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It was one of the fundamental elements of Cicero’s day to day business, keeping an ear to the ground on those who came in and out of the fylaki. The jailer was a long term informant, kept sweet and pliable by some intriguing information the spy master had on the man’s own activities, and so he would keep the Master Informer informed of goings on within the city jail. Cicero would even stop in so every often for an update.
This time, however, it was not one of his regular call ins. This time, the jailer’s almost illegible scrawl-more akin to that of a child than a full grown man- had brought the spymaster along sooner rather than later. The missive told of a man who had been imprisoned, accused of trying to deliver a note to the Princess Emilia. That in itself was no crime worthy of incarceration, no, what Cicero assumed had gotten Elias of Stravos all riled up was that the letter was whispered to have been from none other than the missing Queen Persephone.
Despite his efforts, Cicero had not as of yet seen said letter, and nor had he been summoned by the Stravos Lord to investigate. Which he supposed was unsurprising given that he answered to Princess Emilia and he doubted very much that the poor girl had seen hide or hair of the letter intended for her. So whilst it was not always a thing he liked to do - the fylaki was a grim and depressing place- Cicero had decided he might come down to speak with the man himself.
An ex-gladiator it would seem, he’d done what little background work he thought necessary, and had asked for the man to be brought into a side chamber out of his cell. With information to suggest that his treatment had not been gentle, Cicero wasn’t certain what to expect. Still, he sat, one long leg crossed idly over the other, hands folded lightly in his lap behind a small table, and waited for the prisoner to be brought to him.
By his side was a small satchel, one which the jailer had conveniently turned a blind eye to, and that Cicero had seen filled with a few necessary items. He wasn’t sure if they would be required or welcomed, such would be revealed when he laid eyes upon this Demetrius, and learnt how chatty or not the imprisoned man was to be. Drawing a long slow breath in through his nose and immediately regretting it - Hera knows why they could not sling a bucket of water around the place - the Master Informer blinked as the latch on the door was lifted.
A guard dragged the prisoner forward with none too gentle hands, threw him down onto the stool on the opposite side of the table and then moved back a few paces. Cicero did not dismiss him yet, wanting to get a read on what behaviour he might expect from the man he sought.
"Demetrius of Lands Afar, so glad you could join me"
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It was one of the fundamental elements of Cicero’s day to day business, keeping an ear to the ground on those who came in and out of the fylaki. The jailer was a long term informant, kept sweet and pliable by some intriguing information the spy master had on the man’s own activities, and so he would keep the Master Informer informed of goings on within the city jail. Cicero would even stop in so every often for an update.
This time, however, it was not one of his regular call ins. This time, the jailer’s almost illegible scrawl-more akin to that of a child than a full grown man- had brought the spymaster along sooner rather than later. The missive told of a man who had been imprisoned, accused of trying to deliver a note to the Princess Emilia. That in itself was no crime worthy of incarceration, no, what Cicero assumed had gotten Elias of Stravos all riled up was that the letter was whispered to have been from none other than the missing Queen Persephone.
Despite his efforts, Cicero had not as of yet seen said letter, and nor had he been summoned by the Stravos Lord to investigate. Which he supposed was unsurprising given that he answered to Princess Emilia and he doubted very much that the poor girl had seen hide or hair of the letter intended for her. So whilst it was not always a thing he liked to do - the fylaki was a grim and depressing place- Cicero had decided he might come down to speak with the man himself.
An ex-gladiator it would seem, he’d done what little background work he thought necessary, and had asked for the man to be brought into a side chamber out of his cell. With information to suggest that his treatment had not been gentle, Cicero wasn’t certain what to expect. Still, he sat, one long leg crossed idly over the other, hands folded lightly in his lap behind a small table, and waited for the prisoner to be brought to him.
By his side was a small satchel, one which the jailer had conveniently turned a blind eye to, and that Cicero had seen filled with a few necessary items. He wasn’t sure if they would be required or welcomed, such would be revealed when he laid eyes upon this Demetrius, and learnt how chatty or not the imprisoned man was to be. Drawing a long slow breath in through his nose and immediately regretting it - Hera knows why they could not sling a bucket of water around the place - the Master Informer blinked as the latch on the door was lifted.
A guard dragged the prisoner forward with none too gentle hands, threw him down onto the stool on the opposite side of the table and then moved back a few paces. Cicero did not dismiss him yet, wanting to get a read on what behaviour he might expect from the man he sought.
"Demetrius of Lands Afar, so glad you could join me"
It was one of the fundamental elements of Cicero’s day to day business, keeping an ear to the ground on those who came in and out of the fylaki. The jailer was a long term informant, kept sweet and pliable by some intriguing information the spy master had on the man’s own activities, and so he would keep the Master Informer informed of goings on within the city jail. Cicero would even stop in so every often for an update.
This time, however, it was not one of his regular call ins. This time, the jailer’s almost illegible scrawl-more akin to that of a child than a full grown man- had brought the spymaster along sooner rather than later. The missive told of a man who had been imprisoned, accused of trying to deliver a note to the Princess Emilia. That in itself was no crime worthy of incarceration, no, what Cicero assumed had gotten Elias of Stravos all riled up was that the letter was whispered to have been from none other than the missing Queen Persephone.
Despite his efforts, Cicero had not as of yet seen said letter, and nor had he been summoned by the Stravos Lord to investigate. Which he supposed was unsurprising given that he answered to Princess Emilia and he doubted very much that the poor girl had seen hide or hair of the letter intended for her. So whilst it was not always a thing he liked to do - the fylaki was a grim and depressing place- Cicero had decided he might come down to speak with the man himself.
An ex-gladiator it would seem, he’d done what little background work he thought necessary, and had asked for the man to be brought into a side chamber out of his cell. With information to suggest that his treatment had not been gentle, Cicero wasn’t certain what to expect. Still, he sat, one long leg crossed idly over the other, hands folded lightly in his lap behind a small table, and waited for the prisoner to be brought to him.
By his side was a small satchel, one which the jailer had conveniently turned a blind eye to, and that Cicero had seen filled with a few necessary items. He wasn’t sure if they would be required or welcomed, such would be revealed when he laid eyes upon this Demetrius, and learnt how chatty or not the imprisoned man was to be. Drawing a long slow breath in through his nose and immediately regretting it - Hera knows why they could not sling a bucket of water around the place - the Master Informer blinked as the latch on the door was lifted.
A guard dragged the prisoner forward with none too gentle hands, threw him down onto the stool on the opposite side of the table and then moved back a few paces. Cicero did not dismiss him yet, wanting to get a read on what behaviour he might expect from the man he sought.
"Demetrius of Lands Afar, so glad you could join me"
It played over and over again in his mind, the ways he could have avoided being found and caught, the lies he could have told to try to escape, all followed again by the knowledge that he would have failed once the letter was taken. Curses were somehow not enough, and his lips were too parched to utter them at this point. He'd tried to keep count of the days but he wasn't entirely sure any longer. More than a week, not quite a month, drifting somewhere in the darkness of the cell he'd been kept in since his capture. Long enough that Olena was alone longer than he had promised.
When he had found her again, after sixteen long years of separation and searching, he had promised he would never be away from her. This mission for the queen had been something quick and simple that he could do, deliver a missive to the princess, it shouldn't be so difficult. Messengers came and went all the time, he ought to have been back in a few days at most. And she was safe, well cared for and kept in more comfort than either of them had been used to in their slavery. At least that was something he could hold on to. They would continue to care for her even if he was never able to return, their time cut short once more without the wedding he had promised.
