The sounds of the clash grew nearer as the general hurried to the prison block, hearing the struggling shouts of men as they engaged in some sort of fierce battle, which at the moment could only be heard, as he was not yet to the complex. Turning the corner, he was met with a vicious fight scene, his men and and three cowboy prisoners, their leader included, grappling before the entrance of the door. Quickly, hoping to prevent any unnecessary injuries, Octavius ran into the midst of the little battle, trying to help his men subdue the prisoners as they made their desperate attempt at freedom.

It was a nasty skirmish; the men from both sides being badly beaten by each other as they fought, with no cares whatsoever of how badly they harmed their opponent. Yelling at them in the hopes that they would stop was futile, Octavius knew, so he did the next best thing; fight beside his men and try to subdue the enemy. One of the cowboys, a rather tall man with a scraggly beard and pale eyes of rage, was the first to notice the general in the havoc, and leapt at him with such strength it startled Octavius, who side-stepped quickly to avoid being rammed into, and whirled around on his heels, only to find that one of his men was taking the brunt of the blow. Moving to help him, he failed to notice the flash of blond that whisked past, and was suddenly struck in the stomach by a sharply jabbing fist.

He doubled over for a moment, staggering slightly as he tried to regain the wind that had been knocked out of him. He straightened with great effort, and caught only a glimpse of the blond figure before a fist flew at his face, catching him on the side of the chin. He glanced around like a startled animal, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as the blow had caused him to bite his tongue. This time, as the fist swung, he managed to duck, and swerved around behind his attacker, landing a sharp blow of his own behind the man's neck, which caused him to crumple suddenly to the ground, since that was where an easily exposed pressure point lay, and stood above him, panting as he caught his breath. He didn't have time to as the man leapt to his feet, and Octavius had to jump back quickly to avoid another strike from the man's fists.

The man got to his feet, and faced his adversary angrily. Octavius could easily distinguish the hate in his fiery blue eyes, and suddenly felt strangely afraid, as he had never seen so much hate and anger in one's eyes until now. Suddenly the cowboy lunged forwards, and the general quickly tried to get out of the way, but failed horribly, and was sent flying backwards into the wall of the building, banging his head rather hard against its stony surface. He slowly and painfully lifted his head, and saw through his blurred vision the face of the cowboy, who had in his hands a large brick, which he had probably found lying nearby, and watched him, his eyes blaring loudly his hatred for the Roman, as he raised the brick above him, preparing to slam it down….

Just in time one of the men had seen, and he and the other two, whose own combatants had been beaten and were back in their quarters, came and subdued the cowboy from either side, so he was unable to fight, let alone move, and he struggled with as much fury as he'd had at the beginning of the battle, but was quickly beaten after a sharp kick to the stomach, which left him on his knees gasping for breath. It was over.

Beside him, Octavius heard a voice, and felt himself being dragged to his feet, and carefully propped against the side of the building, his Senior Centurion beside him as he staggered slightly, the blurriness refusing to leave his eyes. The blood pulsed in his ears, and the dizziness caused him to feel weak and lightheaded, and there was something wet and warm running down his forehead. A small gasp from the Centurion proved how badly he'd suffered the blow.

"Sir!" Marcus said, catching him before he stumbled into a nearby pile of stone, which was being used for construction, and was probably where the cowboy had gotten the brick.

"I-I am f-fine, Centurion Marcus. I am only sh-shaken…." Octavius stammered, blinking the foggy sense of dizziness from his eyes.

"No, you are not at all fine, Sir. You have hit your head very badly, and it is in my mind that you should see Lucius."

"No. I-I must face the prisoners and see they are safely back in their cells." Octavius argued, pushing the Centurion away. He turned slowly to stare down at the blond cowboy, watching without even the slightest bit of hate, which was surprising to him, since he had been so badly beat by the man. But he held him to nothing. The general was convinced the reason he had lost the battle was because he was taken by surprise, and under any other circumstances he would have won. But there was a small part of him that knew it was not just the shock of the strike that led to his defeat. Either way, he must have answers.

"Sir," Marcus said again, taking a step forwards but halting when Octavius raised his hand to silence him.

"Accius, Kaius, take him back to his cell. I shall be there to speak face to face in an hours' time."

With a nod, the two led the cowboy, who had ceased his struggling now as he was exhausted, back to his quarters. "And keep a guard on him,"

"Yes, Sir."

With a tired sigh, Octavius turned back to MArcus, and they locked eyes for a moment. The general could read the worry in the Centurion's eyes, and to smile reassuringly at his long time friend.

"Marcus," He said. The Centurion straightened. "Will you accompany me to Lucius?"

"Of course, Octavius." Then, Marcus paused, and shook his head apologetically. "Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Marcus, in the name of Light you do not have to be so polite and proper? I do not care about militorical positions right now."

Marcus nodded, not saying anything, and walked beside Octavius as they headed for the hospital tent. There was a history, between the Centurion and the general, which began with a warm summer day in a small, decorative room with an old Greek tutor and a new boy in the small class. Both coming from wealthy families, they both attended the same little neighborhood school down by the bend of the river on the bottom of the third hill on the horizon. Marcus had been new to the area, his mother had sent him to live with his uncle, who was a Senator, and had been forced to attend the small class. His original, maternal family had not been rich, with his father away serving with the Eagles and his mother the owner of a small little bakery that was huddled between two massive, old government buildings that had long since fallen out of use.

He had been new to the class, and was shy and afraid of the other children, as most of them were very mean and snobby. But there was one who was unlike the other, who sat quietly by himself, studying the contents of a scroll in the corner by the large bay window that had made up almost half of one of the walls. This young boy, Octavius, had noticed the new kid and felt bad, since he knew how it felt to be downsized by the other children. And pretty soon, they became very close. Together they rose through school, rose through the ranks, and finally left their separate ways when they were drafted into different legions. Years later, they had met once again when Octavius was given command of three cohorts from the Eighth legion, and the new general had made his old friend his Senior Centurion, second in command and successor in the ranks. When in the field, they referred to each other as "Sir" And "Centurion," as military rank respect demanded, but at any other time they ignored their ranks and were equals.

"Octavius," Marcus said as they walked on, supporting his dizzy friend when he stumbled again. "Why did you not fight back?"

"I was taken by surprise, Marcus," Octavius replied, walking on. He left it at that, and they went the rest of the way in silence.

When they reached the hospital block Lucius was outraged. "Why," He ranted, pacing the room and tossing his hands about angrily. "In the name of Light is our general suddenly as clumsy as a day old fledgling!?"

Sitting silently on the cot as the Medic went about bandaging his head, Octavius was paying little attention to his ranting as Lucius raged on about leadership and wounds and pathetic fighting skills. He was too busy thinking about the coming meeting between the cowboy leader and himself. He did not know what he was to say; ask why he had attempted to break for freedom? That answer was obvious. Why had he attacked him? That also had an obvious answer. And what would the man say? Yell at him? Criticize him? Hurl insult after insult at him as he sat with a throbbing head against the wall opposite him as the guard stood just outside to watch over the situation? And why did he wish to speak to him in the first place?

The answers to the last few questions Octavius had to admit he did not know. It would make sense to just leave the problem be, it was not the first time a general had been severely beaten in a fist to fist brawl. But why did he care so much? Perhaps it was pride, or the will to protect his dignity and prove that though he had been beat he was not yet vanquished. Or maybe, just maybe, it was kindness. But he had no time to think on it as Lucius had finished his mending. And it was now time to meet the prisoner face to face.