LOST IN THE EMPIRE
PART 14
Don’t expect a rescue, he said. But that’s exactly what she was hoping for. Rachel stood at the window, looking out into a non-descript darkness, trying to distract her mind by counting the number of stars that were popping out into the sky. Too many to keep up with. She sighed
and looked around the check the oil lamp. The wick burned steady. Deidre lay on her back on the floor atop a blanket, the last item to pack so she could doze a bit until Terry returned.
If Terry couldn’t, though…what then? Rachel sighed, weary from anxiety, anger, unable to feel the slightest inclination to doze. Reaching their goal seemed so far off…and all she really wanted to do now was think about afterwards. Later one, when they got home…in spite of
her mood, Rachel found herself smiling. They were getting married…
She heard a noise and turned to nudge Deidre, thinking the red-head had started snoring. But in the corner of her eye, a specter filled the doorway, one with a dark beard and powerful figure. Dimetri.
Rachel took a sharp breath in panic and began to back away into the corner.
“What are you doing here?” She gasped, cursing her luck for not having Sindri, for having packed away the carving knife. “You’re not going to get away with…”
Dimetri opened his mouth to sneer something when he lurched forward. Rachel yelped, causing Deidre to jerk up in a start from her sleep.
“No worries, Rache,” came Terry’s voice and he appeared next, expression and tone cold. He had a gladius leveled at Dimetri’s spine. Dimetri only turned and cast his sneer back, his hands up in surrender. Deidre was on her feet in seconds as well. “Matters are improving all the time. Just ask him,” Terry added with a slight swagger and nod toward the doorway.
In stepped Cort.
Rachel leapt at him with a much happier cry of surprise, throwing her arms around Cort’s neck,
nearly knocking him backwards. He didn’t seem to mind, though; just wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
“You’re safe, you’re safe!” Rachel chanted in his ear.
“Right,” Terry said, when the silence that emanated from the two became awkward.
“Fascinating how things work out, right mate?” he asked of Dimetri and then glanced at Deidre, who was studying the intruder with scorn of her own.
“You all packed, luv? Sorry to do this to you, but I’m having second thoughts. Maybe. Depends on how cooperative our Russian here is."
"When was the last time our paths crossed, mate? Last I heard, you were with some Afghani terrorist group. Natives get too restless for you…comrade?” He rolled his ‘r’ in a perfect Russian accent. “A little glasnost now and then is a good thing, hey?”
“Terrorist! How well do you know this joker?” Rachel asked, looking up from Cort’s embrace at the Soviet reference.
“Oh, well, that’s where it gets a little dicey, doesn’t it?” Terry grinned, keeping his eyes on their nemesis. “Yeltsin put this man out of a job…didn’t he, Dimetri?” He poked at the man’s middle with the sword. The scowl on Dimetri’s face turned even blacker. “Zoloft used the advantage of the showdown I went through in my movie. Gorbachev’s Politburo leftovers were looking for a little work and Dimetri hired on to retrieve me…but Sid accomplished that,” Terry laughed.
“No wonder the Soviet Union failed,” Diedre contributed.
“You were KGB?” Rachel asked, aghast.
Dimetri snorted. “I haven’t time to discuss history with you, butterfly,” he shot back. “Your Western education is weak in these matters…would hardly be worth it. What you should be debating is whether or not Brianna will get to Maximus first.”
“Was that who jumped into the arena?” Cort asked.
“Don’t tell me…you know her, too,” Diedre stated, wryly.
“I know OF her,” Terry said, then smiled again. “So. What to do now, hey?” Terry picked up the bag Diedre had packed and motioned for everyone but Dimetri to move to one side of the room. “We’ve got a mission to complete and a liability to insure. Any ideas…Rachel?”
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^& ^
A large iron ring was firmly embedded in the wall near the window. Rachel pointed to it. "What about that?"
"Ah, perfect!" Terry agreed, trussing Dimetri's hands behind him, sliding the rope through the ring then around the captive's neck.
Dimetri glowered at him. "I can't sit," he protested. "If I sag even a bit, I'll choke."
Terry smiled. "Well then, mate, I'd suggest you stand."
Dimetri muttered something in Russian, to which Terry replied.
"What was that?" Diedre asked, impressed by Terry's ease with the language.
"Ah, darlin', there's some things best left untranslated." He grinned most fetchingly in the steadily-darkening room.
Rachel had taken hold of Cort's hand and asked softly, "Could we do without the candle tonight?"
Terry was settling on the blanket beside Diedre. "Sure, luv," he chuckled. "Fine by me."
Cort moved away from the soft light puddled near the small window, leading Rachel to the darkest corner of the room, where the shadows were deep and quite black. Without sitting, he slid his hand up her neck, his warm fingers curving over the line of her jaw, tipping her head. His lips, light, almost tentative at first brushed her mouth. The reality of her there, so close, penetrated his heart and something in him shook slightly with the release of a great tension. Until she'd shouted in the arena, he'd had no idea where she was, if she were still even alive.
