"Peace of mind comes when your life is in harmony, with true principles and values and in no other way."

Peace of Mind

MUSE…

Winter 442 A.D.

Tristan sulked. He'd been confined to his room for six days, under guard. He'd made such a scene when Isolde left that Arthur had threatened to lock him in his room unless he could contain himself.

But Tristan had been in such a rage that he had uncharacteristically lost his temper and thrown a mug at his commander's head, and Arthur carried out his promise.

So Tristan sat and sulked, torn between fury at Isolde and at Arthur, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. In another day Isolde would meet the ship that would carry her across the Channel and out of his reach.

He heard the door open, but he stood his ground, his only reaction being to cross his arms even tighter over his chest and thrust out his chin, an unconscious sign of his stubborn refusal to yield.

"Tristan," came Arthur's placating tone. The scout exhaled angrily and continued to stare out his window.

Arthur felt his own patience wearing thin. Granted, he had sent Isolde into hostile country on her own, but couldn't Tristan see that he hadn't had a choice? He needed his men here, could barely even spare Isolde, of all people.

"Listen, my brother," he tried again, moving into the room and shutting the door. "I am sorry, but I couldn't allow both of my best scouts to go off to Rome. You know you are both vital to our survival –"

"So why didn't you send someone else?" Tristan snarled without turning around. "Someone less vital."

"She's the most diplomatic of us all, and you know it," Arthur snapped. "Could you honestly say that anyone else could do as good a job as she without losing their temper? For God's sake, I was trying to prevent bloodshed, Tristan."

The scout turned to his commander, eyes blazing with a fierce light.

"You sent the woman I love to almost certain death!" He shouted with raw fury, his bone-deep fear finally surfacing.

"Calm yourself, man!" For the first time Arthur almost feared for his life as his knight's hands flexed convulsively, as though seeking to throttle someone – preferably him – of their own accord. "It's not as if she's going north of the Wall. This is Rome we're talking about – a place of civilization, where advocates of peace and freedom congregate… you know better than I that she can take care of herself!"

Tristan threw him a scathing look. "Have you forgotten her past? You gave her the way out she's been searching for all these years. The minute she gets there she'll start hunting the ones who killed her tribe."

Arthur had gone white and he clutched the bedpost for support. "But she only has orders to stay until spring. Such a venture could take years! It's not enough time for her to find the culprits and take her revenge."

Tristan's shoulders slumped. "But she knows who they are, doesn't she? You told her, all those years ago. And a large company like that… they'd be wintering either in Rome or some other city nearby. And as for time," his voice was strained, "she'll search until she finds them all, her orders be damned. She's counting on the fact that when she doesn't return on time, you won't report it, for fear of what they would do to her."

Arthur sank onto the cot, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What have I done?" he moaned to no one in particular.

Tristan's anger faltered and died. "Arthur," he said with forced gentleness. "She'll be caught and tried for murder. If she kills an officer, it will be considered treason. She will suffer the most terrible death a warrior could have. You must do something to spare her that fate. Send me after her."

Arthur raised his head, his expression pinched and bleak. "Tristan, my brother. Forgive me my folly. Go, my friend, and bring her back to us, alive and well."

Tristan was already gone.

He sprinted into the stables, shoving past a surprised groom and a less-than-decent milkmaid. Tristan threw open the door to his horse's stall. The animal inside startled, but the scout ducked under the flailing hooves to heave his saddle across his mount's back, cinching the buckle underneath securely. He slipped the bit into the beast's mouth and hooked his sword and scabbard onto his saddle, slinging his bow up behind it.

"Tristan?" Arthur tossed him some saddlebags full of travel rations. Tristan pulled on a studded leather jerkin and strapped leather gauntlets on his forearms. His cloak he draped across his shoulders, pinning it under his ear and tossing it behind him.

The scout swung up into his saddle as the stable hands opened the doors so horse and rider could pass through. Arthur looked up at him with a silent plea, his hand braced on the horse's neck. He held out a piece of paper, sealed with the young lord's emblem.

"This should get you through any problems. It gives you my own authority. There is gold for bribes in that saddlebag. Keep in mind that Isolde was given the same thing, if it makes it any easier to find her. Good luck, my friend."

Wordlessly Tristan clasped the other man's arm in farewell. Then his commander's face fell away as he urged his horse into motion.

Tristan touched the plain ring he wore on his right hand, the twin of which adorned his lover's finger – wherever that finger, and all that was attached, might be. "Wait for me, my own," he whispered. "Wait for me."

