LOST IN THE EMPIRE
PART 9

In the far distance he could see the Imperial tents and those of the high-ranking officers near them. The movie had been so unclear, really, about the timing of things. He knew Marcus had asked Maximus for his decision before nightfall, but he also knew Maximus was asleep when the news of the Emperor's death came. His mind was totally absorbed in what must be going on in those tents. How he wanted to BE there!

Rachel cuddled into him, her fingers trailing down the length of his collarbone. He lifted one hand, letting it rest atop her head, enjoying the peace of her, the closeness, while at the same time in thought he walked in other places. Then she sighed softly in contentment and he tipped his head down, kissing her hair. Yes, being here with her, that was what truly mattered. He was not a part, not really, of what was happening, what would happen shortly, off there in the distance. But he was a part of...this. Encircling her again with both arms, he pressed her lightly to himself. "Thank you," he murmured into her hair.

"Whatever for?" she asked drowsily, not knowing why he would say that at this moment.

"For all of it," he continued. He pictured himself standing in the street of Redemption, badge in hand. “Now that I know, now that I understand, that from there I would only... always...go back and tumble across the saloon floor...." He closed his eyes, wanting the sight of that to go away. "I can't bear the thought of it...not anymore. It's why, you know," he whispered, "I'm here. Maximus can't just die over and over." He sighed deeply. "I still don't know what Sid intends to do, why he even wants us out of our films, but it's right. God help us all, it's right. It's a good thing, Rachel, as hard as it is for each of us at the time, it's a good thing. I know that now. I could never go back."

He leaned forward, kissing her brow, then as she tipped her head, his lips found their way down her cheek, resting soft and warm upon her mouth.

"Being here...anywhere...with you. It makes all the difference. YOU make all the difference." His eyes traveled back to the large tents. "Him, though." He sighed again. "I had no wife nor son to lose. And he loses them again and again. It's got to stop. But," he shook his head, "when he comes, when he's finally free from the loop, no Rachel will have come for him, with him. What will he do then, Rachel? How can we help him...then?" His lips wandered through her hair as he spoke. "You...you know...all my past...all my present... everything yet to be...all of it...it's all rolled up into you."

He looked up the length of the pine beside him. "So very like the pines near the blue house," he mused. "Our pines. Wherever we go from here, I will carry those pines with me...always. The pines, the moonlight, you." Suddenly he turned her shoulders, pulling her tightly against him. "Rachel." He needed to say her name. "Rachel...Rachel." He crushed his lips against hers, his whole mouth hungry for hers.

Terry and Diedre walked up then, the K&R agent shaking his head, commenting, "I see they've kept themselves...occupied."

At first he didn't think he could sleep. He lay on his cot, his eyes watching the slight movement in the red hangings nearby as the winter wind slipped through a tiny opening. The candle flickered, then guttered out, and he could hear Cicero not far away tending to his duties. For some years now he'd listened to the sounds Cicero made as he moved softly around in the General's tent. It was, he thought, the only vague thing that brought even some small sense of home to him. Home. He drew in a long breath, holding it. Home. Letting the breath out little by little, he felt like the very flow of it was taking home further and further from his grasp. Closing his eyes then, he shut out the sight of the tent, holding onto that breath with his soul, letting himself follow it the long, long miles to Spain. He was walking through the fields of grain, still springy and soft with green. His son laughed somewhere nearby and he heard the sound of his wife humming as she picked herbs in the garden. His breathing slowed and he slept.

Dusk came and, with it, a deepening chill. The four on the ridge had all managed some form of rest, knowing they must ride all night and all the following day. Terry was the first to awake. It had started to snow again and the flakes falling on his face called him back to where he was. He licked his lips, blinked, and stared down at the main encampment. Not much time left now. Touching Diedre's cheek, he frowned at how cold it was. They were supposed to have been in Rome...in summer. Not this. He rose quietly, carefully, wanting her to have even a few more moments of sleep. Bending down, he shook Cort's shoulder lightly, putting his finger to his lips when Cort awoke. Sliding his arm out from behind Rachel, Cort got to his feet, folded his part of the blankets back over her, and joined Terry who had moved several feet away into the woods.

"They should be leaving within the hour," he whispered, nodding his head toward the General's tent. "It's time to do the final round-up. We need two more horses." He led Cort down the slope until they could see the area where about 50 horses had been gathered. "Those belonged to cavalrymen who were killed during the battle," he explained. "They've yet to be...reassigned...and seem to be somewhat more lightly guarded. Your mission, should you decide to accept it (afterwards he never knew just quite WHY he'd phrased it that particular way, unless it were some sense of the wild absurdity of what they were doing) will be to relieve them of two horses and meet the three of us...there." He pointed to a spot of thick woods near a ravine several hundred yards further back around the flank of the encampment. Think you can do that?"

Cort grinned. "Watch me!"