His body ached, the barely healed wound on his shoulder from the night he had fled the palace was inflamed and felt as if it would split apart again. Scars across his skin marked his history, and though he held no fear of adding others, dying of sickness and injury in this cell was far worse than dying in action. Alone, without any way to tell Olena where he was, that he had tried to return for her, to finally wed after so many years of waiting. Light burned against his eyelids and he shrank away, gritting his teeth and willing the jailer to pass him by instead of performing the usual exercises of cruelty, but he was not so fortunate.
The other man's leering face left him grimacing, bristling for blows as he was dragged from the cell with no explanation, hissing as embers from the torch landed on already battered skin. Light suddenly hit him as he was dragged into the stone chamber, disorienting after a time in only darkness, and he fell against the table as he was thrown down. This was new, and he was immediately on guard, looking about wildly as he tried to take in his surroundings and find a way out, ready to spring if the opportunity presented itself and finding there was nothing but a stranger before him and the hated guard behind.
Hearing his Greek given name after the soothing tones of his native tongue from Olena was grating, and he flinched at the cool detached nature of the man across the table. This one was noble, or wealthy at least, the way he looked and dressed was far too fine to be anyone common. A cold fear gripped him and he froze as he wondered if this would be the moment he was told of his execution. Would they give him time to speak or think or would he be dragged away to the scaffold, would they throw him back in the arena in this state, with barely any food or water since he had been taken, weakened already and easy prey for someone looking to make a name for himself.
"Why am I here?" His tongue felt thick in his mouth, dry and uncomfortable as he swallowed. The accent he'd never lost making the Greek all the more impossible as he mumbled, still flinching away from the light that was burning his pale eyes.
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It played over and over again in his mind, the ways he could have avoided being found and caught, the lies he could have told to try to escape, all followed again by the knowledge that he would have failed once the letter was taken. Curses were somehow not enough, and his lips were too parched to utter them at this point. He'd tried to keep count of the days but he wasn't entirely sure any longer. More than a week, not quite a month, drifting somewhere in the darkness of the cell he'd been kept in since his capture. Long enough that Olena was alone longer than he had promised.
When he had found her again, after sixteen long years of separation and searching, he had promised he would never be away from her. This mission for the queen had been something quick and simple that he could do, deliver a missive to the princess, it shouldn't be so difficult. Messengers came and went all the time, he ought to have been back in a few days at most. And she was safe, well cared for and kept in more comfort than either of them had been used to in their slavery. At least that was something he could hold on to. They would continue to care for her even if he was never able to return, their time cut short once more without the wedding he had promised.
His body ached, the barely healed wound on his shoulder from the night he had fled the palace was inflamed and felt as if it would split apart again. Scars across his skin marked his history, and though he held no fear of adding others, dying of sickness and injury in this cell was far worse than dying in action. Alone, without any way to tell Olena where he was, that he had tried to return for her, to finally wed after so many years of waiting. Light burned against his eyelids and he shrank away, gritting his teeth and willing the jailer to pass him by instead of performing the usual exercises of cruelty, but he was not so fortunate.
The other man's leering face left him grimacing, bristling for blows as he was dragged from the cell with no explanation, hissing as embers from the torch landed on already battered skin. Light suddenly hit him as he was dragged into the stone chamber, disorienting after a time in only darkness, and he fell against the table as he was thrown down. This was new, and he was immediately on guard, looking about wildly as he tried to take in his surroundings and find a way out, ready to spring if the opportunity presented itself and finding there was nothing but a stranger before him and the hated guard behind.
Hearing his Greek given name after the soothing tones of his native tongue from Olena was grating, and he flinched at the cool detached nature of the man across the table. This one was noble, or wealthy at least, the way he looked and dressed was far too fine to be anyone common. A cold fear gripped him and he froze as he wondered if this would be the moment he was told of his execution. Would they give him time to speak or think or would he be dragged away to the scaffold, would they throw him back in the arena in this state, with barely any food or water since he had been taken, weakened already and easy prey for someone looking to make a name for himself.
"Why am I here?" His tongue felt thick in his mouth, dry and uncomfortable as he swallowed. The accent he'd never lost making the Greek all the more impossible as he mumbled, still flinching away from the light that was burning his pale eyes.
It played over and over again in his mind, the ways he could have avoided being found and caught, the lies he could have told to try to escape, all followed again by the knowledge that he would have failed once the letter was taken. Curses were somehow not enough, and his lips were too parched to utter them at this point. He'd tried to keep count of the days but he wasn't entirely sure any longer. More than a week, not quite a month, drifting somewhere in the darkness of the cell he'd been kept in since his capture. Long enough that Olena was alone longer than he had promised.
When he had found her again, after sixteen long years of separation and searching, he had promised he would never be away from her. This mission for the queen had been something quick and simple that he could do, deliver a missive to the princess, it shouldn't be so difficult. Messengers came and went all the time, he ought to have been back in a few days at most. And she was safe, well cared for and kept in more comfort than either of them had been used to in their slavery. At least that was something he could hold on to. They would continue to care for her even if he was never able to return, their time cut short once more without the wedding he had promised.
His body ached, the barely healed wound on his shoulder from the night he had fled the palace was inflamed and felt as if it would split apart again. Scars across his skin marked his history, and though he held no fear of adding others, dying of sickness and injury in this cell was far worse than dying in action. Alone, without any way to tell Olena where he was, that he had tried to return for her, to finally wed after so many years of waiting. Light burned against his eyelids and he shrank away, gritting his teeth and willing the jailer to pass him by instead of performing the usual exercises of cruelty, but he was not so fortunate.
The other man's leering face left him grimacing, bristling for blows as he was dragged from the cell with no explanation, hissing as embers from the torch landed on already battered skin. Light suddenly hit him as he was dragged into the stone chamber, disorienting after a time in only darkness, and he fell against the table as he was thrown down. This was new, and he was immediately on guard, looking about wildly as he tried to take in his surroundings and find a way out, ready to spring if the opportunity presented itself and finding there was nothing but a stranger before him and the hated guard behind.
Hearing his Greek given name after the soothing tones of his native tongue from Olena was grating, and he flinched at the cool detached nature of the man across the table. This one was noble, or wealthy at least, the way he looked and dressed was far too fine to be anyone common. A cold fear gripped him and he froze as he wondered if this would be the moment he was told of his execution. Would they give him time to speak or think or would he be dragged away to the scaffold, would they throw him back in the arena in this state, with barely any food or water since he had been taken, weakened already and easy prey for someone looking to make a name for himself.
"Why am I here?" His tongue felt thick in his mouth, dry and uncomfortable as he swallowed. The accent he'd never lost making the Greek all the more impossible as he mumbled, still flinching away from the light that was burning his pale eyes.
Cicero made sure to keep his face in its usual expressionless mask, even when the prisoner was dragged in squinting at the light, the bruises and contusions on his skin almost indistinguishable from the grime. Unsettled, that much was clear, his eyes roving around as he took his bearings, made whatever sense his mind could of this scenario. For now, the master informer made no effort to help him, instead just waiting patiently as the man crumpled like paper, staggering into the table before he fell without grace onto the stool.
‘Why am I here?’
