A/n: In response to the inquiry about Tristan being alone the whole time, I'd have to say yes and no. It's imperative that he is alone—because that's just who he is and how he'd be. However, I do have a character that I plan to introduce that will make things interesting for Tristan. Will this be a romance? No, though that doesn't mean romance itself is completely left out. If you've enjoyed this story so far, all I can say is that you'll like the rest. And sorry this took awhile longer—72-hr work weeks make time difficult. Please review! It'll help me keep going, despite the work hours!

Things in Rome

His eyes were frozen on the parchment before him. Tristan stood immobile in the study of Illiano. It was a secondary study, or perhaps one that was kept far from the eyes of guests.

Wisely so. Tristan was starting to understand the games Romans played.

He told himself he didn't care about this task or who it affected. He had his dagger tucked in his belt, well within reach for any unexpected surprises. He had the scrolls Germanius gave him tucked in his outer vest. The guards at Illiano's estate were easy to pass by. It was all going well.

But he hadn't expected to see Illiano's latest correspondence. It was left on the desk, unsealed. As Tristan's fingers slid the scroll back to reveal the words, he found the letter was unfinished.

And that's when he began to read it. His Latin was very sketchy in the written word, but he understood enough—enough to know that Illiano wrote to Arthur in Britain. After that there wasn't mention of much that Tristan understood. Part of him wished Illiano had written something about him, maybe to tell Arthur a Sarmatian knight was in Rome.

Almost immediately he felt ashamed of himself for feeling so desperate. He'd never relied on others before. Why start now? He scowled at the parchment and let it go, sending the scroll rolling back up almost naturally.

In a huff of anger, Tristan removed the three scrolls from his vest. He opened the writing desk's drawer and stuffed the scrolls there. Again the thought came to him that maybe he should care enough to read those scrolls. His anger, however, clouded that. He would not care. Why should he? He had one cause, one that taxed him enough—and that was to make sure Rome did not destroy Britain.

Obediently, Tristan finished his task, shutting the drawer. He stayed still for a moment to listen to the house and its quiet. Amid the sounds of night, he tried to shut out the thoughts in his mind.

He escaped out the window and ran most of the way back to Germanius's estate.

0-0-0-0-

Germanius felt happy. There was a bounce to his step, which made his robes flitter a bit. The Sarmatian knight stared at him, but Germanius didn't care. All was going as planned.

Tristan escorted as bodyguard to a private trial. In the depths of the Senate arena, Illiano Constantine stood, shackled and guarded. Germanius stood near the back of the gathered assembly who watched with both awe and hatred.

"They found letters," Germanius heard senators and the public whisper around him.

"They say it is treason."

"A plot to destroy Rome, and the church."

It took all Germanius had not to grin. He glanced at Tristan, who was stone-faced as ever. But his eyes held a measure of surprise, and perhaps bewilderment.

The scout would be rewarded for his good work. No one even suspected the trap Germanius had laid. Well, expect Illiano, but what good did that do the man who would be dead by the end of the week? Tristan did well indeed. If only he understood fully what he'd done.

In Rome, there are more ways than a blade to kill a man.

0-0-0-0-

Social events. So far Tristan had been lucky enough to just follow Germanius around as a guard, for one meeting or the next or simply shopping at the markets. It was boring, yes, but at least it allowed him some quiet. But now, a Roman family was having a festival of sorts. They all gathered at Asellio's estate, where Germanius tended to frequent anyway. The man wasn't Tristan's favorite, to put it mildly. Ever since the assassination of Illiano—well, first politically, then formally by an official execution—Tristan found himself numbly following.

There was much to learn about Rome. He didn't know why it bothered him that the man was dead now. Perhaps it was the letter he'd seen. Illiano . . . didn't appear to be deserving of his fate—not when he wrote Arthur. That seemed too friendly an action . . . .

"Bishop Germanius," someone greeted. It was an older man, balding and robed in a purple-colored toga. At his side and playfully draped on his arm was a tall woman. She had a sharp nose and high cheekbones. Her hair was swept up high on her head in a bun.

"We were shocked by the trial of Constantine," she said. Tristan, a step behind Germanius, raised an eyebrow. She certainly didn't sound shocked. She spoke haughtily. Her eyes flickered past the bishop to Tristan and came back to the bishop in just a second.

"Decia Quintas. Yes," Germanius said, a smug grin covering his mouth. "It was a harsh blow to us all."

