Lucia and the other four remaining Roman politicians raced through the blazing estate, periodically looking over their shoulders only to have their fears confirmed that Arthur and Lancelot were still following closely at their heels. Lucia's heart pounded in beat with her footsteps that clapped against the wooden floor. She cursed her bulky, Roman-styled robes that restrained her legs from striding at a length that would allow her a quicker pace. When she had finished cursing her robes, she took to cursing that damn assassin for betraying her. Why wasn't money enough to ensure loyalty? Why couldn't she buy control over the future? Why was destiny not for sale? Why wasn't money enough? Why could people like Arthur, who only offered something as impalpable as freedom, win the allegiance of nations? Why?
Lucia Gaius asked herself these questions all too late in her meaningless life for now she was hastening through an estate set on fire, an effort that could only delay her fate, not reverse it. Lucia and her four accomplishes dashed frantically down the hall, but the corridor was quickly coming to an end. There was nowhere else to turn. A door to one of the quarters had been left ajar and the five Roman conspirators threw themselves into what they hoped would serve as a safe haven.
The end of Lucia's foot caught on the hem of her robe causing her to stumble through the entryway and onto the floor of the room. Tiberius Marinus charged for the door to secure it behind them, but Arthur threw his body against the door, preventing Tiberius from closing it. Lancelot helped his commander to force the door open and with their combined strength, the two warriors succeeded in besieging the room that was serving as an improvised asylum for the five Romans.
Lucia looked up in terror at the two men who towered above her. She willed her body to get up from the floor, but she found herself paralyzed in fear. In a foolhardy move, Tiberius pulled a dagger out from inside his robes and flew at Lancelot. Unfazed by the sudden attack, Lancelot grabbed Tiberius by the wrist and twisted the politician's arm behind his back, causing him to release the dagger as the pain shot up from his wrist to his shoulder. Tiberius let out a guttural cry as he clenched his jaw in agony. Lancelot spun him around to face Arthur.
"Would you like to do the honors?" Lancelot offered his friend.
"No, you go right ahead," replied Arthur obligingly.
Lancelot nodded his thanks and ran his sword through Tiberius, penetrating into his back and out his stomach. Lucia shrieked and quickly scrambled to her feet as the corpse of her friend fell to the ground beside her, his blood seeping onto the floor.
Senator Quintus paced about in the corner of the room, mumbling to himself, "Oh, this is not good. Not good. Oh! My nerves! I can't take it!"
"Will you shut up, you old fool?" snarled Senator Sergius bitterly.
Senator Quintus stared at Senator Sergius with a crazed look in his eyes. "I-I can't t-take it," he stuttered, "Th-they're going to kill us. I-I want it to be over. I want it to be over!" As Senator Quintus spoke these words, he staggered in a blind madness over to where Tiberius's dagger lay on the floor. He picked up the knife with his trembling hands and plunged it into his own heart.
"God in heaven!" gasped Flavius Adeodatus at his comrade's suicide.
"Well, at least he finally managed to put himself out of his misery," Senator Sergius remarked harshly.
"And you'll be joining him soon enough," said Lancelot, staring menacingly at the cold-hearted senator.
Lucia's eyes were opened wide with fear. She ran over to Lancelot, grasping at his shoulders and looking up at him with her round, mooning blue eyes. "You don't have to do this!" she cried desperately, "Please! I cannot believe you no longer hold affections for me. If I ever meant anything to you---anything at all! Don't do this! I beg you!"
Lancelot looked down at her impassively. "You meant nothing to me," he said dryly, "No woman ever has." He paused thoughtfully for a moment in consideration and then added almost to his own suprised, "Except for one."
Arthur shot a startled look at Lancelot as he spoke these words. Lancelot returned the glance with a slight nod of confirmation that what he had said was true---and that the "who" he spoke of should be no great mystery.
Lucia backed slowly away from Lancelot, her face empty and defeated. She then turned her attention to Arthur, hoping to garner any sympathy she could from the stony faced commander. She gave him an apologetic, half-smile. "Can't we put all this behind us?" she asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice light and unconcerned, "I mean, you're still alive, so there's really no harm done, right?"
"You think I give a damn about my life when the freedom of my country is in jeopardy?" Arthur roared, his hate erupting like a volcano. Arthur was generally a patient man, but not when it came to his people's freedom.
The room felt hot and stuffy, but not only because of the heated conflict. Lancelot's eye caught the smoke seeping through the crack at the bottom of the door. "Arthur…" he said anxiously, hoping to draw his friend's attention to the fact that they were running out of time. Arthur recognized the urgency in Lancelot's tone, but kept his rage-filled eyes fixed on Lucia.
