LOST IN THE EMPIRE

PART 13

He lay there, his eyes closed, his tongue venturing forth to lick his dry lips. What had happened? The side of his head throbbed with a thick, heavy pain that bounced off his skull. For a moment he was back in the old barn, having just fallen out of the hayloft, and his Grandmother was bending over him, her hands gently probing for broken bones. "Unh!" he cried as something sharp jabbed him just below his ribs. His eyes flew open. "Gra...," he started to say, then blinked in surprise at the face looming above him. "Prox...Proximo?" he gasped.

Proximo stood there in the flickering light of a single candle, his facial muscles working as he tried to piece this strange puzzle together. He'd been staring at the quiet form of the man on the floor for some time, noting the differences between him and the deserter he'd recently purchased. But...there were too many similarities to be overlooked. Impatient, he'd finally jabbed the man in the belly with his walking stick. "You!" he growled, his upper lip curling. "Who are...you"

Cort lifted his head a bit, then gasped as prickles of bright light starred his vision. Gently he lay it back on the floor, trying to focus on Proximo's face. How in blue blazes had he gotten HERE? Then he remembered the carpet shop and the men. Rachel! Where was Rachel? "Rachel?" he croaked. "You have the woman?"

"Bah!" Proximo snarled. "YOU! Who are YOU?"

My God, what could he say? "We...west," he stammered. "I...I'm...from the West."

"West? West of what?"

Further west than you can imagine, Cort thought. Much further. Then he closed his eyes again as the hammering in his head was so overwhelmingly insistent he thought he might throw up.

Proximo narrowed his dark eyes. The man spoke with an accent he'd never heard before. So, then. He probably was not the Spaniard's brother after all. He squatted, roughly pulling Cort's robe off his left shoulder. No mark of the Legion, either.

Cort moaned as the motion jerked his body, but he kept his eyes closed, trying to lie as still as possible. All he could think about was what had happened to Rachel. Was she all right? Was she here?

It was then Proximo noticed a bit of smooth leather that a falling fold of the man's robe now revealed. He reached for it, pulling it free as he stood. A whip? But not a whip like any he'd ever seen before. The leather was black, highly polished, and woven in a way that made his eyes widen with interest. He let it slide through the palm of his hand, admiring the craftsmanship of it. Hmmmmm? A whip? His lips curved into a thoughtful smile. Now that could be something... interesting...for the arena. Something...different. He looked back at the man with new regard. Perhaps he was some sort of a fighter, after all? Well, he'd get his chance tomorrow afternoon. He thought briefly of pairing him with the deserter, but he'd already matched the Spaniard with the Nubian in his mind. One yellow, the Spaniard, intended to die, one red, the Nubian, intended to survive. He looked back at the man. "Red or yellow?" he mused, then turned on his heel, calling for two servants to dump the man in with the other slaves cum gladiators.

"I'm going out for a look around," Terry announced, staring at the two women, huddled miserably on their separate mats. "You two stay HERE!" He looked at Diedre pointedly. "You got it? You stay here until I come back." He leaned down, putting his hand on Rachel's shoulder. "I'll try my best to find out where they took him, Rache." Then he was through the curtain and gone.

Sid, standing in the late evening shadows down the street, watched Terry come out the entrance of the inn, look both ways, and start off in the direction of Proximo's. He smiled. The little priest was proving to be a bit of a distraction for the K&R agent. Such was life. Or death. One never knew. Pulling his hood further forward, he followed after Terry at some distance. His main concern was that with Cort in the same place as Maximus, things could get...untidy. He would not put up with that.

Cort was aware that he was being dragged through several rooms then across some sort of large courtyard. He was also aware that he could very well end up in the same room with Maximus. That would be...bad. But lightning bolts were shooting back and forth behind his eyes and he couldn't...think He knew he should do...something. But when he heard a key being rasped in some rusty lock and found himself flung like a sack of grain into a darkened room, he sprawled face first in the dirt and drifted away into blackness.

"Oh, God!" Terry breathed, watching through the bars of the huge gateway. They did have Cort. And now he was more likely than not in the same room with Maximus. He sucked in a long breath, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do right now. Sighing heavily, he turned his steps back toward the inn.

Maximus had been aware that the door had opened and someone had been flung into the slave quarters. He didn't even lift his head off his cradling arm. Just another piece of shit to feed to the sword tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be going home. "Wait," he whispered into the night. "I'll be coming. Don't go far." Then he slept.

The insistent sun of North Africa forced its way through the small window near where he lay, draping itself mercilessly over his closed lids, announcing its presence in a way that could not be ignored. Maximus opened his eyes, realized again where he was, and the now-familiar dull ache of the nothingness that filled him settled into place. A movement to his right attracted his attention and he turned his head slightly. The Nubian was doing something, carrying somebody in his arms.

Juba knelt next to where Maximus lay, depositing his burden beside him. "Spaniard," the Nubian said, "look at this man."

Propping himself up on his left elbow, Maximus sighed and turned to see why the Nubian would ask such a thing. All he wanted was to be left alone. Completely alone. His brow knit in irritation, but he said nothing. Words had lost their meaning.

Juba pushed back the man's hood and the thick hair that had fallen across his face. “See?" he asked, looking curiously from the man to the Spaniard. A muscle under Maximus' eye twitched suddenly, sharply. What? By the gods, was this some sort of...joke? He rolled up onto his hip, sitting, leaning over the man who was beginning to stir. Reaching his fingers out slowly, he touched the man's cheek...his cheek. At least so like his cheek that it brought a quick tightness to the General's chest.

The sun had risen higher and now shone onto the man's face, revealing it completely. Maximus studied him, his cheeks puffed a bit with the breath he was holding. Amazing. His very features...only younger. The hair was different, not only longer, but much lighter than his own deep black. He was obviously not Spanish from the look of him. But how? Who? He looked up at Juba, his eyes full of questions, but the Nubian merely shook his head. This was who had been tossed inside early last night then. Where had he come from? Why was he here? Maximus touched the side of the man's head where a large lump had risen. He had been clubbed. He studied him some more. It was the only interest he'd shown in anything since that day in Spain.