The words, with their own clear meaning leant themselves rather neatly to why Cicero was here, and he blinked at the man, canting his head to the side a moment consideringly. “Well that is rather the question, is it not my friend? Why are you here? Something I had hoped we could have a little chat about.” Cold blue, his gaze dropped to the shackles that bound the man's hands, the same on his ankles hidden beneath the table and Cicero made a quick risk assessment, calculations based on the man's appearance and restraints, offset of what he knew of his prowess in the arena, his clearly superlative martial skill. Whatever conclusion he reached was enough to see the pale faced man turn a sharp dismissive gaze on the guard. “Leave us” he instructed, expecting the man to obey without question and returning his scrutiny to Demetrius.
He was silent until he heard the clunk of the guards booted feet, the drag and thud of the heavy wooden door. And then he was silent a little while longer, observing the man before him until he abruptly sat forward and reached down to the bag that he had left at his feet. “Aah ah ah” he chided, dissuading the prisoner of making any reactions to the suddenness of his movement, and as Cicero sat up and placed the waterskin on the table, he lifted a brow.
“Of course I can only assume the accommodations here are..meager” he said calmly, unstoppering the flask and pouring some into a small tin cup. Cicero took a sip of it himself before sliding it across the table so the man could reach it. “Water not wine I am afraid, but it is fresh and you are welcome to it”
The spymaster sat back and threaded his fingers together around the curve of his knee, his expression still impassive, eyes resting casually upon the other man as he waited for some response. Of course, there might be resistance: Cicero knew enough of the practices in the Fylaki, of the cruel streak of Elias of Stravos to draw assumptions about how the man in front of him would have been treated. There was no point in theatrics though, he could not undo what had been done, nor did he wish to antagonise the Stravos Lord by intervening in his orders if he were still….invested...in the prisoner. Today they could talk, and then if Demetrius proved to be of any use, then he would see what else could be done.
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Cicero made sure to keep his face in its usual expressionless mask, even when the prisoner was dragged in squinting at the light, the bruises and contusions on his skin almost indistinguishable from the grime. Unsettled, that much was clear, his eyes roving around as he took his bearings, made whatever sense his mind could of this scenario. For now, the master informer made no effort to help him, instead just waiting patiently as the man crumpled like paper, staggering into the table before he fell without grace onto the stool.
‘Why am I here?’
The words, with their own clear meaning leant themselves rather neatly to why Cicero was here, and he blinked at the man, canting his head to the side a moment consideringly. “Well that is rather the question, is it not my friend? Why are you here? Something I had hoped we could have a little chat about.” Cold blue, his gaze dropped to the shackles that bound the man's hands, the same on his ankles hidden beneath the table and Cicero made a quick risk assessment, calculations based on the man's appearance and restraints, offset of what he knew of his prowess in the arena, his clearly superlative martial skill. Whatever conclusion he reached was enough to see the pale faced man turn a sharp dismissive gaze on the guard. “Leave us” he instructed, expecting the man to obey without question and returning his scrutiny to Demetrius.
He was silent until he heard the clunk of the guards booted feet, the drag and thud of the heavy wooden door. And then he was silent a little while longer, observing the man before him until he abruptly sat forward and reached down to the bag that he had left at his feet. “Aah ah ah” he chided, dissuading the prisoner of making any reactions to the suddenness of his movement, and as Cicero sat up and placed the waterskin on the table, he lifted a brow.
“Of course I can only assume the accommodations here are..meager” he said calmly, unstoppering the flask and pouring some into a small tin cup. Cicero took a sip of it himself before sliding it across the table so the man could reach it. “Water not wine I am afraid, but it is fresh and you are welcome to it”
The spymaster sat back and threaded his fingers together around the curve of his knee, his expression still impassive, eyes resting casually upon the other man as he waited for some response. Of course, there might be resistance: Cicero knew enough of the practices in the Fylaki, of the cruel streak of Elias of Stravos to draw assumptions about how the man in front of him would have been treated. There was no point in theatrics though, he could not undo what had been done, nor did he wish to antagonise the Stravos Lord by intervening in his orders if he were still….invested...in the prisoner. Today they could talk, and then if Demetrius proved to be of any use, then he would see what else could be done.
Cicero made sure to keep his face in its usual expressionless mask, even when the prisoner was dragged in squinting at the light, the bruises and contusions on his skin almost indistinguishable from the grime. Unsettled, that much was clear, his eyes roving around as he took his bearings, made whatever sense his mind could of this scenario. For now, the master informer made no effort to help him, instead just waiting patiently as the man crumpled like paper, staggering into the table before he fell without grace onto the stool.
‘Why am I here?’
The words, with their own clear meaning leant themselves rather neatly to why Cicero was here, and he blinked at the man, canting his head to the side a moment consideringly. “Well that is rather the question, is it not my friend? Why are you here? Something I had hoped we could have a little chat about.” Cold blue, his gaze dropped to the shackles that bound the man's hands, the same on his ankles hidden beneath the table and Cicero made a quick risk assessment, calculations based on the man's appearance and restraints, offset of what he knew of his prowess in the arena, his clearly superlative martial skill. Whatever conclusion he reached was enough to see the pale faced man turn a sharp dismissive gaze on the guard. “Leave us” he instructed, expecting the man to obey without question and returning his scrutiny to Demetrius.
He was silent until he heard the clunk of the guards booted feet, the drag and thud of the heavy wooden door. And then he was silent a little while longer, observing the man before him until he abruptly sat forward and reached down to the bag that he had left at his feet. “Aah ah ah” he chided, dissuading the prisoner of making any reactions to the suddenness of his movement, and as Cicero sat up and placed the waterskin on the table, he lifted a brow.
“Of course I can only assume the accommodations here are..meager” he said calmly, unstoppering the flask and pouring some into a small tin cup. Cicero took a sip of it himself before sliding it across the table so the man could reach it. “Water not wine I am afraid, but it is fresh and you are welcome to it”
The spymaster sat back and threaded his fingers together around the curve of his knee, his expression still impassive, eyes resting casually upon the other man as he waited for some response. Of course, there might be resistance: Cicero knew enough of the practices in the Fylaki, of the cruel streak of Elias of Stravos to draw assumptions about how the man in front of him would have been treated. There was no point in theatrics though, he could not undo what had been done, nor did he wish to antagonise the Stravos Lord by intervening in his orders if he were still….invested...in the prisoner. Today they could talk, and then if Demetrius proved to be of any use, then he would see what else could be done.
Dima kept a watchful pale eye on the man before him, his expression shutting down as the question he'd asked was turned about on him. He wouldn't give up the people who had trusted him, if the queen was found then Olena would be found. His only crimes had been committed in Taengea, stealing her from the slavers that had been intending to sell her, keeping her hidden and safe, killing the pirate that had taken them from Olbia in the first place. Those would hopefully be outside of anything this man would know or care about if he was someone sent by Elias to interrogate him further.
The dismissal of the guard who so enjoyed tormenting him was at once a relief and a concern. What was this man planning that could not be witnessed? More pain? More torment? Watching him cautiously, the reach for something in the bag sent Dima sliding back on the stool, a foolish reaction at an attempt of self preservation that would only prolong the inevitable. If this man wished to do him harm there was nothing he could do to defend himself with his wrists and ankles shackled and disoriented and weak from lack of food and drink. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and keep her safe.
