a/n: Please review! I'd love to get more feedback, especially on Tristan, since this is very much about him, and not OCs or romance, etc. I hope you're all enjoying this! If not, let me know that too--if people are losing interest, I have other things that really should take priority over this story. Although, that wouldn't stop me from writing at least for myself. :o)
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Seduction
Decia Quintas strode through the marketplace, despite the usual custom of being carried on lavish beds throughout the city. It struck Germanius as uncommonly proud, and not necessarily in a good way. Decia had always been defiant, and even though it suited her, it sometimes grated on his nerves. But she was powerful, a woman not to offend.
She nodded to Germanius, acknowledging him amongst the throng of Roman citizens. Her eyes moved to Tristan, and Germanius had to sneer at that. She came to them.
"Bishop Germanius," she started, her voice lackadaisical. He knew better though—she wasn't as indifferent as she appeared.
"Decia Quintas," he greeted with a slight nod. "How fare you this day?" He could care less for the response, only the real reason she even came to him. With Decia, there were always ulterior motives.
"Well enough." She turned on a heel and motioned with her hand. "Walk with me, alone." To this, Germanius raised an eyebrow. He waved off Tristan, though he doubted the scout cared if he didn't have to guard for a bit. The bishop knew Tristan would like nothing more than for him to die. Even so, Tristan was well aware that if anything looked suspicious in any harm that befell the bishop, Britain was as good as gone.
Decia kept her eyes moving casually, on the lookout for something to buy.
"I wonder about your guard, Germanius," she started. "He is strange."
The bishop smiled. "Indeed he is. He is a mystery." Decia faltered on that, but eventually nodded in agreement.
"What do you know of him?" she asked. Germanius's eyes followed her earrings, dangling from her ears. Her skin was very soft, he noticed.
"Why do you ask?" Her interest in anything was never innocent. And the way she purposely did not look at Germanius, or Tristan, pointed to a hidden agenda.
"I gather Asellio compensated you well for his services," she said bluntly. Germanius coughed before he could stop himself. "Don't try to deny it. I'm not obtuse."
A feeling of dread sunk into the bishop's stomach. "What do you want?"
"The guard's services," she said with a shrug. "I'll compensate you as well. Didn't you say you invite all your friends to use him?" Decia suddenly spotted an ornate bracelet. She fingered it. "Send him to my house tomorrow night."
She bought the bracelet and was gone before Germanius could think of anything to say.
He wondered what task she had for Tristan.
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Tristan dreaded the night. Germanius didn't tell him anything, only that he was to go to a certain house and do as the master of the house demanded.
So this is what slavery is like. Being a knight for 15 years was almost pleasant in comparison. Tristan followed a servant onto the grounds. It was dark, with shadows of plants lining the paths. Torches lit the way here and there, but it was eerie. Tristan felt like he was being led into a trap.
He rolled his shoulder a bit, shifting the sword strapped to his back. The servant led him through hallways and into a lavish suite. The servant stopped and motioned for Tristan to go forward. The scout kept his hands at his sides, and stood on the balls of his feet—ready for anything.
Almost.
"Sit, please," came a firm, but feminine voice. Tristan cocked his head to the side, looking for the speaker. He moved further into the room until finding her.
Decia. She sat back into a plush lounger, with her hair half-down, hanging down in curls. A soft, neutral fabric wrapped around her body with a beaded belt securing it in . . . all the right places.
She gestured to a lounger across from her. Tristan sat cautiously, expecting something . . . maybe even hoping for an excuse to move.
He sat stiffly, his back straight, facing Decia. His mind was swarming with questions, confusion, but he wouldn't let anything on.
"Remove your sword," she said next. Her tone belayed a certain casualness, curiosity. After letting his eyes scan the room for danger, Tristan unsheathed his sword. It flashed against the torch-lit room, and he held the blade up.
Decia gave a muffled laugh. "No, Sarmatian. Remove the scabbard as well. You won't need the blade tonight."
Tristan froze. He wasn't an idiot to the wiles of women, and what she said sounded like . . .