Then Cort moaned and his lids fluttered open. Matching eyes looked at one another. Cort gasped. "Oh, no!" he murmured, squeezing his lids shut again. He was there...right there...right next to him and he had seen his face. Terry would kill him. He had ruined everything. Then the thought came to him that possibly this was a nightmare, so he opened his eyes again slowly, hoping against hope to see Rachel. But Maximus was still there, a deep puzzlement in his eyes. Cort licked his lips. Now what? Maybe he could just close his eyes and pretend to be unconscious? Maybe then he wouldn't have to say anything? But the look in the General's eyes told him that this was not going to go away. He licked his lips again. His mouth and throat were very dry. He wasn't even sure he COULD talk. Juba...good Lord, it WAS Juba...seemed aware of that and got up, returning with a small, stone cup of water. Sliding his hand behind Cort's head, he lifted it slightly as he touched the cup to Cort's lips. Cort drank greedily, gratefully, his mind racing wildly with thoughts that he was glad he had no need of maggots and how in the world could he explain who he was to Maximus.

"Thank you, Ju...," he caught himself just in time. "Thank you," he said as Juba set the cup to one side.

Maximus cocked his head at the sound of the man's voice. It was very like his own, only with a different accent. Hooding his eyes, he stared at Cort. "Do I know you?" he asked.

There. There it was. No getting out of it now. "No," he whispered. "No, you don't." It was all he could think to say.

Maximus had not been a leader of men for so many years without knowing what was going on in a man by the look in his eyes. He saw clearly in this man's eyes that he had been recognized and it disturbed him greatly. He leaned back, thinking. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"I...I...was in the marketplace...in a carpet shop...," Cort replied, not knowing where to go but with as much of the truth as he could. "And some men brought me here."

Maximus kept staring at him. There had to be more to the man's story. Had Commodus managed to track him down? "Your name?" he demanded suddenly.

Cort was so startled that he blurted out, "Cort, Cortland Wells," completely unable to come up with any Latinized version. Then he realized what he'd done and bit his lip. But it was too late.

"What sort of name is that?" the General pursued.

Oh, God! Cort sighed inwardly. He just kept digging this pit deeper and deeper. What to say? What to say? He went for a version of the truth again. His mind still aching a bit too much for clever thinking. "Arizonian," he replied, gulping.

"Arizonian?" Maximus repeated. "Where is Arizonia? I've never heard of the place."

"It...it's...far away. In the West," Cort answered lamely, pressing his palm to his forehead. Juba helped him to a sitting position and the room spun just a bit, then settled itself.

"You are injured," Juba said softly in that quiet way of speaking he had.

Cort moved his hand to his temple, feeling the lump. "Yes," he replied, "but not badly."

"Why would they club you?" Maximus asked.

"They wanted to bring me here," Cort replied, trying to avoid the General's eyes, not able to say that they obviously had thought he was, well, him. What in heaven's name would Maximus ask him next?

The key rasped in the lock and after a bowl of some sort of slop Cort barely managed to choke down, all of them were ushered out into the bright sunlight of the practice yard. Proximo sat to one side in the shade of a canopy, sizing them up as they entered. Ah, there was the new man, strangely brought to him by those thinking he was the Spaniard escaped. Remarkable how alike they looked. The new man was much less muscular, but still well-formed. He'd decided to keep him. Two for the price of one, eh? Now would be the time to see if he would wear the red mark or the yellow. Would he be like the Spaniard and refuse to fight? He eyed the Spaniard again, frowning as he watched him take a seat against the wall. What a waste! The man was obviously capable of putting up a battle if he wanted. He could tell that from the build of his body. No matter. If he wouldn't fight, he'd be dead meat by this afternoon.

He turned his gaze back to Cort, making a motion to one of his guards, who tossed the whip in Cort's general direction. Hagen stepped forward, grinning widely at Cort. Good God, Cort thought, stooping to pick up his weapon, did Ralf Moeller never stop with the grin? But this, to all intents and purposes, was not Ralf. This was Hagen. He looked absolutely huge to the slender Cort. Cort turned, looking for Maximus, spotting him sitting cross-legged again by the wall.

Maximus was watching him intently. Before he turned his head completely back, Hagen charged toward him, swinging his wooden sword, the blade coming within a hair's breadth of Cort's cheek before he managed a quick duck to the side. Maximus was forgotten. Proximo was forgotten. Hagen had obviously been instructed to attack full-out.

Dimetri, disguised as a guard, winced as the blade nearly impacted Cort's cheek. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the two men circling each other in the dust of the practice yard. His hand rested on something in his pocket. He would kill Hagen if necessary. Again Hagen charged. Again Cort ducked, side-stepping the blow, backing across the yard. He crouched slightly as he moved, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of the whip, watching, waiting, judging. He'd never faced a man with a sword before. Hagen walked a bit to his left, paused, looked at Proximo, who moved one finger slightly. In one smooth motion, then, Hagen raised his sword, beginning a wide curve intended to disable Cort's right arm. The corners of Cort's mouth twitched. Rattlers moved much faster. He almost grinned himself as black leather blurred through the air, wrapped around the blade and sent it flying in a lazy, slow arc that saw it clatter down almost at Maximus' feet.

Hagen was shocked. He stopped in his tracks and looked at Cort with a puzzled expression that slowly turned to admiration. "Red," Proximo announced and with a big smile, Hagen splopped a large blob of red paint on the front of the rough tunic Cort now wore.

Dimetri sighed, taking his hand out of his pocket. So far so good. This afternoon would be another matter, though. A far more serious matter.

As he moved toward the wall himself, Cort's eyes sought Maximus' again. There was a brief glimmer of approval in them, then it was as though some protective shield dropped, hiding all his life force behind it, and he had disappeared within himself again. Cort, seeing that, understood. He knew, though, that come Proximo's "That we may be remembered as men" speech, that the General would be back. Well, at least back enough so that he would choose to live through the day.

^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^

There was silence in the tiny room, a heavy air that fell with the folds of the door-cover as Terry slipped away. Rachel found herself staring at the frayed edges of the cloth, not wanting to stay still to wait for whatever Terry would discover, not wanting to get up for the weight of anxiety and frustration in her muscles. When her eyes got tired of being fixed on the dirty cover, they chose to survey the huddled form of Diedre in the far corner, a form now covered entirely in the random robes she had obtained, face hidden. Long moments passed before Rachel began to wonder if there was a living being under all that material, evidenced finally by a sharp shudder of breath and a slight heave of muscle as Diedre tried to cry without making a sound.