His gaze narrowed in suspicion as the water was passed to him, the sip that the other had taken giving some confidence that it was not poisoned, but he still hesitated. Anything given to him could be declared an exchange for information, and he shook his head, sitting back from the table further. As desperate as he was for water, every instinct screaming at him to take it, he didn't know who this was or what their agenda could be, and he would not sell his companions out for a few drops.
"I was asked to deliver a letter. I did not know that was a crime."
It was a testament to the time he had spent already imprisoned, first by the pirates, then as a slave, then gladiator sent to fight for his master's gain, he had no bravado of a noble or merchant to demand his freedom, declare that he had done nothing wrong. For all he knew, attempting to deliver a letter to the princess had been made illegal and he had behaved against the law, but if that was the case his only defense was ignorance. It was clear enough from his accent he was not native to this land, and if this questioner was clever he would have done his research, known his name.
Perhaps Elias had decided to frame him, as someone who had been there the night the queen had vanished. It had been on his pay after all that Dima had even been there in the first place, though he had no proof. The mistress had been the one to pay him and request his presence, and it could all be twisted around in hearsay. His mind was racing as he tried to keep his expression still, though he couldn't stop his eyes from darting about the room, his heart racing in fear of what was to come.
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Dima kept a watchful pale eye on the man before him, his expression shutting down as the question he'd asked was turned about on him. He wouldn't give up the people who had trusted him, if the queen was found then Olena would be found. His only crimes had been committed in Taengea, stealing her from the slavers that had been intending to sell her, keeping her hidden and safe, killing the pirate that had taken them from Olbia in the first place. Those would hopefully be outside of anything this man would know or care about if he was someone sent by Elias to interrogate him further.
The dismissal of the guard who so enjoyed tormenting him was at once a relief and a concern. What was this man planning that could not be witnessed? More pain? More torment? Watching him cautiously, the reach for something in the bag sent Dima sliding back on the stool, a foolish reaction at an attempt of self preservation that would only prolong the inevitable. If this man wished to do him harm there was nothing he could do to defend himself with his wrists and ankles shackled and disoriented and weak from lack of food and drink. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and keep her safe.
His gaze narrowed in suspicion as the water was passed to him, the sip that the other had taken giving some confidence that it was not poisoned, but he still hesitated. Anything given to him could be declared an exchange for information, and he shook his head, sitting back from the table further. As desperate as he was for water, every instinct screaming at him to take it, he didn't know who this was or what their agenda could be, and he would not sell his companions out for a few drops.
"I was asked to deliver a letter. I did not know that was a crime."
It was a testament to the time he had spent already imprisoned, first by the pirates, then as a slave, then gladiator sent to fight for his master's gain, he had no bravado of a noble or merchant to demand his freedom, declare that he had done nothing wrong. For all he knew, attempting to deliver a letter to the princess had been made illegal and he had behaved against the law, but if that was the case his only defense was ignorance. It was clear enough from his accent he was not native to this land, and if this questioner was clever he would have done his research, known his name.
Perhaps Elias had decided to frame him, as someone who had been there the night the queen had vanished. It had been on his pay after all that Dima had even been there in the first place, though he had no proof. The mistress had been the one to pay him and request his presence, and it could all be twisted around in hearsay. His mind was racing as he tried to keep his expression still, though he couldn't stop his eyes from darting about the room, his heart racing in fear of what was to come.
Dima kept a watchful pale eye on the man before him, his expression shutting down as the question he'd asked was turned about on him. He wouldn't give up the people who had trusted him, if the queen was found then Olena would be found. His only crimes had been committed in Taengea, stealing her from the slavers that had been intending to sell her, keeping her hidden and safe, killing the pirate that had taken them from Olbia in the first place. Those would hopefully be outside of anything this man would know or care about if he was someone sent by Elias to interrogate him further.
The dismissal of the guard who so enjoyed tormenting him was at once a relief and a concern. What was this man planning that could not be witnessed? More pain? More torment? Watching him cautiously, the reach for something in the bag sent Dima sliding back on the stool, a foolish reaction at an attempt of self preservation that would only prolong the inevitable. If this man wished to do him harm there was nothing he could do to defend himself with his wrists and ankles shackled and disoriented and weak from lack of food and drink. All he could do was keep his mouth shut and keep her safe.
His gaze narrowed in suspicion as the water was passed to him, the sip that the other had taken giving some confidence that it was not poisoned, but he still hesitated. Anything given to him could be declared an exchange for information, and he shook his head, sitting back from the table further. As desperate as he was for water, every instinct screaming at him to take it, he didn't know who this was or what their agenda could be, and he would not sell his companions out for a few drops.
"I was asked to deliver a letter. I did not know that was a crime."
It was a testament to the time he had spent already imprisoned, first by the pirates, then as a slave, then gladiator sent to fight for his master's gain, he had no bravado of a noble or merchant to demand his freedom, declare that he had done nothing wrong. For all he knew, attempting to deliver a letter to the princess had been made illegal and he had behaved against the law, but if that was the case his only defense was ignorance. It was clear enough from his accent he was not native to this land, and if this questioner was clever he would have done his research, known his name.
Perhaps Elias had decided to frame him, as someone who had been there the night the queen had vanished. It had been on his pay after all that Dima had even been there in the first place, though he had no proof. The mistress had been the one to pay him and request his presence, and it could all be twisted around in hearsay. His mind was racing as he tried to keep his expression still, though he couldn't stop his eyes from darting about the room, his heart racing in fear of what was to come.
Cicero did not blame the man for being mistrustful. Judging by the state of him, his treatment at the hands of his captors had not been kind, and he had no reason to think this experience would be any different. Such a belief was his prerogative, and so Cicero merely gave the slightest shrug. The cup remained where it was.
The truth was that the master informer had nothing to gain by harming the man, and where it was a choice between stick and carrot, he always found carrot to be more palatable. This Demetrius or ‘Dima’ as the man went by would come to see that, or he would not. It would not change Cicero’s course of action.
“You did not know that was a crime” the spymaster echoed, pressing his lips together and again giving a small shrug. “ Well how could you know, when it is not? You are an unfortunate victim of circumstance, Dima - may I call you Dima? It’s your preference is it not?”
Cicero broke off to bend once more to the bag, and this time he drew out of it a bread roll and some dried dates, soft and sticking slightly to the muslin they were wrapped in. “ I am Cicero. That may or may not mean anything to you, but I suppose what is relevant is that I do not consider myself your enemy, Dima. Far from it. I am just a man who likes to understand fact from fiction.” He pushed the food across the table and went on. “You were asked to deliver a letter - to whom were you to deliver it to?”
He knew the answer already of course, but there was no harm in asking the simple things first, let the man relax a little in his presence. As it was, Cicero reached for one of the dates, popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly as he took a leisurely look around the room they were in. Suitably grim for a small chamber of the main jail itself, there were some questionable stains on the floor, and the same rank smell of sweat and piss and other unmentionables that made the Fylaki one of the spymaster’s least favourite places to spend any time. Making a note to burn his sandals when he got home, Cicero refocused on the other man.
“You were a slave yes? A gladiator then? Is running errands in your usual job description?” He casually dropped in the things he had learnt already of the pale-eyed man before him and then waved a hand before Dima could make a move to answer. None of those things really mattered. “ The thing is, Dima, I’m not sure your letter ever reached its intended recipient. And given that I serve the crown then that is of some interest to me. Do you know what the message contained?”