2 months later… Early 443 A.D.

The first thing I noticed about Rome was that its streets were clogged with people. Vendors hawked their wares, farmers hauled goods to pay their taxes and make a profit with the surplus, and servants bustled by on errands for their masters. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry but one and all peered curiously at the strange female in men's garb, escorted by nearly half a century and led by a centurion in well-worn but brightly-polished armor.

I thrust out my chin in a show of mulish stubbornness, staring pointedly until curious eyes dropped to the ground. I gripped my sword hilt unobtrusively, my eyes flicking from one potential threat to the next.

"And I thought Portus Itius was bad," I muttered to myself. Rome was a hundred times worse.

The soldiers who accompanied me laughed and joked amongst themselves, their good spirits restored by their return home. When they met me in Gaul to escort Arthur's knight to Rome, most expressed shock and derision at my sex. As they pressed on, however, some had offered tentative friendship. For the most part, I withdrew from their easy camaraderie, but the open, friendly nature of Titus Arrius had rather won me over, much as I hate to admit it. The youngest of five sons of the nobilis, he was rather slight and was cursed with the unfortunate cognomen "Florus" – unfortunate, that is, for a soldier. I was often obliged to tell off my companions when they teased young Titus, calling him "Flora", even going so far as to reveal to him the terrible secret of my own second name, the Sarmatian equivalent of the Roman nomen. Oh, come now, as if I'm going to tell you. Although my wounded pride forced me to ignore him for three days when he laughed in my face, at least the revelation had put him more at ease.

"Is everything all right?" That selfsame young man asked, noticing my agitation.

"Are there always so many people?" I brought Simargl sharply to heel as he sidled toward Titus' gelding.

He chuckled. "We haven't even reached the city proper yet!" He sighed happily. "I've missed this place. The sounds and smells…"

"It sounds louder than an army of ravens and smells worse than all the woads of Britain in high summer," I snapped. In truth, everything about this place offended me. From what I'd seen so far, Rome was noisy and obnoxious, too warm for my heavy Northern attire and far too dry. The roads were either dust that was whipped into my eyes or stone, hard and uncomfortable underfoot. The only animals were domesticated beasts. It looked as if my skills as a scout would be next to useless here.

Titus, the cocky rat, blithely ignored my irritable response and hailed someone in the crowd.

He wasn't the only one who took note of my discomfort. I'd found another ally in the centurion, whom I had only heard called by the name Bren, or by his title in the case of his subordinates (with the notable exception of his officers). He was an easygoing leader whose background seemed shrouded in mystery, something everyone seemed to know but no one spoke of, and that I, although highly curious, had not been able to penetrate. He had sat with me over many campfires throughout the last months, sharing combat tactics and tales of battle, as well as a genuine interest in my people and my culture. He had made it clear to his men from the beginning that I was to be treated with respect in every sense of the word.

Now he looked at me with a knowing glint in his eye. "Keep that sword sheathed, unless you want to be arrested for disturbing the peace. I won't say there aren't dangers in the city, but your back is covered, at least for the next twenty minutes." I glared at him.

"Why, thank you, that is ever so helpful. I feel so much more at ease knowing you'll be there to guard me from all the big, bad men."

Bren only laughed, curse him, and said, "Your itchy fingers aren't going to make a scene, are they? I'd prefer not to have to restrain you. You're altogether too dangerous for my liking. Oh, come now, calm down. I'm sorry, alright?" I sniffed and put my nose in the air as I pushed on ahead of him. Truth be told, I wasn't sure whether to be offended at his teasing or pleased that he thought me dangerous. As it rather suited my purposes to be perceived so, I decided to maintain that reputation during my stay in Rome. It would make life so much more pleasant. Mollified, I slowed my pace and Simargl fell into stride with Bren's big bay.

He held up his hand to halt the column and turned to me.

"This is where we leave you." He said. So preoccupied with our banter had I been that I'd forgotten to keep track of our surroundings. I looked up and up at the grand building outside of which we sat, and swallowed hard.

"Here?" I asked incredulously. "Are you certain I can't stay in your barracks?" I was hopeful but not expectant.

As I thought he would, Bren shook his head in denial. "I'm afraid that isn't possible. In the missive Lord Arthur sent, he said you were a knight of the highest rank, his second-in-command. It wouldn't be appropriate and it certainly wouldn't be allowed, my lady."

I drew back, surprised. "What is this 'my lady' rot? You have ever called me Isolde, as a friend."

