©2001 by WILDBEARIES

This story is based on characters created in the film, "Gladiator" and in no way intended to infringe upon those characters or the story of that film. References to real people are strictly the product of the writer's imagination and meant to entertain the reader.
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Sunlight and shade dappled the ground between the rows of olive trees. These were old growth trees, far off to the south and east borders of his property, and the weeds still grew dry and crackling along the narrow lanes. He wore soft-soled boots, tunic and trousers of greenish brown, and he carried no weapons save a long bladed dagger tucked into his right boot and a small bow with a quiver of lethal steel tipped arrows slung over his shoulder.

Moving silently from tree to tree, staying in cover, pausing now and then to study the ground, listen to the sounds the nearby birds made, sniff the wind. It harkened him back to his childhood when he had often stalked small game in this way, or absent any game, had enjoyed just moving as quietly as he could, practicing for the day when he would be a soldier and need the skills. He’d never thought to be a general, weighed down with cuirass, sword, helmet and winter gear, trudging through the snows of Germania or Brittania, or stripped to bare essentials in the blazing heat of Africa.

He paused now, listening intently. The birds had gone strangely silent except for some larks off in the distance. There. A slight crackle of underbrush off to his left. He turned, melting into the shadows of the big old tree, eyes scanning for any telltale sign that someone was stalking him as carefully as he was stalking them. He froze, nothing moving save his eyes. The bow was already raised, arrow at the ready, waiting for him to pull the string back and release it. He schooled himself to total stillness, taking shallow breaths.

Listening.

Waiting.

Nothing.

After a good five minutes’ wait, he dared to breathe normally again and lowered the bow, cursing inwardly. It had probably been a rabbit or some other rodent going about its daily business. The birdsong had resumed, a good sign that all was well, so he stepped out of cover. There was a sibilant hiss and something struck him hard in the left shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. Edepol! He had fallen for the tricks of an adversary more skilled than he was. He didn’t need to look down at himself to know a feathered shaft now protruded from his flesh - the fire of it was already penetrating his brain, making him want to vomit. He took a ragged breath, then another, finding himself on one knee without memory of falling.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he raged at himself. He gave the bowstring a tentative pull and stopped, biting back a groan. Unless it was life or death, he wouldn’t be doing much of that. He slung the bow over his right shoulder, returned the arrow to the small deerskin quiver, and managed to get to his feet. Sweat popped out on his brow from the effort, but he made it back to the relative shelter of the brush in fairly good order.

Crackling in the undergrowth directly in front of him, about twenty paces away. Maximus forced his eyes to focus and caught a glimpse of skin. He resisted the urge to plunge out of his camouflaged spot by the tree. He drew his dagger in one silent, careful motion. Thank the gods he was right-handed, he thought, and flung the wicked blade directly at that telltale bit of flesh. He heard it thud home, heard a choked-off cry, then someone in almost the same garb as he went running, bent over to keep a low profile, heedless of how much noise he made now that he'd been discovered.

Maximus dragged in a painful breath and followed, each step jarring the arrow that transfixed his shoulder. He could feel hot blood on his upper back so he knew the shaft had gone right through him. If he left the arrow in place, he reasoned, it would bleed less but hurt more. He opted for the pain, thinking he could control that, whereas if he lost very much blood, he'd be too weak to follow and hopefully catch the mysterious person, or he could pass out and become a target again. He cursed softly as he ran, each breath striking fire through the left side of his chest. He spotted his dagger in the weeds, the blade stained with gore, and stopped to grab it up, wiping the blade clean in the grass. He had no doubts his target had removed it, but doubted that was a wise decision. He'd be bleeding too now, and weakening.

He suddenly found himself on his face in the grass, the breath half knocked out of him. Gods, the arrow hurt! He'd tripped on a root and in the process of landing, had shoved the thing deeper into his shoulder. A moment or two of careful breathing with eyes tightly shut and he was able to climb to his feet once more. There was blood staining the leaves of some nearby brush so he followed that. He was walking now, but panting, and realized he wasn't going to be able to keep on much longer by himself. Cursing, he pulled the reed whistle on its cord out from the neck of his tunic. Should he blow it now and summon Antoninus or one of the others, or keep going?

His head swam, and that decided him. Putting the whistle to his mouth, he blew several long blasts. From behind him came answering whistles, so he knew one of his men had heard and would be coming after him. No reason to stand and wait, wasting time, he thought, so he forced himself forward, tracking the bent weeds and the blood trail.

When he had gone perhaps a quarter mile, the olive trees thinned into newer, more pruned growth with less underbrush to hide in. Ahah, Maximus thought, perhaps now he would be able to spot his adversary more easily. Sure enough, a flock of rooks took wing from some trees just ahead of him, cawing and fussing at someone on the ground. Maximus took care to keep as well hidden as he could, and moved toward the flapping group of birds. A flash of green and someone ran. Without thinking about it, Maximus took his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and let fly. The arrow hissed uselessly to one side of the fleeing figure and he cursed both it and the agony in his shoulder from drawing the bow. Nevertheless, he swiftly nocked and drew again, taking more careful aim in spite of blurred vision, and was rewarded by a loud cry as the arrow hit its mark. "Got you," he said in a triumphant whisper, and went to see what he had hit.