Then there'd been those long hours of his own not knowing if he would live out the day. He'd always been aware that it took darkness to sharpen the appreciation of the light. At this moment, here in this dirty, crowded room, even though he could barely make out her features,
she glowed like the full moon for him.
"Ah, Rachel," he murmured, his lips still hovering over hers. He nudged her nose with his then moved both hands to tangle in her mass of dark waves. Very aware there were three other people in the room, he nonetheless leaned back against the rough wall, letting himself slowly slide down, taking her with him so she ended up across his lap. Folding his arms around her,
he pressed her into himself, his cheek against her forehead.
"Rachel...Rachel...Rachel...," he whispered, over and over, the scent of her hair filling him. He ached for her with every part of himself but only lay her back a bit, permitting his lips to explore her face. Her eyes were closed and he tasted the salt of her tears, so lingered there with kiss after gentle kiss.
She settled into him, that sense of "home" he carried for her in his very person, wrapping around her like a shawl. Reaching up, she curved her hand over his arm. He winced, sucking in a sharp gasp of air when her fingers touched his wrist.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed.
"Nothing," he replied, gaining control over his voice. "Just where the manacle was today." He knew his flesh had been sliced deeply there, but tomorrow would serve for tending to it. Now all he wanted to do was hold Rachel. He did glance quickly across the room to where the light from the window outlined one side of Dimetri's face. His wrist was damaged because this man had jerked and dragged him around the arena. He saw the scene again clearly in his mind as Dimetri had placed himself between him and some onrushing barbarian. He'd been protecting him. Why? The man was his enemy, Rachel's enemy. He'd tried to kill Rachel there in the saloon. Why in the name of all that's holy, WHY would he have protected him today?
His head hurt still and every muscle ached. There would be time enough for answers tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight he had Rachel again in his arms. That was enough.
Dimetri had heard Cort's gasp and his eyes flicked toward the dark shadows in the corner. The priest had not been wounded, had he? He thought back to when they had been sitting on the bench after the fight had been halted. No. He'd not been aware of blood on the man. Well, nothing more than the expected cuts and scrapes anyway. He sighed. He hadn't managed to warp Maximus and Cort out of the movie together, but at least he'd gotten the priest through the day. At least there was that. He bent his knees just a little. Instantly the rope tightened around his neck.
His eyes found Terry's shape. Damn you, he cursed silently. Damn you to goddammed hell! Some day he'd kill the man...slowly...and enjoy the doing of it. He'd almost managed that once, back in Afghanistan. There would be another chance. He'd see to it.
Sid had made a quiet, private deal with the sleaziest of all the sleazy slave dealers. Good thing, too, as now the slave market was closed for the night. The carpet still slung over his shoulder, he thumped the door with the toe of his shoe.
"Open up, you worthless bastard," he growled.
After some muffled shuffling sounds, a latch was thrown back and the door opened to reveal a very short, round man, an almost-guttered-out clay lamp clutched in one hand. "Snail!" Sid spat as he pushed his way past the man and into the room, heedlessly clonking the top half of the carpet against a support pole as he turned. Without bending, he dropped the carpet, still rolled, onto the floor, then faced the rotund bit of human flotsam. "The merchandise," he announced, tipping his head slightly toward the carpet.
"You wish no payment?" the man said, his tone clearly indicating his wariness.
"None," Sid replied. "I only ask that she be on the caravan tomorrow. You keep whatever you
can get for her."
Using his foot, he pushed on the carpet, making it unroll. Brianna was revealed, lying perfectly
immobile. The slave trader looked at her, surprised at both her appearance and her condition. "She is not...dead?" he queried, his brows knitting.
"Not dead," Sid affirmed. "In fact, you will need to bind her tightly to one of your poles before she eats you alive." He smiled, bent down and picked up Brianna's right hand. As he stood, he let it drop, her knuckles striking the floor hard, her arm falling as though boneless. "This will not last." He studied her a moment. "I suggest a gag, too. The woman might attract attention to herself." He riveted the man with a look. "We do not want that." He paused, thinking. "And after she is sold, cover her well in robes. Especially her hair. You understand?"
The man was bobbing his whole body, practically drooling at his good fortune. A woman, tall and well-made. Obviously strong and still young. Not only that, but a great beauty...and with golden hair. He rubbed his palms together, ushering her captor toward the door. Sell such a prize to the Nubians? He thought not! As the door closed, he turned, staring at the woman. She would fetch a much better price as a concubine to some wealthy Roman. Indeed, was there not young Livius himself, on his way back to Rome within the week? Yes...a much better price!
He squatted awkwardly beside her, picking up the hand Sid had dropped. A strong hand but one not used to hard labor. Good. The Romans liked their women uncalloused.