The searing anger she had felt when her red-headed friend appeared suddenly blew away and Rachel leaned back against the wall, deflated and despondent. She couldn’t stay angry at Dee for the chaos of the marketplace, for wandering off and becoming the center of disruption, not when images of her time in Redemption flooded her memory, the willfulness with which she strayed from directions. Rachel remembered all too well the seduction of illusion that had been that upstairs room. She had wanted to stay in that room, where she and Cort had first connected, the encasement of illusion ever so suggestive of stability, of preservation. There, she didn’t have to risk rejection, knowing exactly how he’d respond…and there she was with several retrievals experience under her belt. How could she stay angry with someone who had been so quickly thrust into this ordeal, with no experience whatsoever, whose thirsty mind was constantly running ahead of hers and Terry’s? A marketplace with unexplored corners seemed like harmless outlets to someone who didn’t know better.

Tears clouding her vision afresh, Rachel crawled over to Deidre, tried to pull off the top layer. Diedre clung to it at first, not willing to lay aside the last means of protection from a deserved scalding. “Dee, I’m not angry with you, not any more. Dee…” Rachel coaxed. She felt her friend freeze under her hands, hiccough in an attempt to suppress her sobs, and saw the head move up.

“I don’t blame you for wanting to kill me. I want to kill me,” Deidre snuffled in wretchedness.

“I don’t want to kill you. I want to kill the bastards who took Cort. Why they would think he was Maximus, I’ll never figure out. By all means, Terry looks closer to Maximus than Cort does…but…”

“But they took him as slave and now he’s going down into the pit tomorrow. I’ll do anything I can,” Diedre seethed, suddenly pushing away the cloth from her face. She and Rachel stared at each other, grim determination turning their features into mirror images. “If it tears this film apart, I’ll do what I can,” Diedre announced.

“So will I,” Rachel agreed. “Now that I think about it, I don’t think I have a right to blame you. Cort didn’t exactly hide his face well. For all I know, they could have spotted him when we were watching the Christians…” her voice died off, mulling over the scene once more. He had been so intent on the little boy, his hood falling back; she had been too intent on watching sorrow play across his features, wanting to comfort him, to remind him to keep hidden.

“They could have been working their way to get him before you ever thought to wander off.” Diedre sneered. “Trust me to provide the perfect window of opportunity, right?”

“Yeah, well….why the hell spend time on blame? We need you to help.” She and Diedre hugged each other, friendship healed.

“Wish I had a gun,” Diedre added, several seconds later.

An image of the two of them storming the arena with guns blazing and Cort standing in the middle with a scandalized look on his face flashed before Rachel’s eyes, and before she could verbalize this, began giggling. The same scandalized look appeared on Diedre’s face, which made Rachel laugh harder and it was a few minutes before she was able to gain control of her breath to explain. “He’ll think we’re insane,” Rachel said.

Diedre gave an unladylike snort. “I’ve seen him watch us when we talk, Rache. He already thinks that,” Diedre informed her. “Tooooo laaate.”

“Yeah, well, I think we should blame Terry then, since he’s not here to defend himself…ooops!” Rachel gasped in mock dismay as the blanket over their door was pulled open and Terry re-emerged, chin tilted in a quizzical expression. She felt Diedre’s hand tighten in hers and Rachel got a flash of what Diedre was really frightened of: the loss of Terry’s regard.

“Well, mates,” he said, posturing in such a way as to confirm what they already knew. “We’re well and truly fucked. They have Cort. Cort is in the same holding area as Maximus. If he isn’t, I’ll be very surprised. All I can figure now is…wait until morning.” His eyes met Rachel’s. He took a deep breath. “Maybe we can find a way before…before the arena.”

^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^

During the endless night as the three of them waited in the dark inn room, not knowing what had befallen Cort, what would happen to him tomorrow, Terry settled himself near Diedre. He had already spent enough time with her to know how she would be feeling, and that knowledge was only confirmed by the stricken expression on her face when he'd come back from Proximo's. In her eyes he had seen sorrow, embarrassment, fear...all mingled. He knew he need add nothing else to increase those. In all that had happened since she had wandered off alone, his ire and his worry had settled into perspective. Cort was in deep trouble and, come morning, he would have to have some plan in mind as to what to do about it. But now... right now...he could feel the tremble of Diedre's arm next to his.

He slid his own arm around her back, pulling her toward him, both wanting her close and not wishing to speak loudly enough to disturb Rachel's thoughts. "'Nolia," he said, his lips brushing the hair near her ear, "I'm glad you're all right."

"You...you're not...angry?"

He smiled wryly, a flash of white teeth showing in the dim light. "No, not now." He kissed her temple. "But you had me scared shi..., really scared, when I couldn't find you there for a while."

He paused, remembering that sharp catch in his heart when he knew she was gone, and his arm pulled her still more closely to his side. He looked at Rachel's shape in the darkness, knowing how frightened she was for Cort's safety. No, no wasting of time reprimanding the woman in his own arms. "Do you have any idea how important you've become to me?" he asked, resting his chin atop her head.

She gulped, her facial muscles working, and after a long pause, replied so softly he almost didn't hear her. "Do...you?"

He jerked back a bit, startled, looking at her. All he could really make out were the whites of her eyes and a slight welling of tears in the lower lids. His lips parted to speak, but no words came, so he closed them, just looking at those eyes, his tongue running across his teeth. My God, he thought, mind racing, she's right. Do I know? He sucked his upper lip in now, biting it between his teeth.

She was waiting quietly in the darkness, her eyes locked on his. The tears in them pierced him, thudding against his chest like blows against a bullet-proof vest. Like blows against...armor. He bit harder, a faint tang of blood on his tongue. He suddenly wanted to close his eyes, close the visor on his armor, to shut out those eyes that forced their way deep into his vitals. But he couldn't. So he took her right hand in both of hers and pressed it flat to his chest, keeping it covered there with his own.

"Here," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You have made entrance into me here, 'Nolia, and I think I shall never recover." The corners of his mouth curved upwards a tiny bit. "I think I shall never...want...to. You...you... aw, damn it, 'Nolia, blast the words!" And he leaned forward, his lips finding hers, taking her mouth then in a firmness of possession. He took his time, deliberate and slow with his tongue, pressing hers, engaging it. Then he pulled back, gasping, finally closing his eyes, aware that Rachel was intently engaged in staring at the moon through the tiny window.

Cort sat there on the long bench, crowded elbow to elbow with other men, looking down at the red splotch in the center of his chest. He shook his head slightly. It looked like a wound. Proximo was talking, giving his pre-fight speech. His eyes sought Maximus across the narrow room. He knew the General was listening to Proximo's words, could see the deep, inner concentration of the man as he struggled to change the decision he'd made by the graves in Spain. Cort knew the outcome, but still, watching it play across Maximus' features in reality was different Sand and dust sifted down on them through the plank ceiling, filling the air, giving it an almost otherworldly appearance somehow. Maximus tipped his head up, looking at the boards, obviously thinking of what awaited him there.

