LOST IN THE EMPIRE

 

PART 11

The only sound he made was the little, repeated *crack* as he snapped his teeth together. He stood behind a large poplar, eyes narrowed, as he watched the man with the telescope. His fingers flexed, tightened, then flexed again with their aching to fasten on the throat of the man he watched.

Sid had made the journey across Europe with the mere push of a button, arriving in Spain just as his team neared Maximus' home. He'd been watching Cort and Rachel beside the brook when the sudden glint of light on a distant lens caught his eye. Damn the man to hell and back! HOW had he known about the Gladiator mission? And not only was he here, studying the little priest getting all sappy with Rachel, he'd brought...her.

Brianna stood just to Dimetri's left, looking for all the world in the morning light like some Celtic goddess. He turned his attention to her, his upper teeth now clamped onto his lip, though he managed a slight, wry smile when he saw the crossbow slung over her back.

"BREEanah," he whispered, giving the name the Highland sound she herself used, remembering the rapid flow of nanosauce down his shoulder. He tipped his head, his eyes glittering with a strange mixture of hate, admiration and lust.

So...Mikol was playing hardball over Maximus, was he? His face twisted into a terrible grimace of determination. Maximus was...his. No one, not even the beautiful and deadly Brianna Lachliel, would thwart his plans for the General. His hand moved along a low poplar branch, ripping off a series of leaves. Then his eyes turned back to the smiling priest. "No one," he murmured.

"It is the General, not the priest, who is our assignment," Brianna said, noting her companion's eager excitement at the sight of the couple on the rock.

Dimetri turned, smiling enigmatically at the tall, blonde woman. He said nothing, merely smiled, cocked his head, then turned his telescope back, focusing again on Cort.

A tear had welled in Cort's eye as he listened for Rachel's response and he knuckled it quickly away. "I...," he started to say, but there were no words sufficient for the moment and so he just gathered her to himself, kissing her then kissing her again and yet again.

Terry and Diedre came around the bushes, stopped, and shook their heads. "He does manage to keep them...occupied," he laughed softly, then called out, "Hey, Cort...Rachel, we need to get going."

Cort looked up, his face flushed with happiness. "She's going to marry me!" he said.

Terry paused, his face serious as he instantly thought of all the ramifications of such a thing. Then, seeing a worried look beginning to form on Cort's countenance, he quickly smiled and walked forward, his hand extended. "Congratulations, my friend," he said warmly. "I am happy for you...for you both." He shook Cort's hand then bent and kissed the top of Rachel's head.

She looked up at him, knowing him well, knowing what he was thinking. "Sid?" she asked.

"Sid be damned," Terry smiled. "I'll handle him. You two just be...happy." He grinned. "That's an order."

He floated in the blackness, trying to find the gateway. There were times it seemed almost in front of him and he hurried toward it, calling out, "WAIT! Wait for me!" But always it eluded him, keeping just out of his grasp. He didn't... understand. Why? Why couldn't he just walk up and push it open?

It was time. It had to be time. His life was over. Done. He watched the large poplar by the gate, its leaves blowing wildly in the wind. Anguish beyond all bearing rose in his core. "Let me IN, damn you!" he shouted as the gate moved, wavered, disappeared.

He roused once, slightly, aware of his fingers curled in the soft, dry dirt. Lifting his head only an inch or two was all he could manage. It was true. The mounds were really there. Fever wracking him, he rested his cheek again in the dirt, closing his eyes. If death were a decision, he'd made it.

"There," Terry said, dismounting behind the ruins of the house, pointing to where Maximus lay between the two graves. The four of them had ridden for three hours, finally arriving at the General's ravaged home.

Cort remained mounted, just staring. How, he wondered, could he be feeling two such disparate things? His eyes moved from Rachel to Maximus. She stood by her horse, the sun bringing out deep chestnut highlights in her soft hair. He smiled at her, a deep welling glow of joy and completeness in his heart. Then he looked at Maximus again and his chin trembled and quivered.

Rachel saw. Ever since she'd known they would have to live the entire movie, this was one of the moments she'd dreaded most for how it would affect Cort.

Slowly he dismounted and began to walk around the house. "Cort! NO!" Terry called. "He mustn't see you."

