The morning did not delay, and the platoons positioned at different advantageous points moved in calculated harmonious pace. The enemy was not on the rest either. Having claimed the latest village they had attacked and plundered as a camping base, they marched toward their next prey without a unique formation or a detailed plan of attack, depending on the sheer element of surprise and their numbers that were much more than what Germanous and his troops had anticipated. However, both of the previous factors were in the Roman's favor and the element of surprise the barbaric troops were depending on was soon turned against them. As the sun laid bare all the hills and valleys leaving no blind spots for the enemy to retreat or escape to, revealing that they had no additional support lurking here or there. The trumpets blew like the horns of the gods while Germanous waited anxiously in his tent, guarded by ten soldiers as he did not want an entire troop to be left behind for the sole purpose of his protection, in order not to seem selfish or a coward.
The lancer had left the night before without uttering a single word, and without repeating his promises of victory, accompanied by a sorrow that shaded his features, an old sorrow that the governor could tell it pertained to old times and several tragedies. Diarmuid did not leave in a hurry although his intentions as deciphered by the governor were to do so, as if avoiding the repetition of a cursed spell, afraid for the governor's sake more than his own. His golden eyes had spoken this much without having to move his lips and Germanous silently watched his back as left he tent, feeling the void inside his heart growing wider and deeper, readying itself to embrace more emptiness and loneliness, even a new tragedy perhaps regardless of today's battle outcome.
***
The scattered tribes of the enemy moving with no rhythm or coordination were indeed taken by the unprepared for sudden tackle of Roman troops, as they had made sure previously, despite their apparent lack of any organization, that the southern area was the weakest, the richest yet least guarded, and they made sure in their previous ambushes to wipe out all the small legions stationed there but they did not count for the fastness or speed the central city would respond with. Nevertheless, this surprise did not weaken their will as they were more than happy to loot more weapons, armory, and horses along the villages money, crops and cattle.
The drums and trumpets led the battle rhyme, a poem written in blood and illustrated by courageousness, driven by the unwavering desire for revenge to the slight delivered to the Roman honor. And although these tribes lacked a central command, their randomness in fighting was savage and disturbing to the well trained and calculating legions and battalions, but this was overshadowed by the latter's strength and will power that did not shy from the barbaric groups but this little gap left the spotlight for the two lances of sun and blood to take reign of the battle, for the lancer was used to random battles and unplanned attacks, ordered at the whims of kings and derived from their sudden change in mood or urging desires to obtain what bewitched their eyes but did not pertain to their hands. The beams of the heavens' queen seemed to be following the two gleaming tips, the shadows she cast upon the humble earth weaved by their movements. On the top of his dark horse, the lancer, driven by nothing of what drove any of the other soldiers or the enemy, fought to one end, as he had promised, praying to be able to keep that vow; establishing a great new entry to Gramanous's era and gifting him victory. He had participated a huge part in devising the plan, and was used by now to the Romans' strict formations and methods of fighting, but the arbitrarily of the enemy's fighting allowed him to reign free on the battlefield. Not adhering to the battalion he was assigned to, his horse leapt across the crimson - flowering field, from every direction to its opposite in the speed of seconds, slaying while he crossed the distance dozens of heads after dozens. The freshness of the morn air, the freedom with which the golden sphere flew across the limitless sky, the infinite field, all brought his senses to a beautiful past that was no longer tainted by the staleness of the arena's aura or its grim outcomes even when they courted victory. This was a true battle, a battle suitable to a knight such as himself, carried through with a noble aim that was not selfish or instinctual. The only things that left a sore taste in his memories was the group with which he was fighting, although he was harboring no ill – intentions anymore toward them, to his own surprise. He could clearly understand their duty to defend their lands and citizens. Still, the scene was so lacking. It missed the dark humorous banters exchanged between himself and his fellow Fianna knights at the darkest and most dangerous of situations, it yearned for the warmth of solidarity despite the freezing brutality of a fight, it did not carry the Fionaa's motto as this was not his own battle or theirs. But despite these loathsome truths, he still allowed himself to indulge in the fight and roam freely on his horse and along his twin spears.
Many faces of his past comrades traveled in front of his eyes, and he could barely remember the names or match them to the right face…
Goll mac Morna, Caitle mac Ronain, Conan mac Morna and many others that turned into his enemies, he could recall which he had murdered or merely defeated while on his eloping journey with their king and leader's fiancée. It was as if the last years has donned a veil on his beloved memories, remembering neither the good nights where they hunted, invaded, and toasted in celebration, nor the fatal chases and duels that ensued from his escape and insult to the king. His lances were more than sated, his fighting spirit was more than satisfied by the deeds he was gracing this battlefield with, but his heart, despite being filled with his vow toward Germanous, still felt empty, presenting him with another enemy he had to fight against at this time, a void devouring his memories and his chivalrous spirit, a void trying to trap the nobility of defending powerless villages and their innocent inhabitants and bare them of any significance.