When he finally leaned down, scooping a handful of the powdery sand, Cort bit his lip, moved by the sight. There were several hinge points in Gladiator, this not among the least of them. He had decided not to just let himself be killed.

Then they were ordered to line up, to be chained together in twos, one yellow, one red. He saw the look Maximus and Juba exchanged as the hammer smashed the bolts that connected them. Then it was his turn. He looked at the man who was being chained to him, not recognizing him from the practice yard Something about the eyes seemed vaguely familiar, but the man seemed intent on avoiding looking at him directly. Briefly, he felt Maximus' eyes on him, sizing him up, still trying to figure him out. But other matters were more pressing at the moment.

Herded like cattle to the large doorway of the arena, they stood there in the dim light a long moment, each gathering himself in his own way. He saw Maximus take a step back from the little scribe, who, overcome with fear had wet himself. He saw huge Hagen close his eyes briefly. He closed his own.

His lips moved silently. "Father, into Your hands I commend my spirit. Be Thou with me now and in the hour of my death." His palm, despite the dry heat, sweated as he clutched the handle of his whip. He'd seen the swords, the pikes, the tridents, the axes the gladiators awaiting them in the arena would have. Maximus had no weapon, only a shield, but Cort knew he would soon manage to acquire a sword in the arena. Maximus would survive the afternoon. Would he?

Terry leaned forward in the stands, Rachel on his left, Diedre on his right, his eyes fastened on the doorway through which Proximo's "gladiators" would enter. He knew the first man out would have his head smashed. He knew Cort knew that, too, and hoped he remembered not to be in front. The muscle under his left eye twitched with tension. His fingers curled over the small device he'd palmed and had resting on his right thigh. If he had to use it...if it came to that...if he were forced...the integrity of the movie would be shattered. What would happen then, he had no idea.

Sid stood, as usual, in the shadows of a canopy, scanning the crowd. Terry and his female followers were easy to spot. His lip curled. Did they not CARE, the fools, that Dimetri and Brianna would find it just as easy to locate them? Ah, well, they didn't know yet, now did they, that they were not alone in the Empire. Tsk tsk tsk. He, too, turned his gaze on the large wooden doorway. So, the little priestlet was going to have to fight for his life, eh? Shooting a quick glance at Rachel, he could see the expression of horror and pain on her lovely face. What DID the woman see in the preacher? Too bad he couldn't just let the cowpoke get skewered on a pike. Priest-ka-bob! What a neat concept! But, no, as annoying as he was, Sid had plans that called for Cort's presence. Preferably his living presence. Well, maybe not...preferably.

The door opened, Proximo's men pouring out, blinded by the sunlight. Juba and Maximus headed across the arena, taking up a defensive position in a clearer area. Cort stepped out, blinking in the light, trying to get his bearings. There was no time to look, to see if his friends might be in the stands, if Rachel...were there. He took a deep breath, like a man about to be submerged for a long time, dodged a downward-swinging battleaxe, and felt himself almost jerked off his feet by the man to whom he was chained. He did, in fact, go down on one knee. A gladiator with huge metal horns on his helmet ran toward him, his sword raised. Cort's partner stepped between them, deflecting the blow with his own sword.

Without turning his head, the man shouted, "Your feet! Get to your feet now!"

Cort scrambled up just as another gladiator came up behind him with a trident. He whirled, his whip snapping, wrapping several times along the length of the weapon before he pulled with all his might, jerking it out of the gladiator's grasp. His partner, wasting no time, ran the gladiator through with his sword.

Sid narrowed his eyes, watching. So! Getting his hands dirty, was he? Well, no matter, he would let Dimetri do most of his work for him. He examined his fingernails. Hand to hand combat with Barbarian louts was not on his agenda anyway.

Rachel had gripped Terry's left forearm, her fingernails dangerously close to sinking into his flesh even through his robe. "Oh no…NO! Terry, it’s him!" she burst out, her eyes locked onto the face of the man chained to Cort.

^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^

Brianna Lachliel hated fighting; at least, the kind meant for the atavistic tendencies of a mob of people eager for the violent crunch of bones against metal, or a final decimation of spirit as fist met face. What measure of strength could abide the kind of violence that had no purpose other than to prove one’s ability to smash another? Blood sport made her skin crawl and she had not been happy to be assigned the retrieval from Gladiator at all. The awesome power of Roman battles were one thing; seeking the raw pleasure of watching people die for no good cause was a part of the past – hers as well as ancient Rome’s- she did not care to relive, by any measure or means.

She hated even more that Dimetri had chosen this particular time to insert himself into the fray that was about to become the Zucchabar arena. When she had first met Dimetri, one or two alarms had gone off that he was not a retriever to be completely trusted, although he had yet to give her a reason why. And despite her objections, Mikol had made it clear that tagging her with Dimetri on this mission was more as a punishment for some unspoken failure on Dimetri’s part than it was to rub her nose in whatever power play those two were having. It had become patently obvious in the days since they entered the movie that Dimetri was taking out his power-play frustrations on her and the whole mission was beginning to feel harder than it should be.

This frustration culminated the night before, with Dimetri acting as though he had already consulted and decided what was to happen next. When it became apparent that Terry and his gaggle had found respite in Zucchabar, that Cort had been captured as an escapee of Proximo’s gladiatorial bevy, Brianna got the sense that Dimetri suddenly looked upon her as an obstacle, at least as far as it came to her admonitions to wait until the morning. His dismissal held a nasty tone to it, and he handed her the warp mechanism, barked a brief set of orders, and then disappeared into the night.

And what he had decided to do was quite obvious to her now as she sat in the front row of the shoddy little theatre with its badly formed stucco walls, gruesome spectators, and ramshackle pavilions at the uppermost levels. She’d had a hunch Dimetri would try to get into the gladiator quarters, so the orders gave her no reason to ignore them; and now she saw Dimetri chained to…Cort? Damn! Willful beast. Mikol specifically said to avoid entanglement with any of Terry’s group should they arrive… Brianna’s sight quickly sought the faces she knew sitting across the way from her, found herself brought short by the intense stare of one of them. Terry had caught sight of her face and was marking it; she could feel it.

She casually bent down to check the satchel and crossbow at her feet. She might have to leave the cross bow here, she thought, trying to return her gaze to the fight below. Recognition was the least of her problems. She might even have to leave the satchel, as it would ruin things considerably if it caught on one of the spikes lining the ring as she jumped down. She had forgotten about those spikes – apparently Dimetri had as well - but there was no helping it. All she had to do was make one mighty leap and land where proximity to Dimetri could gain the clearest advantage. But she would have to do it swiftly... and unencumbered.