"No pole in the slave yard for you, my sweet," he murmured, unaware Brianna could hear his
every word. Standing, he snapped his fingers and a brace of brawny men appeared through a back curtain.
"Tie her well," he ordered, "and gag her. Leave her in the storage room and bolt the door." He smiled. That should do it. Tomorrow he would send a messenger to Livius. Livius, whose wife had died the year before. Livius, who might wish to assuage his grief with a fine, rare concubine; Livius, who was leaving for Rome. How was the foreigner who had brought the woman to him ever to know? Nubia or Rome? What possible difference could it make?
^ & ^& ^& ^ & ^
Burned.
The space between her and the ground had burned with a searing flash, spinning her until she felt the ground collide with her back. All she could remember was that the air had burned.
Crashing roar of voices, then silence. Blackness. Then a velvet voice, menacing, like a cold snake slithering through the fog.
Do not think to prevent me.
The snake came closer, rose up, considered her. An impossibly long tongue stretched out, brushed against her lips, lashed at her chin.
I do it myself, it promised her.
Then, its coils whipped around her, freezing her.
Brianna became aware of a sensation, of floating, bumping, rolling out. She could hear the voices of people around her, but her eyelids refused to open. She knew the air had changed, the echoes of the room indicating close quarters.
Sid 6.7
The name clicked into her brain as she heard him order the other to sell her to any Nubian traders. Send her into the heart of Africa. Images of a glacial landscape, a gloating man in purple, impervious to the blistering cold surrounding him. Sid, unnatural, unfeeling Sid, who giggled over some thought, some collusion he had made against the very people he had hired to work for him.
Remembered the plunk of the arrow shaft as it left her crossbow and hit its mark in the nanocreature’s shoulder.
But he didn’t know who Brianna was, not at that time. A name…Rachel…had been on his lips as he spun in shock, as if he had expected her…
And they had fought…oh, he had been strong! Blue blood mingled with red all over the snow. Only when she had regained her cross bow did Sid find a way to escape.
And now the coward had found her first, here, in the gladiator ring. He must have been the one…the one…
She still couldn’t move, but her heart jumped and pounded just as if she had been running hard for several minutes. The warp-shell! She no longer had it. Did Dimetri succeed? She well guessed that she had not left the movie. A cold reality stole through her thoughts: Dimetri had left her! Taken Maximus and left her.
For some reason, that hurt more than anything. Not because she had believed Dimetri cared. Because…because…he must have planned something. Grab the warp shell in the confusion of the ring. Knock her cold. Leave her for the gladiators to have their way with her. No rescue. Just his prize. And Mikol would accept that she had been a casualty.
That was the fear. She had been abandoned to the vagaries of the film, the perpetual loop from which there was no escape unless a retriever came.
And there was certainly no help to come from Sid.
Fully conscious now but paralyzed beyond involuntary functions, Brianna listened to Sid’s final command, the little slime ball who would sell her mutter to himself of his own plans. If she had been able to, she would have laughed. So much for Sid’s ability to get results. She caught the snatch of a phrase “going to Rome” and she almost sighed. It would do well to play dead, play
along, play up the new circumstance. One more chance to corner Sid and…
She figured she must have dozed because the next thing she knew, she was staring at the soot-stained ceiling of the merchant’s hut. She tested her fingers first to see if the paralysis had worn off. Good. They worked. Now her neck. She turned slightly to get a better sense of the
room. She was the only one there. It took her a moment to realize that the thick rope pulled straight out from the wall was attached to her wrist, only long enough to lay down along the length of the wall, and even then, the arm it was attached to was numb, cold, bloodless. She couldn’t feel a thing in that arm.
Groaning, she sat up to try and direct blood flow back into the collapsed veins. The solution hurt more than the problem. Nerve endings screamed back into activity as the warmth pumped back into her arm. Biting her lips, she gasped through the first several moments. This will pass.
Sunlight poured through one single window in the tiny room, a wooden door opposite from her. She heard cattle low, the sharp cry of children, laughter. A carriage driving up, a booming voice command to be shown the girl. The wooden door burst open and Brianna winced, using her free hand to wipe away the halos that had sprung up in her eyes. In the doorway stood a tall powerfully built man, his form draped in a rich Roman toga.
“Eh, eh, Livius…eh, this is the woman I have found for you. She is…ah she is exquisite, no?”
The ratbag. Brianna couldn’t see the merchant, but she could hear him posture and grovel. The man in the doorway didn’t move, only continued to gaze at her, his expression inscrutable.
“She would make a fine addition to your household, no? A fine prize to comfort your arrival in Rome, someone to take care of the children?”
The Roman nobleman grunted, finally stepping inside. Brianna couldn’t decide if she liked him
or not, but chalked that up to the grogginess that still remained. She had a feeling she was going to be recovering from whatever Sid did to her for a long time. The merchant hurried in from behind, snuffling like a pig in his attempt to appear ingratiating and competent at the same time.