His mouth twitched. "And in this company, you will ever be 'friend'. But in Rome you needs must be 'my lady', for your rank as Artorius' second does outshine my own, albeit by a small margin."

At length I nodded curtly, grasped Bren's forearm, and raised my fist in salute to the rest of the company.

"Come and visit me," I told Bren with a wry half-smile. "I daresay I'll be bored within the hour."

I was right, although for reasons I never predicted. I blew out my breath noisily, exasperated. I'd been banished to this overly gaudy chamber almost directly upon arrival. I grinned at the memory.

I knocked on the door, nervously twisting Tristan's ring around my finger. The door was opened by a blank-faced girl of about seventeen. The maid's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she took in my unusual garb, but she made no mention of it. I shifted under her close scrutiny.

"Excuse me," I began, "I am Isolde of the knights of Badon Hill, on the Great Wall of Britannia, under the command of Lucius Artorius Castus. I was told to seek lodgings here…" I trailed off as the girl ran off to some other unknown part of the house.

I shrugged indifferently and stepped into the entry hall, where I stared, dumbfounded, at the lavish decorations and sheer abundance of space it offered. How could just one family need so much? I turned to inspect a painting so fine it looked almost real.

"Surely this is the home of the emperor himself!" I murmured in awe, aware that I was playing the part of the country bumpkin quite well and rather genuinely.

I heard the click of light footsteps behind me and turned, hiding my feelings behind a mask of utter composure. A sixth sense told me that I must not let them see how intimidated and overwhelmed I was by this life of luxury they led, although I was not accustomed to showing those emotions in the least.

I bowed, studying the woman from under my lashes. The lady of the house – for that as what she clearly was – wore a bright smile. She was middle-aged, with one or two gray hairs and rouged cheeks. Two curly-haired young girls stood behind her, bouncing up and down with excitement.

I bowed low from the waist, as Roman etiquette dictated.

"You are most welcome here, knight," the woman simpered. "I am Appia Curia Flava, the mistress of this household. These are my daughters, TIberia and Vibia Curia Flava." The girls each bobbed in turn.

I straightened. "I am very pleased to meet you all," I said, my tone devoid of any inflection whatsoever.

The daughters' mouths dropped open as their mother's eyebrows drew together severely.

"You're a girl," she stated with distaste. It became immediately apparent that this was a highly undesirable state of affairs, indeed.

"Quite," I matched her tone, trying to hide my confusion at the woman's sudden change.

And so I was whisked off to this enormous chamber where I twiddled my thumbs in increasing irritation. I was about to walk out there and demand to know if this was how they treated their guests when the girl who had first answered the door walked in, followed by others bearing steaming pitchers of water and bundles of fabric. A large man with skin black as coal carried a big copper basin into the room. The hot water was poured into this and the purpose of the procession was finally made clear. The girl began picking at the ties on my tunic, but stopped when I laid a staying hand on her arm.

"And you are…" I prompted. The girl, whose copper skin and slanted eyes marked her as a foreigner, bobbed and mumbled, "Farah, your ladyship," before scurrying out of the room. Her behavior baffled me, but my curiosity was foiled by the arrival of a rather large, no-nonsense woman who briefly introduced herself as the housekeeper. The others left the room without a word.

Within moments I found myself in nothing more than my undergarments. While not a modest person by nature, I did feel rather affronted at the liberties this woman was taking with my person.

"It's quite alright," I ventured. The woman tsked and I began to get annoyed. "I can bathe myself, you know."

"Milady's orders, lady knight. You're to be bathed and dressed properly before you go before the emperor. The Mistress wills it to be so."

My eyebrows shot up. "Does she, now?" I pursed my lips. "Very well. I will not turn down a bath, particularly not a hot one. It would be a pleasure to rid myself of the grime and stink of travel. However," I concluded sternly as the woman began to gather up my travel-worn clothes, "I will wear my own clothing to this audience."

At the housekeeper's offended glance toward my dirty garments, I amended that statement. "Not those, of course. I have clean gear in my pack."

"But surely-" she began.

"But surely nothing," I stood firm. "Surely the emperor knows that I am a warrior, not a courtesan. I see no need to pretend to be what I am not, and never will be. Tell your mistress that is my final word on the matter. Although I do appreciate your efforts," I added, recalling my manners. "It is very kind of you."

She huffed and grudgingly acquiesced, but I had the feeling that my last words had mollified her.

When she had gone, I undressed entirely and sank back into the bath with a sigh of bliss, letting the hot water soak away the soreness of my travel-weary muscles. I closed my eyes and let go my surroundings.