The Minotaur roared and swung out. Blood sprayed. The people stood and screamed. For every weakling brought low in the first fly of weapons, the duration of the battle would be shortened. Veterans were revealed; amateurs and quelling innocents were soon lining the rim of the circle. Maximus blazed through with Juba at his side, nearly impaled by the spikes of one weapon as he caught sight of Cort.

Dimetri was practically dragging the priest across the yard, angling to get close to Maximus. Watch for the signal, Dimetri had told her before giving her one last sneer. Be very attentive to the signal. Then, you act. Her eyes wandered back to Terry. One of the girls, the dark-haired one who had been intimately wrapped in Cort’s embrace, was clutching at Terry, pointing down at Dimetri, frantic, infuriated; almost launching into the arena herself. Odd. How would she know who he is?

Almost as if Terry had heard her from across the scene of entertainment, his eyes snapped to Brianna, his expression darkening. He half rose, his hand going to a hidden pouch. Brianna heard Dimetri call out something unintelligible, but his meaning was unmistakable. He was near Maximus now, alongside Cort, who was flinging out a whip with an alacrity that was as deadly  as the tridents and pikes, disabling others for Dimetri to dispatch. Maximus had unwittingly moved in their direction, his and Juba’s backs to Dimetri to cover unprotected flanks.

To the victor goes the spoils, Brianna thought as she pulled out the warp-shell and bent over the railing, ogling for a patch of ground to land, for some way to leap without getting caught on the wooden spikes lining the arena. She saw a guard angle a bow, position himself to point it at her. No time, no time to think. She had to be faster than all of them. She took a deep breath and slid over the rail, springing forward to pass the spikes, an arrow whizzing centimeters by…

Rachel knew her voice was getting lost in the cacophony of voices around her, a wonder in itself considering the size of the audience was not even a tenth of what the Colosseum in Rome would hold. When she wasn’t screaming at Terry to do something, she was straining with every note she had left in her throat to catch Cort’s attention…did he not recognize the man who tried to skewer her? Did he not know how close he was to being separated from her forever?

But Dimetri had figured well – he kept Cort on the other side of the arena, letting him snap down opponents with the whip, to be dispatched with ruthless thrusts of a sword. Deidre was shouting as well, but the crowd around them took their calls as encouragement to scream even louder, to cheer them on even further.

*Cort! Look at him! Don't let him....* Terry’s grasp on her arm was cruelly hard, but brief, as he pushed her aside and stepped as far forward as the ecstatic crowd at the rails would allow, wild as they were at the prospect of a newcomer to the entertainment, as they all watched a woman slide over the rail and leap forward as though she were taking a swan dive into a lake.

The great swell of cheers fell to a split-second lull, and Rachel gathered her last shred of sound to call out once more: “CORT – IT'S DIMETRI!”

^ & ^ & ^ & ^& ^& ^

Maximus had decided to fight. They'd given him no weapon, so certain were they that his yellow splotch meant he would be hauled from the arena feet first. The yellow had nothing to do with why he'd decided not to stand there and die. He cared nothing for the labels of men. The only man whose opinion mattered to him was now dead, murdered by a faithless son. In his ears still rang those words, "Come, lament with me...brother...." It was in that single, sharp breath that the world had changed forever. Now here he was, making his way across some baking arena, chained to the Nubian, using the small, round shield both for protection and for offense. Within moments, he had a sword clenched in his hand.

He smiled grimly to himself. Juba fought surprisingly well for a man unused to hand-to-hand combat. Maximus had never been chained to anyone during battle. It was an impediment not to his liking, but the Nubian and he meshed well and some unspoken connection between them made them almost instantly a team. The last he had fought like this, surrounded on all sides by combatants, had been in the dark, cold muds of Germania, snow sifting down through the slender pines. The difference was stark. Sweat ran between his shoulder blades as he squinted in the heat of the sandy arena.

Despite the constant need to focus on the attacks of the men who sought them out, Maximus found himself keeping an eye peeled in the direction of the young stranger who resembled him so strongly. Once he paused, struck by the man's use of his black whip, only brought back to himself by the graze of a heavy battleaxe down his left cheek. Instantly, sweat stung the fresh abrasion. He blinked, turned, and dispatched the man with a thrust to his abdomen. For a moment he lost sight of his look-alike, then he saw that the man to whom the other was chained seemed to be almost dragging him across the arena, a steady movement in his own direction. He found himself thinking that he did not wish the stranger to die today, that he wanted to know more about him, where he had come from, why he had come. So, he, too, moved, narrowing the space that still lay between them.

Despite her garb, she stood out in the crowd. Terry narrowed his eyes, studying her intently, catching sight of a loose lock of pale blonde hair blowing across her brow. Blonde? In Zucchabar? His hand tightened on his small weapon, one word and one word only filling his brain. Mikol.

Then Rachel was sinking her nails into his arm, pointing, desperate, yelling something. He looked at Cort, at the man chained to him, and finally Rachel's words penetrated. Dimetri! Cort was chained to Dimetri and seemed entirely unaware of it. Terry's every muscle tensed and he leaned forward, his eyes darting back and forth from Dimetri to the blonde woman. She, too, was leaning forward, watching Dimetri carefully as though waiting for...something. Maximus was backing across the arena, getting closer and closer to Cort. Dimetri was also arranging to move Cort toward the General. Suddenly Terry knew! Dimetri was trying to take them...take them both!

His eyes flashed to the woman, rising now to her feet, moving toward the edge of the arena's seats. She must have a warp device. Good Lord! They intended to take them both and take them...now. He rose quickly, pressing his way toward the front of the crowd, his palm sweating around the small device he clutched tightly.

Dimetri was actually enjoying himself. Everything was going perfectly and he was getting to use his sword in a way he'd only ever dreamed of doing. Fencing was one thing....elegant, controlled. This was quite another and a certain battle lust had taken hold as his sword grew ever more blooded. He saw from the corner of his eye that the General was working his way in their direction. Good. Save him a bit of his own maneuvering. He could tell Cort as yet had no idea who he was. Also good. Soon he would have his two marks together and it would be...time. He glanced up at the stands, noting Brianna's careful watching of his every movement.