"Come now," she said. "Take it off. Make yourself comfortable." Tristan's muscles started working again, and he did as she asked, though he was anything but comfortable. He set sword back in its scabbard and unlatched it from his back.
"Doesn't your armor bother you?" Decia asked next. Would the woman ever stop with meaningless questions? Tristan wore light armor, nothing too bulky or inhibiting. Her eyes bore into his chest, over his outer chain-mail shirt. Slowly, he untied the knots down the front of the vest, and took it off.
Instantly he regretted it. Now he felt vulnerable, and slightly cold under Decia's scrutiny.
"Do you like Rome?" she asked now, a smile on her face. Tristan raised an eyebrow.
"Did you invite me here for conversation or a task?" A braid fell in front of his eyes, and Tristan pushed it out of the way. The movement drew Decia's gaze, and she let it settle on his eyes. Tristan stared back, more to intimidate than anything else.
Decia suddenly grinned and shifted on her couch. "Both. You intrigue me, Sarmatian. You obviously hate Germanius, but yet you serve him. You're not a simple slave. You were a knight, I imagine."
She waited for him to fill in the gaps, but Tristan just stayed still and silent.
"What does Germanius hold over you that makes you stay?" she asked. Images of Britain and Arthur, the other knights, and Hadrian's Wall came to his mind. Tristan looked down at his hands.
Decia sighed at the silence. "Tell me this, at least." Tristan looked up. "What is your name?"
The scout stared at her, into her eyes that seemed cold, calculating, but curious.
"Tristan."
She smiled immediately. "Tristan," she repeated.
Suddenly even giving her his name made him feel like prey. Tristan stood abruptly.
"If you have no task for me, I should return," he said, reaching for his sword. He heard the fabric draped around her rustle as she stood and came to his side. She caught his wrist within inches from his sword.
Tristan looked at her, challenging her with a chilly look of his own. But she didn't seem angry. Her eyes were soft, her lashes long and batting at him. She laid her other hand on his chest.
"I never said the task would be unpleasant," she whispered to him. "Stay." As if to convince him, the Roman woman traced her hand down his chest. Tristan's heart hardened like iron.
He wrenched his wrist from her grasp and pushed her away.
"If it's companionship you seek, get it from someone else," he said sternly. She fell back on her lounger, and Tristan reached for his vest. He wasted no time in tying it back up in front of his chest and then grabbing his sword.
"Whatever Germanius threatens will happen if you leave," she said. Tristan faltered and glanced at her. Her eyes held a fire in them. "I've paid for your services. For the night, you belong to me."
Belong. He hated being treated like a possession. Especially since all she wanted was—
"I thought any man, regardless of station or past, would eagerly bed me," Decia said, her voice no longer angry but flippant. "But I have to admit, I'm not surprise that you refuse." She smiled, pleased at him. Tristan just blinked. "Stay. Let us speak together."
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Tristan returned with tired eyes after sunrise. The lady Decia wanted to speak, and she did. Tristan, though, mainly listened. She finally fell asleep, commanding him to stay until sunrise.
As soon as the first rays showed, Tristan left.
The scout walked the route back to Germanius's estate. It was nearly habit, walking through the estate and up to his room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the bishop, groggily wandering in the morning pavilion. Germanius waved at him, but Tristan ignored the call and continued to his room.
He fell back on his bed, eager to silence his confused mind. He understood people, but these Romans were so conniving that it made his head hurt. What did Decia want? Women approached him before—he wasn't oblivious to their interest, here or in Britain—but to be so demanding, and blatantly wanting him . . .
It didn't help that he was powerless. He could only do so much without putting himself or what he cared about in danger.
His eyes grew heavy. Tristan didn't realize he fell asleep, not until he awoke suddenly with Germanius entering his chambers. The Sarmatian knight quickly sat up on his bed. He felt slightly ashamed that he was so unaware.
"Did you do all Decia Quintas asked?" he questioned. Tristan glared at him for a moment before laying back on his bed again.
"Enough," Tristan answered simply. He heard the bishop sigh, and it made the scout smile. It was entertaining to frustrate the bishop, and it was also somewhat easy to do. He never had to say a word.
