Chapter 3:
The knife landed in the middle. Again.
His comrades were always baffled at it. For years they would practice and perfect their ability and skill, but he was always better. Always. To have the necessary skill to survive was crucial, which is why he would practice day and night. Besides, it occupied his free time. It kept his mind from certain memories and thoughts he would rather forget. To him, a strayed mind was a weak mind. And a weak mind became a disadvantage in the battlefield.
"Tristan, how do you bloody do that?"
He smirked. The young boy, Galahad always asked this question. But he would not tell him, partly for his own entertainment. He merely looked at Galahad and shrugged. Then, ignoring the boy's baffled face, he took an apple from the table and began peeling.
Galahad looked up to Tristan, throughout their years of battle and service together. Tristan was one of the older ones, and Galahad was the youngest. So it was natural for Galahad to admire someone like Tristan. Of course, Galahad had never made it known to Tristan. For he hated anything that wasn't blood…and his hawk.
Deciding to leave Galahad to his pondering, Tristan made his way for the stables. He wasn't a man of words, which was a very known fact around the wall. There were times when he wouldn't utter a word to anyone for days. Yet, his closest friends and his commander, Arthur, could always read him.
At least, when he allowed them to.
Entering the stables, he went to his horse, which gently nudged him; a silent gesture of welcome, to which Tristan gave a light chuckle. Stroking the horse's neck with such care, he gave his remaining apple and watched his horse devour the sweet fruit. Then his mind began to wander. To past friends who died over the years, to glorious moments on the battlefield, to near-death moments, to his remaining friends. To her.
It was a painful place to remember. It was always painful, and he always tried to find way to make him forget. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He closed his eyes, and imagined the soft locks of her brown hair, and her beautiful hazel eyes, which always seemed to sparkle. He'd imagine her smile, and how it always brightened up the room. He twitched his head, and imagined hearing her soft laughter in the distance. He licked his lips, and would imagine her lips upon his.
It was truly painful for him.
Eventually, he replaced the pain with hate. He began to feel hate and anger. But he wouldn't let those emotions cloud his judgment. So he began to breath, and slowly calmed himself down. He opened his eyes, and let out a silent sigh. He then picked up a brush and began grooming his horse.
It was meditative for him. It had been a long week. The Woads were becoming more aggressive, and more sporadic. There were reports of attacks of traders and merchants on the roads whose destinations was Rome. There were also reports of the Woads crossing over the Wall. Arthur had sent him scouting for any activity. After 4 days, Tristan had found nothing. Fourteen years. He had been under Arthur's command for fourteen years, and he was beginning to feel tired. Tired of the same routine. Tired of Briton. Tired of…living. For Tristan, he was still waiting for the honourable death, and so far, he had not found it.
Ever since she left, he found no more reason to live.
No, he thought. You mustn't think of her. She's dead to you. Dead.
Over and over again, he kept repeating it in his head, hoping it would convince him. Tristan was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he failed to notice a figure enter in the stables.
"What ales you so, brother?"
Tristan looked up, and his eyes fell upon a familiar face. The voice belonged to Dagonet, one of the very few people who heard Tristan utter more than a sentence. He was able to confide to Dagonet, because he understood, and he listened. Dagonet wasn't much of a speaker as well, which also made Tristan feel at ease. For spending an entire day with someone like Lancelot was considered hell for him.
Tristan grunted. It was a gesture of men. Nothing.
He observed the bigger knight grab a few things from his saddle. He watched as Dagonet spoke very softly to his own horse, and began to exit the stable, leaving Tristan to his thoughts.
"She still haunts me."
It was enough for Dagonet to stop. He turned around and looked sadly, yet knowingly to Tristan. It hurt him to see his friend in such misery and pain all the time. He said nothing in response, hoping that the silent scout would speak more.
Nothing else was said. Tristan returned to his horse. Dagonet stood there, trying to figure the scout out. He had been through it all with him. He was there when they first met. He was there when their love grew. He was there when it disappeared. Dagonet was there for Tristan after she left, and saw him drink away the sorrow.
"I wish I could take away the pain, brother."
Without looking up, he replied, "Give me a battle worth dying for."
She awoke with a cold sweat above her brow. It happened again. Her past was haunting her in dreams. Dreams of Briton, dreams of her brothers, dreams of him. She thought she could escape it, but she knew she could not.
Isolde felt deep down, that the time would come when she would return to Briton and face her past. After last night, she felt that it would soon. Briton was hardly a common topic of conversation. To have it mentioned so many times – she took it as a sign.
She arose from her bed, and opened her window. The sky was still dark, and the moon shone brightly in the sky.
Why.
It was a question that always lingered in her mind. She always questioned herself for leaving, for coming to Rome, for killing…for living.