Cort fell hard on one knee again, turning his gaze toward the man at the other end of the chain. Why did he have this sense he was being...guided...somewhere? It didn't make sense. Yet the man had been constantly pulling him in a certain direction. He felt the familiar, raw burn of the manacle on the flesh of his wrist. He'd not thought ever to experience that feeling again. At the same time as that sense of being guided, Cort had another, even more puzzling awareness. The man was protecting him. It was patently obvious. He risked himself over and over, putting himself between Cort and the onrush of some attacker. Why?

Then everything happened at once, as though a dozen different moments in time had been accidentally spilled, jumbling together, mixing, overlapping one another in a furious blur of motion. Maximus was there, only a yard away from Cort, his back turned as he blocked the blow of another axe. Dimetri stopped fighting, lifting his hand in a slight signal, then with a swift, downward blow from his sword, struck apart the chain connecting the General to Juba, giving the Nubian a great push with his boot that sent the man sprawling some distance away. Brianna began her leap over the wall, pushing out to avoid the wooden spikes. Terry, on the far side of the arena, leaned forward, aiming. Rachel and Diedre were screaming. Sid cocked his head, his own hand reaching for an inner pocket.

It was then that Cort heard her, heard Rachel's voice cutting through the roar of sound around him. "CORT----IT'S DIMETRI!"

Two emotions rose in him at the same time, colliding like the engines of great trains on the same track. Rachel was alive! She was here! His head jerked for a moment in the direction he thought her shout had come from, but a slight yank on his chain sent his neck swiveling back to his fighting partner. Dimetri? A sharp burst of air escaped his lungs as he made the transition of thought. Everything around him slowed, almost paused, as his eyes met those of the man to whom he'd been chained all during the battle. The eyes looked back at him, glittering with triumph. The last he'd seen those eyes was in the saloon in Redemption as they disappeared into the vortex of a warp. The sounds around him disappeared and all he heard was the loud thumping of his own heart in his chest.

Then the moment shattered about him, leaving the scattered shards of itself heaped about his feet as motion reasserted itself. Maximus, suddenly released from his bond to Juba, staggered backwards, crashing into Cort, and the two men fell in a tangled heap on the sand, pulling Dimetri to his knees as they went. Brianna was in mid-air when a tiny point of white light streaked out from Terry's hand. She went limp, falling heavily onto her back, a small object flying out of her hand, skittering across the arena. One of Proximo's surviving gladiators picked it up, turning it over and over in his large, dirty hands, accidentally pressing something as he did. He disappeared instantly, completely. Terry, watching, smiled. Mikol would be greeting an unexpected visitor right about now.

The crowd was wild, screaming, shouting, pointing at where the gladiator had stood. Sid withdrew his hand from his pocket, melting away into the shadows, heading in the direction of the guard house where he knew Brianna would be taken, if she lived, that is. Turning once, he surveyed the scene in the arena. Guards were rushing in through the gates, herding the combatants back to their quarters. Brianna's limp form was picked up unceremoniously between two guards and hauled through a small doorway. Dimetri looked stunned. Sid enjoyed watching his expression. Then he continued moving away from the crowd, down a back section of steps to the outside of the arena.

^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^

Bugger all! Terry felt the smile on his face melt away as he began to realize the people around them were beginning to turn from the spectacle of confused and angry gladiators toward the three of them. Rachel had shoved her way to the edge of the arena to continue her calls to Cort, but the preacher had been hustled inside without much ceremony or chance for response. The only comfort was the sight of Dimetri’s slumped shoulders and shocked look; but he too disappeared beyond the gates as well. The blonde woman, whoever she was, was hoisted and taken into a separate area. Terry winced. Things would get ugly for her once she woke up. Not good. Worse than that: Rachel was beginning to shove back at the people who seemed to think she had been the cause of the disruption. They were looking for a scapegoat and Rachel was forgetting herself. Damn damn damn! Why didn’t he just bring Bud…or Dino, for Christ’s sake? Whose idea was it to bring a lovesick girl and an inexperienced… he passed a hand over his face. Some backup was better than none, but he wouldn’t have any if he didn’t get them out of the middle of this quickly.

Terry grabbed Rachel by the arm and pulled her away, exchanging a look with Deidre, who was chewing her lower lip. He motioned for them to throw their mantles over their heads. They hastened out into the open area surrounding the arena, faces covered, trying to head into the main flow of people also leaving. If he had guessed right, though, the anger and sheer inexplicable act they had witnessed would be enough to keep them wagging and they’d be gone long before they really had a chance to sequence it all out. He hoped. Rachel was muttering half phrases, spitting words of fury and concern but he didn’t argue with her until they were back .

Terry wheeled on her. “Calm down, love,” he intoned, a menacing edge to his voice. “You keep your wits about you. Do as I tell the both of you, everything’s apples, hey?”

Rachel’s blue eyes narrowed, but she made no reply. “Would it do any good to go to the quarters…do you think…?” Deidre asked, her voice trailing off.

“Drop that idea, right now,” Terry replied, more towards Rachel than Deidre, his blue green eyes like pieces of glass. “We’re going to pack. We need to be out of here as soon as possible and in the dark. If there is any recon work, I continue to do it. Alone. Understood?”

“You’re not mad at me,” Rachel said, in challenge. “You’re angry because we didn’t prepare well enough for Dimetri. I told you, I told Sid…”

Terry took a deep breath. There was so much more to it than that, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to explain. “We know more than you think we do. It’s no shock that he’s here, but…”

“The bastard’s trying to take both of them,” Rachel interrupted. “And now he’s in there….”

“Who was the woman, Terry?” Deidre asked, breaking in. Terry was right; Rachel needed to calm down. “Did you recognize her? What’s going to happen with her?”

Terry shook his head. He was trying not to think about it. “I don’t know. Suffice it to say, she knew what she was doing, too. Obviously working in partnership with Dimetri. You saw the warp device fly out of her hand. I only hope to God they don’t have a second one stashed away somewhere.” He began picking up his things and shoving them into the makeshift satchel he had been carrying.

“We have to find out!” Rachel tried again. Terry leveled a look at her and she clamped her mouth shut.

Deidre knelt down to help Terry fold up their blankets, stuffing those items he handed to her into her own baggage. She found herself watching him in the shadows of the light of the oil lamp on the shelf above them. He caught her stare and paused, sitting back on his heels. The folly of yesterday was still twinging her heart with guilt, but Terry had been so sweet last night…she reached out for his hand and put his palm on her cheek, pressing it close with her own.

“I might go down, maybe see if I can’t pass off as a Roman officer, see if they’ll let me in after all,” he said, quietly. “I don’t mind telling you though, I am sick already of dealing with this place. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way…” He began rubbing her cheek with his thumb. She just stared back at him. “Don’t say it,” he told her. “We’re beyond that. That was yesterday.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

“What then?”

