LOST IN THE EMPIRE
PART 15
The roar from the crowds woke Deidre and Terry not long after the sun made its appearance over the tallest hill of Rome, a disconcerting sound to break their deep dreamless sleep, curled up as they were in the nest they had made for themselves. Deidre resented the disturbance, a low roar that rose in pitch and then died with a jarring note. It was a surreal experience compared to the far more pleasant security of Terry’s embrace. She knew what those sounds were: the morning Colosseum crowd cheering the clashes of the animals brought in from all points of the empire. Her fingers absent-mindedly played with the hair on his bare chest as she remembered the monkeys, the animals in Zucchabar, and hoped they would not have to go any earlier than necessary this day. She pressed her cheek more firmly against the shoulder that pillowed it, swallowing down the dismay of the last two days. Rome had swallowed * them * without even a blip of shadow, and the thought of witnessing the scrabble-rabble of spectators in a forum three times larger than that run-down outpost in North Africa was enough to make her wish she had never agreed to come on this trip.
Terry moved his head slightly, though, and Deidre smiled. But it would have never led to this, she thought. Wherever it was going, this…relationship…with all its fits and starts, had to be a far better place than the teeming vagaries of an alternate reality. She sighed, trying to get her body to settle back into the settled complacency of sleep again. The anxiety of staying too long, not knowing how to get out, accepting their circumstances, living within its boundaries had somehow come to a head yesterday. It was why they were all so testy, why they were all in such need for respite. The worst was yet to come.
“What’s wrong?” she heard Terry ask. He drew his own hand up to press her splayed palm against his chest.
Another roar from the Colosseum.
“Don’t you hear?” she asked, her voice rusty. She could feel him listening and then relax as the Colosseum granted yet another vocalization. “The hunt is on…one great big barrel of fish.”
“We might have trouble finding a seat if we don’t go early enough,” Terry posited, his other hand finding a way to tangle itself in her hair once more. “Executions at lunchtime…”
“No.” Deidre found herself propping up on an elbow, something in her choosing to rebel in toto. Two thousand years loomed up as justification. “We’ve been going at this forever. Do we even know how long we’ve been here? Does it really matter any more? Why don’t we…why don’t….” she trailed off, seeing Terry watch her with a slightly pained expression on his face. With another sigh, she fell back into the curve of his arm. “I keep saying the same thing over and over and it doesn’t help. I don’t want to do this, Terry. I don’t want to go there. You’ll just have to excuse my whining like a little girl, but I want to go home,” she said as she rubbed at the tension in her forehead.”
“I know, just… stay with me, right? No, hear me out,” Terry said, as Deidre opened her mouth to take exception, defensive. “Stay with me, here,” he explained, pressing a fingertip to the valley between her breasts. “Let’s not lose faith in each other. It may be the only way out. You…you’re the first one I’ve…let in…for a long time. Just stay with me.”
An image of the armor falling open, for her eyes only, flashed across her mind, and it was a bit scary to realize, to see Terry for what lay beneath. She now had the choice to accept it or walk away…or worse, pillage and walk away. If last night’s lovemaking had been any indication, Terry had given her a gift, a wonder beneath iron-clad skin, a soft spot in an impenetrable shield…and the meaning of it was breathtaking.
A man’s heart is a treasure to earn, came the voice of her Aunt Genevieve in her more lucid days. That remembrance left her wordless, so she moved her face to touch her nose to his, her lips to his.
“I’ll stay,” she finally whispered. She let a few moments of contemplation pass between them before allowing a puckish grin to infiltrate. “Unless there’s a geo-cache box nearby. Then, all bets are off, my dear Aussie.”
His answer was to rise over her with a smirk of his own.
“Maybe I should find a thorn bush somewhere, attach you to it,” he murmured as he eased down, his mouth nuzzling her ear. “Something to keep you out of mischief. Nolias don’t grow on trees, you know.”
The seating for a man of Livius Drusus’ borderline rank placed him at the far end of the third tier, to the left of the Emperor’s podium, a respectable spot if not exactly significant to the hierarchy of Roman society. The benches were wide, allowing for people to recline, spread pillows and other comforts as though in their own homes; although not many were doing it this day. Word had spread that a new stock of fighters were in from the exotic reaches, the name of Proximo whispered among those who remembered the days before Marcus Aurelius banned the games. Livius seemed particularly interested in that as he chatted amongst the others seated there as Brianna and Livipor busied themselves around him.
She tried not to pay too much attention to the spectacle winding down in the arena at the moment, the last few Christians tied to stakes, ripped to shreds by the various weapons and claws. It was difficult, though. The crowd around her fed off the horror, but she had to turn her back to it many a time to get control of herself, causing Livipor to look at her as if she had lost her mind. The only thing that seemed to assuage things was noticing that the crowd was thin for this part of the day. Only when it became apparent that those in the arena were preparing it for the gladiatorial event did people begin filing back in.
Her task while Livius watched was to keep his goblet and plate full, while Livipor fanned him. She had established Livius well by the time Commodus returned from his break and settled back into his chair. She could see the small tow head of Lucius next to Lucilla, sunlight glittering off their gold jewelry. Brianna found that a grim smile had formed on her lips. If only Commodus knew what awaited him in the barracks below….
