PART TWO: GENERAL

Savior of Rome

PART TWO: GENERAL

Ten minutes later and properly outfitted for battle, Maximus strode into the sunlight outside the prison walls with Quintus at his side. Argento, his familiar bay warhorse, stood feet away, a startled looking Praetorian holding his bridle. The general grinned as the soldier took in the sight of him dressed in his old armor, which was decorated with not only the emblem of the Felix Legions, but also with the wolf of Rome, as had been his right to wear as Marcus Aurelius' general. He didn't know how Quintus had acquired the armor – or his precious, bone-handled and gold-inlaid sword that once again hung by his side – but, quite frankly, he did not care much. He was General Maximus once more, the Felix Regiment's ruthless dealer of death.

The stallion neighed a welcome to him, and his smile grew wider. "Well, old friend," he said, patting the horse on the neck, "it looks like we're together again." Argento bobbed his head, skittering slightly in excitement, and seemingly understanding even what the Praetorian at his head did not.

"Lieutenant Presario," Quintus ordered as he gathered up the reins on his own mount, "hold the general's horse as he mounts."

The Praetorian's wide eyes darted to Maximus in surprise, but he did as commanded. Nodding politely to him, Maximus swung into the saddle lightly, feeling at home for the first time in recent memory. Argento tossed his head and lithely evaded the young man, his front legs bouncing eagerly off the ground. "Easy boy," Maximus soothed, reining in the anxious stallion and patting him on his muscular neck. He knew exactly how Argento felt.

Looking to Quintus, he noticed the other man glancing about them uneasily. As he followed the other's eyes, Maximus understood why. Roman citizens were staring at him in awe, whispering amongst themselves in recognition. Several hands pointed at him, gesturing excitedly as their owners comprehended what was going on. "Well," Maximus said wryly. "I think Commodus is going to have a hard time keeping this a secret."

Quintus glanced at him. "Maximus, no one said – "

The general cut him off with a harsh laugh. "No one had to," he responded, surprised at how casual his voice sounded to his own ears, at how much at ease he was with this precarious situation. "I know Commodus. If I don't die in this battle, he'll have me killed."

The other opened his mouth to protest, but no words emerged. "Then why are you helping him?"

Maximus shrugged helplessly and snorted at himself. Why, indeed… It was a motivation he did not quite understand himself, but the reasons were clear enough, even if they didn't make sense. "We do what we have to do, Quintus," he replied quietly. "For Rome."

"For Rome," Quintus agreed. On impulse, Maximus reached out his arm to the Praetorian, and the two grasped hands, each sealing their own pact and making their own silent promises. Their eyes locked in understanding.

"For Rome."

Blue skies looked down upon the city and the sun warmed the grassy fields outside her walls. Birds flew through the air, occasionally finding a landing spot upon the surrounding Italian countryside. All in all, it was a beautiful land, uniquely unsuited to becoming a battleground.

Quintus watched Maximus' figure as he followed the general onto the field. Maximus rode straight in the saddle, showing none of the aches and pains that had to be plaguing him at the moment. The Praetorian scowled to himself, thinking of what the general had gone through during the last eighteen months. The wounds and bruises on his face and back were only part of the story, Quintus knew. However, a purpose had entered Maximus' eyes, replacing the defiance-masked emptiness he had seen at first, and though Quintus did not understand what had changed within his old friend, he was more than prepared to trust it. Whoever else he was and whatever else he had done, Maximus Decimus Meridius had served Rome well under Marcus Aurelius. He had loved the old emperor as few sons love their fathers, and would gladly have died for him. "Prudent? The emperor has been slain!" Had he been right? It was too late to change anything now, but if circumstances dictated, Quintus swore to himself that he would give Maximus the chance he had denied him in Germania. Until then, he would protect his general like he should have done long ago.

Maximus reined in Argento, his practiced eyes scanning the battlefield. If he noticed the surprised looks the Praetorians were giving him, he gave no indication of it, but Quintus knew that the man missed little, if anything at all. The general's steady gaze turned to him once more. "Command post?" he asked.

"This way," Quintus replied, taking the lead. From the corner of his eye, he saw Commodus and his advisors watching Maximus warily. The Caesar hated to rely upon Maximus, Quintus knew, but Commodus was aware of how little he really had in the way of choices – which only made him despise the situation more. The shortest route to the command post required that they pass close by the emperor and his retinue.