Some time later, when the water had cooled to less than lukewarm, the same woman shook me awake. She had returned with a large bath sheet draped over one arm, which she used to dry me vigorously. Before she left again, she called in the girl Farah and instructed her to aid their guest in dressing. Farah bobbed to her and stood at the ready should I need her.

I picked up my pack and drew out my favorite clothes: a loose black tunic cut in an outdated but comfortable fashion, and a pair of black fitted trousers. The boots would have to do, dirty as they were. After some deliberation, I also laid out my baldric and sword belt. I wasn't fond of it, but in the interest of ceremony I would wear it. If I actually expected to fight, I'd wear the sheath that ran across my back that allowed me to reach over one shoulder – giving me easy access to the blade while the unorthodox location gave me an element of surprise.

Remembering the girl who still stood behind me, I spoke over my shoulder.

"Farah, was it?" The girl silently came to stand at my side. "No, that's alright," I said when she made to help me dress. "And from whence do you hail?"

The young girl looked startled. Up close, I could tell that Farah was much older than I had first taken her to be, closer to fifteen or sixteen rather than twelve. The girl looked up at me with guarded black eyes. "Parthia, your ladyship." She offered no more.

"How came you to be here?" I thought only to make conversation, but she looked at me as though I were insane.

"I am a slave, your ladyship. I was captured and sold to this family." A slave. Of course I had seen slaves in Britain, in the service of Roman lords; granted, Quin was once also a slave to Rome. But this girl would never see freedom, could not even hope for it, and that knowledge saddened me.

Casting about for something to say that would not hurt her pride, for pride she obviously had, I said, "Parthia… that is south of Scythia, is it not? I am Sarmatian, a relation to those same people. We are neighbors in a sense, you and I."

She smiled carefully at me, and I grinned back. "Please, sit. Tell me of your homeland."

She did, losing some of her protective reserve along the way, while I began to dress. Tucking my breastband in, I picked up my tunic only to find a garment thrust under my nose. "A camisia," Farah said, shaking it out. I took the undertunic from her, touching the fine weave. It was a light fabric, cool against the skin, and I thanked her.

She smiled at me again and helped me pull it over my head. It was indeed comfortable, and I knew I would be glad of it when the weather began to turn.

I pulled on my trousers, buckling the belt around my waist and hooking my baldric to the belt so that it crossed my chest and supported the weight of my weapon. Under my sleeves I strapped a quiet knife, just in case. Of course I would not be allowed to wear my sword in the presence of the emperor himself, but I refused to enter unknown territory without a blade by me. Particularly when that territory is at the heart of my enemy's domain.

My hair, newly washed and smoothed with scented oils, curled damply around my face. I sat by the looking-glass and selected portions to braid in my usual style, but before I could begin Farah was there, gently weaving the dark blonde strands into a neat plait.

"No," I said, more harshly than I intended. "I will not tolerate nor patronize slavery. I have been slave to an empire, to the whims of a weak man who sits in his palace far above those he keeps as chattel. I won't take his place. I won't let you be my slave." The thought made me want to lash out at someone in a fit of helpless rage.

She put a hand on my shoulder, this young girl with the oldest eyes I'd ever seen.

"So let me be your friend."

When I was fully dressed, I made my way down to the kitchens, where the housekeeper – whom Farah had told me was called Agatha - directed the staff as adroitly as a legionnaire with his troops. I maneuvered around curious serving girls to confront the busy woman.

"Feeling better, are you?" She asked, taking in my appearance with a raised eyebrow but no other comment.

"Quite," I'd thought carefully of how to broach this, and decided that a straightforward approach would be best and arouse the least suspicion. "Tell me, Mistress Agatha," I said speculatively, "Is the Centurion Marcus Tullius in the city? I have an old friend among his men. I was hoping to see him while I was here."

"Why, certainly," she said, ushering a maid upstairs with a tray for her mistress. "In fact, I believe the man himself will be at the audience this evening. Perhaps you can ask him about this friend of yours."

"Perhaps I shall," I said, and thanked her. She began shouting in Greek, her native tongue, as she rushed to save a plate of freshly-baked bread that was nearly upended by an oblivious footman.

I left the turmoil and strode out the door, my heels clicking smartly on the marble floors. Stopping before a decorative mirror on the wall, I looked myself over in the glass, smoothing the wrinkles on my black trousers and adjusting the folds of the equally dark shirt to better conceal the knife I'd tucked into my belt at the last minute. I hesitated a moment longer to further smudge the kohl under my eyes and bared my teeth in a savage grin. Finally, finally I would have my revenge.