From the look of the man stretched out in the long grass, he'd seen better days. He was youngish, maybe twenty four or so, dark skinned, dark haired and dirty, wearing a ragged tunic that might once have been part of an auxiliary legionaire's uniform. Whether it was his or not remained to be seen. He had a bloody knife wound in his side and an arrow protruding from the middle of his back. He was quite dead. Maximus cursed his accuracy - he would have liked to question the man, find out who and what he was, and why he'd been skulking around stalking him and the farm, but that was not to be. "Damn and bloody damn," he added.

He heard the sound of the whistles getting closer and blew one more blast on his in answer. A small sound from just behind him, however, kept him from doing more than that. "I seem to have misjudged how many adversaries I had," he said in a conversational tone of voice.

"Don't move," came the response - and in a cultured accent, not provincial. "You have many adversaries, Maximus Decimus Meridius, but I am not one of them. I was following that one there on the ground the same as you were - no, don't turn around, you don't need to see me."

Footsteps in the dried grass, then the voice was closer still. He felt a touch on the point of the arrow protruding from his shoulder and almost sank to his knees. "Don't!"

The pressure left and the voice apologized, "Sorry, I thought to help, but that seems lodged firmly in there. You'll need a surgeon."

"I don't need a criminal to tell me what I need," Maximus snapped. He wanted nothing more than to sit down at this point, but instead locked his knees to keep himself upright. No further whistles from his men, and no sound of pursuit - blast them, had they run off in the wrong direction?

"Your men will be here soon enough," his unknown adversary said, "Yes, I heard the reed whistle, I've used them myself in the woods of Germania and the thorn groves of Britannia." A hand took hold of his right arm and guided Maximus a few steps to the right and back a bit to where a massive tree stump protruded from the ground. "Sit there before you sprawl on the ground."

Maximus thought of resisting, but a throb from his shoulder told him that would be foolish pride, so he sat. "You're the one who sent the note on the arrow," he stated. "Why am I not permitted to see your face? Is it because I'd know it?" There was something about the voice. . .

A soft chuckle, then agreement, "Aye, you would, General, although it's been many years. Trust me now, sit as you are on that stump and don't move, don't send your men after me, and I will explain all to you soon enough."

"Why should I deal with a deserter and traitor?" He could hear Antoninus now, and some other voices, heading in his direction. They would be there soon enough. He wanted to make the owner of that familiar voice stay longer than he desired, wanted his men to be able to catch him. "Eh, tell me why?"

No answer.

Maximus dared to twist his neck and look. Bah, the man had snuck off, leaving him to sit foolishly talking to the empty air. "Run for now, " he called after the man, "I'll find you again."

"No, I'll find you," came the laughing response, and then there was only the wind playing in the olive branches and the rooks and starlings arguing over food in the fields across the road.

Antoninus and two men came crashing out of the undergrowth and stopped dead at the sight of their general, a nasty looking arrow protruding front and back from his shoulder, and a look of frustration on his face despite the obviously dead body sprawled at his feet. "About time you showed up," he growled at them, getting to his feet. Instead, he found himself on the ground looking dizzily up at Antoninus. "Bloody hell," he muttered, and went away for a while.

"Bloody hell," Ana exclaimed, hands on her hips, as several men came up to the front portico of the villa with a small wagon bearing the bloody, obviously the worse for wear form of her husband. "Did one of you shoot him accidentally?" she asked Antoninus.

"Ma'am?" that young man asked, somewhat surprised, then he realized she was making light of it because she was no doubt upset. "Oh no, whomever sent that arrow into my saddle the other day is no doubt the culprit." He aided the others in getting their general out of the wagon. Maximus was dirty, bloodied and complaining as each movement hurt his shoulder, but he managed to walk indoors with the help of a man propping him up on either side.

"Ana, you've got to get this arrow out, it feels big as a tree limb."

She sent one of the maids to the kitchen for hot water, and had Maximus helped into the atrium where the light was best. "Put him down on that bench - no, let him sit up, I don't want him rolling off onto the floor." She gestured to Antoninus, "Sit next to him and keep him from falling while I get my things." She didn't wait to see if he obeyed before she trotted off to fetch her medical instruments and supplies.

"Bossy, isn't she?" Maximus commented, wincing as a testing touch of the feathered part of the arrow elicited the same pain as it had an hour before when it had first been shot into him. "Hades take him, I hope my shot hurt before he died," he fumed.

"Yes, she is a bit bossy," Antoninus answered, propping his general up and hoping he didn't pass out and land on the floor. He wasn't sure he wanted Lady Ana to give him a tongue lashing given her apparent state of bad temper. He could have handled a case of the vapors, indeed, might have expected that from any other woman but Lady Ana, but annoyance was a surprise.

