©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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Twenty Nine

After a year of blending in with the malcontents who had caused so much trouble for the decent, law-abiding Roman citizens in and around Emerita Augusta and further north, he had gotten careless just one time, and that one, tiny moment had been his undoing. After months of being as filthy, disreputable, shabby and disagreeable as the rest of the deserters and rebellious civilians that comprised the group, he had been seen leaving the home of the Patrician gentleman farmer who was his commander, an officer of very high rank in the Praetorian guard. The Praetorians of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, that is, not the guard as it had become under the rule of Commodus and now Pertinax.

There was no reason for him to have been at the villa unless he was not what he claimed. He had ridden back to the camp deep in the woods, all unknowing, and been greeted by five outlaws, swords drawn, and informed that the game was up. “We know you’re working for Rome, Valerian,” his second in command had snarled, “so that explains why we’ve been so unsuccessful taking over - you’ve been working counter to everything we’ve tried to do all along.”

"I don't know what you mean," he had tried, "I was forced into that house and questioned, only just managing to deceive them into believing I was an ignorant lout and not the rebel they accused me of being."

He had held his hands out to his sides so he wouldn’t get skewered because Porcinus thought he was reaching for his dagger, and tried to reason with the furious Gaul. Since reason was as foreign to Porcinus as cleanliness, he was not successful. “No use trying to lie your way out of it,” the Gaul interrupted his calm explanation for why he’d been where he’d been seen, “Mathias heard part of your talk with the rich former tribune - we know he's still in league with certain factions in Rome that have to do with the military, and we know now that you’re the reason for all our failures. You're going to die for it.”

“In that case,” he’d said, spinning around so quickly he’d surprised Porcinus and the circle of menacing outlaws. He had leapt onto his horse, jumping the wiry animal over the campfire and into the darkening span of trees. He’d gone crashing through the brush since he’d naturally not stopped to search out any path. That was not good because it made it easy for Porcinus and the others to follow the racket his horse made breaking its way through the underbrush. As soon as he could, he dismounted and led the horse forward through the labyrinth of thorn bushes, dried deadfall and weeds, taking more care to be silent. It had almost worked. He was a good mile away from the campsite and ready to remount his horse when Porcinus had suddenly popped out from behind an old oak tree and stopped him in his tracks.

“You’ve led us a merry chase,” the outlaw had growled, his face scratched and bleeding from a precipitous journey through the underbrush after him.

“Too bad I trained you so well,” Valerian had answered wryly, the irony of the situation apparent even though he was in dire straits.

“Get on the horse and head back for the campsite,” Porcinus ordered.

Valerian remounted, but instead of heading for the campsite, he whirled his agile horse and rode right over Porcinus. The Gaul had roared his outrage, but was knocked off his feet by the charging horse. The gods’ senses of humor had intervened at that point, because Porcinus had been able to slash at his leg as he passed, opening a bloody wound in Valerian’s thigh, then, further complicating things, another of the outlaws had run up at that point, raised his bow, and shot him in the back, just over the left shoulder blade. He had been inches away from escaping with only the thigh wound, but the arrow, stuck firmly in the muscle and bone of his back, would be his death if he couldn’t get it out and the bleeding stopped. The wound itself wouldn’t kill him. The weakness it caused would make him easy pickings for the men who were surely chasing him.

Every quiet step his horse made felt as if he were being shaken in the jaws of a fierce wild animal. It would have to be a tiger, he thought, trying to keep his brain functioning, nothing else could pick up a full grown man and shake him like a child’s toy. The well-trained horse responded to his slightest signal, and pulled up, standing silently while Valerian lay forward across his neck, trying to gather enough strength to dismount and not make a huge clatter. The others were no doubt still following him, and it wouldn’t do him any good to signal them where he was. Marshalling his strength, Valerian slid off and stood leaning against the horse’s sweaty flank. The arrow was a white hot spike of pain in his back, taking over everything until he fought it back and got his wits together. He patted the horse gently, and, leaning against its shoulder, led it deeper into the trees and farther off the path.

Swearing under his breath at what he’d gotten himself into, trying to keep his ears open as well as his eyes, Valerian moved through the forest away from the rebel camp, but toward the rich farms and villas. They would be equally dangerous for him, he knew, especially the farm of one General Maximus Decimus Meridius, Military Governor of Hispania. After all, he had stalked Maximus through his olive groves for weeks, had actually come face to face with him once and managed to wound the general - deliberately being careful not to kill him. Maximus would recognize him. The general’s men would recognize him, those who had seen him. But he needed help, and aside from the general’s farm, the only other nearby farm or villa belonged to the former Augusta herself, Lucilla Aurelia. He thought she was gone, returned to Rome, but he couldn’t be sure. At least, if she was gone, he could stable his put-upon horse in her barn and possibly get the arrow out of his back, stop the bleeding, and rest a bit before figuring out what to do next.