“Is this your latest acquisition, Livius?” asked one bald-pated man nearby, his own gaze fastened on Brianna’s gold hair. She pretended she couldn’t hear the murmurs of curiosity echoing around them as she settled herself next to Livius, that she didn’t notice the acute interest so many of those eyes took in her.
She stole a glance at Livius, could almost see moments of the past evening play across Livius face as he gazed at her, an undeniable measure of satisfaction in the corners of his mouth before he responded.
It had been…a pleasant night.
“Yes, I found her on my travels. I know not her history, but she seems to have had an informative life. A stoic one, if ever I saw. Where do slaves learn this but from a master of the same mind? We’ll see,” he regaled, straightening up as the trumpets sounded to notify everyone that the arena was ready for the new band of fighters. “We’ll see what my…instinct brings me,” he concluded, causing those around him to laugh heartily.
She poured him a goblet of wine and sat at a dutiful distance from him. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind the more salacious comments and tones that exchange generated. She was having to play off instinct as well, and was thankful that so many things in her life had taught her to keep her expression still as stone. She could not resent Livius for congratulating himself. But in watching him drink down the first draught of wine, she found herself wondering just how shocked he would be to discover how deep her stoic capabilities ran.
Rachel’s restlessness had pulled her away from Cort in the predawn hours to stare out the window into a dim reddish-gray sky. She had come out of her slumber wide awake, her eyes flying open as if her body had switched off any need for dreams, and trying to get back to sleep proved futile, even with the reassuring feel of Cort’s skin against hers. She rose and dressed to keep Cort from sensing her agitation; but he had a keen awareness of his own, the kind that seemed tied to her presence; and before long, he joined her at the window, talking to her in quiet tones of the coming day.
She didn’t have much willpower to argue with his desire to go down early, to find Maximus before his entrance. They left their room as the sun’s edge made itself known over the rim of the Colosseum, looked in on Terry and Deidre, who were profoundly asleep. The four of them had already discussed where they were to meet if they were separated, so waiting until the lay-abouts roused themselves was decided against. Rachel found herself following Cort with a kind of grim resolve, his large warm hand tightly clasping hers, winding their way through the streets to the gladiatorial pens.
As they entered, Rachel felt overcome by a wave of uncertainty. The courtyard was swarming with loud voices full of an eagerness for blood, jaded eyes watching every move of every other person around. She didn’t want to be here after all because, even as removed as they were from the arena, death hung about, filling the air between all the chattering people. She wanted to yank Cort back, hear him say it wasn’t real.
Her soft-spoken lover paused to look back at her as they came to a stop near a pillar, his green eyes slightly dark, misunderstanding her reluctance.
“I don’t think they will care to take me again,” he told her, stepping close to cup her face with his hand. His thumb unconsciously stroked her cheek.
She nodded, pressing her cheek into the palm of his hand, but said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could verbalize what was going through her mind, couldn’t identify what was making her pause. The look on his face made her memory flash back to the room in Redemption. Despite her training, despite all the warnings thereof, she had stayed to guide Cort, followed a need to make the passage easier. She could see the same shadow in his eyes.
They heard a cheer as people greeted the gladiators coming into view behind the gates. Looking at her one more time, Cort gave her a small smile and then tugged her forward; and Rachel followed, if for no other reason than she didn’t want to be parted from him again.
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
Cort and Rachel stood slightly behind a large pillar, just watching at first. Maximus walked slowly through a door and crossed the yard, his eyes taking the measure of the people who'd come to look at him and his fellows. Not wanting any part of it, he circled around and took a seat by himself, turning his thoughts inward.
"Win the crowd," Proximo had told him. He looked at his hands again. Winning the crowd was not what was on his mind. All he wanted was to stay alive, to stay alive just...long enough. Commodus. He would be in the great arena today. His jaw worked at the thought of seeing the man again. But he, himself, must not be seen...not yet. He would choose a helmet that would conceal his features as much as possible. Perhaps...after?
An angry shout, a sudden scuffle from beyond the bars caught his attention. Two men, disagreeing on a bet. He blew a short puff of disgusted breath over his lips and started to turn his head away again. But, who was that? He rose, walking quickly to the bars, cocking his head to one side to see better. The Arizonian? Could it be? Had he not been removed from among the gladiators some time back in Zucchabar? Why would he be here?
"You!" he called, jerking his chin up sharply toward the man.
Rachel's hand tightened its grip on Cort's arm. "NO!" she hissed. "It's too dangerous!"
Cort looked down at her and briefly rested his own hand atop hers. "It’ll be all right, Rachel. I’ll just be a moment." And with that, he walked toward Maximus.
Rachel couldn't stand to have him away from her side. Not here. Not now. So she trotted along behind him and when he stopped beside the bars, stood at his right side and just slightly back. Her lips parted as she stared at Maximus. How many times had she seen his movie, had seen the shortly-to-be-done exchange between him and young Lucius? She had even seen him in person now several times, but always at a distance. Standing two feet in front of her, bars or no bars, his immediate presence was altogether a different matter. He radiated an intensity that was absolutely physical. There was this sense of coiled power in him, of energy barely kept contained within his skin. She knew, of course, what he meant to do today, given the chance, and that he had accepted that the doing of it would cost him his life. Yet he stood there, his fingers wrapped around the bars, and was more...alive...than almost anyone she had yet to encounter in her life.