Living, after all was the hardest part for Isolde. To live with the constant pain of the past, was almost unbearable. Isolde would find ways to try and make the pain go away. She would emerge herself in constant battle, constant training. She would always be with her comrades, drinking and gambling. For every occupied moment for her, meant freedom, no matter how small it was.
Yet no matter how hard she tried, her mind always went back to him. She often thought what he would look like. She'd imagine him being built and tall, with wild hair. She'd imagine him being deadly in battle. Isolde knew it was her fault for leaving. But she had to.
It was the only way, she thought.
Her mind then wandered to Marcus. She noticed his abnormal behaviour over the last few days, yet she would never quite figure out why she felt a shiver down her spine when Marcus looked at her. It seemed so...familiar.
Then her eyes widened with shock.
"No," she whispered.
He can't be in love with me, she thought.
Could he?
The Bishop paced back and forth in his grand office that Pope had graciously given him. His mind was still on the request from the Pope. Retrieving the pope's godson was not a problem for Germanius. However, the fact they lived north of Hadrian's wall proved dangerous. He was a man of God, above all. But, he was still a man. He wanted to live, and one day perhaps, become pope. But this mission was dangerous. Bishop Germanius did not want to die, for he knew God had greater things for him.
He stopped his pacing and looked to his desk, where a single opened letter laid. It was this letter which the Bishop learned the level of danger and risk involved in bringing the boy back. It was with this letter where he wondered if it was even worth the risk. He picked up the letter and reread the very words.
…….The Saxons have grown restless during the last month. They prove more daring each time. Time will only tell when they bring their whole army….
It was enough. The Saxons were coming to invade Briton. It was just want Rome needed; another pack of barbarians. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was a man of religion, not politics. Yet, it seemed, he acted as both.
This seemed perfectly reasonable in his mind, why the Sarmatian girl needed to go to Briton with him. She lived there, and therefore knew the enemy, would know the quickest routes. It would be easier to get the men posted at the wall to help him with her presence.
"Yes, Yes…" he whispered, deep in thought.
He would make sure he got out of this alive. He would make sure she would go – whatever the cost.
He'd been pacing back and forth in his bedroom the whole night. Marcus wasn't able to sleep ever since the night before. She'd been on his mind the whole night, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get her out of his mind. It was like if she were some addictive drug. He wouldn't let her go, no matter how hard he tried.
Marcus knew nothing could come out of it. Even if she did return his love, they wouldn't be able to marry because of their status. The most they could be were casual lovers – but Marcus wanted more. He didn't even know if she had a secret lover, but he didn't care. He was prepared to fight for her.
He looked up at his ceiling and let out a huge sigh. He silently decided to keep his true feelings from Isolde for the time being. Time will tell all, he thought.
In the mean time, he would go see the Bishop later that morning concerning their conversation last night. It was an unusual request, to say the least. Usually Marcus would send one of his legionnaires to carry out orders like this. It was not everyday where a respected bishop would specifically request a member of his legion – especially Isolde. But what could he do about it? He could not defy orders, and neither could she.
He knew she would not be happy with it for two reasons. The first was the obvious. To be ordered to go back to Briton was considered her worst nightmare. Over the years, she had made it known to Marcus and to her comrades about her hate and disgust over the island. No one knew quite why. Everybody just assumed it was because of the dreary weather and the bad wine. The second reason was her pride. Isolde first arrived to Rome with minimal knowledge of healing, and barely had any skill with a sword. She came to Rome – to him – with humility and eagerness. Over the years, her pride grew as her skill increased. Now 13 years later, she had become a fine warrior, with unfortunately a huge ego. The mere fact of being order to babysit a bishop traveling to a place she absolutely detested was not a situation Marcus wanted to face.
Yet, It was inevitable.
The heels of his boots clicked against the cool marble floor, which echoed along the corridor which led to the Bishop's quarters. He didn't know what to expect from the Bishop. He may have been a may of religion, but he was a man of politics as well. Anything that came out of his mouth was dripped with lies.
Choose your words carefully. Otherwise, he'll twist them to his advantage, he thought to himself.
He arrived at his door. Marcus took a deep breathe and stood up straight.
His fist collided with the huge oak door and made three large thuds which echoed in the empty hall. Nothing happened at first. No sound came from the other side. It was as if time stood still.
But then he heard a slight shuffle of feet and quickly he stood back so the door could open. A simple pageboy open the door.
He cleared his throat, "The Bishop is expecting me."
The boy looked unaffected and further inquired, "And how may I present you?"
"Primus Pilus, Marcus Gaius of the third Legion."
"One moment please."
The door shut in his face, and he was alone again. The suspense and the wait was agonizing. Each second felt like an eternity, which made his breathing heavy and slow.