Fat chance, slimeball, Brianna thought. The merchant caught her look of disdain and shoved
a dirty pile of hay at her with his foot.
“A find indeed,” the noble acquiesced.
Brianna decided she liked his voice at least. Matched the build of his frame. Too often the comedy of life paired a magnificent body with a squeal-pig voice. He had a nice aquiline nose, too. Lantern jaw.
“And how do you propose to rob me today, Achmar?”
“Eh…five hundred drachmas…she is a worthy piece… would fetch a handsome price in the stalls of Ostia…but I have her here for you. You can ride by and say you beat them at their own game!” Achmar beamed, as if he had made the greatest pitch in his life. Brianna snorted.
Livius looked down on her, a small flash of amusement reflecting back.
“Stand up. What is your name?” he asked.
Brianna pulled on the rope to get to her feet, a bit surprised to find she was stronger than she
had felt sprawled out on the floor. She discovered that he was at least a head taller than she.
“Brianna Lachliel. I wish to go to Rome with you.”
Livius seemed a bit taken aback by this pronouncement, but not unpleasantly so. Achmar stared, unable to decide if this was a bad thing.
“Very well, then. You shall have your pay. Bring her to my camp.”
If Cort and Rachel had been able to find solitude in their cramped little corner, Diedre felt she could as well, and so tried to snuggle up to Terry as he sat with his back to the wall, propped up as a sentinel for the night. But the tall Russian standing at the window was too much of a hindrance to complete comfort, the tension roiling from Terry too distracting. Terry didn’t put her away when she entwined her legs and arms with him, but it wasn’t exactly easy to cuddle the way she would have liked.
Dimetri and Terry had a glaring contest for several very long minutes, then the Russian turned his back to them and stared out the window. Diedre could see Terry give her a triumphant glance, the lines of his face sharpened by the thin light not blocked by Dimetri’s form. She felt Terry’s lips brush hers and an arm go around her shoulders, finally. It would do.
She could have done with a bit more sleep, too, but a sudden jerk and shout from Terry yanked her from a drowsy mist that lay somewhere between his chest and her mouth. Falling sideways, Diedre stared up at Terry, on the verge of shouting herself.
“Damn it! God damn it!" He was cursing. Cort and Rachel were staring at the empty space before the window, unfurling from their own cocoon.
Dimetri was gone, the last lingering fragments of a warp light all that marked where he had been standing.
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ &^
He sat alone, as separated as he could manage, anyway, from the rest of Proximo's slaves. He
needed to think. Leaning his head back against the rough wall, he closed his eyes, replaying the
scene from this afternoon when the centurion had come, had taken away the strange duo. Strange was the word for it, too. He smiled almost grimly, recalling how the young man who bore such a striking resemblance to him had been tossed into the slave quarters the night before. What had the man said he was? An...Arizonian? Nowhere in all of the Roman Empire had he ever heard mention of a place called Arizonia.
Then there was the matter of the man who'd been chained to the Arizonian. The man who had
dragged the Arizonian around the arena, obviously protecting him. The man he'd never seen before in the practice yard. How had he gotten in the slave quarters? WHY in the name of all the gods would he WANT to be in the slave quarters if he didn't belong there?
And the woman who had leaped into the arena. Who was she? What had caused a woman to do
such a thing? Had she survived? He'd seen her go limp and crash heavily to the sand. What had
caused her sudden collapse? What had happened to her after that? Where had she been taken?
Question upon question upon question. And none of them with answers. His forehead tightened with the strain of trying to make some sense of it all.
And the centurion himself. His uniform had not been regulation. He may well have been an imposter. And, of course, there was that matter of how he looked. His helmet had obscured part of his face, but Maximus had still seen enough to know that something was not right. How could he look that much like the man he was leading out of the slave quarters? How could he look that much like...him? He frowned more deeply. The man had looked even more like him than the
Arizonian had.
"Warped?" gasped Cort in response to the words Terry was spitting. "How could he be... warped?" He got to his feet, he and Rachel joining Terry and Diedre as they hurried to the spot where Dimetri had been tied.
Terry gripped the empty iron ring. "Mikol," he muttered. "It had to be a remote warp." He
looked at Rachel. "Implant," he explained.
"It would seem Mikol has a bit of advanced warp technology. More than we'd thought."
"Is he gone then...for good?" Cort asked.
"I don't know," Terry said, shaking his head, looking out the window toward the sky. "It may
be that Mikol will send him back, send him into some later part of the movie. We have no way of
knowing."
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Damn," he said softly. "Damn, damn, damn."
Dimetri sat on the stool while Mikol circled him like a lion sizing up his prey. A tall man, well-
muscled, with smooth blonde hair brushed back from his strikingly-carved features, Mikol was
not in a mood to bear incompetence lightly. His breath was more of a hiss, sucked in and out
through clenched teeth.