"Rest. I want you to train this afternoon with Ortegius. You'll have something to do later this week."
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Ortegius was probably the most skilled of Germanius's personal guard and soldiers, but it didn't take long to defeat him with the wooden sparing swords. Tristan found it funny that they still used the wood swords to spar. It probably had something to do with fear of death, especially since none of them really trusted Tristan. Rightly so . . .
Ortegius suddenly thrust the wooden sword at Tristan, who twisted to the side. The scout swung his blade around quickly and caught the Roman soldier in the left arm. Ortegius roared and lunged at Tristan, even dropping the sword and just plowing into the scout. With a hard bump, the two men fell to the ground. Tristan winced at the impact, but rolled away quickly just the same. He stood, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, ready but weaponless as Ortegius recovered and charged again.
Tristan hadn't been one for hand-to-hand combat, but he found it could be graceful by itself. He didn't possess as much strength with his bare hands as he did with a sword, but he was learning. Ortegius seemed to try to make the training sessions into hand-to-hand combat, simply because he stood a better chance of besting Tristan that way.
The Roman swung a fist at Tristan. Tristan leaned back, tensing his abdomen to keep his balance. As Ortegius's swing continued by, Tristan grabbed the man's wrist and shoved him. He pivoted and then slammed his elbow into the soldier's back. Ortegius groaned and went to his knees with the impact.
And then Tristan saw he had an audience.
Decia. The tall, dark-haired woman watched, Germanius at her side. When she came, Tristan didn't know, but she and Germanius exchanged quiet words.
A scrape of a shoe against the ground made Tristan refocus. The sound came from behind him. Tristan took a knee, knowing Ortegius was attacking from behind. His stealth left much to be desired. Tristan twisted on his knees and braced his arms above him for the attack. He blocked a downward strike from Ortegius and then simply pushed the man away.
Tristan stood, his eyes going back to Decia. She and Germanius watched his every move, but kept talking.
"Enough," Tristan said in Ortegius's direction. In between short puffs of breath, he gathered his sword, both real and wood, and left for his chambers.
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The next assignment was another assassination. Tristan waited in the shadows of his target's home. It was a civilian man, no government official or pompous enemy. No, the home he waited in was simple. Unrefined. It reminded Tristan of Britain. Common, but efficient.
The family of the man slept in the next room. The wife, unaware of the danger lurking. Tristan hoped they would remain asleep when the man returned.
Someone entered the home. Tristan removed his dagger and held it close to him. Shadows moved in the flickering candlelight. Footsteps . . . closer . . . closer.
Now!
Tristan's left hand shot out and around the man's head, clapping over his mouth. He pulled the man towards him, and with his right hand, plunged the dagger into the man's chest.
The blade sunk into the heart. Tristan could feel the last beats vibrate through the blade and into his hand. The man uttered only a sigh as he died.
His blood was hot. It slipped over Tristan's fingers. Pacing quickly back to the estate, Tristan felt sickened. No matter how careful, death was always messy. The blood would dry soon, making it harder to scrub away.
Germanius was waiting. When he saw the scout, he opened his mouth to say something. Tristan cut him off.
"It's done."
He breezed past the sniveling manipulator, and up to his chambers.
Tristan shut the door behind him, and let out a sigh. The voices in his mind were getting louder, and he didn't like what they were saying. That sickening feeling inside was spreading.
Tristan tossed the dagger in a plant's pot, filled with water. Overnight, the blood would dissolve. He continued through his chambers. He tugged a little frantically at his layers, shedding the vest he always wore and the tunic underneath. He left his chest exposed to the night breeze that came from the balcony.
A basin of water was ready for him in his bathing area. He quickly dipped his hands in it and rubbed his hands together. The blood came off his hands, but the water turned bright red. Bile rose in the back of his throat.
"Tristan."
The voice did not belong to Germanius, and Tristan quickly spun around. He bumped the basin of water, sending the bloody water spilling over the edge. But that didn't matter as much as who was in his room.