The door opened once more, "You may come in."
Marcus stepped in to a lavishly decorated office, filled with relics and images of the new religion. He saw the Bishop at his desk, writing a letter. Marcus stood up straight, waiting for him to address him. The only sound which echoed throughout the room was the scratching of the pen.
Finally, the bishop put down his pen and folded his letter and sealed it with a candlestick. He beckoned his pageboy over, gave him the envelope, and whispered some words in his ear. The pageboy, quickly scurried out of the room and left the remaining two parties in private.
"Primus Pilus,"
Marcus bowed his head, "Your Grace."
"Would you care for a drink?" The bishop motioned his hand towards a jug of wine.
"No, thank you."
It seemed as if the Bishop didn't hear Marcus' respond. He poured two cups anyways. The Bishop took a sip of wine and walked to his window, and remained silent. Marcus knew what he was up to. He wanted him to bring up the topic, for it was his strategy. Doing so, would allow the Bishop the upper hand. It was a sly political move.
Marcus had no choice but to comply. "I'm here about our discussed conversation last night."
The Bishop turned his head slightly, "Have we reached an agreement?"
"I'll offer the services of my other men who are more than fully capable of escorting to Briton. Isolde is needed here."
"With all due respect, she is the only one under your command who had been stationed at Hadrian's Wall in the past. Your other men would be inadequate. If I am to bring the god-son of the pope, the future of the Church back to Rome alive, then I want the best."
"Don't you mean yourself?"
"I'm sorry, I don't follow."
"You want to come back alive."
The Bishop blinked, and Marcus smiled at his small victory. He needed to work this to his advantage. He needed this to work in his favour, for his sake – for Isolde's sake.
"The pope could have sent anyone to fetch the family. Anyone. But he chose you. No doubt as a some sort of punishment for excommunicating Pelagius for no good reason – "
"He was making heretical claims to the Church!"
"He did no such thing, and you know it. You want insurance, Bishop Germanius. You want to come back alive."
"That is just a ridiculous theory, Primus Pilus. Let me remind you, my orders come directly from the Pope. To defy me, means to defy him."
"I'm well aware of that, you Grace. But let me ask you: Would you like a resentful escort accompany you during your 4 month journey that I guarantee will make your time absolutely miserable?"
"What is she to you anyways Primus Pilus?"
The question threw him off guard. Marcus tried to find the right words; he wasn't prepared for this. "She is…I mean, Isolde is a member of my legio-"
"You have feelings for her."
Those words felt like an arrow piercing through his heart. "You are gravely mistake-"
"I see it, in your eyes. You care for her so much. I sense it in your voice. You're protecting her, Primus Pilus. I assure you, the samartian is a great warrior. She doesn't need any protecting."
There was no more use at politics. Marcus was not a man of language. The Bishop was able to see through him.
"I don't want to lose her."
"Let it go. Nothing can come between you two. She is not a citizen. She's a slave, at most. My God, she isn't even a Christian."
"You could change all that, Your Grace."
He thought those words would intrigue him, but the Bishop seemed disinterested. So Marcus decided to press on. "Give her the citizenship upon your return to Rome. Convert her to Christianity. And I'll let her go with you."
"She's coming with me regardless. Your attempts are futile."
"Grant me your promise, and I can make you the next Bishop of Rome."
The Bishop put down his cup and looked deep into Marcus' eyes. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but he kept his ground and stared back. It was a tactic that was risky. There were no guarantees, but it was possible.
"How would you do that? You have no power or influence within the Senate, let alone within the Church."
"My family is of noble blood that has deep ties with the Roman Senate. I am personal friends with the Emperor himself. I know most of the cardinals, and most Senators owe me favours. With time, I can make it happen. What man could deny this offer, especially an ambitious one, like yourself? Bishop of Rome! Think of that! You, Germanius, would have the sole control of the Church. Just give me Isolde."
All his playing cards were on the table. It was an offer that the Bishop couldn't refuse. A bold move, on Marcus' part. But he was desperate. He couldn't lose Isolde now. He wanted her, and he wanted her bad.
"Have you…discussed this with your Sarmatian? I would not think she would like to be tossed around like a dog in our web of negotiations."
He was right. If she found out she was being used as a political tool, she'd be furious. But Isolde wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand he was doing this for her; for their future.
"I'll deal with her."
"Very well then."
Those words sealed the agreement. It was done. Now all Marcus had to do was to make sure everything worked out perfectly. He also had to make sure that Isolde would comply with the agreement. He'd imagined her to be thrilled when she heard the news. He'd imagine her telling that he loved her, and wanted to marry her. He'd imagine her reciprocating his feelings. Marcus inwardly smiled.
All was well.