"He's not seeing...anyone. Not right now," Cort replied, his voice rather hoarse with the emotion he was trying to contain. As he walked, he remembered the General leaping his horse through the fire as he'd first seen him. Then, in the surgery. So close. Maximus had been nearly overcome with compassion and empathy for his wounded men. Now, here he lay...alone...between the burial mounds of his dead family.

Quietly, with an almost reverence for the great pain, Cort approached Maximus and knelt beside him, placing his palm on the General's back, spreading his fingers wide. The other three gathered nearby, watching, silent. Cort closed his eyes, remaining there several moments, his lips moving soundlessly. When he opened his eyes, he moved his hand briefly up to the back of Maximus' head. "A better day is coming, my friend," he whispered. "I promise you. A better day."

The sudden jingling of brass bells made him lift his head. Terry was motioning for him to come, to hurry back behind the ruins. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet, looking down at Maximus' quiet form. "Now to Africa," he said softly. "All of us." Then he ran to join the others.

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

She didn’t think much of the Russian, Dimetri Zoloft; at least, not as much as she allowed him to believe, arrogant wolf that he was, never letting an opportunity pass by to rake her with his eyes or create messes for her to deal with. It was worse than mere masculine chauvinism. It was outright jealousy and prejudice because of her reputation as Mikol’s favorite minion. Considering what happened when NanoCorp’s retriever managed to get the upper hand over gaining Cort, Brianna now found Dimetri’s scorn and antagonism highly amusing. But his ugliness did have a tendency to wear on her at times, as it did this morning, when all she thought to do was get the job done. Get Maximus and get out. That was why Mikol liked her, trusted her the most, she informed her partner. She didn’t let her ego get in the way.

Following Dimetri up the incline to get the lay of the land before proceeding to Maximus’ vineyard, Brianna hitched her crossbow onto her shoulder, looking back once more to make sure they had doused their campfire. They had just spent the last ten minutes arguing about the need to hurry, to arrive before Terry and his band…assuming that was where they were going to intercept and take the general back to NanoCorp…and steal from them their one chance to win the game they had all been playing. Yet, here they were dithering around in the mountains, tracking their competition.

“Little sooka,” Dimetri spat, the crow’s feet around his eyes squinching tight with anger and his mouth twisting into the beginning of a snarl. His telescope was trained on the idyllic little spot on the opposite ridge below, of a young couple intent on each other. “Be happy with your little prize for now. Consider it a gift…a memory. It will be all I leave you…” he muttered as he looked through his telescope. He noticed Brianna coming up beside him, gave her a sniggering leer and added, “if she is lucky.”

“What are you on about?” Brianna asked.

“Just a little grudge match,” Dimetri told her, menace still lacing his tone.

Brianna’s hands tightened around the belt of her satchel. Why did she find it so hard to hold her temper around Dimetri?

“It is the General, not the priest, who is our assignment,” she reminded him tersely.

Dimetri ignored her, a faint growl rumbling in his chest. Brianna watched the couple kiss as if they had just shared a particularly intense moment. A weakness to exploit, she noted with detachment. Very well. Dimetri may have a point.

She gave her fellow retriever a hard nudge. “We’re late, Dimetri. Unless you will be happy for me to explain in detail to Mikol how you drooled over our competition instead.  She slapped Dimetri’s arm as they saw Terry and his companion, apparently a new retriever, round the bushes to find the spooners in their reverie. “Enough of your voyeurism. We need to go. NOW.”

Dimetri snapped the telescope closed, dark eyes flashing, and the both of them mounted their own horses to ride off into the valley.

She noticed Deidre lagging behind on her horse, almost perceptively dropping back from the line she had formed with Terry and Cort, slowing from a gallop to a canter on the incline behind the smoldering ruins of the villa. Rachel herself had noticed that her own horse, Ombra, was beginning to wheeze a bit, apparently not as strong in will or wind as those of the two men. She could see the horses lifting their heads, their eyes beginning to roll in alarm as the wafting smoke drifted in the air, a mixture of burned wood and plaster, and maybe, whether from truth or their imaginations, a sickly sweet smell of something far worse in the fire.

Deidre’s face was pinched, her hazel blue eyes glistening somewhat from fatigue, tension.

“Now that I’m here, I don’t think I want to go on,” she muttered as she drew level with Rachel. “Terry’s already lecturing Cort again about staying put and even I’ve gotten to know Cort well enough to see when he gets that set in his jaw, he’s thinking rebellion.” Deidre glanced warily at her several times to see how she would take this information.

