The next morning, with the trumpet sounding the usual waking notes, the Centurion Marcus stood outside the door to his general's room, and knocked gently on the door in the way he always did, waiting for the reply that meant he was allowed to enter. He waited for a moment, but was slightly concerned when no reply met his ears. Surely Octavius hadn't left already. He always waited for Marcus to arrive before heading out on his rounds. Was something wrong? Was he perhaps ill and unable to answer the door?

Unable to wonder any longer Marcus pushed open the door, and found the room empty. Where was the general….?

"Centurion Marcus," Came a voice from behind him suddenly, startling the centurion.

He whirled around to see Octavius coming up to him, a cheery grin on his face as he met the centurion half way up the path. "Sir, where have you been?" Marcus asked, forgetting the formal salute. Not that Octavius cared.

"Walking the camp, Centurion. Will you not accompany me to the mess hall this morning? There is business that must be discussed with you."

For a moment Marcus hesitated. He was use to seeing Octavius in a good mood, he always tried to be when there was no trouble about, but surely at a time like this a good mood would be hard to muster. But, he had been given an order, and followed quickly, entering the long hall which served as the eating quarters for the entire legion. Normally, the general and his officers ate in their own little hall, but occasionally, especially with a general who did not see himself as higher than his men, they would dine simply at one of the small tables amongst all the other soldiers.

Octavius led his friend and Centurion to one of the unoccupied tables near the back, and exchanged greetings with the men they ran into, taking his seat across from marcus, who looked a little confused, but waited obediently for his general to speak.

"You are wondering why I have brought you here, are you not?" Octavius asked, speaking to Marcus as he nodded to one of the nearby cooks who held up a platter of fruit and cheese.

"Yes, I was, Sir. Is...there trouble, Sir?" Marcus asked, pausing when the cook put the food before them.

"Eat," Octavius said, nodding to the bread that was also placed before them. "It will look less suspicious."

Still feeling very confused, Marcus took a bite out of a chunk of bread, and was mildly startled to see his general had brought with him a small pouch, and was discretely filling it with a bit of fruit, a small chunk of cheese, and a slice of bread taken from the loaf before him. He then spoke.

"Marcus, I cannot lie to you. There is a reason for this, though I fear it may not satisfy your interest."

Marcus quickly shook his head, swallowing the mouthful of bread before speaking. "No, Sir. Anything you are up to is bound to have an important reason, Sir."

Octavius smirked slightly, and leaned forwards. "You do not have to say 'Sir' under these circumstances, Marcus. It takes what needs to be said longer to come out."

"Yes Si- I mean, you are right, Octavius."

"Now. I have been wondering, as I believe you have, about what happens to the prisoners we send away, have you not?" Octavius asked, taking a small bite from an apple slice he'd picked up.

Marcus hesitated for a moment. "Um, I have never really put much thought into it but, yeah, I suppose so. I mean, it would be something nice to know. But why would it matter, may I ask?"

"Because. They are humans too, you know, and have families to go home to."

"Yes, but what of our men?"

"That is also something I wished to speak with you about. Last night, after the attack, I went and spoke with the prisoner again. I asked him what happened to the men who get captured, our men, and he told me."

"So what happens to them?" Marcus asked, taking a sip from the cup beside him.

"They were killed, Marcus. By law, they had to be."

"What!?" Exclaimed Marcus. His outburst caused a few heads to turn in their direction, and he immediately quieted down, turning his attention back to Octavius. "I mean, why?"

"It was their law, Marcus. And the prisoner, their leader, is only the leader of the men who fight, and therefore has no control over what happens to them. So…."

"Octavius, please stop for a moment," Marcus asked, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly. He had great reverence and respect for his friend and general, but this little confusing conversation of his was just too much for one morning. "You are a highly educated, and very wise man. You are kind hearted, which is good, and one of the many things that makes you so well loved by us all. But, Octavius, I do not understand what point you are trying to reach here. You talk about prisoners of war, and what happens to them, almost as if you are from the other side. Then again, you speak of our own men who have been taken captive, and then of their fates. I beg your forgiveness, but I do not understand."

For a moment Octavius was silent, and just stared down at the food before him, his own thoughts in a jumble as he tried to piece together some plan he thought he'd had. Perhaps, he needed to wait for the details. No, if he waited too long it might be too late to act. But if he acted too soon, then everything could fall apart, and he and his men could be faced with dire consequences. He then realized Marcus was still there, and cleared his throat before speaking again.

"I...am sorry, Marcus. You are right. Perhaps I just need more time to think on it, and maybe wait for more details." He then chuckled slightly to himself, and shook his head. "I do not even know if this will work."