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Cicero did not blame the man for being mistrustful. Judging by the state of him, his treatment at the hands of his captors had not been kind, and he had no reason to think this experience would be any different. Such a belief was his prerogative, and so Cicero merely gave the slightest shrug. The cup remained where it was.
The truth was that the master informer had nothing to gain by harming the man, and where it was a choice between stick and carrot, he always found carrot to be more palatable. This Demetrius or ‘Dima’ as the man went by would come to see that, or he would not. It would not change Cicero’s course of action.
“You did not know that was a crime” the spymaster echoed, pressing his lips together and again giving a small shrug. “ Well how could you know, when it is not? You are an unfortunate victim of circumstance, Dima - may I call you Dima? It’s your preference is it not?”
Cicero broke off to bend once more to the bag, and this time he drew out of it a bread roll and some dried dates, soft and sticking slightly to the muslin they were wrapped in. “ I am Cicero. That may or may not mean anything to you, but I suppose what is relevant is that I do not consider myself your enemy, Dima. Far from it. I am just a man who likes to understand fact from fiction.” He pushed the food across the table and went on. “You were asked to deliver a letter - to whom were you to deliver it to?”
He knew the answer already of course, but there was no harm in asking the simple things first, let the man relax a little in his presence. As it was, Cicero reached for one of the dates, popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly as he took a leisurely look around the room they were in. Suitably grim for a small chamber of the main jail itself, there were some questionable stains on the floor, and the same rank smell of sweat and piss and other unmentionables that made the Fylaki one of the spymaster’s least favourite places to spend any time. Making a note to burn his sandals when he got home, Cicero refocused on the other man.
“You were a slave yes? A gladiator then? Is running errands in your usual job description?” He casually dropped in the things he had learnt already of the pale-eyed man before him and then waved a hand before Dima could make a move to answer. None of those things really mattered. “ The thing is, Dima, I’m not sure your letter ever reached its intended recipient. And given that I serve the crown then that is of some interest to me. Do you know what the message contained?”
Cicero did not blame the man for being mistrustful. Judging by the state of him, his treatment at the hands of his captors had not been kind, and he had no reason to think this experience would be any different. Such a belief was his prerogative, and so Cicero merely gave the slightest shrug. The cup remained where it was.
The truth was that the master informer had nothing to gain by harming the man, and where it was a choice between stick and carrot, he always found carrot to be more palatable. This Demetrius or ‘Dima’ as the man went by would come to see that, or he would not. It would not change Cicero’s course of action.
“You did not know that was a crime” the spymaster echoed, pressing his lips together and again giving a small shrug. “ Well how could you know, when it is not? You are an unfortunate victim of circumstance, Dima - may I call you Dima? It’s your preference is it not?”
Cicero broke off to bend once more to the bag, and this time he drew out of it a bread roll and some dried dates, soft and sticking slightly to the muslin they were wrapped in. “ I am Cicero. That may or may not mean anything to you, but I suppose what is relevant is that I do not consider myself your enemy, Dima. Far from it. I am just a man who likes to understand fact from fiction.” He pushed the food across the table and went on. “You were asked to deliver a letter - to whom were you to deliver it to?”
He knew the answer already of course, but there was no harm in asking the simple things first, let the man relax a little in his presence. As it was, Cicero reached for one of the dates, popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly as he took a leisurely look around the room they were in. Suitably grim for a small chamber of the main jail itself, there were some questionable stains on the floor, and the same rank smell of sweat and piss and other unmentionables that made the Fylaki one of the spymaster’s least favourite places to spend any time. Making a note to burn his sandals when he got home, Cicero refocused on the other man.
“You were a slave yes? A gladiator then? Is running errands in your usual job description?” He casually dropped in the things he had learnt already of the pale-eyed man before him and then waved a hand before Dima could make a move to answer. None of those things really mattered. “ The thing is, Dima, I’m not sure your letter ever reached its intended recipient. And given that I serve the crown then that is of some interest to me. Do you know what the message contained?”
He bristled when the other man called him by the nickname reserved for friends and lovers, trying to keep his expression still impassive even as his hackles raised. This man knew too much about him already, more than he was giving out, and his mind was racing to consider what he could say, if anything would free him, without crossing the knowledge that could be used against him. Giving a short nod, as Cicero gave a name to put with the face, he watched him carefully as the food was passed across now. He had been without for what felt like forever, but what would be demanded if he broke now?
The question was simple enough, and in a moment his decision was made. Shackled hands reached for the water, taking as much of it as he could. He'd gone without food many times before, punishment as a slave or when his winnings ran low, but he would not last long without water, and he could answer this first question without giving too much away. Only once the cup was empty and set aside did he turn his focus back to Cicero, lips cracked from dehydration still moving as little as possible.
"I was to deliver the letter to the palace. To be passed on to the Princess Emilia." All true, it had never been specified that he could only place it in her hands, just that it be delivered to the palace. The continued questioning was easy enough to explain, though he was still uneasy about why his history was being questioned. Reaching for the tattered hem of his tunic he drew it up with cuffed hands to show the wicked scar across his abdomen, the final mark left by the pirate Lukos. It was still red and raw, flesh just reaching the point where it was knit back together. "I was injured, unable to fight until I recover. There was coin offered to deliver the letter."
As he dropped the cloth he reached now for the bread roll, tearing into it as his reward for answering yet another question. The roll finished he shook his head, shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug. He was a freed slave, the Greeks never seemed to expect much of him, and though he had been trying to learn in his time with the queen, it was still no lie. "I can't read, sir. The characters I learned as a child have no meaning in Greece."
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He bristled when the other man called him by the nickname reserved for friends and lovers, trying to keep his expression still impassive even as his hackles raised. This man knew too much about him already, more than he was giving out, and his mind was racing to consider what he could say, if anything would free him, without crossing the knowledge that could be used against him. Giving a short nod, as Cicero gave a name to put with the face, he watched him carefully as the food was passed across now. He had been without for what felt like forever, but what would be demanded if he broke now?
The question was simple enough, and in a moment his decision was made. Shackled hands reached for the water, taking as much of it as he could. He'd gone without food many times before, punishment as a slave or when his winnings ran low, but he would not last long without water, and he could answer this first question without giving too much away. Only once the cup was empty and set aside did he turn his focus back to Cicero, lips cracked from dehydration still moving as little as possible.
"I was to deliver the letter to the palace. To be passed on to the Princess Emilia." All true, it had never been specified that he could only place it in her hands, just that it be delivered to the palace. The continued questioning was easy enough to explain, though he was still uneasy about why his history was being questioned. Reaching for the tattered hem of his tunic he drew it up with cuffed hands to show the wicked scar across his abdomen, the final mark left by the pirate Lukos. It was still red and raw, flesh just reaching the point where it was knit back together. "I was injured, unable to fight until I recover. There was coin offered to deliver the letter."
As he dropped the cloth he reached now for the bread roll, tearing into it as his reward for answering yet another question. The roll finished he shook his head, shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug. He was a freed slave, the Greeks never seemed to expect much of him, and though he had been trying to learn in his time with the queen, it was still no lie. "I can't read, sir. The characters I learned as a child have no meaning in Greece."