The bald man chuckled at that, but Germanius and the woman called Decia uttered no sound. Tristan observed the look between them. Decia was no simple woman. Though she held the bald man's arm, she was not with him. The air with which she carried herself suggested power. Maybe not official, or royalty, but presence.

Again her eyes drifted over to Tristan. He stared at her.

"A new guard, Germanius?" the bald man asked, glancing at the scout. Germanius smiled, and even turned to face him. All eyes were on Tristan. He didn't move a muscle as he stared ahead, past them and focusing on a stone column.

"Yes, and a skilled warrior."

The bald man nodded approvingly, but the woman, Decia, didn't show any reaction.

Suddenly the bald man excused himself to get a drink. He was out of earshot when Decia stepped closer to Germanius.

"I hear Asellio wants your guard's services soon," Decia said. "Especially after his success."

Tristan was annoyed that they spoke about him, with him obviously hearing, and yet they acted like he wasn't in front of them.

"I invite all my friends to use my guard's skills, if necessary," Germanius said. He smirked at the scout. "He is a prized possession."

Tristan clamped his teeth hard down on his tongue. A jarring pain went through it and he cringed. How he hated this man . . .

As if sensing someone talking about him, Asellio himself suddenly appeared. The woman nodded to Germanius, and turned with a sneer in Asellio's direction. The Roman noticed but didn't care. Again, Tristan saw it all. But he didn't understand it. Yet.

Asellio and Germanius both waved off Tristan. They started walking through the courtyard, talking in hushed tones. Tristan moved away. A bad taste filled his mouth. Watching the Romans mingle, indulge, conspire . . . how did they ever survive their own kind? Behind his wind-tossed bangs and braids, he saw a people that pretended and hated. People who existed only to get ahead of each other, by whatever means.

He still didn't understand why Illiano was killed. Tristan shifted his weight and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He looked down at the ground with a sigh.

"Asellio's assignment won't be as simple as Germanius's," a soft but confident voice said in his ear. Tristan stayed his muscles but turned his head to look over his shoulder, where Decia stood.

He examined her, up and down, more to unnerve the bold woman than anything else. No other Roman had really dared to approach him or talk to him directly. Only Germanius did, and the guard Ortegius. Mostly those were for threats or an occasional hit. She stood, looking out and over the crowd. Her dark hair had a few loose strands which blew in a light breeze. The strands tickled Tristan's face.

"He will ask you to kill someone," Decia continued. "Can you do that?"

He thought about ignoring her. Why grace her comments with any answer when he rarely spoke anyway? But a bitter thought came to mind.

"I killed for fifteen years for Rome," he said evenly.

"Really?" She didn't doubt him with that, but her tone was deadpanned. "You've killed, yes. But have you ever hunted someone, killing him in his bedroom at night, and leaving him for all the world to see when the sun rose?"

He didn't answer. His eyes found a nondescript spot in the courtyard, and he tried hard not to flinch as those strands of Decia's hair still swept over his cheek. He wanted nothing more than to turn sharply and cut that hair away.

She didn't press him, but patted him on his shoulder like he was a friend.

"Good luck, Sarmatian."

0-0-0-0-

Germanius came back to him an hour later. Tristan was avoiding human contact as best he could, and in some ways was glad the bishop was back.

He waved Tristan over.

"You will wait here," he said, a bit unsteadily, as if the man had a couple of drinks. "Asellio wishes for your help."

Tristan was tired. He sighed but clasped his hands behind his back, waiting.

"He'll find you later," Germanius said, stifling a yawn. As soon as he finished it, his eyes and expression hardened. "Do what he says. And don't return until it's done."

He hated it, but nodded.

It was well into the morning hours when the festivities finally ended. Tristan was used to little sleep, to waiting around, watching. But the boredom that plagued him frustrated as well. He waited for Asellio, hoping the venomous fool would put an end to this.

Asellio sauntered up to him, gaily energetic despite the longest night known to man. His face was light, more relieved than anything else. Asellio was not a light man. He was a drunk for power.

But that was just Tristan's opinion.

"Ah, the Sarmatian," he said. He stopped in front of him, sizing him up with a visual inspection. "Germanius claims you are a warrior. I've seen you kill before."

Tristan sighed. He was tired, and just wanted to get away from this man.

"What do you want?" he demanded in his quiet tone. It was so unique to him. No one else could sound threatening, dangerous, or annoyed while being so calm and quiet. But Asellio didn't seem to appreciate that.