Servants scurried to get out of my way, but I paid them little mind. Slaves I could sympathize with, having been one myself, but it was beyond my powers of comprehension to understand why a person would freely choose to cater to another's whims. It grated on my Sarmatian sense of honor for one to so degrade oneself.

I found my horse and the manservant Mistress Appia had assigned to "guide" me – but I recognized the easy way the burly man moved as that of a trained warrior. I deemed that he was either my protection or my guard, but so far I was unable to decide under which category he fell.

"Lady Isolde," greeted my… well, whatever he was. "Spurius Octavius Corvus, at your service, my lady." He bowed to me, keeping his opinion of my mode of dress, whatever that might be, carefully concealed behind a blank mask. Most definitely not the average manservant, then.

I laid my cheek against Simargl's neck and spoke to him in my own tongue.

"The time has come to fulfill our purpose, dear one. I will find out what I can, and plot, and exact my revenge. No man of that company which slew my clan shall live, or die, without knowing fear, and none shall go unpunished."

The stable boy who held my horse stared at me. He stayed conspicuously out of reach of my horse's teeth, I noticed with amusement.

"Are ye talkin' t' that 'orse?" he asked incredulously, forgetting his manners.

I overlooked this lapse and answered him. "My people consider our horses to be as our siblings, our brothers and sisters of the steppe," I told him. "Yes; I keep him warm and fed and happy – or as happy as he can be, cooped up in a stall." I spoke more to myself than to the boy. "But our place is on the plains, with the wind in our hair and the ground flying underfoot."

I looked at him. "In return, he has saved my life on many occasions. Have you not, my friend?"

"An' who are yer people, then?"

"Enough, boy!" My escort snapped at the lad. "Forgive me, lady, but we must be going."

The boy gratefully relinquished the reins to me and stepped back as I swung easily up into the saddle. Spurius also mounted, and as we rode out the stable door, I flipped a coin to the stable lad, who tipped his cap to me in thanks.

The streets were difficult to follow, but I forced myself to memorize the route we took. Spurius said very little, but unlike Tristan's stoicism, his silence made me uncomfortable.

Finally the street opened up, and I looked up and swore under my breath. So this was where the powers of the world sat in judgment. It was incredible. More than incredible, it was… I remembered to breathe.

"Oh." I said, not even caring that I sounded like a dolt. I wasn't even aware that I had stopped until Spurius wheeled around and called for me. I gulped, staring in disbelief. How could it be that man had made such a thing? Surely the gods had placed it here, rather than a human hand. I fingered Tristan's ring. Tristan, my love, how I wish you were here at my side, I thought.

Spurius called again and I nudged Simargl into motion.

"My lady Isolde!" I swung around in my saddle, my face already lighting up in a welcoming grin at the familiar voice.

"Bren – Centurion!" I corrected myself, beaming with real delight. The officer rode up to us.

"Its' all right, my good man, I'll take it from here," he said. Then, turning to me, "That is, if you don't mind having me as an escort." I responded to the twinkle in his eye with a full-fledged grin.

"On the contrary. I'd be honored to accompany you."

Spurius turned his horse so that he faced me. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, my lady," he stated firmly.

My guard, then.

Bren maneuvered between us. "But of course I would allow no harm to come to the lady, sir. Lady Isolde shall return safely, I promise you." His tone held steel. When the man remained undecided, Bren gave up all pretense of being polite. "You have been dismissed, soldier," he growled, confirming my suspicions.

Spurius cursed under his breath and left. I imagined he had been under orders to keep an eye on me, but even so my opinion of him had rapidly deteriorated.

As Bren took up the place on my right, his scowl dissipated into a smile. "Someone's been practicing their manners," he muttered to me.

"Arthur made us all learn Roman 'manners'," I told him. "If I had wanted to learn how the jackal acts, I would have taken up residence in his den. Miserable bastards, all of them," I groused.

He arched an eyebrow at me and I suddenly recalled that my friend was half-Roman himself.

"Oh," I said. "Well, of course I didn't mean you."

We passed through the gate practically unhindered. Bren, who was familiar with the layout of the palace, pointed out landmarks for me on the way to the stables. I stored them away in my mind in case I needed the information in the future.

The inside of the place was, if possible, even more elegant and elaborate than without. I tried to keep my eyes in my head, but such excess defied reason. Bren led me up a flight of stairs and to an elaborate door, beyond which I could hear the murmur of muted voices.