Rachel sighed. She’d been seeing that set jaw for some time now; beginning to wonder if letting Cort go with his instinct on this was not such a bad thing. She couldn’t decide if it was because she wasn’t looking forward to witnessing yet another devastating blow to Maximus either, or if the heart she knew pumped within Cort’s breast was right to offer a healing…even if it wasn’t time.

“He’s seeing something I don’t think he can explain very well. He’s tried, but…” she trailed off in answer. She saw Cort’s shoulders twitch, as if reasserting posture after a sharp comment from Terry. “Terry’s right, though. We can only follow along. But I don’t mind agreeing with you. This is all starting to wear me down,” Rachel told the red-head.

“I need to get those two separated,” Deidre said, preparing to spur her mount forward. “I can tell when Terry is winding tighter.” She trotted ahead to the opposite side of Terry and began to chat brightly with him. Cort turned to look back at Rachel, and she motioned for him to drop back.

“Why so slow?” he asked. Tiber pranced a bit around Ombra, flirting with the mare. Ombra nickered and tried to move away. She wasn’t so easy to please.

“It’s like going to my grandfather’s funeral,” Rachel replied, a bit surprised by the words. She hadn’t thought of him in quite a while. Upon arriving at a place of death, though, it seemed to be the one image that sprang to mind. “It didn’t become real that he was no longer there, until I got to my grandparents’ house. And then when I walked in…I could feel him, right there, in the kitchen…like he was waiting for me to show up so he could say he wasn’t coming back. I cried and cried, then. I hadn’t until I walked into that kitchen.”

Cort watched her, concern deepening the shadows of his dust-covered face.

“In the car on the way over, I was bracing myself…we turned down the street where their house was and I started pushing at my leg, like I was afraid we were going to crash,” she continued, hoping she could make sense. “That’s what this feels like to me. I know we have to go…but…there’s something in me that’s warning of danger. I don’t know…” she trailed off.

Cort reached down to grab Ombra’s rein and edge Tiber near so he could ride closer to Rachel. Ombra knew Cort’s grip and didn’t argue.

“Rachel, sweet love,” he murmured. “I know it’s hard.”

“Cort,” Rachel began, the persistent worry of his emotional involvement returning in a flood, “how are you with this? I mean, I know what you’ve been telling me. I know it’s hard to hold back. Here I am…I want to hold back…and you…I know how you feel…and you don’t want to hold back. Just…a bit more along the way, okay? Please, don’t do anything foolish,” she begged, and winced as she said the last words, acutely aware that Terry had already been reading him the riot act.

Instead of getting angry with her, he smiled at her and reached out to brush her cheek, momentarily tangling his fingers in the ends of her hair.

“You won’t lose me,” he told her.

“That isn’t what I mean,” she argued. The ruins were mere yards before them now, Terry relentlessly making his way towards them, Deidre following wearily behind.

He said nothing more, only held her gaze for a few moments and then moved ahead. They had reached the ruins and Terry slipped off his horse to stake out a position where they could watch. Rachel and Diedre joined him as Cort hovered near, still on Tiber, edging closer to a corner…

Rachel turned to watch him and found Cort looking at her intently, a look that went straight through her. Just hours before, they had pledged to marry: she would be his wife, and the joy they had both felt had left them wordless. She turned at the same moment he did to look at the prostrate figure of Maximus, desolate, riven, bereft of voice by the loss of his wife.

Once again, her grandfather’s funeral came to mind. Something else held Maximus back, even though they all knew, could feel it in the very air, that the Spaniard was begging the earth take him, too. Smoke made her eyes sting and water. The dichotomy was too much, Rachel thought. Cort looked back at her and she gave a small nod.

She heard Terry call out to Cort, but the preacher walked toward Maximus in that same confident stride she had come to love, the same look on his face as he had when he prepared to fight in the street of Redemption.

She caught Terry’s look of frustration and shook her head.

“He’s not seeing anyone, not right now,” they heard Cort say. Each of the three of them, for different reasons it seemed, drew closer, as though Cort would perform some miracle. But all he did was lay his hand upon the general’s back and bow his head.

Rachel couldn’t take her eyes off her future husband, knew he was praying. Lord, hear our prayer, she kept murmuring, the only thing she could think of in support. A breeze came through, cooling their brows; and up through the wind, like faint fairy chimes, bells pierced the silence. Rachel got the vague impression that Terry’s invisible full-body armor snapped back into place. Deidre gazed around, a bit stunned. Cort looked up at Rachel, green eyes sparkling. He stood, took her hand.