It was not raining, nor did the sky forewarn a storm, but Diarmuid felt every raindrop he was soaked with while on the run with Grainne, he was fighting riding his horse's back, and the splattered blood of his foes barely reached his skin but he still could feel the blood of his friends and pursuers which he had spilled to protect the nest of love he was trying to build peacefully.
He though this battle would be the redemption to his past, but ignorance and forgetfulness were the only remedy, so he carried on the top of his black stallion, thrusting and plunging his weapons, slaying most of the enemies until there were none left to his disappointment.
His vow was seen, but he was blind to it.
When the Roman troops declared victory he only saw defeats, his own, Oscar's and those of whom he had to kill and could spare while being hunted by Fionn's minions. The soldiers could not deny his valor, and they could not disdain his talent, as if he was a past pal of theirs from a long time, they praised and admired him but he merely nodded, unable to bring toward the absence that dominated his face a smile or return the flattery though he did not feel that estranged which terrified him even more.
Taking the rein of his horse, he dashed backward to Germanous's tent, where at least, there whiffed some familiarity between two men with broken dreams and hopes they were struggling to repair.
***
"Victory is ours! These barbaric tribes had learnt their lesson! They shall never dare think of invading our lands anymore!"
The generals boasted, and the soldiers drank to that as Germanous finally left his tent, congratulating them and praising their bravery and efforts, promising rewards and honors, promising gold and promotions that the lancer could not keep count of or believe they were available in the first place, especially after the exhausted resources during the inner war the city had to fight through.
After the small celebration, the troops were ready to return by the next dawn to the city, leaving two additional legions at the southern borders at one of the less optimistic general's opinion. The governor returned to his tent, paler than when he had watched the troops leave to fight, and paler than when he stayed alone at his tent waiting for a trap or an assassination attempt that never happened and seemed to stem from his paranoid mind more than from available information or tips. He collapsed at his bed, shivering slightly before he heard the heavy footsteps of the lancer announcing his presence.
"Dia, you have kept your words."
The governor stuttered through clacking teeth, and the lancer looked at him questioningly. Nothing escaped these golden orbs, not his enthusiasm toward something or his dislike of something. He could only admit.
"It seems rather weak of me to say this… even insulting to what the soldiers had done and gone through but today… today I had sent men to meet their demise."
Diarmuid could tell the governor was not himself as he watched the injured return and the corpses being carried and burnt at the site of the victorious battle, honoring their sacrifice.
"I… who have always wanted to birth life into lifelessness, to flourish barren lands… had sent my men to their demise… I have sent more men to die, whether at battles or at the arena's games and trials, more than what I have hoped to revive and bring to life… the change and new breeze of life I wanted to don the city with, I have overweighed by the scorches of death and destruction I have caused and brought upon it…"
"Revival is birthed out of destruction, and vice versa… they are a never ending loop, and that's why dynasties change, but life persists. This is not your fault, these soldiers, along myself, have pledged their lives to you the moment they decided you were their governor and leader. It is your duty to accept their sacrifice and hold to it with honor and pride rather than wallow over it."
The lancer said lecturing the shivering young creature. He was partly calmed downed but there was still a part of him falling prey to blame.
"How am I supposed to return to the city and face the dead soldiers' widows and children?"
"With the same honor and pride the have faced death with and with whatever support you could rally for them."
"Death is akin to life to you, as long as both are dealt with due honor and respect…"
"That's a truth."
"Now you sound like Sabina…"
The governor jested to the lancer's dislike, but the latter was glad that at least the governor had returned his self – esteem and confidence again.
"I truly do not know where I would have been without you…"
Germanous spoke without moving from his seat, expecting the lancer to come to him, but the latter merely shook his head and affirmed before he left with a sad smile.
"You will be right where you are."
***
The battle procession returned faster than anticipated to the main city. The citizens immediately descended down the streets, leaving their homes to fill every corner and paved stone in the celebrating streets as the news of victory was quick to travel by the homers. Despite the proud face the governor was wearing, with the dual wielder next to him, his eyes peered through every person and every building, hunting for a sing for any changing notions or plots against him, fearing Laurentius had done so well on his temporary duty, that he had outdone him, which would be natural if he were to be honest, and thus, the people would choose to replace the young bad – lucked youth with the wiser more capable man. Nevertheless, none of this was present and the feared man was the first to receive and congratulate him on the victory, returning to his humble position.
This time Germanous had presented himself, though not physically participating in the fight, triumphant and blessed by the gods, leading from the top of his horse the march of victory. Though a grim of darkness from witnessing the horrors of one battle stained the bright of his reddish eyes, he had nothing to fear now, he returned from a victorious battle that shall bear his name, wearing the bay this time.
He glanced and waved at the frenzied people by that victory, he had never been as admired as he was being now. Not when he started the renovation plans nor when he ended the terror of the "Justice Pallbearers". A part of his dream, obtaining this admiration, was brought to life but not in the way he wanted and satisfied his visions. He did not want chaos or wars, he did not want to rely on the soldiers blades to hail his name but it seemed that the dream of admiration came with the cost of staining the dream itself with blood and violence, the things he abhorred and wanted to erase with his visions and future plans.