His eyes flicked past her, taking in her presence, but it was Cort he was interested in. "You are here," he stated. "Why?"
Cort thought about his answer. "To see you in the games today," he replied truthfully.
"You have made some wager?" The General's lip curled slightly.
"No," Cort smiled. "I have not."
Maximus was studying Cort's face with great care. "You look...much...like me."
"I know."
"You were a gladiator?"
"No. Well, not really. Only for that one day."
"You have come to see me. Why is that?"
Cort licked his lips and glanced at Rachel, who was almost imperceptibly shaking her head ‘no.’
"To tell you it will be all right."
"All right? What will be all right?"
"Today." Cort licked his lips again. "Today will be all right."
Maximus' eyes widened a bit. "What do you know of today?"
Rachel pressed into Cort's side. "Be careful!" she whispered.
The General heard. "Be careful?" His eyes growing dark with suspicion, he snapped. "Who ARE you?"
"A friend," Cort replied quickly. "Only that. I mean you no harm, Maxi...." Too late he snapped the name off with his teeth.
Maximus took a step back from the bars. The man knew who he was! Oh, gods! Was all to be lost?
Cort saw Maximus' eyes, knew instantly what he must be thinking. "No!" he said firmly. "I AM a friend. You will come to no harm by my doing." His eyes locked onto the General's.
Maximus stared into their depths, not seeing deception lying there. Still. It was getting too dangerous. Whenever this man, this Arizonian appeared, things happened, things that had no explanations for their being. "You...know?" He held his mouth in a grim line. Perhaps the man had served under his command? There were a number of former soldiers among the gladiators.
Cort nodded. "You have friends, General. On this side of the bars. You’re not alone. Don’t give up hope. I give you my word I’ll not bring danger to you."
A little stab of something went through Maximus at the man's use of his former rank. It had been a long while since anyone had addressed him so. "You were in the army?"
Cort shook his head 'no'. "Then...?" Maximus continued, but Rachel tugged hard on Cort's sleeve.
"Cort," she whispered, "we need to be taking our seats soon. Terry...?"
Maximus' mind raced. The man's name was 'Cort'? Suddenly he asked, "You said Arizonia was far from Zucchabar. How far?"
Cort grinned. "Very far. Further than you could ever imagine."
Rachel started to step away, trying to pull him with her. There was so much he wanted to say to Maximus, but he knew he must not. As he lifted his foot to turn, he reached quickly out, resting his hand for the briefest moment atop the General's fingers as they curled again around a bar. "God be with you," he said and then he and Rachel melted into the crowd.
Maximus took his hand off the bar, looking down at his fingers. "Strange," he murmured, then walked back to the bench and sat again, trying to center his thoughts on what lay before him this day. He'd not sat there more than 10 minutes when the hand motion of a boy caught his eye. He smiled and got to his feet again.
Sid took his seat, carefully chosen for its side view into the box where Commodus would be seated. He wanted to enjoy the young Emperor's enjoyment of the soon-to-be-splashing blood. He'd always liked that part of this movie. Commodus was almost...cute...in his pleasure as the waves of red splashed through the air. Too bad they wouldn't show the tossing of the bread to the crowds in this particular scene. Oh, well. The movie-makers had chosen, alas, not to include the fact that young Commie also increased his personal pleasure level from time to time by having live snakes tossed into the crowds along with the bread. Now THAT he would have liked to have seen! Drat Ridley anyway.
His eyes scanned the rapidly-filling arena. It would be much harder to locate the K&R agent and his rag-tag band of so-called Retrievers in this milling mass of humanity than it had been in Zucchabar. He knew they would be in attendance, though. Well, presuming they had survived the trip from Africa. Him? Well, he had his scene-transfer device and did not have to bother with such mundane matters as crossing large deserts and bodies of water.
He was fascinated by how all this worked. He knew that only a small part of the great arena had actually been constructed, that there was only one of the massive gateways into it, and that it had been built in Malta. Yet, because he was IN the movie, he was in Rome and the entire colosseum curved around him as he turned his head from one of its gateways to the other. Ah, Hollywood! Ya hadda love it!
His anticipation level was rising. Soon the pitiful little band dubbed 'the Barbarian Horde' would be walking out onto the sands and he could watch Maximus in action, marshalling his men into enough semblance of order that most would survive. His eyes sparkled, thinking how, of them all, only the General would not salute the Emperor. He liked that.
He leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees, waiting. So occupied was he with his thoughts he did not see Bree, did not see her see...him.
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
“You know who that was, don’t you?” Terry asked of Deidre as she sat in silent squirming discomfort on the narrow ledges they called seating in the Colosseum. They had found places in the upper levels of the stadium that allowed for a more disorganized mixture of the populace, men and women, which the already-disgruntled historian in Deidre was quick to point out. In Real Live Rome, she and Rachel would have to confine themselves to the upper regions while he and Cort were elsewhere. As it was, there was no protest as she and Rachel accompanied Cort and Terry to seats in the lower levels. The crowd around them was talkative and excited, standing to roar with approval as the announcer, his bright red hair a glowing spot amid the dark swarthiness of the crowd, roared out the news that the gladiator games would begin.
