This is the sequel to "Jillian," and though it's probably better to have read "Jillian" before reading this, I don't know that it's completely necessary. I hope you enjoy!

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Beyond Hadrian's Wall and beyond Badon Hill and further still beyond the Thames river, deep in the forest, an ancient oak twists its mighty trunk in defiance to past tempests and torments that sought to force the leafed giant into a submissive bow. Like a coat of arms worn and tattered from battle, the oak bears a faded etching upon its breast, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for." What is worth living for? I say love: the love of your God, the love of your country, the love of others. What is worth dying for? I say freedom: the freedom to love your God, the freedom to love your country, and the freedom to love another. But what of those who have never felt God's mercy nor the pride of their ancestors nor the warmth of a neighbor's touch? Who will weep at the deaths of the lifeless? Who will weep for those lives of no certain consequence?

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Jillian stood at the edge of the square at Hadrian's wall observing the bustle of the marketplace at midmorning. An elder man with furrowed eyebrows brushed passed her hurriedly. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rushing off at a determined pace. Jillian smiled. The market was always a hectic place at this time of day, especially now that it was no longer under Roman control. The native Britons were free now to haggle and barter by their own terms and without unwanted interference of nosey clergymen and military men who believed in the right to take the fruits of a countryman's labor without just payment. Good riddance, Rome.

Hadrian's wall seemed to Jillian an unprecedented conglomeration of native tribes from throughout Britain with the noteworthy population of Romans who remained in Britain after their empire's retreat. There were, of course, Romans and even several woad tribes who refused to recognize Arthur's reign over the land and remained significant threats to the now somewhat united country. Perhaps this was not so terrible, as it kept the otherwise restless king and his Sarmatian knights busy.

Jillian firmly believed in Arthur's cause to unite these wayward sects to his kingdom, and her admiration for him grew with every trial faced and overcome. She noticed that other Britons also felt as she did. Jillian had been working closely with Arthur and his gallant Sarmatian knights since the battle at Badon hill. She rode with them on each mission working as a healer, which they had been in need of since the tragic loss of their brother in arms, Dagonet. Her days of joining the knights on their adventures, however, would soon reach an intermission.

Jillian gently touched her hand to her stomach as she strolled through the marketplace and smiled with the kind of elation one cannot contain, but must radiate in the irrefutable belief of infectious happiness. It had been five days since she had discovered the life growing inside her and four days since her devoted knight learned he was to become a father. Jillian had not been certain of and even feared what kind of reaction to anticipate, but she was cursed with honesty and could do nothing but admit to her current circumstance.

Jillian let her hand drop to her side and felt the sudden intertwining of fingers between her own. The unexpectedness and intimacy of the touch startled Jillian, who consequently leaped an inch off the ground in fright.

"Tristan!" she gasped, exhaling a sigh of relief at the figure she so well recognized and who always seemed to have a way of suddenly appearing to her without warning. "How do you do that?"

"I walk very quietly," he shrugged. She returned his explanation with a quizzical look as they continued walking hand in hand through the square.

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes."

Jillian never needed many words from Tristan to assure her of his love. Theirs was an unspoken love. They knew every corner of the each others' souls to the point that endearments and professions of ceaseless love and constancy seemed only a superfluous occupation like a carpenter purchasing a wooden table on which to lay his beams. Jillian spoke often on various topics: an upcoming mission, uprisings among the woad tribes, quarrels among the ever incorrigible Sarmatian Knights, past occurrences, future plans. Tristan always listened.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, Tristan was not completely sure he was ready to be a father. He loved Jillian, and her pregnancy was certainly both an attestation to and consequence of that love. He knew he would love his child, but children needed more than love. Was Tristan capable of raising a family or even being part of one?

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It seemed the entire city of Rome took to the streets for the funeral of Cassia Gaius who had died peacefully in her sleep two nights before. Cassia Gaius was much beloved and her death was greatly felt by all. Her body was reverently carried through the main street in a procession as children flung white roses at the feet of those who marched by.

Tarra hated crowds. This was probably because she hated to be touched. She didn't know why, and really, she had never taken the time to care. Her arms clung tightly to her body crossed around her chest as she made her way through the waves of people seeping through the streets towards the middle of the city. She found a somewhat empty alleyway and quickly ducked into it. She passed an old beggar who lay dying and scoffed at the irony of his desertion as the entire city gathered to honor some dead Roman lady.

Tarra was in Rome on business and hoped to leave presently and with a bounty worth the distress that such a large, crowded city caused her. Hers was a unique profession whose only requisite seemed to be a complete lack of scruples. She had learned quickly, however, that it was far better to be without scruples than without money; and hence, started her own business of freelancing her conscience to the highest bidder.