“Now to Africa, all of us,” he said with one last look.

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

Everything was black, entirely black. Where was the gate? He knew he needed to find the gate, HAD to find the gate!! He stretched out his fingers, feeling for it in the darkness. Aaaaa! A sudden pain. Very small actually. Just enough in his hand to run up his arm, jarring him from where he hovered close beneath the soft covering of unconsciousness.

His eyes blinked open. Light. Everywhere light. Blinding, piercing daggers of light. No! This was not right! The light of Elysium would be soft, nothing...not like this! Not like THIS! He squeezed his lids shut tight, tighter. Go away! Oh, gods...oh, gods...make it go away. He strained for the darkness. Come for me...his soul cried out but he was tied to some flaming pyre of light.

He lay there...quiet...a moment, becoming aware that he was moving, was being...moved, on some conveyance that jarred and jerked his flesh, his bones. His lids flew open. White horse. Banner. Dark eyes in a darker face. No! It was not... right. He hurt. He hurt just...everywhere. His head lolled to the side as he gratefully grasped at darkness only to have it snatched from him as the cart jostled over a stone.

Someone was touching his arm. He reached, curving his shaking fingers toward his gaping wound but was stayed by a voice, quiet yet firm. Looking up he saw white teeth flashing. Then he slept...or faded...he did not know. "Don't die," the voice came again. He would have laughed had his lips not been too cracked to move. Don't die? Was that not all he wanted of the world, all he asked of it now? He looked at the man who walked just behind his head, looked with no light of life in his eyes, only a blank hopelessness for he had buried his soul in the burned soils of Spain. The man touched his arm again, packing poultice now the maggots had done their work. Why? Why this time spent, this utter waste of time spent keeping him alive? Did the man not know, could he not tell that he was already dead? He closed his eyes. Just let me go, he prayed. Please...please...just let me go home.

Cort wiped his palm across his face, puffing his cheeks out. "And I thought Arizona was hot," he said, pushing his hair up off the back of his neck.

"They filmed parts of Lawrence of Arabia here," Rachel supplied. She looked at Terry. "Remember the Sun's Anvil?"

Terry smiled slightly. He was too hot for chitchat. He squinted, staring at the horizon where the caravan of the slave traders had just disappeared behind a low butte. Good. He wanted to keep a precise amount of distance between them and it. Turning to Diedre, he remarked, "They will arrive in Zucchabar early in the afternoon, I expect. We won't get there until just after dark. That should work well for us, I think." Then his camel made a rather disgusting sound, half like a drowning yak, half like a vomiting hippo. He disliked camels intensely. Diedre tried hard not to laugh at the expression that had settled on his face.

Sid sat in the shade of a small canopy that hung limply in the hot, still air. He had a long, striped robe on over his suit, its hood obscuring most of his face. Looking down at his lap, he fingered the coarse material, studying the wide purple and beige stripes. A large fly lit on his knee and in one quick motion he had it trapped in his hand. He was impatient.
He'd been waiting some hours now for the cast of this little play to arrive.

He wanted to squash the fly, but it would be...messy...so he let it go, watching it buzz in a confused circle before heading in the general direction of a small burro. Narrowing his eyes, he examined yet once again the area in which he waited. Filthy little craphole of a town! He wrinkled his nose at the stench of it. Ah, the unspeakable trials he endured for the sake of the General. And would Maximus even...appreciate...his sacrifices? He thought not.

Proximo walked by on his way to the slave market. "Flesh for sale," Sid murmured under his breath, getting languidly to his feet to follow the man. "Nice fresh flesh for sale. Come and get it while it lasts." He smiled. Maximus for sale. What a concept! And the dolts didn't even realize what they had!

He kept to what shadows he could find, standing off to the right, watching Proximo poke at Maximus' arm and pronounce him a deserter. Then he saw the General's eyes and he licked his lips, thinking, remembering watching him fighting in the mud. There, in Germania, death had surrounded him on every side, leaping at him, swinging at him, trying to bring him down and take him as its own. But he had fairly burst with the life force within him, had twisted and struggled and fought to keep that life. Now...there he sat...one knee bent, arms hanging limply down, not caring, not even interested that Proximo thought him worthless. As many times as Sid had watched the movie, seeing it for himself, seeing the total absence of that life force struck him as it never had before and a small muscle under his left eye twitched with the tension of the moment. The man chained to the post was not the man he'd come for, not the man he...needed. He looked left then right, scanning the crowd for retrievers. If anyone took Maximus now, he'd strangle them himself.