Deidre glanced at Terry, who was grinning at her with a bit of a twinkle in his eyes.
“That Roman version of a game show host? Why doesn’t he just add ‘come on down, you’re on the Price is Right?’” she quipped and then relented. “No, I don’t know who that was.”
Terry tweaked a strand of her hair. “That was David Hemmings, who played Mordred in the film version of ‘Camelot.’”
“At least we’ll be out of the sun,” Rachel remarked, off topic, and pointed up to the velarium with its long strips of white canvas stretched out over the space of the Colosseum, an ancient retractable roof.
“Yes, curious, that,” Terry replied, watching as some were inexplicably pulled back and then stretched out again. “I think there were some problems with shadows in the film,” he said half to himself, but didn’t have much more time to add to the trivia at hand, for the pitch of the roaring crowd drowned out every thought they tried to pursue. The roar was not entirely because of the people surrounding them, either, for brightly gilt chariots surged out of their compartments, driven with maddened fervor around the circus. Cort rose to his feet, eyes fixed upon the small pitiful cluster of ‘barbarians’ in the arena.
Deidre remained seated for several minutes as Terry and Rachel joined, not wanting to see the bloodshed, trying to reconcile all her romantic notions of digging up history and actually experiencing it with the present collusion of film-making. Zucchabar had been a dirty little hole, a pittance of scuffles and small vendettas. Somehow the fighting and penned-in warfare had seemed natural in that element. It’s what the barbarians did in the far-flung corners of the Empire. She looked up at the highest tier of the Colosseum, its white fascia gleaming, its decorative columns the very essence of civilized structure; then turned misted eyes below where the same dirty tactics and caged savagery were cheered by those who set up those columns. All the glory of Rome, its prominence of culture and technology, all gathered now to revel in earthy blood. Barbarians, indeed! Somehow, digging up artifacts in the hills of Italy weren’t ever going to be the same for her.
Livius had completely forgotten Brianna once the announcer threw wide his arm to direct all attention to the band of warriors entering the arena, forgotten to finish his request for another goblet of wine. Livipor caught the cup as it tilted to pour out the remaining dregs as Livius stood, laughing and calling out with the others to the Barbarians. Brianna took this opportunity to watch herself. She could see Maximus, knew the lines of the helmet he wore, could feel the grim set of fatalism emanating from his stance. An incredulous murmur went up as the chariots made their rounds and the Barbarians formed a distinctly military cluster, a turtle-shape of shields, back against back. She looked over to Commodus who was watching with his own degree of amused bafflement.
Then a flash of purple fell out of line with the Emperor, a color to be only had by the royalty. It said much for the desire for bloodshed on Commodus’ part to have missed this incongruous bit of color as it sat separate, apart, in the midst of dirty white and yellow…purple and blue…
Her mouth fell open, less out of shock than dismay over this new complication. He was here, as smug as any creature could possibly be on the verge of winning. Sid.
But if he was here…would the others be?
She took deep breaths to calm herself, trying to find the faces she remembered from Zucchabar…there. On the other side, well above the tier of noblemen.
A flash of remembrance how the one man, and the young woman beside him, had seen her. But, of course, this was a bigger place, more people. Brianna pulled her mantle up over her head, hiding as much of her hair and her face as possible. There were other blondes in the crowd, but not many, and she knew Sid had the all the sharp eyesight that military surveillance technology could give him. If he hadn’t spotted her now, he would and soon.
She kept her head bent as she continued to serve Livius his wine, watch over his things, hoping her lack of involvement in the events in the arena would not be conspicuous. She knew what Sid would do if he knew she was in Rome; but, if the others were not with Sid, did that mean they did not know he was there as well? Were they not working for him?
As the crowd began to realize that the “barbarians of Carthage” held a few seasoned Roman soldiers with a will to live, Brianna began to trace through a plan, one that would risk much in the way of the security that Livius offered, one that would be a gamble for something intangible, yet was so very necessary It was a bit far-fetched and one that would be hard to justify if the wrong people, if Livius or others of Rome caught her…but she had to try. She had no intention of staying in the movie, even if Livius were a temptation.
She looked over at the retrievers again and again. The four of them looked surprisingly subdued in the midst of the raucous fevered people, knowing what would come. They couldn’t know Sid was there as well, then, Brianna wondered; otherwise, they’d be standing with him…wouldn’t they? Of the two options opening themselves to her now, those four seemed the least likely to spurn her.
Her eyes returned as though to a lodestone to the center of the arena. Even from this distance, there was no mistaking the sculpted gladiator that was Maximus. She sucked in a deep breath, as though plunging into water.
At the very least, she had to try.
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
He stood there, the sun beating on his metal helmet, sweat already trickling down his cheeks, the back of his neck. His fingers, curled tightly around the javelin, were tense and he flexed them as, grimly, he listened to all the men surrounding him salute the emperor. His eyes locked on Commodus. "We...who are about to die," he repeated soundlessly. "You, Commodus, you who are about to die...if the gods are with me today. You."
