Chapter 8:

Isolde found it difficult to focus as she knew they were getting closer to the Wall. The bishop had sent a soldier to ride ahead to alert Arthur and his knights on their arrival. The rider had returned that night, only for Isolde to find out that Arthur would escort the Bishop when they were nearly half a day's ride away from the wall.

Which meant the inevitable was coming. And she was far from ready to face it.

The remainder of their journey was particularly uneventful. The bishop has stopped arguing with Isolde ever since the attack by the mercenaries. He had not even protested when Isolde picked up an old peasant to be used as a decoy. This meant that the Bishop was now dressed in full armour riding next to her.

"It must be so wonderful for you to be back," he said.

"Indeed it is," she half-heartedly replied.

"Do you think there will be any more danger until we reach the wall?"

"Possibly. The locals talk of recent attacks by the rebels. Though they stay away from villages, they tend to attack travelers and merchants on the roads."

The bishop didn't say anything else, to which Isolde was grateful for. It was wonderful not to bicker with the narrow-minded fool anymore. Unconsciously, Isolde's mind went back to the night of the attack by the Germanic mercenaries. She hadn't told the Bishop that Ricimer was behind the attack, partly because she was also confused with this fact. Did the Bishop and Ricimer have a falling out? Were they even allies? Did they even know each other at all?

More importantly, why would Ricimer only want to scare the Bishop?

There were too many unanswered questions that drove Isolde mad. She took a quick glance at the bishop and bit her lip, unsure of how to approach him.

Carefully and slowly she asked, "There is a matter which concerns you that I don't fully comprehend."

The bishop arched an eyebrow. "And which matter is that?"

"Why…a Germanic general would want hire mercenaries to scare a Roman Bishop? I keep playing it in my head over and over again, but nothing seems to add up."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Stupid prick. "They didn't attack for money. They attacked because they were told to by a great general who controls the emperor with strings. What I don't understand is why."

He stopped his horse and turned towards her, "Where did you learn this?"

"On the night of the attack. Before I slit the bastard's throat."

He pursed his lips. "You do not withhold that kind of information from me," he said rather angrily.

She coldly narrowed her eyes, "Don't patronize me. If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead already."

"Excuse me?"

They had now fully stopped in the middle of the road, facing each other while the other soldiers were trying not to eavesdrop.

"You heard me. If you wouldn't be so damn arrogant in those bloody Christian robes of yours -."

"Mind what you say next," he spat out.

"I don't care if you're God himself," she mocked.

His jaw slightly dropped and Isolde inwardly smiled, knowing she had slightly bruised his ego..

"You are lucky you are not in Rome, Sarmatian. I'd have you charged with heresy and treason," he said nonchalantly.

"I'm about two seconds away from killing you myself," she retorted.

"Are you threatening me, Sarmatian?"

She gave him a deadly and cold glare, "Maybe I am."

"What's stopping you then?"

She glared at him, but did not respond. The Bishop smirked at his victory. "Do not make threats you don't intend to fulfill."

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Neither said anything, but merely silently challenging one another for a fight. Isolde wanted nothing more than to strike him down with her sword and Germanius wanted nothing more than to see the slave of Rome suffer from the utmost humiliation.

It was inevitably Maximus who trotted towards the two and suggested they keep moving before the sunset, knowing it was better to end their heated argument.

To avoid anymore confrontation Isolde rode ahead to keep watch for the men on horses which would eventually appear above the horizon.

They were only less than a day away from the wall. Isolde had decided it was best to stop by the closest village to rest before leaving at first light. She should have been sleeping for her body was exhausted but her mind kept her awake.

To calm her nerves, she was spending the night grooming her horse and sharpening her weapons. She would replay the things she would say when she saw Arthur and the knights.

Would they recognize her? Or would they simply dismiss her as another unfortunate Sarmatian warrior? Isolde kept telling her the latter seemed plausible. Afterall, it had been nearly thirteen years since they saw her. Their memories of Isolde would be a happy, carefree girl who was training to be a healer.

But Isolde was not longer that girl anymore. She was a hardened warrior after years of campaigns in the east and the west. She was proficient in the Latin language and the political schemes of greedy men. She was an able drinker and a better gambler.

