THE PRISONERS IN THE PALACE

Part Fifteen:

 

He continued across the room, stopping just behind her.  She waited, her brush poised 

in mid-air.

"Would you permit me?" he asked softly, putting his hand over hers on the handle of 

the brush.

She nodded slightly and he took the brush and began slowly moving it down the back 

of her hair.  It was somehow enormously intimate and it was not for a while that she 

realized she was holding her breath.  On the vanity in front of her rested a large, 

highly-polished bronze tray.  She could see the reflection of his face in it as he brushed, 

his gaze intent on her hair.  What was he thinking as he stood there so quietly, performing 

this service for her?  It was something she had not expected from him, that he would do 

this.  No one had brushed her hair for her since she was a tiny child and she had forgotten 

how it was with brushes, how when they moved in hands other than your own, the feel of 

them changed entirely, the experience of the brushing became a new and different thing.  

She closed her eyes, her hair physically tingling at his touch, a small, half-strangled sigh 

escaping her lips.

"Did I pull?" he asked.

She shook her head.  "No, it's perfect. It's just that no one...."

He paused, stepping to her side, squatting and looking up at her.  "No 
one...?"

"No one has brushed my hair...not since I can remember."

He smiled, touched her arm lightly, then stood, resuming his brushing.  "It is very like 

wheat, you know.  Wheat in the afternoon sunlight." He let the fingers of his left hand 

run down its length, unused to the silky softness of strands so straight, so blonde.  

"Beautiful," he murmured to himself.

He brushed a while more, enjoying the simple pleasure of it, something in him wanting 

to be gentle with her today after what he'd seen in her eyes on the ledge.  He knew her 

well enough now to understand she was a woman unused to much gentleness.  He could 

not see it now for the drape of the back of her gown clung to her body, but he remembered 

when she had turned there outside the fence of the gladiator compound and he had seen 

the long scar that crossed her back.  When the time was right, he would ask her about it.

Sid, dressed as Siddius, stood in the doorway between the two rooms, watching
Maximus brushing Brianna's hair. She'd not let him even hold a single lock and
there she was, obviously in heaven because the General had just slid his hand
down the back of her head. They looked practically alike, he and Maximus, did
they not? Why, then, was his touch so distasteful? He looked down at his left hand,
the same in every way as the General's, better even as it had fewer scars. What
was wrong with his hand? When you touched it, was it not warm, did it not feel
exactly as flesh felt? Was its interior make-up so important? He looked again
at Brianna.  If she were a cat, she'd be purring and rubbing the General's ankles.
Damn you, he glared. What's wrong with ME?

He cleared his throat loudly and both heads swiveled in his direction, a look of
irritation instantly crossing Brianna's face at the sight of him. "What do YOU
want?" she asked in a tone that caused Maximus to look at her quickly in some 

surprise.

"I was sent with breakfast for you," he replied, inclining his head in a slight bow.

"Sent? By whom?" 

Watch it, Brianna. You do not wish to play games with me. "The orders came from the
kitchen, my lady. I am merely the bearer of the tray."

Maximus was looking at him suspiciously. The last time this servant had brought a tray
for them, he'd found himself in a snowy pine forest. He leaned past Brianna, setting the
brush on her vanity, whispering in her ear as he did so, "Be careful. Our captor may be
planning something again."

Straightening, he looked at Sid and said, "Thank you, Siddius. That will be all."

Sid turned, walking back across Maximus' room. "That will be all," he repeated, his
eyes flashing. "That will be ALL!"  Pausing at the sliding door, he looked back toward
Brianna's room. "There is no one here who says when it is all except for me!" 

Striding into his computer room, he slammed himself into the chair and began pushing
keys angrily. "That will be all. Like hell that will be all!"  Then he leaned back,
breathing heavily. This was not what he'd planned next. This was, in fact, one of his
cast-off ideas. But....

Maximus took Brianna's hand. "Are you hungry...," he started, then began to choke 

and cough.

Neither of them could breathe. They were in the midst of some thick cloud that was 

blazingly hot and filled with particles that clogged their mouths and noses. A sudden 

wind blew it off to one side and he could see through his watering eyes that they were 

on some high mountaintop and the cloud was being belched forth from a volcano just 

across a valley from them.

As though the cloud had blown away just for the purpose of letting him see where 

they were, now it returned, swirling around them, the stench of sulphur overwhelming. 