He backhanded Tristan. A fat ring on the man's hand landed harder on his cheekbone and stung. Tristan clenched his fists.

I could kill him so easily.

"You're mine for now. You'll do what I want," Asellio hissed. The Roman cleared his throat and straightened his toga. "Now. Do you know Kulanis Herculius?"

No. Tristan just stared blankly at him.

"You will. Just before you slit his throat."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Kulanis was a busy man. Already, Tristan followed through the city, to the senate, back to his estate, and out in the town again. He was tired. He'd been through worse, he supposed, when he tracked for the survival of him and the knights. But somehow this was more exhausting.

The sun was setting. Kulanis entered his estate, his pace still timely and productive. Tristan kept walking, heading around the estate and towards the servants' area. He stopped just outside the walled perimeter.

With his hands, he patted his dagger. He was starting to miss his sword. It stood out too much. And for this assignment, he needed stealth again. Tristan drew a breath, deep and readying.

And then he moved.

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

Germanius heard the shouts. The pandemonium—he could taste it. The panic, the tension. Seeing a messenger hurry through his estate to him, the bishop knew something had indeed happened.

The messenger said nothing but bowed and handed a scroll to him. Germanius waved him off.

He read the message. Slowly a grin spread over his face.

About an hour later, Asellio showed up.

"You have heard the news?" he asked, the glee not even trying to be contained on his face. Germanius nodded.

"Yes. Word spreads quickly," he said. "Does anyone suspect you?"

Asellio shook his head. "No one. But Kulanis was found very fresh. I don't know what became of your scout."

Germanius frowned. If his scout was found, the suspicion would follow him. Not that he couldn't blame it on some hatred from the Sarmatian, but still, it would not bode well for the bishop. And he certainly didn't want any blame when it wasn't his task. That was a danger he'd have to consider in the future, when he allowed his associates to use Tristan.

"Ah, here he comes," Asellio said. Germanius looked around, and sure enough, there was Tristan.

The Sarmatian was quiet, of course, but perhaps more introverted than usual. He walked through the estate, wiping the back of his hand over his face. From where Germanius stood on the balcony of his study, he could see the streaks of blood and dirt. But Tristan's hair hung in his face like it always did, and it probably helped him hide the evidence.

Through those bangs and braids, Tristan glanced up at Germanius. He disappeared into the home.

Germanius grinned, and looked to Asellio.

"He is good, no?"

"Yes," Asellio said. The man smiled greedily. "He will continue to be useful."

Tristan walked in at that point, and Germanius hide his smile.

"What took you so long to return?" he demanded. Tristan glared at him.

"I had to hide for a bit," he said.

"Did anyone see you?" Asellio asked next, his tone just as harsh as Germanius's.

Tristan shrugged. "I doubt it. If so, they would have found me."

The Romans looked to each other, and then slowly back at the scout. "Well done," Asellio finally said. Germanius nodded.

"Get cleaned up, in your new chambers," Germanius said. Tristan began to nod, but froze. He had a question in his eyes. "As a reward for your success. You will like your new accommodations."

0-0-0-0-

0-0-0-0-

His new chambers were . . . peaceful. Tristan slowly wandered through the room. It was wide and open, with wispy fabrics hanging and separating certain coves of the room. A large bed lay on one side, again draped in fabrics. There was also a bath, deep in the room and behind a stone wall.

Flowers and fern plants sat in tall and wide vases. Thick rugs with intricate designs silenced his footsteps.

Yes, it was nice. A reward, Germanius had said. It would make life a bit more comfortable for Tristan—this was certainly better than the stone room in the dark halls beneath the estate—but it didn't really silence what he felt.

He'd killed Kulanis. Just walked up behind him and sliced cleanly through the man's throat. Heard the gurgle of the blood welling up in protest. Saw the body just fall, dead, even though Kulanis's eyes stared at him.

Tristan killed the man from behind, and not in battle. It wasn't honorable, by any means. It was cowardly.

And it was murder. He knew it. He knew he'd be asked to do these things. But he didn't imagine he would care. A dead Roman was as good as any. But not like this . . . .

Tristan was numb as he removed his dagger and let it clatter to the marble floor. He walked towards the bed, shedding his clothes and hearing nothing as it fell over the rugs around the bed. He gave his face a final swipe with his hand before he collapsed on the softness.