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

If coming upon the NanoCorp team huddled around the figure of Maximus had put them both in a bad mood, the incessant caterwaul of the market turned the Russian into a veritable volcano of nastiness. This did not faze Brianna too much. If he wanted out of the hell-hole of Zucchabar, he was going to have to work with her, and he became a little more pliant to her suggestions for secrecy. What worried Brianna was how sloppy and impatient Dimetri was going to be now. A tendency to overplay his hand, to bail out in situations before a moment presented itself. And she said as much as they settled into a dark cool corner of the Zucchabar market, now growing still and empty in the last light of the day.

“Merely self-preservation,” Dimetri said.

“Merely incompetence,” Brianna retorted. Fortunately, a stone face hid the laughter she felt when Dimetri glared at her. “We have some time here, enough to put ourselves into a better position to take Maximus.” She barely caught a sneering rumble from Dimetri’s lips. “Look, do you want the Thorne fellow to get the upper hand? It’s bad enough he’s here.” Brianna covered herself up, feeling exhaustion begin to steal through her bones. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we can start staking out our best options.”

The four of them had found lodging enough, if one considered a small cramped stone-walled room barely the size of a walk-in closet and the only means of privacy a tattered blanket over the doorway an actual room. They kicked out old mats and hay, paid to have fresh straw brought in, plopped in relief upon the piles, the jokes about bed-bugs having long since grown old. They had learned to make the evenings pleasant enough with a routine listing all the things they were going to take advantage of when they got back. This helped settling in somewhat, especially since no one spoke the word ‘if’ anymore.

Morning arrived just as sweltering as the day before. Diedre was the first out of the room because the closeness and lack of moving air made her claustrophobic.

“What’s the plan for today, Terry?” Rachel yawned.

“Yes, Fearless Leader, think we could find anything other than dried fruit and nuts to fill our stomachs this morning?” Diedre asked. “Something in the market place, perhaps?”

“Some chains to keep you from wandering off, perhaps?” Terry suggested. Diedre stuck her tongue out at him. “You know, you did that once before. Don’t make promises you won’t keep, luv.”

“I think you’re scared I will,” Diedre teased.

They moved into the flow of the crowds now wandering into the center of the Zucchabar market. There was no real pattern to where things were laid out or how the people moved through it, but it seemed they followed in a circular meander towards some undefined middle, under pavilions, tents, scaffolding, tremendous pens filled with animals…humans…

“The Christians,” Cort murmured softly as they paused in a moment of confusion. They had gone from not having much beyond their own stores of food to a variety of choices, overwhelmed now by the voices and clatter, smells, bells, and heat, which was inescapable now, even when there was a palm fan whisked through the air. Heat radiated from the mud, from the bodies passing by, from the small cooking fires here and there. And the dust…

Somehow the four of them ended up in a single file with Deidre at the end. It was hard keeping a steady pace through the market, not just for the fact that people would not find a direction for the traffic…right side goes one way, left goes another…Cort became engrossed with a trader passing by, something to do with replacing items for the horses, and their little train became something of a goose chase as they followed the man back to his stall. Rachel trotted to keep up and Deidre would have done the same except…she heard vocalizations, morning calls echoing from an enclave to her left, a disturbingly familiar cross between crickets and a frog…ehuuurrr uuurrr uuurrrr!

Diedre saw her three companions reach the stall, now haggling animatedly for the variety of items, turned to find the origins of the call. She saw the heads of some giraffe, the frantic flutter of wings, cages upon cages, animals roped to various stumps. The creatures to be sold in the market were kept separate because of the filth they created, the racket they caused. It wasn’t that far, she thought. She could slip away, just for a bit. And she’d be in sight, and they in her visual…

There were only a couple of small kids watching the animals, and they were more interested in their game of dice than they were in customers. Deidre heard the familiar trilling groan again, from a cluttered corner. She forgot all about staying visible to her friends and slipped into the hidden space with its ramshackle pile of wooden cages.