"Arthur, I beg you! Have mercy!" Lucia wailed with tear-streaked cheeks, "If you are as honorable as they say you are---please! Do not take your vengeance! Let me live! I want to live!"
"You don't know what it means to live," spat Lancelot bitterly, "And you never will."
"I wasn't talking to you!" Lucia screamed as something inside of her finally snapped, "Is this it, then? Are you going to kill me, you heartless heathens? That's right, I mean you too, Arthur! You're only half Roman! Go on and kill me then! Take your revenge! Do it!"
"If what I have seen here today is the conception of Rome, then I am glad to be rid of it," said a calm Arthur, controlling his anger, "And I will not sink to your level. I will not give you the satisfaction of my revenge. Look around this room, Lucia. No windows. No means of escape. And the flames are growing closer. Your death will be of your own making."
Lucia's face fell open as if a dark abyss had swallowed it. Lancelot smiled grimly as he followed Arthur out of the room and bolted the door shut from the outside. The two men stood staring at the locked door for a moment as pounding fists and muffled screams drifted out from inside. They shared a solemn look that would have been verbally translated to mean, "It is finished, then." With that, they retreated from outside the door, leaving Lucia and the two remaining politicians to their fate.
"We must find the rest of the knights," said Arthur, "You head down that way, and I'll take this hall to the right." Lancelot nodded in compliance and began to head in the direction that Arthur had pointed out for him. "Oh, and Lancelot---" added Arthur, "---be careful."
Lancelot smiled. "What are you? My mother?" he teased, "Now get out of here, you old goat, before we both burn alive!"
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Tristan, Galahad, and Gawain made their way through the estate, ordering everyone they came across to evacuate immediately. Servants ran frantically about, gathering what belongings they could and retreating from the fire-flooded estate. The flames were quickly encompassing the entire building and it would not be long before the structure began to collapse.
A frail, hunched over old man wobbled over to the knights. "What are you all standing around here for!" he harped at the warriors, prodding them with his walking stick, "Don't you think we know how to flee a burning building? Away with you! Get! Get! There are others who need your help. Now, go!"
"What others?" Galahad asked urgently.
"Where?" added Gawain.
"The locked up ones, of course!" answered the old man, as if the answer should have been obvious. "The ones they call demons! They are caged just beyond those doors!" he added, pointing to a set of doors with his curved wooden stick.
"How did we not see this coming?" asked Gawain, rolling his eyes.
"What's a Roman estate without the prison chambers?" Galahad added with a sigh.
The three knights plowed through the doors where they found the cells holding starving slaves dressed in nothing but rags. The dungeon was dark and damp, with only a few rays of moonlight filtering through the ceiling. The prisoners sat about the floor next to the multitude of decomposing bodies that lay cluttered around them. The knights swung their swords at the locked bars to release what captives were still alive. Grasping at their chance at freedom, the skeletal prisoners rushed from the doors like wild animals and within seconds, the cells were depleted of any remaining life.
Tristan was about to take his leave of the murky dungeon along with Gawain and Galahad, but was stopped suddenly in his tracks by a whimper that came from the corner of one of the cells. He stooped down into the cell and approached the sound cautiously. In the corner lay a young woman with skin that had turned gray with death and lifeless eyes that were fixed on the ceiling above her. She couldn't have been dead more than a day. Tristan's eyes moved down her frozen body to her arm that encircled a newborn infant who tossed about in its rags, mewling out in a high-pitched cry.
Tristan crouched down helplessly beside the wailing child. "Shhh," he cooed softly, "Don't cry, little one." To Tristan's dismay, his voice seemed to soothe the infant who looked up at him with wide-eyed curiosity. "There, now," said Tristan to the silenced child, "There's nothing to cry about." The infant reached out its tiny hand and Tristan found himself allowing the child to grasp his finger. He felt as though his chest would burst as his heart swelled with a myriad of unidentifiable feelings. He felt as if some outside force had taken control of his body as he lifted the infant and cradled it in his arms.
Tristan emerged from the cell where Gawain and Galahad waited for him. "We should leave now," said Galahad impatiently, "The structure's going to fail any minute. The fire is spreading too quickly."
"I see you made a friend," commented Gawain, noticing the infant that Tristan held in his arms.
"Its mother is dead," Tristan explained simply.
"Well, it'll just have to come along with us then," said Gawain gruffly, as though the child were just another hindrance.
"Yes," answered Tristan, ignoring Gawain's tone and staring down hypnotized at his precious bundle, "I will look after it." Galahad and Gawain shared a meaningful glance in confusion at the scout's newly found soft touch. The three knights then dashed through the now quickly falling embers, hastening to evacuate the estate that had now almost completely gone up in flames.