A few brief words to his men. His men. They were not his men, they were Proximo's. But if he could, by the gods, he would make them his, make them his so they might survive.
The great gates began to swing open. His belly muscles tightened. What would be coming out? It could be... anything.
Chariots! Against men on foot. Would the men listen to him? Would they stay together? He saw one, then another, strike out individually...instantly cut down.
In Zucchabar, even when he faced several gladiators at once, he had time to plan his moves and carry them out deliberately. Here, everything was a blur, everything was moving all at once. It was like that moment when the front waves of two great armies met and the world flashed about you in arrow and axe, in the swish of blade, the motion of bodies.
His eyes widened a bit as he took it in. It was...familiar...despite its great differences. Instantly he was 'general' and not 'slave'. "To me!" he shouted and many of them, most of them, desperate for some sense of leadership, obeyed. He was grimly satisfied at their response. His goal, sitting alone, had been to kill Commodus. That remained, still, now that this farce of a battle was underway, but had been joined by a deadly determination in his breast to keep as many of these men alive as he could.
Cort was transfixed. Absolutely transfixed by the sight of it right before him. Resting his elbows on both knees, his chin on his laced fingers, he barely breathed as he watched. He knew each move, knew the outcome of each, yet still...today...every muscle in his body clenched in the tension of the watching. Maximus was taking a rag tag batch of men and making them...his. You could see it happening.
Other seagreen eyes watched it happening as well. Sid sat straight, his eyes intent, never leaving Maximus. "He does it so easily," he whispered under his breath. "Makes them his. They come to him like children to a father. And he knows it. He knows they will. He knows he is the leader, the one they will turn to, the one they will follow." Leaning back a bit, he sighed. "Yes," he said to himself. "I have need of such a man as you." He was completely unaware of the closeness of his words to what Judas had said, approaching the Christ. "Have you need of such a man as I?"
Sweat was in his eyes now but there was no way to wipe it and so he blinked rapidly. Yet the salt stung them. He paused one moment, just to breathe, then turned right as the chariot bore down on Hagen, distracted by the arrow in his lower leg. "HAGEN!" he shouted, running toward the large man, all else forgotten in that urgent split second. He dove, tackling him, pulling them both face down into the sands as the long wheel blade swished less than an inch above him.
Cort smiled. Maximus did not merely make the men his by his commands, his authority, his knowledge. He made them his by doing things like that. Hagen would never forget...never...what had been done for him, risked for him, in this moment.
Sid shook his head. An unthinkable action. The foolishness of it, the wanton disregard for personal safety were things completely foreign to him. Then he smiled, thinking of his plans.
He lifted his eyes to the sky as he thought, then when he slowly lowered them, found himself looking into Terry's. Ah well, no matter if they knew he was here. The whole lot of them were far too incompetent to be more than annoyances. Baring his teeth in a Cheshire cat smile, he waved.
"Terry? What IS it?" Diedre asked, suddenly aware of the intensity of his stare at a particular spot among the spectators.
"Sid!" Terry hissed through his teeth.
"Sid?" Rachel gasped, squinting to see where he was looking. "Where?"
It was then Sid waved. Terry shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. Sid was in the movie. He blew out a long breath, then looked at him again, a muscle twitching below his left eye. How LONG had he been here? Had he been in Zucchabar...or even before?
Then a sudden thought hit him. "He'll have a warp shell!"
"You're right!" she agreed, her whole face brightening. "Oh, Cort," she said, turning to him, "we'll be going home after all!"
"Hmmmm?" Cort replied absently, his eyes, his attention on the General still.
"CORT! Listen!"
"What?" he asked, not wanting to be distracted from the arena.
"Look there!" Rachel said, using her hand to turn his chin in the right direction. "Sid."
His mouth dropped open. "My God!" he said softly. "It IS!"
"Yes," Rachel continued. "And he'll have a warp shell."
Cort turned his gaze back to the arena. "He wants the General," he said flatly. Licking his lips as he looked back at Rachel. "Why?"
Terry shook his head again. "Remember that, for him, this retrieval is the most important of all." He looked from Sid down to Maximus. "I think he has...plans...that he's told no one about."
"Couldn't he just have come to the movie to get us?" Diedre asked.
"Possibly," Terry said slowly. "But if that's what he wanted, he would have just found us and let us know he was here." He narrowed his eyes. "But he didn't do that, now did he?" He sighed. "Looks like he has his own agenda."
"We mustn’t lose sight of him." Rachel voiced what they were all thinking.
"We won’t."
The battle was over. The Carthaginians had defeated Rome. Commodus wanted to meet this Spaniard fellow who had fought so well. Maximus sat his horse feeling kicked in the gut. He'd tossed away the sword, retrieved a javelin and was sizing up the distance to the imperial person when Commodus simply got up and...left. Moments later, a small gateway opened and Marcus' progeny came striding out.
Maximus dismounted, quick hope rising up his core. Perhaps...yet? He hadn't had to win his freedom to come face to face with the emperor. The emperor was coming to him, coming...now. The helmet was baking his head. He almost felt dizzy from the combination of heat, the tension of anticipation. That he would die in moments didn't matter. He needed a weapon! Something small, yet sharp, something that would serve in close quarters where there was no room for a full-armed swing but only a forceful, swift jab.