"I'm in for it, I suppose," Maximus said, swaying a little. "Damn, make the room stop spinning, would you, 'Ninus? I feel drunk."

He grabbed hold of Maximus' by the belt, deciding it was best to have a firm grip and not chance the general's being able to keep from falling. "I've got you, Sir - and here comes Lady Ana." Thank the gods, she had her instrument box, a stack of rolled bandages and a flask of what was obviously wine.

"I see her," Maximus responded, "at least she doesn't have a saw - so no cut off limbs for me." He giggled.

Ana shot Antoninus a look, "I suppose you men fed him wine to keep him fortified and that explains his attitude?"

"Um, yes ma'am, we thought it best." He didn't tell her it was almost half a skin of very good wine and that the general had actually sung them a couple of filthy tavern ditties on their journey in from the distant groves. The one about the Parthian whore and the donkey had been particularly hilarious. He grinned at the memory, caught Ana's scowl, and quickly schooled his features into sobriety. "He needed it for strength, ma'am."

"Jupiter's Balls," she commented, ignoring him when his mouth fell open in surprise. "Hold him up, I need to see both wounds. She examined Maximus carefully, even wiggling the shaft a bit, ignoring her husband's outburst of profanity. She shushed him, "Quiet, save your strength. I have to cut the head off the arrow and pull it back through where it went in."

"Damn it, Ana," Maximus began, then shut up at her fierce look. "I suppose this is going to involve a brazier and a knife blade," he remarked somewhat fatalistically.

"It is," she agreed, and put on a large apron, tying it around her pale blue stola to keep it clean while she worked on him. She took a dagger and cut away the sleeve and neck of his tunic on the left side, then, nodding to Antoninus to hold onto him, she began sawing at the shaft of the arrow just behind the steel tip.

When he wobbled and would have fallen off the bench, she waved another sturdy soldier over to help hold him still, and proceeded to saw through the arrow in short order. "Good," she said, setting the arrowhead to one side. She took a piece of white-hot charcoal out of the brazier with tongs and held the briquette against the cut end of the arrow until it was burning, though not flaming. "Hold him now, I'm going to pull the shaft right back through and out."

"It's on fire," Antoninus and Maximus said together, then she gave it a yank and they both yelled, one from pain and the other from imagining how that felt. "Great gods above," her husband growled when he had the breath to, "are you trying to kill me?" First he's punctured, then burnt, he thought dizzily. And why was Ana peeved with him? After all, it wasn't as if he'd gone out seeking to be shot.

Ana poured some of a viscous green liquid into both wounds - shoving a bandage roll into his mouth for him to bite on when he protested. "Has to be done," she informed him.

When the stinging lessened, he spat out the cloth and looked at her somewhat dizzily. "I'm the victim here, you know," he reminded her.

"I know, and from the looks of that wound, if you'd been a few inches to the side, you'd be dead right now, so excuse my being angry with you."

"I didn't shoot myself," he said logically, then, "Ouch, damn it, woman, that's flesh not marble!" She was putting thick pads of linen coated with some noxious mess onto both wounds and binding them in place with rolls of bandaging.

"Give me your arm," she ordered and he managed to drag his sore upper limb within her grasp. She tucked it neatly into a sling, checked the swathed linen to be sure the pads were in place, and then stood back, eyeing him. "You were lucky," she informed him, then spun on her heel and went into the kitchen where she washed her hands thoroughly.

"Is the master all right?" Gemma wanted to know. She alone dared speak to Lady Ana when she had that look of annoyance on her face.

"He will be, unless he lets the wound get infected, the idiot," she answered, and burst into tears. She was shortly wrapped in the plump arms of the housekeeper, sobbing until she began to hiccup. When she got control of herself, she stamped a foot at her weakness, "Oh, I'm being such a silly female! Crying over a minor wound."

The woman gave her an appraising look. "Milady, could you be breeding? It truly isn't like you to take on so, but when a woman is in the family way, she often has swings of emotion." She well remembered Lady Selene, who could have been a model for the mythical harpies when she was first pregnant with dear little Marcus.

Ana stared at Gemma open-mouthed, thinking back. "I'm not sure, but in any case, don't breathe a word of that to anyone until I can think straight." She took off the soiled apron and handed it into Gemma's care, smoothed her hair and walked back into the atrium as if nothing had happened.

Antoninus and Maximus looked at her hopefully, no doubt worried that her temper was still raw. Instead, she surprised them by having Antoninus and the other man help her husband up to their bed chamber. "I'll see to him in a moment, just be sure he's safely ensconced on the bed or in a chair," she told them.

In a family way, she thought, Isis watch over me, I cannot remember when I last had my courses. She set off up the stairs, grumbling to herself. That was no doubt Maximus' fault too.

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Copyright 2001 by wildbearies

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