A herald stood by the door, and Bren gave him our names to be announced as we were disarmed by the guards at the entrance. I watched my sword Kiji wistfully as it was taken away.

"Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus. The lady knight Isolde Belera of Sarmatia."

Heads turned, but I scarcely noticed, preoccupied as I was with the revelation of Bren's name. No, I thought, growing cold. It couldn't be. But I hadn't imagined it. Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus. Centurion Marcus Tullius Merula.

Recovering somewhat from the shock, I was recalled to myself when Bren started moving toward the dais at the end of the enormous hall. Members of the nobilis mingled, largely ignoring me but for the occasional sideways glance.

As we approached, my eyes flickered through the crowd, searching for a profile I would never forget. There. That damnable man… the bastard who stole my life from me. In that moment, I let go the rest. Forget the others, the soldiers who committed the crime... who followed orders. I would be content with this man's blood alone; the man who planned the whole thing.

I did not let him see that my attention had fixed on him until I drew even with him. Then I cut my eyes sharply to his position, pausing a half-step so that he would know I was aware of his presence. His face had drained of color. A half empty glass trembled in his hand, which was clenched so tightly that the knuckles had turned white. That's right, you miserable bastard, I raged inwardly. This is what it feels like to be in the presence of death. Of your death. I watched surreptitiously as he turned and pushed his way haphazardly through the crowd. How could Bren – good-hearted, fair-minded Bren – be family to that monster?

I put Bren from my mind, studying the emperor. He was middle-aged, perhaps in his forties; rather distinguished, with streaks of silver at his temples. Despite the elaborate decoration of his person, there was nothing fraudulent about this man. His smile was wry and welcoming – for a man of power, he looked positively honest. Nor was his figure that of a slothful person, which did not surprise me, as he had been a military man in his youth. I lifted my chin defiantly when his gaze lingered on certain aspects of my anatomy with appreciation.

"Centurion," he welcomed Bren familiarly but with distraction – his gaze still held my own. Clearly this man was no stranger to the opposite sex. "And this is the warrior who comes with Artorius' particular recommendation? If I may be frank, my dear," he leaned over my hand. "He said nothing of your loveliness." I felt warm, dry lips press my skin.

"You're too kind, Your Highness," I began to step aside, aware that my audience was through.

"No, please," he entreated, lifting a finger. A man – slave by his demeanor – stepped lively to pour wine for the both of us. "Stay by me, would you?" With no choice, I reluctantly took the goblet and turned to face the crowd as the next arrival took my place to greet the emperor.

This man practically laid a carpet at Aëtius' feet, toadying up to him so blatantly that I felt the sudden urge to gag. I watched the pudgy man step off the dais. What a spineless wimp of a man… Khors, can I vomit now?

I had no notion that I'd actually said the words until Aëtius, caught off-guard, laughed out loud in surprise. I saw that while they appeared to be holding conversations of their own, everyone in the room as aware of their emperor's every move. He was, after all, the most powerful man in the world. I cut my eyes over to him and raised an eyebrow. "What? Your Highness," I hastily corrected myself.

Still chuckling, he wiped the corners of his eyes. "You, by God. Do you realize that the man to whom you refer so charmingly as a 'spineless wimp' is one of the most powerful members of the nobilis? Although, I do think your assessment rather accurate. He does seem to lack something in sense, doesn't he?"

Without thinking, I said, "There are many stupid rich men of power in this world. It's the job of the masses to keep them in line." I remembered to whom I was speaking and for a moment I thought he would be terribly offended. He could have my head for saying such a thing, I realized. But then he roared with laughter and I relaxed.

"Oh, I do like you!" he crowed. "You must never hesitate to share your delightful opinions with me, my dear."

What the hell, I thought, and decided to push my luck a bit further. "Then I must ask something of you, Your Highness. I'm afraid I am no one's 'dear'. I must ask you to call me Isolde, for that is my name."

"With pleasure, Isolde. And I am Aëtius." I heard a gasp from the crowd near us, and I myself was similarly taken aback. For the emperor to allow one such as myself – to allow anyone, in fact – such measures of familiarity was unthinkable.

"Don't worry," I murmured so that only he could hear. "I won't let it go to my head."

"Isolde," he said, "I do believe my life will be much more lively with you around."

"I should hope so. You seem to lack for amusement around here," I quipped, looking about at the multitude of apathetic faces. He laughed once more, and the show went on.

Many hours and several glasses of wine later, Aëtius turned to me and said, "My dear – Isolde, would you care to retire?"