"You had them...both of them...positioned perfectly in the arena," he finally growled, "and yet you bring me...neither." His eyes narrowed to slits. "And Bree is lost to us, her implant rendered inoperable by whatever weapon was used to fell her." He paused his pacing, resting a palm on Dimetri's shoulder. "Was...Sid there? Did you see him?"
"No," Dimetri answered, trying to keep his voice steady. "It was Terry, Mikol, Terry who had the weapon."
"And you were not...prepared...for that, were you?" He smiled at Dimetri, his eyes glittering
coldly. "Why was that?"
"I...I...was protecting Cort. And trying to get Maximus in position. Bree...she should have
been watching the audience. I was busy in the arena. Was that not what you wanted? Was I
not supposed to keep Cort alive for you?"
"You were, indeed," Mikol admitted, drawing in a long breath. "If he had died...if he dies yet,"
he smiled again, "you die."
He resumed his pacing around the stool. "You can imagine my surprise when that filthy hulk
of sub-human flesh appeared in my warp chamber." Dragging a fingertip along Dimetri's
jaw line, he continued. "And you know how I do not...like... surprises."
"What...what did you do with him?" Dimetri asked, having only gotten the quickest glance
at the gladiator who had picked up Brianna's warp shell.
"He arrived at a most...inopportune time. I...melted him."
Proximo was astounded. The Spaniard had been given the yellow designation and he, himself, had bet against him, had bet that he would be killed in that first fight. The man had not fought once in the practice yard. How was he to know he could fight, would fight, at all? Despite the loss of the money he had wagered, he was pleased. The man had been sent weaponless into the arena and within moments had armed himself and showed without doubt that he knew how to handle a sword. He had not had such a promising new gladiator since Hagen. And if he was not wrong, and he doubted very much that he was, the Spaniard would prove to be something
much more than the giant Germanian. Hagen fought well, almost seemed to enjoy the process
of the fighting, fought with a certain strength and abandonment. But the Spaniard. Ah, he fought...how to describe it? It was like fire, yes, like a burning anger and yet...something else. Like the fire was...frozen and yet still burned. It was something Proximo had never seen before. The man was a cobra, coiled in the quiet darkness of a basket. Yet when you removed the lid, when you sent him out into the sunshine of the arena, he killed surely, quickly, deadly...always. And then he coiled into his basket again. Thus it was, over the passing days, that Proximo came to be aware, came to witness the manner of the Spaniard.
Nothing he tried would change the man, would alter the way of his fighting. Out of the basket,
kill with utmost efficiency, back to the basket. Never had he seen something so aflame, so covered in ice. He had almost no words for Proximo. From time to time he'd been seen in quiet conversation with the Nubian and once or twice, had given him some guidance on the better use of his sword. Other than that, the Spaniard kept to himself.
Terry and his team came often to the arena, watching Maximus' rise to the top of the
gladiatorial ranks in this backwater town. Sometimes they were aware that the General was
scanning the crowd as though looking for somebody. Terry and Cort were careful to hide their
faces, to keep in the shadows. It was hard for the team, the slow passing of the days, waiting for the departure for Rome they knew would be coming. Diedre explored as much as she could of Zucchabar, Terry always at her elbow. Cort and Rachel often found their way back to the little room at the inn, alone.
"Is this it?" Cort asked, taking his seat in the arena yet again. "Is this the day?"
Terry nodded. "I believe so."
Maximus walked through the archway alone, took stock of the several gladiators scattered
about the arena awaiting him, and bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
He, of course, had no way of knowing that this was the day, the day of his last fight in Zucchabar. All he knew was that he was required to kill the men standing in front of him.
And he would do it. He had not the slightest doubt he would do it. Proximo wanted him to
make a show of it, to make it an "entertainment." Bile rose in his throat at the mere thought
of it. He had killed many men in his time, men who faced him on the battlefields of war. He
had always thought there was some purpose, then, to the killing. That there was a goal and
the killing was part and parcel of how you got to that goal. Here...there was no goal. None at
all. It was killing for the sake of killing, killing to be...watched, to be...enjoyed. He would not grant them that, could not grant them that.
He walked into the arena with Proximo's last word, "Entertain!" ringing in his ears. He set his face grimly, looking at the men, trying not to think of them as men. He chose them, one by one he chose them. First this one, and then that. He could see the pattern of their deaths in his
mind. He would not look up at the crowd, not now. He had to disengage himself from their presence, from their...expectation. He would do what he must and then go back to his cell. Nothing more than that. What he must.
Cort leaned forward, watching him, understanding him, yet still amazed by him. Maximus moved steadily through the pattern he had set for himself, not a single motion wasted. It was almost an...economy...of killing. And, at the end, something rose up in him after he had picked up the second sword, had sunk both their blades into the last gladiator standing. The man was dying on his feet. There was no need for anything more. Just wait a few seconds. It would be done. But something exploded inside Maximus' head and seconds were suddenly too long. Something sharp was shooting up his nerve endings, piercing into his soul and hatred of what
he was doing burst him open wide and he grabbed both the swords again, wrenched them free from dying flesh, and with every ounce of everything within him, swung them, severing the
man's head. Then he paused, looking at his handiwork, at what he had done deliberately,
letting the disgust of it break over him in waves.
