Galla listened to the man named Catulus and she was trembling with rage. But also with something else. Confusion. Frustration. Almost guilt. Something strange and exotic that Galla had never encountered before. Had she misjudged this man? Had she spoken too soon? No, no, her words had a reason. She was not an object, she was not an item that could be sold and used. But his voice...his words...they had a certain power over her, and she could guess, over anyone, whether in a theatre or in that very cellar. She cringed as he explained the horrors he had witnessed, the pains he had helped ease, if indeed he had done so. But even though he had much more experience in the tortures of war, Galla had learned that there is no true experience, no relevant learning. There was only blood. Blood shed for a cause. Blood shed for nothing. And she would not be the whore for those who "fought" another worthless war. She did not believe in the freedom of innocents, in the justice for the wretched. Not anymore.<br/><br/>He kept talking about what an honour it was for her to be in the presence of heroes. Again, heroes. What exactly did these people do? Who were they and what did they represent? And why should she be chosen to serve them? "<em>You and you alone can...</em>" What did that mean? Galla, although filled with pride, an ego that could surpass even the one of the most arrogant politician, did not consider herself essential in the flow of things. She had been a pawn, a pawn who had learned much, but a pawn that was now tired. A girl who could barely be considered a woman, a child who was already sick of life. And yet, she was filled on the brim with fire and energy. Would she give all that up and simply fall into oblivion? Would she collapse in front of them? She shuddered at the thought, but, somehow, she realized there was no choice. Either she chose death by starvation or abuse, or she chose to submit. It did not take long for her to reply. An ironic, sadistic smile was on her face when she turned around to face Catulus.<br/><br/>"Bravo, old man, war-healer, carer of wounds and souls. Bravo. You surely have an educated past, one that surpasses me, and your oratoric talents shame mine. But you are also a hypocrite, Catulus." She almost spat out his name. "You want me to believe that I alone have been chosen to serve your men, who are indeed just and honourable, who put themselves in front of danger in the name of the common fool, and who are so cursed with this torturous fate, that they need someone like me to relieve themselves." She laughed then, actually laughed, and it was sardonic and ill-intentioned. "But I have to say, you definitely seem to understand certain things about me. For I am selfish and I serve no one but myself. And I could not care less about the needs of a handful of wretches. Being their slave would serve my best interests? So you say. But I have chosen death, and be it by starvation of the brutality you say you do not show your slaves, I do not care. Your decades are nothing, old man. They are worthless to me and I hold my own suffering above it. Now, show me to my prison, or allow me to rest here. Either way, you will not receive my grace. Or my dignity. And a tantrum..." She grinned, and her look was feral again. "Free my hands and I shall show you tantrum..."