Monkeys, several species of them, chattering, leaping, shaking their cages. Deidre heard a violent rasp at her knee and jerked back as a sharp pair of canines leapt at her from behind wooden bars. The monkey was hissing, standing on all fours, ready to charge her again if she got too near. Backing away, Deidre then felt little fingers twitch at her hair and turned to find smaller monkeys reaching out to grasp, pulling till it hurt. In a couple of cramped cages, she saw the dog-like faces of ring-tailed lemurs, gazing up at her with hopeful yellow eyes. Her eyes fell on another large cage, nearly buried by the smaller ones, containing a colobus monkey, a forlorn and limp colobus, who seemed oblivious to the homo sapiens intruder. Ehuuuurrrrr uuuurrrr!

Deidre knelt down, squelching a desire to reach in This was no zoo she was in, no barrier between her and a truly nasty bite, or nasty disease. The hissing mangabey raised its eyebrows, bared its teeth over and over. Deidre tried to focus on the colobus. He, or it, seemed to have lost all will, all energy, huddled in the far corner, its flat cheeks looking sallow, the white fringe of its once beautiful coat bedraggled and dirty.

Deidre felt tears sting. How far had that poor creature come, shoved into the dark corner of the market, wasting away? Sniffing, she reached into her satchel and pulled out some of the fruit she had purchased, held it up to an opening between the bars. She began smacking her lips, posturing the way she remembered from her primate behavior class so long ago. Surely all it needed was some sustenance.

The colobus sat blinking for a minute, as if it couldn’t believe its eyes. Then with a small grunt, it leaned over, reaching out with long, thumb-less hands. Deidre gently pushed the fruit in between the bars.

“Eat up, little one,” she said, watching its eyes flicker rapidly between the fruit and her face. It gave small smacks of its own, showing signs of receptiveness. “I’ll give you more if you want it.” She forgot about time completely as she watched the colobus brighten with the second and third piece.

“Here! What are you doing!” growled a rough voice behind her, and Deidre stood up in a rush, nearly piling into the stack of smaller monkey cages. “You leave my stock alone!”

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

He sat in the practice yard, his legs pulled up, tucked beneath him, his hands lying loose on his thighs. The stuccoed wall was rough against his back but he was grateful for it still, his strength returning though not fully back. He watched the newly-purchased slaves face the large gladiator one by one but they seemed to him mere wooden people with wooden swords. None of it mattered. All he had to do was wait. His wound had failed to open the doorway to Elysium for him. He would soon find admittance through the arena. Death would come quickly. He had no doubt of that. All he had to do was...let...it. It should be easy enough.

Vaguely, half-distractedly, he was aware the large Nubian who had tended his wound en route had taken up his wooden sword and was, for someone entirely unused to such a weapon, acquitting himself fairly well. The man seemed possessed of some fierce desire to survive. Maximus sighed. Well, he probably had his reasons. For one brief second Maximus sized him up with the eyes of a General, then let his lids close, his face half in, half out of shade. No matter. The Nubian, too, would be dead soon enough. None of it mattered.

"Spaniard!" He heard the word as though coming down some long, great tunnel toward him. Cocking his head, he looked at the huge man standing in the sun, waiting. He felt no relation to even that much of a name. He was a dead man walking. Nothing more. He had been mortally wounded already and all that remained was the actual dying. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone and let him get on with it? He was finding the process of it...long...and annoying.

He sighed again, slowly getting to his feet. Step by step, he told himself as he was handed the wooden sword. Step by step. Each one bringing him closer to where he needed to be. This was the next of them, the next thing he must do. He walked out into the sunlight, holding the sword by the blade, stopped, looked the large man in the eye and flipped it into the dirt. Another step. I'm coming.

His breath burst from him as he doubled over and fell to his knee. The blow to his abdomen had come, quick and with great power behind it. Gaining his feet, he locked eyes with the man again. Proximo nodded. The blade came for him once more, smashing with all the force the other could muster against his upper arm not far below his wound. Again he staggered, fell; again he stood and locked eyes. This time the man intended to smash the flat of the blade against the side of his face. He could see it in the eyes, in the position of the man's body. He steeled himself to meet the blow. He would not fight, would not pick up his sword, but by the gods, he would stand.