And when the clapping came, when the cheers began, the roar of what now passed for his name
rising up, arching in the hot air over the arena and then falling down upon him, smothering him,
hideous in the very weight of its sound and its meaning, he was for a moment struck numb with
the fact that his deliberate action of disgust was being... applauded. He loathed them for it, nearly as much as he loathed himself for doing it. They had...enjoyed it...had enjoyed the debased level to which his killing had sunk. How much longer could he endure living in this world where men...and women...cheered for such as this? How much further could he get from the gates of Elysium? He had chosen to live...for THIS?
Cort's faced worked as he watched Maximus intently, tears stung his eyes, and he clenched
his hands into tight fists. "Are you not entertained?" he whispered into the air. "Is that not
why you are here?"
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
The portico of the peristylium was perfectly suited to catch the late afternoon breezes, wafting
the scent of sun-bathed herbs through to the rooms surrounding the square garden. Hazy clouds drifted in the space above the open rectangle, cirrus clouds higher still as a thin smear of white across azure. Bree sat in one of the chairs in the shade of the portico, a table before her like a desk, something she had managed to persuade Livius to set up for her as he trained her to copy documents brought to her from officials and clerks. She found the small, low-ceilings and windowless walls of the rooms too close and suffocating. She loved the feel of wind and sun on her skin. Fortunately, Livius proved to be amenable, if not a bit bemused, by her request to be allowed to do her assigned work outside the rooms. So now, she sat, scribbling and copying
away with almost automatic alacrity the various texts that lay in a jumbled pile next to her.
A fire had devastated a small library in some part of the sprawling grandeur of Rome, no real loss as far as hard-copy was concerned, as it had been a personal repository for one of Livius’ friends and pretty much duplicates acquired from larger collections; but now Livius had taken on the replication of the scrolls as a task for pay. Not what he had intended for her, he told Brianna, but until it was decided where she would best be suited in his large household, already well implemented with slaves of one particular duty or another, discovering what skills she could employ would be their objective.
There were no children here, Brianna had noted with some amount of rue. Slave children in good supply, but none for Livius.
It hadn’t taken long for Brianna to figure out, even by the reactions of the other slaves, that Livius had made an impulsive purchase in her. It also hadn’t taken long for knowing looks to travel among the cooks, attendants, pages, and others; the new slave girl had no family to speak of, so there was no talk of marriage, but Livius had been a lonely man since his first wife died, and his return to Rome meant that he was ready to follow the Augustinian edict that a Roman man remain married. And in that, children were a factor of confirming that marriage.
Brianna tried not to think too much about the implications of that, although it was a simple thing to see that if she pleased him in the time to come, her freedom could be bought. She found herself staring off into the space, which was now taking on a dusky tinge as the sunrays bent longer across the peristylium rather than into it. She didn’t belong here, didn’t need to be caught up in this, but it was all laid out so well before her now, and her initial impulse to run away and find her way to the Colosseum had eroded. It had been some time since they arrived back in Rome, some adjustment to the fact that she no longer had the means to leave the movie, no ability to gain any vantage over the only other people who had a way out…if they were still
there. Dimetri had fixed her good.
Only one way to find out, Brianna realized, as if that thought hadn’t occurred to her before.
She had to go see the gladiatorial games to make sure Maximus hadn’t been taken. I have to
get down there.
She drew herself up from a slumped daydreaming position, looking down at the scroll before
her with a small sigh of relief that she had lifted her ink-stained stylus in time to keep a drifting line from marking the otherwise pristine sheet. She had spent the better part of an afternoon going slowly, meticulously…
She heard footsteps at the far end of the portico and looked up. Livius was approaching slowly, having shed his more formal robes for a finely woven tunic. Brianna found herself watching the tiny shadows play on his face as he drew near, a small smile drifting across his features as he sat in a chair next to her. He smelled of leather and linen and oils.
“How comes today’s manuscript?” He asked, lifting his chin at her work. His hair was what modern times would name gun-metal gray, a startling, even beautiful contrast to his tanned face. He would look hard and cold and cruel if it weren’t for the merry crinkle of his light brown eyes when he even broke into a grin, and the fact that his voice had a certain lilting quality to it that put people at ease. He could be remote and inviting at the same time, Brianna
realized with a not entirely unpleasant shiver.
“I think I need to stop,” she said, laying down the stylus. He reached up to push back a stray strand of her gold hair, swept up now in a simple array of loose and pin-tucked waves. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then came back to the moment with a few blinks.
“I am going to the gladiatorial games on the morrow,” he informed her, without much more
prelude than his momentary touch. “You will attend with me.”