He bristled when the other man called him by the nickname reserved for friends and lovers, trying to keep his expression still impassive even as his hackles raised. This man knew too much about him already, more than he was giving out, and his mind was racing to consider what he could say, if anything would free him, without crossing the knowledge that could be used against him. Giving a short nod, as Cicero gave a name to put with the face, he watched him carefully as the food was passed across now. He had been without for what felt like forever, but what would be demanded if he broke now?
The question was simple enough, and in a moment his decision was made. Shackled hands reached for the water, taking as much of it as he could. He'd gone without food many times before, punishment as a slave or when his winnings ran low, but he would not last long without water, and he could answer this first question without giving too much away. Only once the cup was empty and set aside did he turn his focus back to Cicero, lips cracked from dehydration still moving as little as possible.
"I was to deliver the letter to the palace. To be passed on to the Princess Emilia." All true, it had never been specified that he could only place it in her hands, just that it be delivered to the palace. The continued questioning was easy enough to explain, though he was still uneasy about why his history was being questioned. Reaching for the tattered hem of his tunic he drew it up with cuffed hands to show the wicked scar across his abdomen, the final mark left by the pirate Lukos. It was still red and raw, flesh just reaching the point where it was knit back together. "I was injured, unable to fight until I recover. There was coin offered to deliver the letter."
As he dropped the cloth he reached now for the bread roll, tearing into it as his reward for answering yet another question. The roll finished he shook his head, shoulders lifting and falling in a shrug. He was a freed slave, the Greeks never seemed to expect much of him, and though he had been trying to learn in his time with the queen, it was still no lie. "I can't read, sir. The characters I learned as a child have no meaning in Greece."
Cicero read the man’s tension but didn’t even blink. If it was going to be addressing the man by a familiar name that was going to get him attacked, then honestly he’d be most irritated. This is what happened when he tried to be more approachable, and it was why he didn’t often bother. The assumption was always that he had an angle, and admittedly he mostly did. But sometimes he was just trying to be nice
He went on, taking the small nod as signal that the brute wasn’t about to try and separate his head from his body, Cicero went on, sitting back and giving his question some breathing room, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been approbation when Dima reached for the water. He was deliberate in letting his gaze move away from the man, only for the pale blue eyes to flicker back the moment the prisoner answered. It was Cicero’s turn to nod, there was nothing revelationary in the accented words that came from the other man, and his expression remained dispassionate as Dima revealed the scar that had seen him temporarily retired from the arena.
The bread went the same way as the water and Cicero waited, unhurried. He was not unfamiliar with the notion that for some, giving information was..unsavoury. And this man, mistreated as he had no doubt been at the hands of Lord Elias’ stooges, well he had no reason to trust that Cicero meant to do good with whatever he learned here today. Cicero himself hadn’t quite decided.
His loyalty to Xanthos had never been faked, but with Persephone only appearing like a spectre and not reaching out to him, and with the Stravos house gaining momentum, Cicero could not afford blind shows of faith in the missing Queen. His position was at the grace of the Crown, and the Crown was being wrestled from hand to metaphorical hand it would appear. Pressing his lips together in annoyance at the -albeit unsurprising- news that the gladiator did not read, the master informer drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments and considered.
“Who asked you to deliver the letter, Dima?” he asked, not truly expecting to glean anything terribly useful, but going through the motions anyway. His mind had already moved on, weighing and balancing the options he had and the consequences of taking each one. There was little point, he thought, in leaving the man to be pulled apart by the interrogator at the Fylaki. If he had given nothing damning away yet then he likely wouldn’t. Not without something more personal to use as leverage and Cicero knew that Lord Elias had made no efforts to find such leverage.
Perhaps he would talk to the master informer now his throat was wet enough to form words and his belly less hollow. Cicero blinked and moved to refill the cup once more, gestured towards the dried fruits. “Eat. I can’t promise when you will get the opportunity again, though if you are to stay here I would chance things will not get any better for you any time soon.”
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Cicero read the man’s tension but didn’t even blink. If it was going to be addressing the man by a familiar name that was going to get him attacked, then honestly he’d be most irritated. This is what happened when he tried to be more approachable, and it was why he didn’t often bother. The assumption was always that he had an angle, and admittedly he mostly did. But sometimes he was just trying to be nice
He went on, taking the small nod as signal that the brute wasn’t about to try and separate his head from his body, Cicero went on, sitting back and giving his question some breathing room, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been approbation when Dima reached for the water. He was deliberate in letting his gaze move away from the man, only for the pale blue eyes to flicker back the moment the prisoner answered. It was Cicero’s turn to nod, there was nothing revelationary in the accented words that came from the other man, and his expression remained dispassionate as Dima revealed the scar that had seen him temporarily retired from the arena.
The bread went the same way as the water and Cicero waited, unhurried. He was not unfamiliar with the notion that for some, giving information was..unsavoury. And this man, mistreated as he had no doubt been at the hands of Lord Elias’ stooges, well he had no reason to trust that Cicero meant to do good with whatever he learned here today. Cicero himself hadn’t quite decided.
His loyalty to Xanthos had never been faked, but with Persephone only appearing like a spectre and not reaching out to him, and with the Stravos house gaining momentum, Cicero could not afford blind shows of faith in the missing Queen. His position was at the grace of the Crown, and the Crown was being wrestled from hand to metaphorical hand it would appear. Pressing his lips together in annoyance at the -albeit unsurprising- news that the gladiator did not read, the master informer drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments and considered.
“Who asked you to deliver the letter, Dima?” he asked, not truly expecting to glean anything terribly useful, but going through the motions anyway. His mind had already moved on, weighing and balancing the options he had and the consequences of taking each one. There was little point, he thought, in leaving the man to be pulled apart by the interrogator at the Fylaki. If he had given nothing damning away yet then he likely wouldn’t. Not without something more personal to use as leverage and Cicero knew that Lord Elias had made no efforts to find such leverage.
Perhaps he would talk to the master informer now his throat was wet enough to form words and his belly less hollow. Cicero blinked and moved to refill the cup once more, gestured towards the dried fruits. “Eat. I can’t promise when you will get the opportunity again, though if you are to stay here I would chance things will not get any better for you any time soon.”
Cicero read the man’s tension but didn’t even blink. If it was going to be addressing the man by a familiar name that was going to get him attacked, then honestly he’d be most irritated. This is what happened when he tried to be more approachable, and it was why he didn’t often bother. The assumption was always that he had an angle, and admittedly he mostly did. But sometimes he was just trying to be nice
He went on, taking the small nod as signal that the brute wasn’t about to try and separate his head from his body, Cicero went on, sitting back and giving his question some breathing room, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been approbation when Dima reached for the water. He was deliberate in letting his gaze move away from the man, only for the pale blue eyes to flicker back the moment the prisoner answered. It was Cicero’s turn to nod, there was nothing revelationary in the accented words that came from the other man, and his expression remained dispassionate as Dima revealed the scar that had seen him temporarily retired from the arena.
The bread went the same way as the water and Cicero waited, unhurried. He was not unfamiliar with the notion that for some, giving information was..unsavoury. And this man, mistreated as he had no doubt been at the hands of Lord Elias’ stooges, well he had no reason to trust that Cicero meant to do good with whatever he learned here today. Cicero himself hadn’t quite decided.