It seemed hours as he traveled through woods, then olive groves, crossing over Maximus’ estate far to the south of the villa, avoiding his sentries. He was mounted again, having used a fallen tree as a mounting block, lying against his horse’s neck when he was too sleepy or weak to sit up. His tunic was stiff with blood down the back and left side, and blood dripped slowly off the toe of his right boot from the leg wound. A pretty mess, he thought. Stupid of him to be momentarily careless about being seen, equally stupid to have let himself be wounded. He dimly registered that the horse’s forward movements had ceased. Blearily, he raised his head, wincing when his back protested. It was almost dawn and there was enough light to see that he was by a low stone wall not twenty yards from a beautiful white stone villa. Augusta Lucilla’s villa. Gritting his teeth, he peered around for signs of occupation. Seeing only a couple of horses munching hay in one paddock and no imperial troops standing guard, he decided she was on her way back to Rome.

He clucked to his horse and it moved forward, following the well trod path through the front gate and into the stable yard. At the same moment the horse stopped, someone banged open the stable door from inside and demanded to know what business he had disturbing Lady Lucilla before dawn. His tired horse, at the end of its tether, planted all four legs, trembled once and reared up, unseating him. As Valerian hit the ground, landing unluckily on his back, he had the passing thought that the gods were very unhappy with him indeed to allow so many humorous but deadly things to happen to him in such a short span of time. The comedy ended quickly when his wounded shoulder struck the hard packed earth, driving the arrow deeper. The outraged stableman stood over him, still demanding his identity, but was fading into a whirl of sound and heat that was taking over Valerian’s brain. All he got out was, “Sorry,” before it took him over completely.

Lucilla was brought out of a comfortable sleep by shouting from the stable yard, then the scurrying feet of her housekeeper, then by her maid’s soft knock on her door. “Milady,” the maid called softly, “someone is hurt outside.”

“Hush, I’ll be right out,” Lucilla cautioned. She didn’t want the whole house awakened, but as she emerged from her bed chamber, wrapped in a wool shawl against the early morning chill, she saw that most of the household was already awake and awaiting her in the atrium. “Well, it must at least be an invading army of Marcomanni,” she teased the wide-eyed group.

“It’s almost that bad,” her steward informed her, “there’s a half-dead man in the stable yard, and from the look of him, he’s one of the outlaws General Maximus has been after.”

Lucilla blinked in surprise, “How can you tell?”

“He’s filthy, ragged and has no money on him,” the man explained.

“A damning state to be in,” Lucilla joshed her servant. “What if he’s been set upon by thieves, hurt, and left to die?”

“Ma’am, be that as it may,” he chided her, knowing he’d get away with it because of his long time in her employ, “he’s on one of the finest horses I’ve ever seen and carries a splendid dagger. Those two things don’t fit his appearance as a rough brigand. Now, either he’s stolen the horse and weapon, or they’re all that remain of a former life much better than his status now - which also points to his being an outlaw.”

“Condemned and sentenced, Horatius, you should have been a magistrate,” Lucilla teased further, before relenting and agreeing that it could be exactly as the steward thought. “Bring him inside and let’s speak with him.”

Horatius looked uncomfortable, “Er, Ma’am, the man is unconscious. He’s bleeding into the dirt of your stable yard even as we speak.”

“Wounded? Well, bring him inside, we can’t have him dying out in the yard before we know who he is and what he’s about, can we? We must at least try to ascertain that much before turning him over to General Maximus.”

Horatius, of course, protested that the man was better left lying in the yard, but was overruled by Lucilla, who got very firm with him. “Yes, my lady,” he finally answered when she ordered him in a tone of voice that put him in mind of her father in one of his stubborn moods. He gestured to a couple of stout servants to accompany him, and they shortly carried in what appeared to Lucilla to be a muddy bundle of rags until she walked closer and got a better look at it.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “he IS very dirty, isn’t he?” She waited as the men put the subject of their scrutiny on the closest bench, laying him down none too gently so that, even unconscious he groaned. “Not so rough, he may yet prove to be a good person fallen upon some adversity,” she chided them. They all had the grace to look ashamed, except Horatius, who was avidly examining the man now that he was in the well-lighted atrium. Lucilla bent down and lifted each of his hands, examining them in turn. “His nails are clean,” she said, as if that was of importance. When quizzical looks came her way, she explained, “I doubt an outlaw would take the time to clean his nails before attempting to drop dead in my stable yard, but someone of good character, more used to dirt free surroundings than living in the woods might do so as a matter of course.”