Brianna looked at him, wondering if the expression on her face showed her surprise. She couldn’t have been more surprised if he had said he’d read her mind. But Livius was already standing, his mission done, gathering up some stray scrolls to signal that she was indeed done
for the day.
“You must have yourself prepared before daybreak,” Livius added. “Livipor will come with
us, so you both must be ready. I will not bear delays,” he added.
Brianna nodded, suddenly awash with excitement. He had only had one servant beaten since
she arrived here, and that, she had been told, was an extreme case, but the threat was real. It was important that they get through the majority of the city before the streets became too crowded by the usual flotsam. Livius was patient, but not forbearing of wasted time.
Not that she would have had much difficulty obeying. Maybe then she could see if Sid’s retrievers had made it thus far, if she could only spot them in the crowd, find her way, take
their warp-shell…
Livius blocked her way, a sudden broad-chested wall in front of her. He reached up to clasp
her shoulder, expression almost…pleading.
“I would have you first, though,” he murmured into the space between them, “have you anoint me this evening. Do not sleep in your chamber tonight.”
Brianna took a tiny step closer, not breaking his gaze.
“I will come,” she said.
“Another inn, another sleepless night,” Diedre grumbled into the cloth loosely wrapped around
her face. Terry glanced down at her from behind a similar swath around his face, impassive,
but said nothing. He couldn’t argue with her. There was little tidiness to the mass of humanity streaming in the streets of Rome now: noisy, crowded, smelly, obnoxious, and it would be endless, morning, noon, into the small hours of the night. Walls painted with graffiti and advertisements were the only demarcations they had to go by in finding a place to stay for the
night, now that they had penetrated the interior of the Light of the Empire, the Heart of Civilization, the Glory that was Rome
“Maybe they’ll have running water?” Rachel posited, disgruntled as well by the prospect of a
seedy boarding house. They stood outside the nearest one they could find to the Colosseum, a
ramshackle thing that looked nothing like the neat Mediterranean villas or marbleized courts
one found in the movies.
Cort leaned against a wall, looking positively nonplussed. Nothing in the Old West or the Twentieth century had prepared him for this. “Diedre, you said the Romans had running
water, but I have yet to experience it.” Rachel sounded as desperate as she felt.
“Yeah, well, I’ve said a lot of thing that haven’t really been of much use, haven’t I?” Diedre
returned, mournfully.
Terry nudged her.
“Time for some leverage, love,” he muttered, indicating her pack. “We’ll see if we can’t get
some semblance of privacy for us, even among this stewing pile. I think we’ve earned it,” he added, with a familiar quirk of his chin and light tone.
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
Rachel sighed in relief, dropping her bag on the floor at her feet. Separate rooms. She was
still amazed Terry had managed it, but it was enough that he had and her gratitude knew no bounds. There was even a low, narrow bed along one wall. Narrow would be ok. She looked
at it and then at Cort, who was squatting beside his satchel, opening its latch. The late afternoon sun came through the window, turning his bent head to radiant gold. He looked so beautiful to her that she just stood there, watching.
After a moment, he lifted his face, the golden light moving down then, highlighting his cheeks and the fine ridge of his nose. When he saw she was looking at him, his lips curved into a smile and she found herself thinking that no creation of God's, celestial or in this world, could be
more radiant than he was at this moment.
"Rachel?" he said, seeing her expression. "What is it?"
"You," she replied. "It's you."
"Me?" he repeated, slowly standing.
"Yes," she smiled, noticing that because he had risen, the beam of golden light rested now on
his chest, over his heart. She stepped toward him, laying her palm on the spot and surprised herself with the sudden sting of tears when the memory, all unbidden, of when that heart had stopped came to her.
Seeing the tears, he put both hands on her shoulders. "Is something wrong," he asked. "Have
I upset you in some way?"
"No...never," she whispered. "It's...just...."
"What, Rachel? What is it?"
"You were so beautiful there in the light and when you stood, the beam moved...here...," again
she touched his chest. "But then...I...I remembered back when we first arrived in Emerald City and...everything was going wrong...and...this," she curled her fingers over it, "stopped."
He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, folding her into his presence. "A long
time ago," he whispered into her hair. "But I'm fine." He kissed her hair several times.
"You know I'm fine."
She did. Truly she did. But that awful moment was engraved somewhere in her being and she
knew she could not ever bear such a thing again. When he'd been taken from her in Zucchabar, when she'd seen his limp form there in the small carpet shop and then, later, when he walked
out into the arena, she'd felt as though the life were being squeezed from her soul. Sliding her hands around his back, she clung to him tightly, fiercely.
He felt the small tremors running through her body as she pressed against him and he murmured, "Oh, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel," over and over into her hair. Then he simply scooped her up and sat on the side of the bed, cradling her in his arms, his lips moving gently from one part of her face to another.
