“On your knees,” one of them growled, pressing Niktoon his shoulders, bending him to the floor. Nikto obeyed.

Having thus put the prisoner on his knees, they removed the bag from his head, but Nikto didn’t raise his head, didn’t look at the one to whom he had been brought.

Vitor Kors made a sign with his hand, and one of the soldiers with a stick raised the chin of Nikto up so that his face could be seen. Nikto closed his eyes, a light slanting fringe fell on his forehead, a mutilated cheek as usual was covered by part of the mask.

Vitor Kors looked at the portrait in a gilded frame, and looked at Nikto. He was silent. The pause was delayed, and the guards looked perplexedly at their master, waiting for further orders. Finally, catching the questioning glances of his subordinates, he shook his head, as if driving away the obsession, and rose abruptly from the table.

“Well, well…” He said, somewhat bewildered. He went to Nikto, looking at him very carefully. Walked around.

Nikto’s hands were closed in handcuffs behind his back.

“Free his hands, make him go,” Kors ordered.

The guards immediately began to obey the order. They stopped holding Nikto’s head in a tilted position, and he immediately lowered it down, a mass of white hair covered his face.

And Kors involuntarily looked at the beautiful, clear that good and expensive boots on Nikto’s feet. The new, not worn out sole was lined with shiny steel plates.

The convoy commander, whose name was Nolan, noticed the look of his boss, and nodded in understanding.

“I also noticed,” he said, “great boots!”

“Yeah! Dressed like a master, not a slave,” Kors agreed with a grin.

He stepped with the tip of his boot on the tip of one of Nikto’s braids lying on the floor. He saw that on the one side Nikto had two braids, and on the other – only one.

“Why three braids, not four or two?” He asked.

“What?” Nikto said quietly and a little surprised, he tried to turn around, but the soldiers didn’t allow him.

“And here it is, under his hair,” Nolan roughly lifted part of Nikto’s hair. “It’s short, as if cut off,” he grunted.

“I earn money by honest labor,” Nikto said, as if through force, “I fight at the Coliseum, and with that money… with this money I buy boots.”

The guards and Kors laughed.

“No need to make excuses,” Kors continued to smile, “no one currently blames you for anything. There is nothing wrong with being well dressed. I even like it!”

Nikto was silent.

“Well? Why did you shut up? You have such a funny accent, as if lisping, are your teeth all in place?”

“In place,” Nikto snapped back.

The guards laughed again.

“Okay, I'm joking. I see that they are in place. Tell me, as usual, that you are not to blame for anything, and you were treated unfairly. Everyone who happens to be here in this room always tells me about it. All innocentand arrested unfairly!”

Kors turned to the soldiers:

“Have you heard at least one person admit right away that he is here in fairness and for the cause?”

The guards continued to have fun:

“No, sir!”

“After all, they also treated you unfairly? Isn’t it so? And you are not to blame for anything? Correctly?”

“Yes,” Nikto answered.

 Kors, barely restraining himself, made a signal to the soldiers to shut up:

“Stop having fun! Man has sorrow!”

They calmed down instantly, clearly continuing to enjoy the performance and anticipating what usually followed a little later.

“Here you see! And how was it that those people treat you unfairly? Will you tell us?”

Vitor Kors returned to the table:

“Well? Why are you keeping silent? Say it, don’t be shy, everybody are my people here!”