Terry was serious. "Can't do that, Cort. Diedre, Rachel, and I will be gathering up our supplies, getting a few more, and be waiting for you in the ravine." He put his hand on Cort's shoulder. "Just be careful and keep to the edges when you can, ok?"

Cort looked back to where Rachel slept, barely visible in the deepening darkness. "I promise."

Reluctantly, Terry turned and began walking back up the slope, looking over his shoulder more than once as Cort moved quietly from cover to cover toward the horses. He was still biting his lip worriedly when he woke the two women.

"Cort? Where's Cort?" Rachel exclaimed.

"Time for him to get more horses," Terry explained, his grim voice not bringing her any comfort.

"By himself?" she gasped.

"No help for it, Rachel," Terry replied. "We've got a lot to do, the three of us. You knew he would be the one to do that."

Truly, she had, but in the hours cuddling next to him, listening to him talk, she'd let the thought of it get tucked away. Now the reality of it was here and she felt a cold fear clutching around her heart.

"He'll be all right," Diedre said, touching her arm comfortingly.

"Oh, I hope so," Rachel fretted. "I hope nothing bad happens to him."

Cort crouched behind some shrubs, studying the position and movements of the guards. He couldn't help but remember the time he and Herod had stolen all of Senator Claymoore's brood mares. His hand dropped to his side where his holster would have been, his fingers finding only cloth. He sighed, suddenly feeling quite naked.

Terry had been right, though. These were unclaimed horses and the guards seemed more relaxed in their duties. There were 5 of them, three scattered around the perimeter of the make-shift corral, two talking by the gate on the far side. He remained silent, crouching, watching. The two guards by the gate were talking more loudly now, their voices rising in anger over some disagreement. The larger man pushed the smaller, sending him stumbling back several steps. Two of the other three guards moved quickly in their direction, one calling out as he ran. The third guard stayed where he was but his attention was fully focused on his fellows by the gate.

Cort darted through the shadows, keeping to the woods where the trees came nearest the horses. He paused briefly behind a large pine, getting his breath, his fingers working with the length of rope Terry had given him. Looking around the pine, he singled out two horses, slightly apart from the others and nearer to the edge of the clearing. He'd thought they might be hobbled, but this group seemed to be loose inside a hastily arranged barricade. On hands and knees he crept up to the wooden poles that served as fencing, working several long pieces quickly free and laying them quietly to the side. His hands were bare, his fingers feeling thick and heavy with cold. Making his way into the corral, he moved, half-crouching toward the two horses he'd chosen. One of them, a deep brown gelding, lifted his head, watching his approach, snorting softly through quivering nostrils.

"Easy, boy," Cort murmured. "Easy." He reached out a hand, letting the horse get his smell, talking softly, soothingly all the while. Good. This one already had a halter on. One down, one to go.

The gelding seemed aware that the man was comfortable near him and let him approach, let him run his hands down his neck. Cort, of course, had no way of knowing that this was Tiber, experienced cavalry mount of the recently deceased Livius Gaius Septimus. Tiber had been through many Roman campaigns and little spooked him any more. He liked the scent of the man, liked his familiarity with horses, and so he stood still, waiting to see what the man might ask of him. He watched as Cort moved past him, approaching his lighter brown companion. Cort had fashioned a halter from the rope and in a few moments had it on the second horse, leading him back to Tiber, making a low, clucking sound in his throat that Tiber knew meant he should follow as the man headed toward the opening in the fence.

Cort turned, checking on that third guard, still intently watching the other men shouting by the gate. Several more soldiers had left their campfires and were moving toward the gate, attracted by the noise. Still clucking, Cort slipped through the opening, halfway stacking the poles back in place, then led the horses into the woods. When he was some distance in, he mounted Tiber, liking the familiar feel of horseflesh between his thighs, and leading the other horse with the rope, made his way toward the ravine. He looked back once at the corral. "God," he said, "if it's OK to thank You for a good rustling, then I thank You for this one." He patted Tiber's neck. "You, ol' buddy, and I are gonna be good friends." Tiber twitched one ear and snorted softly in the darkness.

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

“Did you see which direction the praetorians went, Terry?” Deidre whispered as they made the slope in the ravine where they were to meet Cort. The three horses promised to Terry had been retrieved not long after they had rejoined Rachel and Cort on the hillside, and they spent an amount of time stuffing as much as they could into the saddlebags that had been attached to the one designated as packhorse. Rachel and Terry had been a bit startled to hear Deidre give a sharp laugh as they secured the bags. Saddles had been supplied for the other two and she told them that she had thought something odd about them, something that made them seem more out of a western movie than any authentic Roman era. Then, she realized: it was the stirrups. Stirrups, she informed, were never part of horse livery back then.