I was already shaking my head. "I am expected at the household where I am to reside for these months."

"I would be happy to have a missive sent."

I fished for another excuse. "My horse…"

"But of course your horse will be well cared for. Although you Sarmatians are quite fond of your horses, aren't you? Have no fear – it will be taken care of."

Well, aren't we suave? Alright, have it your way.

"Aëtius, you asked me to be frank with you. I regret to inform you that I am promised to a man in Britain – Britannia – and that I have no intention of being unfaithful to him, no matter the caliber of the man with whom such an affair might occur. You will simply have to sleep cold." I stated firmly. Catching his line of sight, I amended, "Or perhaps not cold."

He looked at me with haughty amusement. "Isolde, I am an emperor. I am never cold."

"So I can see," I muttered wryly as he bid me goodnight and stood to leave.

"But rest assured, I have not forgotten about you," he whispered in my ear, and went. I saw him turn slightly and catch the eye of a comely girl in the crowd, nodding almost imperceptibly to her. She lowered her gaze in acquiescence and I stifled a giggle. Never cold, indeed.

I took my own leave soon after, ignoring Bren. I hadn't yet made up my mind about him. He shared the family name of Marcus Tullius, my sworn enemy. But he did say he was half-Gallish… I saw the bewilderment cross his face as I passed by without a word and wished I didn't have to hurt him.

Once outside, I made my way to a bench I'd noticed on the way in and sat down, my knees trembling from the stress of the night. "Khors…" I groaned in an agony of confusion. Bren was kin to Marcus Tullius, the man who had orchestrated the slaughter of my tribe… the man who condemned me to servitude. Meanwhile, the emperor had taken a liking to me, and I found myself entertained by him – though I would never be attracted to him.

So caught up in these thoughts was I that the soldier came upon me almost without warning. "What's this, here?" He said, and I stood quickly. Behind him, two of his fellows leered at me.

"You know not whom you are speaking to," I warned. "I will not hesitate to cause you great pain." I cursed myself for forgetting to retrieve my sword, even as I surreptitiously flipped the catch on my arm sheath, so that a twist of my wrist would release my knife into my hand.

The lumbering drunk grasped my arm with bruising force. "Give us a kiss, then!" He said, but before he could move I flexed my bicep, prying open his fingers so I could jerk my arm out and up, thrusting my elbow into the side of his head and boxing his ears forcefully before bringing his head into my knee. He would have a terrible headache in the morning.

The other two roared furiously and came after me with fists flailing, but the odds were in my favor in such a small space, against two inebriated Romans, whereas I had only drank sparingly. I caught the fist of the second assailant in the shoulder, rolling the joint back to alleviate the force of the blow while I grasped his other hand and viciously pinched the thick muscle between thumb and forefinger. With the other hand I shoved two of his fingers back as far as they would go. He wimpered and fell to his knees. I let my knife drop into my hand and knocked the hilt swiftly against his temple, hard enough to render him unconscious but not enough to do permanent damage.

I halted the third by the simple expedient of putting my blade to the hollow of his throat. He lowered his hands slowly, eyes blazing ferociously.

"Idiot," I said, and shoved him away from me. He ran, staggering, towards the building I assumed was the barracks.

"Damn," I cursed hotly. What a night…

"Isolde!" I looked up into Bren's worried eyes.

"I'm all right," I told him. "Just some drunken fools who wanted to have a little 'fun' with me. I gave them rather more fun than they could handle, I think."

He stepped over the two unconscious men at my feet and touched my face. His eyes darkened when he saw the tear the second man's fist had made in my tunic, over my right shoulder. He touched the place where I'd taken the arrow at Vindomora, when Galahad and Marrok and I were stranded alone in the forest for near a week. Although it had healed well, the wound had left an ugly knot of white scar tissue.

"It's nothing," I said shortly, turning around. "Just a scar." The last person to touch that spot had been Tristan. I felt the ghost of my lover's touch on the scar and suddenly felt like crying. I gripped his ring for comfort.

"Isolde," Bren breathed. "Surely you know how much I've grown to care for you. Your spirit, your independence, your fire … it has drawn me to you and God help me, I just might fall in love with you."

And before I could think of a single thing to say, his lips were on mine and I nearly lost myself in his kiss. I couldn't help myself – I began to respond to his passion, to the feel of his hands under my tunic…

Suddenly I broke away, sitting down heavily when my knees refused to bear my weight. "Play with fire and you will get burned," I said stupidly. Then, recalling my wits, I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. "I can't, Bren…"

He drew back. "Why?" he asked, and I could see his struggle to contain his raging emotions. "Is it something to do with the reason you've been ignoring me all evening? I saw you turn down the emperor… I thought…"

"Oh, Bren," I sighed wearily. "You are a good man – the best – but I could never be what you want me to be."