Later, he sat alone in the slave quarters looking down at his arm where it still stung from that second blow. His SPQR tattoo was there, the red mark left by the sword almost underlining it, highlighting its presence. For years he had borne the mark of the legions of Rome with pride. It was part of who he was, of what he believed in, of why he fought and what it was that he fought for. It marked him as not only a part of the Roman war machine, but was the identifying symbol of his life. His eyes narrowed now as he studied it, his nostrils tensing. It had become a snake coiled around his arm and he was filled with such a loathing for it that its presence had become unbearable. He would die soon. He would NOT die bearing the mark of Rome on his person!

Looking around, he spied a small, sharp stone on the floor near where he sat. Leaning over, he picked it up, running his thumb pad down its edge. It would have to do. Grimly, he set to work, pressing it into his flesh just above the four dark letters, pressing harder as he scraped it slowly downward. His lips were in a tight, compressed line as he worked. The tattoo had been so a part of him that it would not come off easily, would not be removed without taking parts of him with it.

Then the Nubian came, watching, asking softly if it were a sign of his gods. His lips curved into something resembling a smile as he found the thought of that almost...almost... amusing. The Nubian was right. It HAD been the sign of what served him as the chief god of his life, the god of his career in the military, the god of who and what he had become as a man. Jerking his head in a slight affirmation, he continued his work.

The Nubian was not done.

"Will that not anger them?" he asked, puzzled by the removal of the mark.

Again Maximus looked up, again the grim smile at the thought that, yes, perhaps they would be angered. It was only the merest fraction of a second and then the pain took him again, not the pain of the scraping of his flesh, but the more intense, deadly pain of the scraping of his heart.

The four retrievers walked through the crowded market, seeking out supplies they would need for however long they would find themselves in Zucchabar. Terry was very aware of Diedre's keen interest in all that lay about them. "Stay close," he admonished more than once. "This is no place for you to be off by yourself."

As they moved past the pens where the Christians huddled in small family groups, Cort was transfixed. He had, of course, read about such things as part of his studies, but the printed words had not carried in their ink the growls of the lions in nearby pens, nor the dust motes floating in the hot air, nor the whimpers of the five year old boy clinging to his father's leg.

He couldn't...breathe. Unblinking, he stared until Rachel tugged hard on his arm. Then his breath rushed in until his lungs could hold no more and he let it out again in little, jerky bursts, accompanied by soft, "Oh, God...Oh, God," murmurings over and over and over. He wanted to be someone like Samson. He wanted to go over and pull down the posts and set them all free. He wanted to be Moses and lead them to a place of safety. He wanted.... But he was being pulled along now, moving away, looking back over his shoulder, hating that he was neither, hating that he was leaving them. He stumbled, not watching where he was walking, and would have fallen but for Rachel's hand on his arm, gripping tight.

Terry had stopped by a market stall and was haggling with a man over provisions. Cort remained slightly to one side, Rachel close. "He couldn't have been more than five," he said, his voice cracking just a bit.

"I saw," she replied, unconsciously rubbing his arm. "It hurts, doesn’t it? I wish there were something we could do, but we can’t…."

"Not more than...five," he repeated, and she saw he was blinking back tears as his eyes looked back the way they had come. He was remembering the children at his mission, the sound of their laughter as they played games in the early evening. "Pablo was five," he said, his voice nearly inaudible, "the morning Foy shot him." Every muscle in his face seemed to quiver slightly before Rachel's startled eyes.

"Foy shot a five year old boy?"

"He was Mexican," Cort added through his teeth. "He didn't... count." He sucked his breath in with almost a hiss. "I didn't save him...either." He looked down the street again.

Rachel licked her lips, realizing that Cort had endured even more than she had thought before that moment when he was tossed into the bar in Redemption. "Oh, Cort...," she started to say, but was interrupted by Terry's sudden, sharp call.

"DIEDRE!" he shouted, then turned and looked at Cort and Rachel. "Did you see where Diedre went?" he asked, his voice edged with concern.

"She was just here," Rachel replied. "She can't have gotten far." She looked hurriedly around. "Can she?"

"DIEDRE!" Terry hollered, stretching up on his toes, peering over the turbaned heads that surrounded them. He ran his fingers through his hair, puffing out his cheeks a bit. "Oh, God!" he said hoarsely. "I was afraid of this."

Quickly he sized up their surroundings. Slinging a large bag of supplies over his shoulder, he motioned toward a narrow alleyway. "I'm going down there," he said, "you two take the main section that way. Meet back here as soon as you can." Without another word, he strode quickly toward the alley, his jaw tight with worry.