Maximus sat alone on the bench staring down at his hands. He held them open, palms up, and seemed to be finding the history of his life in them. One by one, he closed all his fingers, squeezing both hands into tight fists.
Rome.
He was in Rome. Marcus wanted him to come to it grandly, as its "Protector." He laughed silently, looking around the rude quarters of the gladiators.
Proximo had come by earlier to tell them they would be going into the huge arena tomorrow afternoon. One more night, one more morning to live, he thought grimly. What he intended
to do would surely result in his death. He knew the games would be set so that he and his men were to be merely amusing in their deaths. He knew the odds stacked against them would have been made to assure that. They were to be a sacrifice on the altar of public entertainment,
nothing more.
Well, that was not a part of his plans. No.
He lay down on the bench, closing his eyes, folding his forearms over his face. "I'm coming,"
he whispered into the gathering darkness. "Just one more thing to do." His teeth bit into his
lip. "Please," he begged the forces that controlled the destiny of men, "please permit me
this one thing."
"Oh, Terry," she gasped. "I don't think I can manage one more step." Diedre stopped,
lowering her bundle just inside the door of their room and arched her back, rubbing her
lower spine.
Terry picked up her bag and set it in a corner, then came back to stand in front of her. "It's been a long trip," he said softly, "I know. But we're here. And we have no further than this to go."
A sudden, deep frown crossed his face and he ran a hand through his hair. "Except to find a way...back. A way home."
He looked at her standing in front of him, so tired and worn, so far from her time and place,
and he felt a huge catch in his heart. "I promise you," he said, his voice gone all low and
deeper than usual, "I promise you, 'Nolia, that I will find a way to get you home."
He surprised her then by pulling her into his arms, holding her close. Tired as she was, a
sweet sense of being protected enveloped her and everything female in her rose up to meet
the strong maleness enveloping her. She knew he would. She knew he would die trying. Good Lord...he would. He would never stop, not if it cost him his life. He would simply never stop
trying to find a way for them. The truth of it rammed into her being with its sudden, total awareness and she tipped her face to his, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Don't die, Terry," she whispered. "Please. Please don't die."
He looked down at her, puzzled. "Die, 'Nolia? Why would you say that?"
She couldn't explain, didn't want to explain her knowing of what he would do for her. It was
enough that she knew. "Just...don't," she murmured, burying her face in his chest.
He felt her fingers lock into the fabric of his robe and knew something was going on in her
mind, but he had sense enough to let it go. Leaving one arm around her shoulders, he guided
her to the small window. The last light of the day was fading and in its parting shadows, gave
a gift of softness to the ugly harshness of the buildings near their inn.
"Look," he said, pointing to where the top curve of the great colosseum could be seen. "I've
seen that so many times...the way it looks in our time...with huge chunks missing. How odd it
is to see it now, complete, and know that each day it is filled with life and death."
"Do you think Maximus will be fighting in there yet?" she asked.
"We have no way of knowing that, Luv" he replied, "but in the morning we will see what we
can find out." He leaned toward her, his head resting against hers. "For now...we have the
night...this night...to rest."
She looked beyond him to the single bed. His presence beside her was warm and so very alive.
What was he thinking? What did he...intend?
Finally he sighed, his muscles tired from the endless miles they had covered. He turned,
looking at the bed. She followed his look. "What?" she whispered. "What do you want?"
He wanted her. That's what he wanted. He'd been so careful with her, not to step out of the bounds he'd set for himself, not to do anything that would jeopardize the mission, make things...awkward. But all he'd seemed to accomplish was to make things more awkward. He kicked himself mentally for the mixed signals he'd been sending out for some time now.
The moon was rising, shining on her hair. He had a sudden need to see it unbound so he
reached around and slid out the pins that held it behind her head. Smiling a little, almost sadly with a sense of longing, he watched it unfold itself and begin, pulled by its weight, to fall down her back, cascade over her shoulders. He loved her hair.
"May I?" he barely breathed.
"May you...what?" she whispered in reply.
"May I touch your hair?"
His hand had dropped to his side and she reached for it, lifting it wordlessly, moving it to
where the waves lay thick and rich along her neck. A small muscle under his eye twitched, joined by a working in his jaw. She took her hand away, leaving his there,and simply stood quietly...waiting.
He did nothing for about 30 seconds but look at where she had placed his hand, then almost
in a spasm, he curled his fingers into it like a drowning man into the kelp that lay as the only solid thing between him and the endless depth of the sea.
"Oh...God!" he moaned, then leaned forward and took her mouth with his. His hands moved through her hair, twining, fisting themselves into it with a hunger to touch, to hold that consumed him. He sank to his knees, taking her with him, burying his face in the hollow of her neck, his fingers now sliding her robe off her shoulders so his lips could follow down the soft curve of her flesh.
And, so it was in the rising light of a Roman moon, that Diedre came to know...that Terry himself came to know...that he loved her.