His loyalty to Xanthos had never been faked, but with Persephone only appearing like a spectre and not reaching out to him, and with the Stravos house gaining momentum, Cicero could not afford blind shows of faith in the missing Queen. His position was at the grace of the Crown, and the Crown was being wrestled from hand to metaphorical hand it would appear. Pressing his lips together in annoyance at the -albeit unsurprising- news that the gladiator did not read, the master informer drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments and considered.
“Who asked you to deliver the letter, Dima?” he asked, not truly expecting to glean anything terribly useful, but going through the motions anyway. His mind had already moved on, weighing and balancing the options he had and the consequences of taking each one. There was little point, he thought, in leaving the man to be pulled apart by the interrogator at the Fylaki. If he had given nothing damning away yet then he likely wouldn’t. Not without something more personal to use as leverage and Cicero knew that Lord Elias had made no efforts to find such leverage.
Perhaps he would talk to the master informer now his throat was wet enough to form words and his belly less hollow. Cicero blinked and moved to refill the cup once more, gestured towards the dried fruits. “Eat. I can’t promise when you will get the opportunity again, though if you are to stay here I would chance things will not get any better for you any time soon.”
"If I have done nothing wrong and committed no crime then why am I kept here?"
The rest of the food before him was quickly vanishing as he tried to take as much as he could without making himself sick. He'd been through enough times without proper sustenance that he knew what would happen if he tried to take more than his shrunken stomach could hold. Instead he metered his consumption between questions, the ones asked and offered. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown back into the cell where he had been kept to be plaything and scapegoat to whatever annoyance his jailers were facing that day.
"My...friend." He stopped himself before saying what Olena was to him. His silence and self editing was to prevent anyone from knowing who she was or where she could be found, anything that could throw them off the track and send them further away from her would be best. If questioned, tortured even, he could say any lie he had spoken was to protect her, not the queen she served, and surely they could not accuse him of any kind of treason if they had no knowledge that the queen had returned.
"Works for a noble house, asked if I would be willing to deliver the letter for a purse. It seemed a simple enough job so I agreed. Met someone in a hood and was foolish enough to not demand payment upfront." Dima gave the bitter laugh of a man who had been cheated, sitting back from the table and crossing his arms as best as the shackles allowed. "They gave me the letter and said I would find a purse in my home. I haven't been back to see if payment was made."
He was shifting in discomfort and annoyance now, fear creeping in. If he knew he could trust this man he would ask that someone tell Olena where he was, let her know that he would try to make his way back to her as soon as possible, but he couldn't ask that without giving away the queen. Would she be spared if it was discovered that she worked for them? Would Iris claim her as servant to ensure that she was not taken away with the queen, or would Iris and her staff too be thrown in jail for any support they had given. Agitation was not hidden now as he shifted, food and drink emboldening him now that he'd taken his fill and it could not be stolen back from him.
"Have I given enough that I may be released? I don't know what more you could ask of me."
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"If I have done nothing wrong and committed no crime then why am I kept here?"
The rest of the food before him was quickly vanishing as he tried to take as much as he could without making himself sick. He'd been through enough times without proper sustenance that he knew what would happen if he tried to take more than his shrunken stomach could hold. Instead he metered his consumption between questions, the ones asked and offered. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown back into the cell where he had been kept to be plaything and scapegoat to whatever annoyance his jailers were facing that day.
"My...friend." He stopped himself before saying what Olena was to him. His silence and self editing was to prevent anyone from knowing who she was or where she could be found, anything that could throw them off the track and send them further away from her would be best. If questioned, tortured even, he could say any lie he had spoken was to protect her, not the queen she served, and surely they could not accuse him of any kind of treason if they had no knowledge that the queen had returned.
"Works for a noble house, asked if I would be willing to deliver the letter for a purse. It seemed a simple enough job so I agreed. Met someone in a hood and was foolish enough to not demand payment upfront." Dima gave the bitter laugh of a man who had been cheated, sitting back from the table and crossing his arms as best as the shackles allowed. "They gave me the letter and said I would find a purse in my home. I haven't been back to see if payment was made."
He was shifting in discomfort and annoyance now, fear creeping in. If he knew he could trust this man he would ask that someone tell Olena where he was, let her know that he would try to make his way back to her as soon as possible, but he couldn't ask that without giving away the queen. Would she be spared if it was discovered that she worked for them? Would Iris claim her as servant to ensure that she was not taken away with the queen, or would Iris and her staff too be thrown in jail for any support they had given. Agitation was not hidden now as he shifted, food and drink emboldening him now that he'd taken his fill and it could not be stolen back from him.
"Have I given enough that I may be released? I don't know what more you could ask of me."
"If I have done nothing wrong and committed no crime then why am I kept here?"
The rest of the food before him was quickly vanishing as he tried to take as much as he could without making himself sick. He'd been through enough times without proper sustenance that he knew what would happen if he tried to take more than his shrunken stomach could hold. Instead he metered his consumption between questions, the ones asked and offered. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown back into the cell where he had been kept to be plaything and scapegoat to whatever annoyance his jailers were facing that day.
"My...friend." He stopped himself before saying what Olena was to him. His silence and self editing was to prevent anyone from knowing who she was or where she could be found, anything that could throw them off the track and send them further away from her would be best. If questioned, tortured even, he could say any lie he had spoken was to protect her, not the queen she served, and surely they could not accuse him of any kind of treason if they had no knowledge that the queen had returned.
"Works for a noble house, asked if I would be willing to deliver the letter for a purse. It seemed a simple enough job so I agreed. Met someone in a hood and was foolish enough to not demand payment upfront." Dima gave the bitter laugh of a man who had been cheated, sitting back from the table and crossing his arms as best as the shackles allowed. "They gave me the letter and said I would find a purse in my home. I haven't been back to see if payment was made."
He was shifting in discomfort and annoyance now, fear creeping in. If he knew he could trust this man he would ask that someone tell Olena where he was, let her know that he would try to make his way back to her as soon as possible, but he couldn't ask that without giving away the queen. Would she be spared if it was discovered that she worked for them? Would Iris claim her as servant to ensure that she was not taken away with the queen, or would Iris and her staff too be thrown in jail for any support they had given. Agitation was not hidden now as he shifted, food and drink emboldening him now that he'd taken his fill and it could not be stolen back from him.
"Have I given enough that I may be released? I don't know what more you could ask of me."
The man’s question, as blunt and bold as it was, had Cicero give a pained sigh. He lifted one eyebrow at the gladiator. “ As I said, you are an unfortunate victim of circumstance. To the letter of the law, you have done no wrong though so... We shall see”
He looked on without judgement as Dima ate the food he had brought, let the man chew and swallow whilst he picked idly at a fingernail, waited for the time when the prisoner would offer up more of the information that Cicero wanted. When Dima hesitated for a fraction before offering the word ‘friend’ the master informer filed that away, as he did the noble house comment. Interesting. There was a brief press of his lips, an almost sympathetic ‘hmmm’ when the man revealed he hadn't even been paid for his trouble.
“Seems the gods have not been favouring you, Dima. All of this” he gestured around the dank and grimy room and the towards the visible bruising the man wore “ and without due recompense? Almost the kind of thing a man would do for love rather than coin”
When Dima asked if he had done enough to be released, the glimmer of a smile appeared and then vanished from the pale man’s face. “The moment people stop asking things of you is the moment you become dispensable, Dima. Remember that.”
The spymaster sat back and stared at the gladiator for a few long moments; contemplative. He was protecting someone. How direct was that link to their missing Queen, he couldn't yet be certain. Cicero leant forward, placing his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of them. He lowered his voice.