Tarra found the building she sought and ascended the steps she found within. The steps led to a small apartment with a window overlooking the main street where the funeral procession slowly passed. A cloaked figure sat at the edge of the window observing the event as five guards stood about the room, eyeing Tarra suspiciously.

"Uhh, I'm supposed to meet Lady Gayness?" Tarra muttered, keeping a sharp eye on the dangerous looking guards.

The cloaked figure stood and walked slowly towards Tarra. "Gaius," corrected the figure, uncovering her face from the hood that had cast a shadow upon it, "Lucia Gaius."

"Whatever."

Lucia let out a sigh of annoyance, "I will forgive your manners on the assumption of their cause being ignorance and not insolence. Though I do suspect that assumption unfounded, I shall resist any retaliation for the simple reason that I need you. I have a job requiring your skills that is perhaps more difficult than any you have executed in the past, but I assure you, I will reward you handsomely."

"Oh, I assure you you will, too," Tarra answered.

"I suppose I will just get straight to the point, then."

"Very intuitive of you," remarked Tarra.

Lucia frowned. "Do you know of Arthur of Briton and of the Sarmatian knights loyal to him?" Tarra nodded that she did, though she would never let escape how she knew. "You see, I do not forgive or forget transgressions made against me," Lucia explained, "and I want Arthur and his scout named Tristan to feel in their dying breaths the wrath of Lucia Gaius and to curse the day they chose to make me their enemy."

"I'm interested in the part about handsome rewards," Tarra said, not particularly interested in any hate-filled back-stories.

"I will pay you three hundred gold coins," said Lucia, giving added inflection to the amount, "for the heads of Arthur Castus and his scout."

"Three hundred, eh? They might sell you their heads for such a price," replied Tarra, impressed at the sum.

"Do you accept?"

Tarra thought for a moment. Her previous work had mostly included theft, espionage, and blackmail. This would be her first assassination. Could she go through with it? "I accept," she answered. For three hundred coins, yes, she could. "I demand two hundred in advance," she added.

"Yet you shall only get one hundred."

"Done."

The guards escorted Tarra from the room, giving her directions to deliver the heads to an estate in northern France where Lucia was to be residing. Tarra committed the directions to memory with satisfaction that she would not have to return with the bounty all the way to Rome. After fitting her with the proper instructions, the guards departed coolly without the formality of farewell.

Tarra trodded gleefully back through the alleyway listening to the coins jingle in her pocket. "You're likely to be robbed carelessly exhibiting your wealth like that," came a dangerous voice from behind. Tarra turned to see Barak Mahal approaching her from behind.

"Oh it's you," Tarra said, trying to hide the strange excitement she always felt at seeing him. Barak Mahal had dark skin and uncommon, bright green eyes. He was contemptible and vile, and Tarra hated him---most of the time. He was conniving and, unfortunately, irresistibly charming. It was Barak who had manipulated her into the profession she now occupied and had convinced her to go to Arabia where she had been before arriving in Rome.

"So I was just offered a job to kill some king of some place called Briton," Barak confided nonchalantly.

"Oh really?" Tarra answered, trying not to reveal the sudden alarm she felt at his being assigned the very same mission she had just accepted. The situation could turn very unfortunate were he to get to Arthur before she did.

"Trouble is I have another job waiting in France making it impossible for me to accept."

"Too bad," Tarra said, somewhat relieved, yet curious as to why everyone was heading off to France.

"Yeah, except that I did accept."

"What?" replied Tarra, confused.

"Well, you try saying no to four hundred gold coins!"

'Four hundred?' Tarra thought. Blast, she should have bartered up the Gaius woman for a higher price.

"Look," continued Barak, "I'll pay you two hundred if you get rid of this Briton fellow for me."

"Hmmph!" Tarra retorted, "If I'm to do all the work, I expect no less than three hundred and fifty."

"Look, don't push it. I'll give you two fifty."

"Not good enough," Tarra answered, "Besides, you know very well I've never done murder."

"You once said you'd kill your own kin if the price was right."

"Easy for me to say. I have no kin," replied Tarra, then added, "And like you just said: if the price is right."

"Three hundred. My final offer," said Barak.

"Done," answered Tarra. Barak gave her a toothy grin and a nod. He was about to turn and leave when Tarra called after him, "What shall I do after I've killed him? To whom do I deliver the news?"

"The death of a king does not go long unnoticed," answered Barak, "and my employers wish to remain anonymous." With that, Barak disappeared into the shadows. He infuriated her with his mysteriousness. She wondered who had offered him the four hundred pounds. She supposed it mattered not as long as she received her three hundred.

What fortuitous circumstances! She was to be paid double for the same kill, and what a surmountable sum it was to be. Tarra would make haste and leave this wretched city immediately as there was no cause for delay. She anticipated to find Briton far more agreeable than Rome and more profitable as well.