He turned when the Praetorian motioned them to kneel, nodding to his men, eyes scanning the bloodied sand. Ah, a broken arrow! He knelt close, palming it, standing with it concealed by hand and forearm. His heart beat thunderingly in his chest as he looked up, hearing the crunch of Commodus' approaching feet. And...then. The boy. The boy running up, smiling, pulled close by his uncle's arms.
Breath stopped. Heart stopped beating and settled heavily into his gut. All there was in the world was the face of the boy, the baking heat pressing into his body, and a sickness in his soul that was nearly more than he could bear. It was done. Oh, gods...it was done, was all for nothing. A lostness rose in him unlike anything he'd felt since Spain. "Forgive me," his heart said to his wife, his son.
He rose slowly to his feet, turned away from the sight of the boy hanging on the murderer. Then came the voice, the familiar, hated voice. "How dare you turn your back?" it said, imperious and proud with its rights of rank. It demanded to know his name.
He stood there, the arrow still palmed, his chance to thrust it where it belonged...gone. Tipping his head slightly down, he just breathed. He knew when he took off his helmet, he would be signing his death warrant. The sun...for one long moment...stood still in the sky. Then he sighed, sighed out his loss, his regret, and let the anger take their place so that he might turn and face what awaited. He said it. He said it all. All that Commodus had done. And he acknowledged that vengeance might well not be his in this life but he wanted the man to know he could not rest easy in the next. It was all he had to say. Then he waited for death to come to him, lifting his chin slightly, his face composed.
It was then what Proximo had told him came into play. The crowd had been won and they wanted their emperor to know they had. Their yells and roaring rose around the small group in the arena like a vortex of whirling sound. Still...he waited, hope not rising. Commodus wanted him dead. This he knew. Whether Commodus would let the mob sway his mind, this was in grave doubt. All one could do was...wait. Everything had been taken out of his hands. It would be as it would be.
Then the slow, upward turning of the royal thumb. He accepted it as he would have accepted his death. In this moment, THIS is what would be. Commodus turned on his heel, retreating toward the doorway. Maximus' eyes fixed briefly on Quintus. Not a muscle in the General's face moved. Not one. He said it all with his eyes, then saluted him...with his left arm.
Tipping his head, he let the roar of the crowd wash over him, drop down around him. Something in him rose up to meet it and he lifted his arm, acknowledging them, what they had done. Perhaps...yet...it would be in this life?
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
Brianna had hovered over Livius with exaggerated humility while the Colosseum clamored with frenzied excitement over the heroics of Maximus and his collaborators. She wavered over possibilities, wobbled over choices, what few there were, to make. She knew one of the four retrievers was Cort, had been warned of Terry…Dimetri has been particularly scornful of the dark-haired woman and the one with the amazing red hair was apparently unplanned. But where could they be staying? Her mind reeled with the idea of having to search the teeming city. And in all of this, she would have to avoid being caught by Sid once more...not to mention not giving Livius any reason to suspect her of running away. She found it difficult to harden her heart towards him, as he always seemed to look at her with something more than pride in acquisition. Was there something instilled in film that lent itself to wish-fulfillment, that was inherent in the motivations of the people who inserted their own selves? Brianna was beginning to appreciate why acting held so many people in its sway: here was in environs for revealing the hidden. But harden her heart she must, because while the other retrievers were here, potential was far more flexible, and the thought of being alone in the perpetual loop of the film was not something she wanted to contemplate. She had heard stories….
The din of the spectators died when Commodus left his podium, ostensibly to go below and approach the victors who had so handily upset the pre-selected re-enactment. Sid was too smug and fascinated to notice anything else, she mused and decided if she didn’t act now, she would never figure out a way to act on any plan. They would leave the stadium, she and Livius would return to his villa, and she would be unable to find her way back again without good cause.
“Livius, we are nearly out of wine [how fortuitous!]. I shall go down and purchase some more,” she said to the nobleman as he peered intently at the figure of Commodus demanding to know why Maximus was turning away. One could hear the entire stadium breathing. Was there any man as audacious as the one who just lifted his mask and confronted a stunned Emperor?
Livius waved her off, too engrossed, too amazed by the revelation of Maximus’ identity. With that, Brianna slipped through the crowd and down the steps to the ground level, trying to view what Terry and company were doing. They too were departing, she could see.
So much like a stadium at home was the Colosseum that Brianna felt sure she could figure out the layout with reasonable surety, but would she make it to their outlet in time? Would she be able to get their attention? She ran where there was space and darted among people clustered, some hawking wine, others…well, she didn’t have time to notice.
She saw Terry and Cort leave their particular gate and head in the direction of the plebian quarters. The poorest side of town. Brianna ran as hard as she could, but the distance between herself never seemed to close. She followed them as far as she dared, followed them away from the Colosseum into the first segments of the subura. Except, milling crowds conspired against her, people who had no clue of her desperation, and the last she saw was the four of them turn into a side street that looked as if it might lead to more private quarters.