“Seems like it's better this way. I mean, we could have gone on and on, not knowing if they were here with us, and having no sign, and then there they appear, with complete advantage. Somehow, I think the fact they were forced to have to do what they did was probably the best thing to happen for us.”

Terry gave her a slight grin. “You might be right,” he said, as he returned to packing. “I hope you’re right. If nothing else, the guards there will do a better job at putting a check on them than we could.”

“Not if I had my sword with me,” Rachel interjected. It was hard to have a private conversation in such close quarters. Terry just gave her another look.

“The little device you used…that was because you were expecting something to happen, right?” Deidre asked.

“Something like that. It has other uses, but…I’m hoping I never have to demonstrate them.”

“This is all so crazy,” Deidre sighed. “I’m really beginning to hate all this. Sid has some explaining to do.”

“If we get back,” Terry posited.

“Oh, we’ll get back. Never underestimate the willpower of a Southern belle, Terry. You saw Gone With The Wind. Hellfire and damnation never stopped a one of us,” Deidre replied.

Terry gave her a full-fledged smile then, chuckling. “Somehow the idea of the two of you extracting an explanation from Sid is already cheering me up,” he said.

Glancing back at Rachel, absorbed now in packing Cort’s things, he leant over and kissed Deidre on the cheek. For a moment, Deidre thought he would attempt more than that, but Rachel turned. “I think I will try and get in as a Roman soldier,” he announced again, standing up. “At least to find out what condition Cort is in, although Dimetri did a good job at keeping him from the heavier blows. That alone should have been an obvious indication something wasn’t right.”

He didn’t have to put on too much. Checking himself, he stood at the doorway and paused. Rachel looked up at him, grateful. “I won’t be long. And don’t expect a heroic rescue, Rache. Maximus is exactly where he needs to be…it's just now…he has company. Deidre, will you come with me for a moment?”

Diedre slipped out of the door behind him and followed his long-legged pace around a corner where darkness huddled. Terry turned, she followed, and he didn’t allow her to speak, just pulled her into the darkest shadow and pressed her against the wall, kissing her hard enough to make her forget there was anything but heat. “I promise you, when we get back…” he whispered, as he let her breathe once more.

“No, no…I was just beginning to forget where we were…” she protested.

“We’re in a real race now, Nolia,” he said, and pulled her to him in an embrace. “Don’t tell Rachel, but if worse comes to worse, we might have to try to leave the movie sooner than expected. No, worse than that, we might lose the race, and then it's…well, we have to think more strategically now. It's no longer a matter of just getting through the whole thing. I mean, it’s not important if she knows or doesn’t know…but she’ll worry the idea to death and I need someone ready to go on a moment’s notice…without questions. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” she said, swallowing down a surge of fear. “Don’t be too long, and…”

“I know,” Terry said, and with a parting knee-melting kiss, marched off into the dark.

Rachel didn’t find it easy to focus on the packing, not because Terry and Diedre were stealing some private moments of their own; because she hovered between anxiety and relief. Dimetri was in reach of Cort…with God only knew what capability of stealing off with both him and Maximus…and that woman… she shuddered. She was working for Dimetri. Whatever happened meant one less to worry about. Cort was alive, and had fought well, had survived the butchery. Seeing the shackles on his wrist had revived the old rage she had felt over what he suffered under Herod.

She found herself clutching an extra piece of linen at that thought, a piece he had acquired somewhere along the way, fingering some hard objects wrapped up in it. Unraveling the folded layers, she found the small carving knife Cort had brought along and the piece of pinewood he had picked up in Germania. He had refused to let her see what he was carving, teasing her when she pouted. Now the carving lay in her hand, whittled into the shape of a cross with a detailed starburst at its section. He had been trying to incorporate star-beams into the base of the cross, a deft hand smoothing out the planes. She held the cross up to her lips, kissed it. The fragrance of the wood was still strong, filling her nostrils and the homesick feeling she had been trying to hold at bay came out as stifled sobs.

Thank goodness Terry and Diedre were out of the room. Something of his faith must have been imbued into that wood, however. A thought stole across her mind as she held the cross to her cheek. “If you truly love the stars, it’s hard to fear the night…” Follow me, It said. Don’t fear. Diedre had been right; Rachel had heard what she said about things working out better this way. If Cort had never been a part of the arena, if they had just decided to wait it out until the next move toward Rome, they would never have seen the attempt to take Maximus. Looking up through the window, she could see the skies turning bright orange and purple from the sunset, and a single point of light pricking through, and she felt strangely comforted.

Outwardly, she knew nothing, felt nothing. Rough hands dragged her into seclusion, rough voices speculated her identity, her appearance, her vulnerability. But in the blackness of her knowing, Brianna sensed a sinister presence. She floundered through it, frightened, preferring the pitch she wandered in to what awaited her when she would open her eyes once more.

^&^&^&^&^

 Sid stood there, quiet, just letting his eyes move slowly up and down the length of her body. Brianna's robe hung in soft tan drapes down the side of the low cot, puddling itself on the dirt floor. He moved closer, deliberately setting his shoe atop the material as he cocked his head slightly, studying the way her extraordinary neck curved into the line of her shoulders. His lips, not parting, began to smile. So, Terry had used the X-90, had he? Interesting. Well, it seemed everyone had their little secrets on this mission. He ran a fingertip along her clavicle. "And you, my Viking Queen, are you Mikol's secret weapon?"

The barest shudder shook her. It would have been imperceptible to anyone but him. "Ah," he said, his smile widening. "You are... aware." He moved his hand to her face, tracing her brows, sliding it down the bridge of her nose. She would not regain use of her muscles for at least several hours. He squatted beside the cot, whispering in her ear. "Do not think to prevent me this time, Brianna." His teeth snapped together as he remembered her arrow embedded in his shoulder. No one, save possibly Mikol himself, knew of their previous encounter on the glacier high above Mystery. Sid had never spoken of it in Emerald City. His fingers trailed lightly over her lips. "So soft," he murmured, "for a woman with no soul."

He leaned forward, brushing his lips over hers, pulled back an inch or two, chuckled softly, then licked her chin. "This time it is too important. But, then, you know that, don't you? Is that not why you are here?" He chuckled again, amused at himself. "This time," he continued, "I do it myself. This time...no one stands in my way." He stood, lifting her in his arms as he moved. "Especially not...you."