Horatius still looked unconvinced, but was willing to defer to his employer’s wishes if she was convinced their unexpected guest was worthy of care and not being chucked back out into the yard. “Shall we tend him then, my Lady?”

“By all means,” Lucilla ordered in a firm tone, “but we will need a surgeon to get that arrow out, from the look of it. Maximus has one - send someone over to his farm and ask that the surgeon come over at once.”

“They’ve already left for Emerita, my Lady,” her maid pointed out.

“Blast it, I’d forgotten for a moment there,” Lucilla chewed on her thumbnail thoughtfully, “All right, get him out of those filthy clothes, get the blood washed off him, and send Rufus to me.” Rufus was her stable man, and an able veterinary as well. She saw the doubtful looks from the servants and clapped her hands sharply, waking them up, “Must I do it myself?”

Everyone scurried in a different direction, all intent on carrying out her wishes. She hid a smile behind her hand, pretending to yawn, then strode off to her bed chamber to put on regular clothing. Since she was up, she’d rather not go about in her night dress and a shawl. She swiftly donned a plain gown and serviceable shoes,then tied her mass of auburn curls back out of her way with a band of ribbon. She re-wrapped herself in the shawl since it was chilly, but felt much more in charge now that she wasn’t in her nightgown. Their unconscious visitor had been carried to one of the guest rooms on the first floor, so she headed in that direction, met half way by Rufus, who was carrying his box of medicines.

“Did you want him gelded or just put down, my Lady?” the man teased

“Oh, I think just curried and treated, Rufus, we’ll decide on the other later,” she answered with a smile. She entered the room just as Horatius and one of the other men were removing the wounded man’s boots. She picked up the non-bloodied one and examined it. “A military boot,” she pointed out, dropping it to the floor and wiping her hands on a cloth one of the maids handed her. “And that tunic - what’s left of it, is military issue from the look of the cloth.”

“It’s black, my Lady,” one of the maids commented, unnecessarily.

“And not just from dirt,” Lucilla said with a smile, “I only know of one unit that wears black tunics.”

“A Praetorian,” Horatius almost spat. He had no love of them, especially as they’d become under the reign of Lady Lucilla’s late, unlamented brother, Commodus.

“Not any longer, judging from the threadbare state of this cloth,” Lucilla put in reasonably. “Get him over onto his stomach so we can check that arrow - mind his leg!” The men jumped to do her bidding, quickly wrapping a temporary bandage around the man’s wounded thigh and turning him face down on the bed. Rufus and Lucilla leaned in close to examine the nasty wound in his left scapula. “A nondescript sort of arrow,” Rufus commented.

“Yes, not military - but just as deadly.” She touched the flesh that puffed an angry red around the wood shaft. “Fevered - this is already infected.”

“It must come out and quickly,” Rufus agreed, and laid out his array of knives, probes, needles and other tools on a nearby table. He washed his hands in hot water and swiftly washed the area around the arrow free of blood and dirt. He wiggled the shaft, prompting a twitch and moan from his patient. Nodding to Horatius, who, along with two others, moved to hold the man still, he took up his surgical knife and began the arduous task of removing the arrow. “It’s in the bone,” he panted after gentle pulls on it had only loosened it slightly.

“It must come out,” Lucilla reminded him, although he knew it as well as she did.

Rufus mopped his forehead, took a better hold of the shaft of the arrow, and proceeded to pull it free by main force. The wound bled fitfully, also oozing some blackish dirt and pus. Rufus let it bleed awhile, then applied a thick pad covered with a drawing poultice, holding this in place with bandages wrapped around the man’s shoulder and chest. After that, they turned him back over and he stitched the leg wound after cleaning it. “There, that’s all I can do for now,” he panted. “Were he a horse, I’d say feed him a warm bran mash and rub him down, but since he’s human, bed rest and plenty of water.”

Lucilla thanked him and had the man’s filthy, bloody clothes and boots removed from the bed chamber while her housekeeper and steward settled him in the bed. “I want someone with him at all times,” Lucilla ordered, “If he wakes, I want to speak with him, find out who he is.”

“He’s not bad looking now that he’s clean,” her housekeeper pointed out.

Lucilla turned to look. It was true, now that the blood and dirt was gone, the man had even, perhaps handsome features. His hair, although somewhat long and raggedly cut, was a light brown, almost blond, while his skin was fine-grained and healthy in appearance. He had long-fingered hands with neatly trimmed nails, the palms roughened from handling reins and weapons. He was muscular but not heavy - built like a cavalryman, she reckoned from long experience with soldiers and the army. He didn’t appear to be Hispanic, although there were some who were light of complexion and hair. “No, you’re right, Helene, he isn’t. Keep him warm, and call me if he wakes.”