She had to stop, stop because she was getting too far away from the Colosseum, and because what little adrenalin she possessed was thoroughly drained by now. Maybe she could bribe Livipor to act as messenger. Breathing hard from the hard effort, Brianna turned back to return to Livius, slightly more hopeful, still greatly anxious that the one chance she had of leaving the world of Gladiator was filtering away. They could have Maximus if they wanted, she argued with herself. Just as long as I can get out of here.
“How are we to find him?” Rachel asked as the four of them sat in the little room she and Cort used. They had returned with the idea of getting ahead of the spill of spectators, to regroup after the discovery that Sid had been present and unrepentant. “Do you think he’ll try to find us?”
“What bothers me is the idea that he’s been in the film for quite some time and he’s just now allowed himself to be detected, until now” Terry supplied, leaning against the wall. The other three knew him well enough by now to see that he was seething. “He had to have known we were knocked into the wrong spot, had to have been able to track us once in himself…” he trailed off, clamping down on a desire to explain what he meant by that. “He’s here for Maximus…apparently ONLY for Maximus.” He grimaced as the conclusive thought formed on his lips. “The question is when.”
“You don’t trust that he'll stay with our original rendezvous point?” Deidre asked. “Would he really be so callous as to…as to…” she trailed off too, looking at Cort and Rachel as the idea of Sid abandoning them flitted across her thoughts. She fell back to lean against the wall as her face grew pale.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” was Cort’s tight response. “I haven’t trusted that sidewinder since…” he didn’t finish that thought, glancing at Rachel.
“He deliberately gave Cort a placebo for entry,” Rachel added, pulling Cort’s hand into her lap for comfort. “That alone should say what he’s got planned. I know it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but I have to say I'm upset that if he's willing to hurt one of us, he’s willing to do anything.” She met Terry’s eyes and swallowed. “Even abandon us.”
They all sat in several minutes of silence, fraught with new anxieties, until Terry interrupted it.
“Only thing to do is to try and track him down before he decides to take Maximus. He’s not so callous as to ruin any ‘ripening’ of character, as he put it,” here he grimaced at the distasteful choice of words, “by pulling Maximus out before certain events transpire. Its what makes him different than Mikol or Dimetri. They don’t care. Sid, in his own twisted way, does. At least, I would hope so, after the retrievals we’ve performed for him,” he said to Rachel. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I think we can at least sleep on it tonight. Gain a little perspective. But in the morning, I should try…”
“You? Just you, Terry? I don’t think so,” Deidre argued. “I’m coming with you.”
“We’ll see,” Terry replied with calculated neutrality. He put his hand up to her mouth as she opened it to protest. “You’re right. We shouldn’t be separated any more than we have to be. But I have to think. ”
“What could Rachel and I do?” Cort sounded tired, as if he had been in an entirely different state of emotions all along. Terry shook his head.
“No more than what Deidre and I can do,” he said. “I know that’s not helpful, but it would seem we are at that point where things could happen fast and furious, so we need to have some idea of where we want to be, so we don’t let confusion rule the hour. We can discuss that tomorrow. This whole day has…worn on me.”
He tapped Deidre on the arm to indicate he was ready to go. “I need to see some of those maps we brought along. Don’t go anywhere without letting me know, right, Rache? Cort? Right? See you in the morning.” He paused before letting the tapestry at their door fall back in place, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Chin up, mates. It’s not over yet.”
Rachel sat in silence after Terry and Deidre departed, leaning against Cort and watching the sun’s rays bend through the window, the sky a pinkish orange in the background. She tried to trace back the amount of time they had been in this pursuit, but found herself absent-mindedly tracing patterns on the back of Cort’s roughened hands as they lay in her lap. The wounds around his wrists from Zucchabar had healed some time ago, but the scars were still palpable.
It had begun with a simple glass of water and a desire to cleanse those wounds….
She felt Cort lean over and rest his cheek on the top of her head.
“What are you thinking, my love?” He asked.
She brought his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles, matching his fingers with hers before answering.
“I was trying to remember how much time it’s been since we were really alone. I miss our little blue house, walks in the park. I miss home.” A pigeon fluttered into the window and waddled its way into a corner to roost, chuckling to itself. Voices of street vendors floated upwards and a slight wind made the tree nearby rustle. Rachel found herself longing for rain. “I miss your voice. Talk to me. I need to hear you.”
^ & ^ & ^ & ^ & ^
He was silent for a while, holding her hand, tracing his fingertip around the edges of her fingers, one by one until he had outlined her whole hand. Then, lifting it up, he kissed each of her fingertips in a manner that had about it something very much of a blessing.
Pressing it to his chest, he covered it entirely with his own and just held it there, his eyes closed.
Rachel studied his face, his light lashes long on his cheeks and such a quiet beauty resting in his features that, for a moment, tears stung her eyes. He looked like he belonged in some other place, some place that was holy and set apart and a sudden fear clutched her heart that he might have realized he should be there and not...here...with her. She had been so eager to love him, to have him love her, be with her. Had she kept him from going back where he truly belonged, where he 'fit'?In all the books she had read, in all the movies she had seen where the woman fell in love with a priest, she had, in the end, loved him enough to let him go. Did she love Cort so much, so terribly, terribly much that it was not...enough?