While provender was to be had in decent amounts, tucked safely away to keep dry, Deidre had also made it a point to search out extra clothing for all, stockings for both Terry and Cort, since their simple warrior attire was more suited for the summer; cloaks, more blankets, tunics, one or two pots and earthenware cups, a bundle of herbs for the cooking and other tiny items too varied to keep track of, but had been swept up by Deidre as she thought of them.

Cort left them just as twilight faded out from above the tree-line. Terry led them on an arduous path into the ravine as quickly and quietly as possible, carrying a small covered lantern. It wasn’t until they reached the bottom that all three of them were able to breath more easily and open up the lantern for a bit more light; although for Rachel, each moment that didn’t produce a triumphant Cort was one of intense anxiety. The darkness cloaked them like black velvet around their tiny lamp, made more complete by the ever-present cloud cover, with only a drift of snowflakes to break the flatness of the night.

“I did. Toward the end of this ravine. We should be able to keep up with them. I hope,” Terry added, sotto voice, answering Diedre's question.

“Do you think Cort was caught taking the horses?” Rachel asked. They had no watch, no chronometer, nothing to give them any passage of time, but she felt she had kept her worry to herself long enough. Minutes seemed like hours and the specter of a Cort trussed up in a Roman tent for punishment in the morning was causing her to twist the reins she held into tight loops.

As if in answer, they heard a soft huff nearby and Cort’s voice cutting through the thick cold with an amused tone “If he was, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.” His tall form solidified before them in the pale cast of the lantern light. Behind him stood two horses, one with a rather dignified halter, the other with Cort’s hastily-fashioned one.

While Rachel flung herself wordlessly into Cort’s arms, Terry and Deidre set about checking out the new additions.

“I would’ve been sooner, except I realized there were no saddles,” Cort explained. “As luck would have it, was able to rustle up a couple of those as well,” he said, pointing to one on the rope-haltered horse and the one he had dropped when Rachel came to him.

“This one’s named Tiber,” Deidre said, lifting up Terry’s lantern to point to a metal badge adorning one of the straps on the gelding’s halter. Roman letters were chiseled into the dull gray metal. “Good choice,” she told Cort.

“And convenient. Good work,” Terry congratulated Cort. He motioned to Deidre to mount his horse. “Up and at ‘em, right, luv?”

It had been agreed beforehand that the girls would ride in front of the men on their horses, at least for the duration of the night, as Deidre had not worked with horses since her younger days, and Rachel had never done so in her life. It would also be hard enough keeping track of the praetorians in the forest without making sure that the girls’ mounts did not bolt or get lost in the dark. Cort made short work of saddling Tiber and the second horse, then helped Rachel mount. Terry grabbed the reins of one horse while Cort led the other two and with a soft cry, their little company moved forward into the thickening night.

It had been hard staying awake for the girls for much of the night, bundled as they were next to the warm bodies of their companions. Deidre endured wakefulness a bit longer than Rachel, the latter perfectly content to lose herself to the rhythm of Tiber’s pace (and the comfort of Cort’s arms), but since talking was impossible and impractical, Deidre fell to the inky forgetfulness of sleep as well.

Deidre wasn’t sure what woke her, but she found herself clutching Terry’s waist, cheek firmly sealed to his chest, hovering somewhere between the reality of his arms and a dream where the two of them danced erratically on a sun-drenched deck. Maybe it was the fact that Terry’s voice was rumbling in her ear, she thought, and yawned, trying to wake her brain enough to make sense of his words.

“We should be able to get a better trail once the sun gets higher,” Terry was telling Cort. They had stopped in the middle of a clearing, gray figures against the softening color of dawn.

“No. Tracking them shouldn’t be hard,” the preacher agreed. “Maybe we should have Rachel and Deidre on their horses?”

“Oooh! Cruel! You’re so cruel!” Deidre protested.

“Can’t be helped, Nolia,” Terry urged and helped both Deidre and Rachel become situated on their own mounts. “We’ll continue to hold the reins, but we need you awake and aware. Just a bit further, okay?”

“Coffee. Biscuits. Butter. More coffee,” Rachel began muttering in discontent as the four of them resumed their track. “Now I know how Bilbo Baggins felt.”

^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^ * ^

It was dark in the forest and the endless pillars of pines rose up out of the blackness only briefly as he passed then disappeared behind him always replaced by ever-newly- looming ones. The ground, thick with fallen needles, muffled the sound of the horses' hooves to a soft pad-pad-pad. He wiggled his fingers. His bonds were so tight his blood could barely circulate and, aided by the deep cold, an aching, throbbing chill had settled into them.