Brianna had sagged to her knees, gagging, retching with what was filling her lungs. 

Maximus knelt beside her, wrapping his arms tightly about her, trying to hold his 

breath. But he was forced to gasp for air and sucked in a lungful of the cloud, doubling 

over with violent coughing.

Then, just as suddenly as they'd been taken from Brianna's room, they were back, both 

of them lying on the floor, coughing and gasping. He thought he'd never be able to take 

in enough clean air to rid himself of the cloud. He coughed until his ribs hurt and then he 

coughed some more. Tears from his stinging eyes tracked through the grey residue on 

his cheeks. He rolled to a seated position, his elbows on his bent knees, leaning forward, 

still gasping terribly. 

Brianna had thrown up while lying on her back, her lower face and neck covered with 

the results, and she was choking on it. Quickly, he pulled her up, pounding on her back. 

She coughed until she gasped with the coughing and then the two of them sat there on the 

floor, just clinging to one another.

Sid had watched the whole thing, eyes narrowed. "Tell ME when it is all," he growled. 

He rose from his chair, his eyes flashing at the screen, started to leave, then turned back, 

pushing a few quick keys, then left, intending to go find Terry...or Bud...or John...anyone 

he could have an argument with. Too bad Rachel was in the Czech Republik. He was in 

the mood to mop the floor with her. 

She buried her face in his chest, not wanting him to see what she'd done to herself, the 

smell of it rank in her own nostrils. But he acted as though it were not there, as though 

she herself were all that mattered.

They had been sitting on the marble tiles of her room and they were still on marble tiles, 

but when he lifted his head from beside hers, he saw that they were in a small bath house, 

the waters of a pool gently steaming not far to his right. 

He lifted her face, pushing some of her hair away from her eyes as she tried to cover her 

mouth and chin with her hands.  "Shhhh," he murmured to her muffled protestations, 

"it is of no consequence. None at all." Getting to his knees, he stood, lifting her as he rose 

and, fully clothed, walked down the curving white steps into the pool. He sat on the third 

step, letting her body rest, half-floating, across his legs and reached to the side, picking 

up a small folded cloth which he wet. Cradling her upper body on his left arm, he began 

slowly wiping her face, dipping the cloth from time to time to refresh it. He wiped down 

her neck, the tops of her shoulders, then lowered his left arm so the back of her head was 

in the water. Her long hair floated out like blonde seaweed, spreading widely. He leaned 

so that he could rinse the water through it, ridding it of the dust and ash. 

She lay perfectly still, hardly breathing as he washed her, her blue eyes locked on his 

face. She wondered, as she looked at him, if it were possible for a heart to burst from 

being filled with too much love. Her chin trembled and he smiled again.  "Shhh!" he 

repeated. "It is all right." 

When he had finished her hair, he stood, continued down the steps and began to walk 

across the pool, gliding her through the water as he went. "Hold your breath," he said, 

and with a slight hop upwards, took them both completely under the water, swimming 

with her for several yards before surfacing. 

She weighed nothing in his arms, the water buoying her body. The skirt of her blue gown 

floated around her, its front slit open, revealing her legs. He walked with her to the far 

side of the pool where the water was clean, then stopped, beginning to turn in a slow circle 

so that her hair, her skirt flowed out and around as he moved. Then he lay back and she 

curved her arms around his neck, floating with him, the length of her body next to his. 

When he put his feet down again, she stood in front of him, her palms on the wet tunic 

over his chest. Her hair hung forward over her shoulders, streams of water spiraling 

down, curving around her breasts. He kissed her hairline, then her right eyebrow, 

leaning back to see her face. She had closed her eyes, her lips were parted, and a drip 

of water sparkled at the tip of her nose. He kissed her nose just there then his lips found 

hers and, his hands on her hips, he pressed her to himself, turned and, lifting her again, 

sat on these further steps. 

Her gown was wet, molded to her body, as his hand slid up her side, curving around her 

breast. She gasped slightly at his touch, all her inner being yearning to know his presence. 

He took his time, exploring her slowly, sweetly, making every curve of her body his own. 

Her gown floated away, its blueness looking like some fabled sea creature on the surface 

of the pool as he loved her, with the stored, intense passion of who he was. 

And not once was her mind able to spare a thought that all he was doing, all he was 

feeling, was being fed into Sid's program. 

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