He wishes you to know that you are in his prayers."

Illiano didn't seem overjoyed at this, but he nodded appreciatively.

"His attention to the poor and the lost give me great hope for Rome," Illiano said. "Perhaps one day we will find Rome the city we all dream it to be."

The Romans spoke back and forth like this, cryptic well-wishes and dream talk. Tristan found himself bored, but he focused on the garden and the estate. There were two levels, open hallways upstairs that overlooked the garden. He saw servants peaking down at them, particularly at Tristan himself.

"And who is this?" Illiano asked, his eyes flickering to Tristan. The scout turned his attention back to the conversation. His face was expressionless, more that of a soldier, or better yet, a knight.

"My personal guard," Germanius said. He didn't bother shooting Tristan a warning glare. His tone was even and sounded uninterested. That was the point for now, wasn't it? Whatever the purpose Tristan was to serve, he imagined he was supposed to be somewhat low-profile.

Even so, his Sarmatian garb made Illiano look him up and down. "Where did you find him?"

Tristan cocked his head to the side. He smirked at Germanius, curious as to how the lying bishop would explain it.

"A deserter in Britain," he said. "He pledged his service to me when I came upon some soldiers who captured him."

Tristan glared at him, not even bothering to hide the displeasure when Illiano glanced back at him.

"Really," Illiano deadpanned. Suddenly his countenance lightened. "I hear Britain and Arthur survived the Saxons. Rumor has it that the country is now under his rule."

Tristan fought to stay still, but his heart leapt inside of him. He listened intently as the Roman continued.

"It would be nice to see Arthur succeed. The world is in need of a new place for free men," Illiano added.

The topic passed, and with it a degree of hope. The Romans spoke about politics and gossiped, but Tristan kept thinking about Britain. Was it really ruled by Arthur now? All the past years of him dreaming of a free land and equality . . . could he make it happen?

Somehow the possibility, now closer to realization and recognition, made Tristan proud of his commander. Silently, as always, he stood against the pillar in the garden, and thought about the land that was his home for most of his life. This new life, or new hell he was in could be worth the suffering, if Britain succeeded. If Arthur succeeded.

Don't fail, Arthur, he thought up to a void in the sky.

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The scout was silent, just sitting at the table as a feast was laid out before him. Germanius didn't normally allow servants at his table, but Tristan was different. Their arrangement made it so.

Besides, he found himself challenged by the Sarmatian. Every word he managed to elicit from Tristan made him giddy. So far, though, the knight said little beyond a few words at a time. He responded to necessary questions, but never indulged conversation and certainly never started it.

Again, Tristan picked at his food. He used his knife more than anything to get at the food. It was primitive, and somewhat disgusting if Germanius lingered on it. But yet the knight was extremely efficient. No movement was wasted or fruitless. Every flick of his wrist yielded exactly the result he wanted. It was like that in all the man did. Even polishing his sword was an art, and something that Germanius noticed Tristan did far more often than actually needed.

An intimidation tactic, Germanius thought. It did not matter though. The knight was cooperating. And now for his first assignment.

Germanius waved away the servants, leaving Tristan and him alone at the table. From underneath the table and concealed in a fine wooden box, Germanius removed three scrolls.

Tristan noticed every movement. That always surprised Germanius, how precisely he honed in on what went on around him, but it was a blessed skill. The bishop set the scrolls on the table.

"I have a task for you," he began. He paused for a second, hoping the silence would be interrupted by the knight, but in vain. "You must go to Illiano Constantine's estate, with these scrolls."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, a welcome change to the plain landscape of emotions on his face.

"You force me to serve as a messenger?" he asked, bewildered. Germanius grinned. He was pleased at the question, the skepticism, so much so that he almost forgot the task.

"No, my Sarmatian knight." Tristan curled his lip up when Germanius said that. He tended to do that whenever Germanius called him by some sort of possessive name. The bishop didn't care—he knew it was necessary to remind Tristan who was in charge.

Germanius cleared his throat to continue. "You will go to Illiano's estate, secretly. Find his study. It is not the one in the front room. He has another, deeper within the grounds." He held up the scrolls, waving them slightly as if Tristan wasn't sure what he was talking about. "Put these in his office, among his correspondence."

Tristan blinked. His face was blank, but this time perhaps a bit more genuinely.

"That's it?"

It was Germanius's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You expected something else?"

The knight almost opened his mouth—Germanius could see the slight jump to say something and then bit it back. He smirked at the knight.

"That is all. You go tonight."