"If what will work?" But Marcus' question never reached the general's ears, as Octavius was already walking out the door, carrying the small pouch concealed in the fold of his cape. And for some reason, Marcus suddenly felt a little less trusting of his old friend.

Casually, as to not attract too much attention to himself, Octavius made his way back to the prison block, and exchanged the usual word of passing with the guard, before entering the back room once again, finding the man for the first time sitting near the window and staring out of the slightly cracked curtains. The prisoner turned upon Octavius' entrance, and watched him as he set the small pouch on the wooden chest.

"What's that?" The prisoner asked questioningly, slightly tensing but not fleeing or hiding.

"Food. I….thought you might be hungry." Octavius replied, stepping back.

The man hesitantly reached a shaky hand towards the pouch, then checked, and drew it quickly back, his eyes untrusting and a little fearful. "It's poisoned, ain't it?" He asked.

"If I were trying to poison you, why would I go through the trouble of giving it to you in good food rather than what you normally get?"

The reply seemed to have silenced the cowboy's suspicion, and he once again reached out to the pouch, and found the fruit and cheese, and then the bread, and his eyes seemed to light up a little, as it had been days since he'd had anything with color, even though the prison food was the best any prisoner was given. There was a small sigh from the Roman as he leaned against the wall.

"I apologize that it is not much," He said, shaking his head in disgust. "I was not able to get away with any more."

Looking from the Roman to the food, the cowboy replied; "No, no, it's...this is very kind'a you." Then, after a moment's pause, he spoke again. "Do my men have better food too?"

"I am afraid not," Octavius said, shaking his head again. "They would have it, but our food supply is running short. I have asked the Senate for an increase in rations, and got a no for a reply."

"The Senate, eh?"

"Yes," Octavius replied with a sigh, leaning even more against the crumbling wall of the cell. "The ones who rule us. My father, or, my adoptive father, tried to take control of them one…..but he failed. No one has tried since, though many have wanted to."

"We have a Senate," The prisoner said matter-of-factly, taking a bite from the bread slice he'd been given. "They ain't got full power, but serve what we call a president. He's like, an emperor in your terms. Though, I'm guessin' since your father failed ya don't got one, do ya?"

"No, we do not." Then, pausing for a moment, Octavius laughed a little, and shook his head. "Here we are, two enemies discussing politics. This is a crazy world we live in, is it not?"

"Definitely crazy." The cowboy agreed with a chuckle of laughter. Then, Octavius noticed something he'd never seen before. The man was smiling, actually happily smiling, and it was in all honesty rather heartwarming to see had been able to help. "But seriously," The cowboy said, cutting into the Roman's thoughts. "Why're ya doin' this? I mean, I didn't ask 'ta be treated so nicely, an' surely ya got better things 'ta do."

"Well, to be completely honest, I have been thinking, and may have a plan to perhaps get you, and your men, out of here."

"Wait, what?" The cowboy asked, starting slightly and looking up quickly. "Why….I mean, not that I don't want help, but wha…"

"I was thinking about what you said. About what happens to my men when they are captured by you. And that got me wondering about what happens to the prisoners myself and the other generals send to the Senate when the time comes to do so. I have written to them asking, though I am unsure of when or what I will get in terms of replies, but either way I wish to help you all escape."

For a moment the man was silent, just staring at the Roman with an expression disbelief. This had to be a cruel joke of some sort. "You're kidin'," He said, his tone growing colder as he set his temper to it. "You must be crazy thinkin' ya could pull that off,"

"Crazy, perhaps," Octavius said, standing straighter as to seem more convincing. "But I believe it will work."

"And why would ya even care 'ta free us?" The man asked, crossing his arms and completely ignoring the food he'd been given.

"Because. It is inhumane to keep men locked up. And I for one wish this war over, as I know you do as well."

The cowboy seemed startled by this notion, and his head shot quickly, his eyes both angry and astonished. "How do ya know that?"

"It is very obvious, if you think about it. No one really likes war, especially the leaders. Besides, you all have people to be home to. And though I cannot stop this war, I can at least aid the men unlucky enough to be caught in it." There was silence again, and then after a moment, Octavius turned, and went to leave, before turning back to the cowboy, a thoughtful look on his face. "You know me, but I do not know you. If you do not mind me asking, what am I to call you?"

"Jedediah," The cowboy said, his eyes lightening up a bit. And there was something close to trust in them. "The name's Jedediah."

The Roman smiled. "I am pleased to meet you, Jedediah. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Nice 'ta meet you too, Octavius. I will, thanks. And please," Jedediah said, attracting the other man's attention. "Don't get yerself killed doin' this."

"I will not. I do believe this is the right thing to do. If not," Octavius paused, looking above him for a moment. "Then perhaps the gods will have mercy on me." And with that, he left, leaving Jedediah to his food.