He thought of the time he'd fallen 15 feet off the wall, landing flat on his back on the hard-packed dirt. He'd lain there, nearly unable to breathe, his entire body jolted, shocked. He felt like that now. Something in him was amazed that his organs still worked, that his lungs still drew in air and let it out again. The back of his head pulsed where the praetorian's hilt had crashed down. Dizziness had not completely left him yet and the endless flow of the piney shapes only seemed to add to it. He closed his eyes, seeing again his wife's face, hearing again his son's laughter. Knowing that already soldiers had been dispatched to Spain...it was more than he could bear. His mind raced, collided with itself, raced some more. Every muscle in his body was tense with the need to do something... anything.

The hours dragged on, plodding endlessly, and his tension grew. The first faint suggestion of grey dawn floated through the woods, beginning to light the pines into individual shapes. A wolf paused atop a hill to his left, standing, staring. He stared back, his own eyes as deadly, as filled with the need to hunt as were the tawny-grey animal's. His heart literally banged against his ribs and the veins in his neck corded and throbbed.

He would not simply...die. There was no question of that. But bound, how would he fight? Then it came to him. He would be calm, quiet, and would ask for the boon of a soldier's death. Likely they would grant it because of his rank, his reputation. If not, he would find some way, some other way. But timing would be everything. A split second only. He straightened his fingers, rubbing them together. They needed to be limber. For the next 20 minutes he rubbed them steadily, the feeling gradually coming back.

Then he was hauled unceremoniously off the horse and led across an area littered with the skulls and bones from some older battle. He smiled grimly, his lips pressed tightly. He would not be joining them in their repose. Not this day. As he walked, he glanced down at his hands. His wrists were completely together with no give in his bonds at all. It would be harder to do what he planned because of that, but he would do it...because he must.

He made his request, gravely, seriously, then waited, not breathing, for the answer. It came and he drew in a great breath of relief, though not letting his expression change.

Lifting his face into the biting fall of icy flakes, he prayed. It was true. He did only live to see them again. His family. Too much time had passed already. Get on with it then! Lowering his head, he clamped his tongue between his lips, gathering himself, letting his lids close once. Now that his head was down, he let the full feeling of his heart show in his eyes. He was as coiled as a cobra, his muscles ready as a hunting lion.

"My God!" Cort breathed, peering over the tumble of rocks.

Terry gripped his arm, his fingers to his lips. Danger was everywhere. The praetorians were not together. A couple were back with the horses, not with those near Maximus. Neither he nor Cort were ready to take on fully-armed imperial guards.

Cort nodded, not taking his eyes off the scene playing out before him a hundred feet away. The sword was being raised and Maximus had his head down, exposing the back of his neck for the blow. Cort clenched his fists, his teeth; his eyes wide, unblinking. Rachel clutched his shoulder, fearful that he would not be able to contain himself and would run toward the execution site.

The blade descended and Maximus moved, twisting his body, grabbing the sword in his bare hands, paying no attention to the deep slices that opened in his flesh as he buried it in the soldier behind him. Cort's entire body jerked and his breath burst out in a strangled gasp of a sound. Seeing it as a movie was one thing, seeing it IN the movie was something else altogether. His nostrils flared, tense, and his jaw muscles worked rapidly. Rachel tightened her hold on him.

Then Maximus flipped the sword. The hunting wolf looked at its prey and smiled, watching the desperate attempt to unsheathe. One moment more and he moved, slightly crouching, through the pines toward the praetorians by the horses, both of them as yet unaware of the fate of their fellows. Cort's eyes followed his movements, waiting for that particular sound a sword flying end over end makes. After, he saw Maximus fully erect, his sword pointing down, walking behind the pines. The look in his eyes would have been enough to kill most adversaries. Mercy did not linger in them, only the quiet, deadly assurance that this last obstacle to his leaving for Spain must be got out of his way. Cort having faced so many men down the barrel of a gun, watched, studying him. Often he had seen the intent to kill in the eyes of another, but not like this. Even if one had no foreknowledge, there was no doubt, none, as to the outcome. The eyes intended death and would not be denied.

"PRAETORIAN!" Maximus shouted, spitting the word into the frigid air, the call an announcement more than an alert. Then he waited, his sword now gripped in both hands to meet the spurring rider. The lid under Cort's left eye began to twitch, and Rachel felt his whole body tremble with tension.

"I know," she whispered into his ear. "He's going to be terribly hurt and there's no help for it, Cort." He dipped his head in a nod, closing his eyes for a brief second. Unable not to watch, he opened them quickly again, biting down hard on his lower lip as Maximus stepped across in front of the horse.

The last Praetorian was dead and Maximus was on his knees, grunting in pain. Rachel could feel Cort starting to rise to his feet. "No!" she cried softly, turning him to face her. "No," she repeated. "We can't. Not yet. He's not ready. You know that, Cort. He's not ready."

Cort sighed heavily, settling back, leaning his forehead on the rock and closing his eyes. It was too damn hard, this not helping. Then Rachel's cold hand cupped his cheek and he turned his face into it, kissing her palm.

PART 10

LIBRISCROWE INDEX

Co-Author Index