-----------------------
"It's not fair!" yelled Tarra as she beat her fists against the earthen wall of her underground prison. For what seemed an eternity now, she had been screaming at the top of her lungs for someone to come to her rescue, but as of yet, her pleas had been to no avail. She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead from the heat of the fire above. "This is not how I'm supposed to die!" she screamed in protest, despite the fact that no one could hear her cries. She stomped around indignantly with her hands resting on her hips. "I am Tarra! Thief and almost-assassin feared throughout the entire Roman Empire!" she raved, "I do not bloody die from falling into a sodding pit!"
Tarra leaned her back against the wall and banged the back of her head against it in frustration. "It isn't fair," she repeated to herself, "I did the right thing for once, didn't I? I didn't kill Arthur and, in fact, I even went as far as to lead him to the one who really wanted him dead! And this is the thanks I get. So much for morality! Who wants to do good when death is the reward?"
Tarra sighed in exasperation and felt into her pocket where she had thrust the gold coins that Lucia had given her---or rather, that she had tricked Lucia into giving her. As she fingered the trinkets in nervous anticipation of her doom, an epiphany struck her between the eyes. "Oh, bloody hell! Is that what this is all about?" she cried up at the fates who she believed were punishing her, "So I didn't earn the money fair and square? I certainly deserved it regardless of completing my mission. Who cares if some rich Roman wench gets swindled, anyway?" As she spoke these words, she gathered the money in her hands, lifting them up in display for the heavens. "But fine! Have it your way!" she yelled, tossing the coins out the top of the pit, "Take the money. I don't want it anymore, anyway! I just don't want to die!"
"Tarra? Tarra is that you?" came a voice from above that she recognized.
Tarra's heart leapt out of her chest. "Lancelot?" she screamed, hardly able to contain her excitement and relief.
"What are you throwing things at me for?" he called down to her.
She could barely restrain her sheer joy as his face became distinguishable from behind the screen of smoke. She had never been so happy to see his smug face. "I wasn't throwing them at you!" she called back up to him.
Lancelot looked down at her with an amused grin. "Well it looks like you've got yourself in real deep this time," he teased in evaluation of her circumstances.
"Ha ha! Very funny!" she retorted, "I am well aware of the depth down here, thank you very much!"
"I didn't mean it like that," he laughed.
"Well, are you going to help me out or not?" she yelled up at him impatiently.
"Very well," he replied, leaning down through the hole in the floor and reaching his hand out to her, "Take my hand."
Now, it wasn't until this point in time that Tarra had actually considered what Lancelot's saving her would entail. She eyed his open palm warily and said, "Isn't there a rope or something you could throw down?"
"Bloody hell, Tarra! This is not the time to get particular!" he shouted in bewilderment, "No. I don't bloody carry around rope in my britches. Now let me pull you up!"
"Isn't there any other way?" asked Tarra, letting her hesitation show on the tensed lines of her face.
"Listen to me," said Lancelot firmly, "I know you don't like to be touched, but from our conversation the other night, I don't think you like dying very much either."
"Never mind then. I'll find my own way out!" Tarra insisted, though she knew very well any attempt would prove futile.
"You stubborn fool! Will you just get over yourself?" Lancelot reproached, "Remember how you said that when you die, you want it to be as painful as possible? Well, let me tell you, getting burned alive is going to hurt like hell!"
"Ha! What a delightfully unintentional wit you have!" replied Tarra as she seemed to retreat into a state of denial about the peril of her situation, "Yes, I daresay being burned alive would hurt like hell, what with hell being a fiery underworld and all."
"This isn't a joke!" he cried out in exasperation, "All you have to do is take my hand and it will all be over. Now, hurry! We haven't much time left."
"I know this isn't a joke, but it's no use, Lancelot," said Tarra, hanging her head in defeat, "Just go."
"No. I'm not leaving you here," said Lancelot in defiance, "Not when you're the only woman I've ever---"
Tarra's head shot up in surprise. "---ever what?" she asked, though in her heart she knew the answer.
"Damnit Tarra! We have no time for this!" Lancelot cried in desperation, "Just TAKE. MY. HAND."
Tarra let out a sigh of resignation and closed her eyes tight, as though she could not bear to watch what happened next. She reached up her arm, extending her hand towards his. She felt his palm meet with hers while his hand firmly enveloped her slender fingers. Her feet were suddenly lifted from the ground and another hand tugged at her waist to lift her further. She squeezed his hand, holding on with all her might. And even after he had pulled her to safety, she did not let go.