Turning, he eyed a carpet, strangely out of place on the dirt floor, then lay her upon it. He stood there at its edge, looking down at her, then dropping to one knee, began to roll the carpet. "Just like Cleopatra. You should be flattered. Only one fears there will be no Julius Caesar for you to flop out in front of." He stood again, poking at the lumpy roll with one toe. "Not where you're going."

 Hefting the carpet over one shoulder, he headed for the door, passing three entirely immobile guards as he walked. He shook his head, smiling at them. "Gadgets," he said. "No end to what a gadget can do." Coming out into the sunlight, he quickly pulled his hood far forward then patted the carpet where he figured her behind would be. "Now, now," he chortled. "I'm sure you'll quite enjoy Nubia." He strode off happily toward the slave market.

Maximus sank heavily onto the wooden bench, rubbing his right bicep. It had been some weeks now since he'd used his muscles so continuously and they were letting him know about it. A moment later he pulled the end of the broken chain up into his palm and turned his gaze toward the man who was chained to the young stranger. Why? Why had the man wanted him cut free from the Nubian? It made no sense. What possible reason could there be for such an action? Eyes narrowed, he studied the man's face, realizing he'd not seen this one before in the practice yard.

Dimetri leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Everything had gone wrong in a split second. He'd managed to get Maximus free from his attachment to Juba, had gotten Cort and the General next to one another, had signaled Bree. What had happened? Why did she crumple and fall like that? He rubbed his fingers hard over his eyes, trying to think. It had to be somebody in the audience, somebody who... knew. His head jerked up. Sid! Was Sid in the arena? Had he come into the movie? No, he'd seen no sign of Sid this whole time. It must have been Terry. Damn the man! It had to have been him. He shot a quick glance at Cort, still chained to him.

Cort was tired. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His wrist throbbed. Just having a manacle on it again had been bad enough, but the way he'd been jerked about the arena, falling, jerked to his feet, pulled here and there had made the metal edges cut deeply into his flesh. He was aware of the slow trickle of blood dripping onto his thigh and the buzz of several interested flies. "Have at it," he addressed them silently. "I'm too far gone to stop you." Then he remembered. Rachel's frantic cry. "CORT...it's Dimetri!"

He whipped his head around suddenly, eyes locking on the man beside him. "You!" he spat, his dry throat making the single word crack.

Dimetri managed a weak smile, a slight incline of his head, and opened his mouth to reply. Before he could form words, though, the door burst inward and Proximo entered, followed closely by a Roman Centurion. "I'm sure there is some mistake, Centurion," Proximo was saying. "I bought these men in good faith, paid a good, fair price for them."

"Not all of them," the Centurion replied, the sound of his voice making Cort's head turn quickly in that direction. The Roman strode down the length of the narrow room between the facing rows of seated slaves. His sword was in his hand and he used it to point at Cort and Dimetri. "Not those two," he growled.

Proximo was agitated, worried. "That one," he murmured, indicating Cort, "that one was delivered to me. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. It was thought he had escaped. I had nothing to do with it," he repeated. "He looks like... him." He pointed across the room at Maximus. "They thought he was that one."

"And so you...kept...him?" the Centurion glared. "Knowing he was not your slave, you kept him...anyway?"

"Yes...I mean, no...I mean...well...." Proximo peered sideways at the Roman. "You...know... this man?"

The Centurion smiled. "I do," he said, his voice clear, firm. "He is MY slave! I brought him with me from Rome."

"A thousand pardons," Proximo replied, wanting to get this over with, wanting to avoid unpleasantness with the Roman authorities that might shut him down. "I...I...had no idea. None at all." He beckoned for his man to unshackle Cort from his companion." Here," he said, pulling Cort forward, "take him. I had nothing to do with any of this."

The Centurion smiled again, his eyes remaining hard, knowing. "I'm sure," he replied. "But what about the other man? That one." He indicated Dimetri. "He has never been for sale in the market. How came you by that one?"

Proximo looked carefully at Dimetri. Truly he had no idea how the man had got amongst his slaves. "I...I...," he stuttered. "I...don't know."

"You don't know?" repeated the Centurion.

"No," Proximo continued. "He...he's...."

"Well, then," the Centurion said, "I suggest you let Roman authorities handle the matter of his identity."

Proximo just wanted the Centurion gone. He was disturbed enough that the fight had been ended as it had, abruptly, and in a manner that left much of his betting unresolved. He had matters, monetary matters, to attend to. "Take them," he growled. "Take them both. I had nothing to do with any of this."

"So you've said," the Centurion remarked as he came close to Cort. "Follow me," he said under his breath, moving then behind Dimetri, his sword point in the small of the man's back. "You, too."

Maximus watched their backs as they went through the door, noticing as the Centurion carefully leaned down and picked up the stranger's whip. Then he leaned his own head back as Cort had done and closed his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, the axe had not missed his head after all. Perhaps the Centurion did not actually look so much like the young stranger at all. Perhaps the young stranger did not...actually...look so much like...him.

On the blackness of his inner lids a sudden green hillside appeared, a dirt lane led upward between slender cypress trees. His chin twitched slightly. He had not died today. He did not yet know if he had done the right thing. The fingers of his hand stretched out across his lap, reaching, then curled back upon themselves. "I'm...sorry," he whispered. "Wait for me. I will be coming." He sighed deeply. "Wait."

They had barely gotten outside Proximo's compound when Cort grinned ear to ear and clapped the Centurion on his shoulder. "TERRY!" he laughed.

"Silence, slave," Terry replied, his mouth quirked in a bit of a strange smile. "Centurion Terrelius to you."

Cort laughed again. "I am glad to see you! You have no idea!"

"Oh, I think I have somewhat," Terry replied. "And, you, Dimetri?   Are you glad to see me, too?"

Dimetri growled something under his breath then asked, "What have you done with Brianna?"

"Bri....ah! You mean the woman who jumped into the arena. She's your partner, then?" He looked at Cort briefly, then back at Dimetri. "I have no idea what happened to her. She's probably under arrest somewhere, I'd expect."

Cort interrupted, laying his hand on Terry's arm. "Rachel?"

"She's fine, Cort," Terry replied. "We were planning on moving our location tonight, but...," and he looked at Dimetri, "that might not be so necessary. Not now." He chewed his lip a moment, thinking. "This way," he added, prodding Dimetri with the sword.

Rachel had her back turned to the curtained doorway when there was the shuffle of footsteps just outside and the material was pulled back. She turned just as Dimetri entered the room.

PART 14

Co-Author Index

LibrisCrowe