“This…noble house your friend serves. Tell me, Dima, might it be the very same that I serve?” He had already initiated his loyalty was to the crown, he hoped the man had not been hit in the head too much to see what he was getting at. Having the man’s trust would make this entirely easier but it was not truly necessary. Cicero had made up his mind what he would do.
Regardless - or perhaps even because - of the fact it might raise the ire of the man who had put him here, the spymaster deemed more could be learned by setting this dog free and letting him run home to his masters. He cleared his throat.
“I will see you released. As you say, you have broken no laws, so there is no grounding for you to remain imprisoned. Some friendly advice would be not to remain in the city. Whilst I may be done with you for, some might be less than pleased that you are not still rotting in here. Understood?”
Cicero pushed back from the table. “ I wish you well, Demetrius.”
And with that, the master informer rapped once on the heavy door and stepped from the room. He did not leave directly, spent a few moments in murmured conversation with the man who had written to inform of this interesting prisoner. Then he was gone, gone to speak to the man who would be responsible for tailing the gladiator once he left the jail.
It might have been an hour, might have been three or even four before the door to the room Dima was held in opened once more. This time, the jailer did not haul him back to his feet and drag him back toward the cell that had been his home. This time there was the dull thunk of shackles being unlocked and falling to the floor, and the sweet-sharp relief of chafed skin being uncovered.
A pile of his belongings was dumped unceremoniously on the small table before him. “You’re free to go” gruff and uncaring from the jailer. As Dima sorted through the meagre things he’d brought with him, there was a small money purse that he knew had not been there before, enough coin at least to feed himself for a few days.
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The man’s question, as blunt and bold as it was, had Cicero give a pained sigh. He lifted one eyebrow at the gladiator. “ As I said, you are an unfortunate victim of circumstance. To the letter of the law, you have done no wrong though so... We shall see”
He looked on without judgement as Dima ate the food he had brought, let the man chew and swallow whilst he picked idly at a fingernail, waited for the time when the prisoner would offer up more of the information that Cicero wanted. When Dima hesitated for a fraction before offering the word ‘friend’ the master informer filed that away, as he did the noble house comment. Interesting. There was a brief press of his lips, an almost sympathetic ‘hmmm’ when the man revealed he hadn't even been paid for his trouble.
“Seems the gods have not been favouring you, Dima. All of this” he gestured around the dank and grimy room and the towards the visible bruising the man wore “ and without due recompense? Almost the kind of thing a man would do for love rather than coin”
When Dima asked if he had done enough to be released, the glimmer of a smile appeared and then vanished from the pale man’s face. “The moment people stop asking things of you is the moment you become dispensable, Dima. Remember that.”
The spymaster sat back and stared at the gladiator for a few long moments; contemplative. He was protecting someone. How direct was that link to their missing Queen, he couldn't yet be certain. Cicero leant forward, placing his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of them. He lowered his voice.
“This…noble house your friend serves. Tell me, Dima, might it be the very same that I serve?” He had already initiated his loyalty was to the crown, he hoped the man had not been hit in the head too much to see what he was getting at. Having the man’s trust would make this entirely easier but it was not truly necessary. Cicero had made up his mind what he would do.
Regardless - or perhaps even because - of the fact it might raise the ire of the man who had put him here, the spymaster deemed more could be learned by setting this dog free and letting him run home to his masters. He cleared his throat.
“I will see you released. As you say, you have broken no laws, so there is no grounding for you to remain imprisoned. Some friendly advice would be not to remain in the city. Whilst I may be done with you for, some might be less than pleased that you are not still rotting in here. Understood?”
Cicero pushed back from the table. “ I wish you well, Demetrius.”
And with that, the master informer rapped once on the heavy door and stepped from the room. He did not leave directly, spent a few moments in murmured conversation with the man who had written to inform of this interesting prisoner. Then he was gone, gone to speak to the man who would be responsible for tailing the gladiator once he left the jail.
It might have been an hour, might have been three or even four before the door to the room Dima was held in opened once more. This time, the jailer did not haul him back to his feet and drag him back toward the cell that had been his home. This time there was the dull thunk of shackles being unlocked and falling to the floor, and the sweet-sharp relief of chafed skin being uncovered.
A pile of his belongings was dumped unceremoniously on the small table before him. “You’re free to go” gruff and uncaring from the jailer. As Dima sorted through the meagre things he’d brought with him, there was a small money purse that he knew had not been there before, enough coin at least to feed himself for a few days.
The man’s question, as blunt and bold as it was, had Cicero give a pained sigh. He lifted one eyebrow at the gladiator. “ As I said, you are an unfortunate victim of circumstance. To the letter of the law, you have done no wrong though so... We shall see”
He looked on without judgement as Dima ate the food he had brought, let the man chew and swallow whilst he picked idly at a fingernail, waited for the time when the prisoner would offer up more of the information that Cicero wanted. When Dima hesitated for a fraction before offering the word ‘friend’ the master informer filed that away, as he did the noble house comment. Interesting. There was a brief press of his lips, an almost sympathetic ‘hmmm’ when the man revealed he hadn't even been paid for his trouble.
“Seems the gods have not been favouring you, Dima. All of this” he gestured around the dank and grimy room and the towards the visible bruising the man wore “ and without due recompense? Almost the kind of thing a man would do for love rather than coin”
When Dima asked if he had done enough to be released, the glimmer of a smile appeared and then vanished from the pale man’s face. “The moment people stop asking things of you is the moment you become dispensable, Dima. Remember that.”
The spymaster sat back and stared at the gladiator for a few long moments; contemplative. He was protecting someone. How direct was that link to their missing Queen, he couldn't yet be certain. Cicero leant forward, placing his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of them. He lowered his voice.
“This…noble house your friend serves. Tell me, Dima, might it be the very same that I serve?” He had already initiated his loyalty was to the crown, he hoped the man had not been hit in the head too much to see what he was getting at. Having the man’s trust would make this entirely easier but it was not truly necessary. Cicero had made up his mind what he would do.
Regardless - or perhaps even because - of the fact it might raise the ire of the man who had put him here, the spymaster deemed more could be learned by setting this dog free and letting him run home to his masters. He cleared his throat.
“I will see you released. As you say, you have broken no laws, so there is no grounding for you to remain imprisoned. Some friendly advice would be not to remain in the city. Whilst I may be done with you for, some might be less than pleased that you are not still rotting in here. Understood?”
Cicero pushed back from the table. “ I wish you well, Demetrius.”
And with that, the master informer rapped once on the heavy door and stepped from the room. He did not leave directly, spent a few moments in murmured conversation with the man who had written to inform of this interesting prisoner. Then he was gone, gone to speak to the man who would be responsible for tailing the gladiator once he left the jail.
It might have been an hour, might have been three or even four before the door to the room Dima was held in opened once more. This time, the jailer did not haul him back to his feet and drag him back toward the cell that had been his home. This time there was the dull thunk of shackles being unlocked and falling to the floor, and the sweet-sharp relief of chafed skin being uncovered.
A pile of his belongings was dumped unceremoniously on the small table before him. “You’re free to go” gruff and uncaring from the jailer. As Dima sorted through the meagre things he’d brought with him, there was a small money purse that he knew had not been there before, enough coin at least to feed himself for a few days.