Lucilla went off to write a letter to Maximus, informing him of her unexpected visitor and her thoughts on the subject. She wondered how long he would remain unconscious, and hoped he wouldn’t die. Not from any great humanitarian urge, she told herself, but he seemed young and healthy - it was always a shame for such a person to die out of the normal scheme of things. Besides, it might be unlucky for her house to have someone die in it, although she herself wouldn’t think that. Her servants, some of whom were local and only rudimentarily educated, were more likely to be superstitious about such an event.

"And so he is established in my guest room, unconscious and a mystery. Could he be our mysterious stalker or just some poor unfortunate fallen on hard times. I think he is more than his outward appearance would lead one to believe. Please tell me what you want done with him. We will keep him - under lock and key if necessary - until we hear from you. Please give Lucius my love. Vale, Lucilla Aurelia"

Her maid tapped on her door for admittance. "Come," she said, looking up from sanding the parchment and dusting it off before rolling and sealing it. "What is it?"

"He's conscious, ma'am, and asking to speak to you." The maid was flushed, and Lucilla wondered what brought on that reaction. Feeling her mistress' eyes on her, the maid blushed more deeply, finally admitting, "He's very very handsome, my lady."

"Doreena, you thought that tinker's boy was handsome too, as I recall, and his eyes didn't even gaze in the same direction at the same time."

"My lady!" the maid squeaked in embarrassment over a youthful flirtation. "I was but fourteen years old, ma'am, what did I know of good looking or not?"

Lucilla nodded, although at fourteen she herself had certainly recognized a handsome male. Doreena was a girl from the country outside Rome, and sheltered. She patted her hand reassuringly and set off to see for herself. Sure enough, she entered the guest room to find her uninvited guest not only awake but trying to get out of bed, protesting that he shouldn't be here. "I need to be gone," he mumbled, obviously fevered. He tangled his feet in the coverlet, falling onto the marble floor when his wounded leg buckled under him. Doreena squeaked again, but Lucilla noticed she didn't take her eyes off the nude man. And he was very handsome indeed.

"Get him up onto the bed," she ordered the two man servants who had come in at hearing the disturbance in the guest room. Once that was accomplished, she nodded to the housekeeper to continue what she had been doing - bathing the injured man's face and body with cool water to keep his fever down. "Sir, you are a guest in my house, how came you to be injured?"

Startling midnight blue eyes fringed with dark blond lashes opened and regarded her in puzzlement. "In your house, ma'am?" he finally asked hoarsely. "Was I invited?"

"Not exactly," Lucilla responded, "but you're hurt and we have washed and cared for your wounds, taken out the arrow - were you set upon by brigands?"

The man's mouth twisted in a wry smile, "In a manner of speaking, yes, ma'am." He continued to gaze at her, although his eyes were somewhat unfocussed. "Do I know you?" he asked after a few moments of studying her features. "You look very familiar."

"No doubt you've seen my profile on old coins," Lucilla answered truthfully - when she was Augusta, wife of co-emperor Lucius Verus - a lot of silver coins had borne her image. It was somewhat of a joke to her now that five of the coins with her profile equalled one of her brother's much grander coins, although everyone said she'd got it backwards. "You're worth ten of him, any day," one of her best friends constantly reminded her.

"Coins?" the man echoed her, shaking his head, then reaching up as if to keep it from falling off, wincing when his left shoulder protested. "Hurts," he announced, and asked, "Was it a very large arrow? It felt like the bolt from a ballista when it hit me."

Bull's eye, Lucilla thought. The man was a soldier - either had been or currently was one - and she sensed that the black cloth of the Praetorian tunic was the color he had worn. There was something about him, although she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "What is your name, sir?" she finally thought to ask.

"Valerian," he managed, and lay so still Lucilla thought him unconscious again. When he asked hoarsely for water, she almost jumped out of her skin, but took a clean cloth, wet it thoroughly with cold well water and patiently dribbled water into the man's mouth a few drops at a time. When he had taken as much as he was able to, he thanked her. This time when he lay still, he was asleep.

"Valerian," she mused, wondering where she'd heard the name before. It would come to her, in time. Meanwhile, she sent her letter off toward Emerita Augusta, ordering her man to ride as fast as he could to catch the departing general and his soldiers, wife, and her son. "Valerian," she mused again late in the afternoon, and went to pore through some of her father's diaries. It would come to her - perhaps with prompting from the late Marcus Aurelius himself.

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Copyright 2001 by wildbearies

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