"There's someone else, isn't there?" I could see that he knew the answer already.

"Yes," I said simply. "I'm sorry, Bren. My heart belongs to Tristan, one of Arthur's knights. I could never betray him. That is why I refused Aëtius. You are a wonderful friend, but to me you could never be more than that. But it's not only that."

"What?" He asked more calmly.

"Your name." His face showed no sign of understanding. "You are a relation of Marcus Tullius Merula?"

"My father's brother," he acknowledged. "What of it?"

"That man was the very same who coordinated an attack on my tribe, sending soldiers to slaughter innocents. His aim was to make the Sarmatians believe it was the Huns who had attacked them, and thus begin a war that would finish both our peoples. But his plan failed. His soldiers didn't kill me."

Bren looked shocked, and I couldn't blame him. To find out that one's uncle is a vicious murdering swine is not the most pleasant revelation. "Bren," I said, "I am here to kill him... do you understand? I have spent years working toward this opportunity, and I will let nothing get in my way."

"So that was why you ignored me, is it? You only just found out that I was kin to him?" He shook his head regretfully and blew out his breath. "And you have a beau to whom you are betrothed waiting for you in Britain. Sarmatian as well, of course. He had better treat you as you deserve to be treated," he warned.

He looked at me ruefully. "I suppose I had to try," he said. "Don't worry, I'll survive. Just – just kiss me once more, and then I'll leave."

What more could I do? I stepped up to him, put my hands on his chest, and sweetly touched my lips to his. He groaned, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me with fierce longing, and then suddenly I was free and he had gone.

I touched my fingers to my throbbing lips and turned. He had left my sword propped against the bench. Hooking Kiji on my belt, I straightened my hair and clothing and went to find Simargl, thinking not of Bren, but of the love I had left behind.

I'm sorry, Tristan, I said to him. But he was hurting, and I was lonely. Have no fear – my heart remains forever yours.

I rode out the palace gates at a brisk trot, my fist clenched around Tristan's ring. Oh, my love, where are you now?

Tristan nodded to the man he'd been talking to, flipped him a coin, and strode away to where his mount waited. The Gaul had seen Isolde, or a woman who matched her description, riding with near three-score Roman soldiers and a centurion, more than a month past. Tristan cursed, his black mood returning. If he were a superstitious man, he might venture to say that fate was against him on this mission. An early winter storm had battered the port from which he was to leave, damaging the ship and costing him almost two weeks while the sailors labored to repair it. During that time he was sorely tempted to strike out on his own and swim to Gaul, but was spared that trial.

Upon his arrival in Portus Itius, that same port he'd sailed from so long ago, his horse had thrown a shoe, and he'd been obliged to wait until the blacksmith could make another to replace it. He'd gotten lost, rained on, challenged by Romans – though they quickly backed down upon seeing Arthur's seal and letter of safe conduct – and on one particularly humiliating occasion, fallen off his horse. He supposed that he looked rather like a vagabond now, not that it bothered him.

So occupied was he in his angry misery that at first he didn't see the man who appeared next to his horse. He did, however, notice when that man swung a club that connected painfully with his back. Tristan instinctively grabbed the club and wrenched it out of the man's hands and kicked him down, wheezing. The blow had knocked the air from his lungs. He ignored the burning in his chest as a wave of opponents surrounded his horse.

Tristan fought to free his sword as he parried a sword blow with his akinakes. With his knees he directed his mount to swing around, the heavy head knocking into some of his attackers and giving him the opportunity to draw his sword and slash into the crowd. He struck thrice more with just as deadly results, and was drawing his arm back for another assault when he felt a sudden, agonizing pain in his head. He never felt himself hit the ground.

End Chapter.

I am not particularly knowledgeable of the Late Roman Empire… I'm afraid I might have made Roman life correspond somewhat to the more familiar era of renaissance/colonial Europe. But please, if anything I referred to is incorrect in any way, don't hesitate to inform me.

Now that that's out of the way, thank you to all those who stuck with me throughout the long months with no word of my continued existence. I hope to hear lots of feedback from everyone, and I'm sorry this chapter isn't quite as long as my usual 10,000 words, although I must say, I think that scene between Bren and Isolde rather made up for it!

Until next time,

Ribhinn

Review.