His face still remaining completely calm and in repose, his tongue finally appeared, running across his lower lip, slowly wetting it. Almost in slow motion he turned his head toward her then, his eyes opening gradually as he did so. He just looked at her for a long time, keeping her hand pressed to his chest.
"I don't miss home," he said very softly. The clutch around her heart tightened.
He lifted his other hand, putting it atop the one already on his chest. "How can I," he continued, "when home is here...with me...always with me?"
Again tears stung her eyes. Seeing them, he moved his top hand out, wiping them away softly with his thumb. "Did you not know that, my love?" He cocked his head a bit, a smile curving his lips slightly.
After a moment, his head turned again as his gaze found the small window and he seemed to be seeing things other than the skyline of Rome. "When I was a boy, home was the presence of my Grandmother. Then that was taken away and for the next years, the years I rode with Herod, there was no home." His eyes closed briefly, then looked at the window again. "Nothing at all like home."
He turned his gaze back to her, his eyes holding hers. "Then I found another place that became home for me. Sometimes it was very like the sense of it I had when my Grandmother was alive." He smiled again. "There was a warmth to it that settled on me at times like the memory of her shawl, soft and comfortable."
His eyes grew dark. "Then that, too, was taken." His lip curled slightly. "And I was hauled into Redemption in a way that was as far from any sense of home as you could get." His brow creased. "And...he...was there, sitting in his chair, smiling at me, waiting for me to do his bidding once again, waiting to bend me to his will...again."
His lips felt suddenly dry and he licked them quickly. "I knew I was a dead man, then. I knew even if I killed him, he would have set it up so I'd be killed, too. Of course. That was how it would be. I knew that."
He blew out a long breath. "At night, Rachel, at night I lay there chained to that fountain and I was so thirsty I didn't think I'd make it to dawn." His tongue made another crossing of his lower lip. "So I turned onto my back and I just lay there, looking at the stars. That was my only sense of home then, Rachel. That it was somehow way up there, out of my reach." Another, even more ragged breath, followed the first.
"Then it was done. I stood there in that street, Rachel, and it was done. I couldn't believe it was over, that he was dead. I just couldn't believe it."
He pressed his lips tightly together before continuing. "But, God, Rachel, I hurt so bad. It wasn't just my hand and the other parts of me that had been beaten. It was more than that. I remember looking down that street and watching the clouds of dust and smoke rising up, filling the sky. And there were no stars, Rachel. I knew that even if it was night, there would be no stars. I felt," he sighed, "cut off. Cut off from them, from anything, anything at all, that could be called... home." He blinked several times. "It was just all...gone. All of it. And the one thing I had was that badge. And I didn't want it. Redemption wasn't home. I didn't want to stay there, but there was no place to go, no place that would be home. So I sat down on those steps and let the pain of it take me."
He moved a hand to touch her cheek. "And that's when you came." A single tear brimmed in his right eye, tracking slowly down his cheek. "Right in the middle of nothing but pain...there was suddenly you." He swallowed hard. "The blue house is nice. Yes. But it doesn't matter. All that matters is you. And you are in me, sealed there." He pressed his hand hard over hers on his chest. Then the terrible need to be in her took him and he lay back, pulling her down atop him.
Maximus walked from the arena, the sounds of the crowd's roar still vibrating the air around him. His men...HIS men...walked on either side of him into the cooler shadows of the gladiator quarters where fresh shoutings of his name greeted him. His face was impassive. It all meant nothing except that he had lived through the afternoon and might, because of it, have another chance to kill Commodus. He knew, though, as he walked, that Commodus would not come out like that to greet him now that the emperor...knew. Indeed, like as not he would not live the night because of it. How simple it would be to send an assassin into his quarters. He clenched his teeth grimly. He had come so close.
So very, very close before it was snatched away by the coming of the boy. His gut still felt almost sick with it. Strong brown fingers tightened around the broken shaft of the arrow he yet palmed. He would keep it, keep it as a token, a hope of things to come. He almost smiled that no one, neither gladiator nor soldier, noticed he still had it.
Later, he sat alone at a small wooden table, a collection of walnut half shells arranged in front of him. Part of his mind left the dark room and wandered again in the open fields of northern Europe. Using the tip of the arrow, he pushed a shell here, another there as though planning the battle strategy of his troops. Though he looked quite preoccupied, his body was coiled, ready. Some assassin was probably already making his way into the quarters.
They lay there on the floor still entwined and she tracked her fingers slowly up and down through the light hairs on his chest. Release had come to her in more than one way, yet still she could not get the image of him out of her mind as he leaned forward in the Colosseum, watching the battle so intently. "Maximus," she said softly. "What of him? What does it mean to you, Cort, when you watch him as you do?"
His arm under her, lifted her again so that she lay once more on his chest, her eyes mere inches from his, the flesh of her belly rising and falling in tandem with his as they breathed in the same rhythm. He spread her hair so that it veiled down around their faces, enclosing them in a world bounded by its waves. "He is me, Rachel, sitting on those steps. With no stars. And you are not coming." He fisted his fingers in her hair. "All he has is ashes and dust."
He closed his eyes, pulling her gently down until, with her lips resting atop his, he murmured, "and he breaks my heart.”
ON TO PART 16