You know, dirt cleans off a lot easier than blood.
— There's no one left to fight, sire.
— There is always someone left to fight.
— How can I reward Rome's greatest general?
— Let me go home.
— You have a son. Tell me about your home.
— My house is in the hills above Trujillo. A very simple place. Pink stones that warm in the sun. A kitchen garden that smells of herbs in the day, jasmine in the evening. Through the gate is a giant poplar. Figs, apples, pears. The soil, Marcus, black. Black like my wife's hair. Grapes on the south slopes, olives on the north. Wild ponies play near my house. They tease my son. He wants to be one of them.
— It's somewhere out there, my country. My home. My wife is preparing food. My daughters carry water from the river. Will I ever see them again? I think, no.
— Do you believe you'll see them again when you die?
— I think so. But then, I will die soon. They will not die for many years. I have to wait.
— But you would? Wait?
— Of course.
— You see, my wife and my son are already waiting for me.
— You'll meet them again. But not yet. Not yet. Unless...
— Not yet. Not yet.