They would definitely not recognize her, she said to herself.

"Still up?" said a voice.

She looked up to see Maximus taking a seat beside her. "I could say the same for you."

"It's too cold to sleep. Bloody island," he muttered, "You know, I don't think I've seen the sun since we've landed here."

Isolde chuckled at his remark. "That's Briton for you. Don't worry, my friend. It gets a lot worse."

Maximus and Isolde became quick friends throughout the remainder of their journey and found they had quite a lot in common and the same sense of humour. On the nights they kept watch, they would tell each other of their homes and families, their life stories, the happy times and the sad times. She learned of his humble birth and his upbringing in the Roman countryside. She learned of the growing love that he and his wife had for each other. She learned of their marriage and their children. She learned of his service to the military and his loyalty to Rome.

"You've been acting strange ever since we've landed here. What's the matter? And don't tell me it's the weather," he said sternly.

She slightly frowned and put down her sword. "This island is filled with ghosts."

He arched his eyebrow, "Could you be anymore cryptic?"

Isolde let out a small giggle. "It's true! Ghosts of the past. Ghosts of the present. Ghosts of the future"

"Now you're just being foolish. Come on Isolde, tell me."

"I'll tell you a story instead."

Seeing that he would get no direct answer from her, he gave in. "About what?"

"A young girl and her brother, taken from their homeland by Roman cavalry. The brother, chosen to become a great warrior while the girl, the Romans decided would train in the arts of healing. They came to Briton and befriended the Sarmatians already training there. The girl, young and naïve knew no one and was too afraid to acquaint herself with anybody. Each day, she saw her brother fade away from her as he spent each night with his new comrades. Each night, she would cry herself to sleep as she felt completely alone, abandoned and lost."

"Is this supposed to be about you?" Maximus asked amusingly.

Isolde continued the story, "Then one day, she saw a boy sparring with her brother. It took only one glance for her to feel her heart skip a beat. But still shy and timid, she failed to talk to him, resorting in stolen glances from a distance. One day, as she was in the healer's quarters, fate seemed to have brought them together. He was sent there by his superiors to get his arm stitched. They became acquainted. They became friends and then soon fell in love. Their time together was always short because of his training and patrols, and their affair was kept secret. For the first time in a very long while, the girl began to feel happy again."

"This sounds like a terrible bedtime story, Isolde."

"I'm not done!" she said playfully, "Anyways, life seemed too perfect for her. And it was. She walked in the healer's quarters to see her brother on the table; covered in blood and with an arrow embedded deep in his heart. Her teacher told her it was a horrible hunting accident in the forest. To see her brother lying in a pool of blood shattered her heart in a million pieces. The girl did everything she could, but with no avail. The brother died from the loss of blood, leaving his sister alone in the living world. Not wanting to walk the same halls of her dead kin, not wanting to be haunted by his ghost or any other ghost, she left. With no warning or notice, the girl slipped away in the middle of the night, away from her lover and her friends. She rode into the next village where she came upon a Roman centurion who was leaving to Rome. She begged him to take her with him so that she could finish her service under his command. It must have been sympathy or pity or both, but he agreed. And so began her life as a warrior. And now…well, I'm not too sure how the story ends."

She looked down at her feet and let out a sigh. It was hard for her to tell him, but it lifted a great weight off her shoulders.

Maximus squeezed her shoulder, "You will be fine Isolde. They will understand and they will forgive you."

"I didn't even see him properly buried Maximus. His body was still warm when I left," Isolde whispered.

"Hell, if those bastards won't forgive you, I'll kill them myself!" he cried out, attempting to lighten the mood.

She let out a small chuckle.

"Do you still love him?" he asked.

"I don't know. His face haunts my dreams, but I do not know if it's love or guilt. He might be dead, or he might have another lover. I don't know."

"If he loved you Isolde, if he still loves you, he will understand."

"He'd be a fool to love me after the hurt I put him through."

"Then you may call me a fool who will love and will always love his wife," he said lightly. "Do not worry Isolde."

"It's easier said than done."

Sheathing her sword, she walked to her horse and whispered gentle words in the Sarmatian tongue she grew up in.

I will get through this.

A/N: Short chapter, I know. Anyways, Happy Holidays