"Entre-ls extrems al mig virtut atura / molt greu d'obrar i entre pocs conegut," Cesare looks at his hands, his knuckles, then turns them upwards. They are getting soft, familiar calluses disappearing. "Virtue lies in the mid-place, between the extremes, as the immortal Ausiàs March wrote; it is very difficult to achieve this mean, and very few people know what it is like."
"I don't know, Master Xellos. My home may see tomorrow, but then it I may no longer call it home. Places that still bear my coat of arms have become a most rare commodity." He lifts his cup or a self-deprecating toast.