They took the long way.

His sharp eyes easily picked up the broad-shouldered form of Valerius arguing with a slimmer man on the raised command hill. As usual, Valerius Thrasius was gesturing wildly with his hands as he tried to get his point across, but the other was having none of it. His return gestures were sharp with authority, but the infantry commander only argued more vehemently. Drawing closer, Maximus was able to make out the words.

"The hell I'm deploying my infantry cohorts, sir," Valerius shouted irritably. "What will it take to get it through your thick skull that we are not fighting for him?"

"He is your emperor and you will follow his commands!" the commander of the Northern Armies shot back. "Now position your infantry behind the cavalry. And tell the fool commanding my heavy cavalry to get his men in place."

'Your' heavy cavalry? Maximus almost laughed aloud upon hearing the general's words. The day that the Felix Regiment, whom the idiot wouldn't even deign to call by name, would listen to General Arvalis would be the day that the sun shone brightly during a Germanian winter and killed someone of heat exhaustion. Still unnoticed, he halted Argento and dismounted only feet away from the arguing officers. Holding up a hand to forestall Quintus from warning them, he moved forward as Valerius continued the argument.

"You do not understand, do you?" the infantry commander spat contemptuously. "These men don't fight for you either!"

Before Arvalis could reply, Maximus intruded with a clear voice. "But they fight for Rome," he said.

Valerius spun around even as Arvalis' jaw dropped in surprise. Maximus quirked a nasty smile just for his replacement, letting the man know how little he appreciated the interference. Speechlessly, Valerius' eyes traveled nervously from Quintus to Maximus and back again, silently asking all the questions he could not put into words. "General," he finally gasped.

Maximus took the offered hand and nodded warmly. "They do fight for Rome, don't they?" he smiled.

"They'll fight for you, sir," Valerius replied without hesitation.

"Then gather the officers," Maximus ordered. "We've got planning to do." While watching Valerius' quickly retreating form, he noticed Arvalis' face becoming tight with rage. After enduring the older man's squirming for several long moments, Maximus finally turned to him before he dared to speak, treating the other general to a harsh glare. "Yes?" he demanded.

"What are you doing here?" Arvalis spat scornfully.

Maximus gave him a confident smile he knew to be infuriating. "Saving Rome."

Arvalis' jaw worked uselessly for several long moments before he finally managed to challenge "And who let you out of your chains?"

"General – " Quintus began to warn Arvalis, but Maximus stopped him with a raised hand. At another point in life, he'd have been enraged by the idiot's attempt to insult him; however, at the moment he was amused in a peculiar way. There hadn't been nearly enough humor in the last few months of his life; perhaps he was making up for it now. Maximus calmly turned to fully face Arvalis, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Someone who finally figured out that you will not win without me," he replied quietly.

Arvalis, of course, misunderstood Maximus' change of tone. Even Commodus, fool that he could be, was aware that quiet meant dangerous in a man like Maximus Decimus Meridius. He was also beginning to get annoyed, which was not only dangerous, but deadly as well. "And so you are some miracle worker?" Arvalis taunted.

"No," the general replied with a softly threatening smile. "Just someone who cares enough about Rome to save her."

The other man stepped perilously close to Maximus in a hopeless attempt to intimidate him. "You're saying I don't?" he shouted angrily.

Maximus returned his livid gaze for a moment, but he had better things to do than argue with the man. Beating Arvalis into a bloody pulp might have been satisfying, but would not save Marcus Aurelius' dream. "Quintus, get this man out of my sight," he commanded evenly, trusting his officer to comply even as he turned his back on General Arvalis.

And came face to face with Commodus Aurelius.

Maximus blinked, swallowed hard, biting back the sudden desire to strangle the wretch then and there. His entire body tense for action, he forced himself to meet the eyes of the man, who only a week before, he had lived to kill. Fists clenched and eyes hard, he gave Commodus a glare intended to convey all the pains and despair he had suffered at the man's hands; Commodus blinked in return and shifted a little. The reaction was not much, but Maximus knew it was the best he would get, and that it meant Commodus was frightened. Good.

However, it still took an intense effort for the general to keep himself from leaping at the emperor. Maximus kept his body stock-still, knowing that should he move, he would betray his rage in an instant. This is not the time, he told himself firmly, but his mind's eye kept envisioning how good it would feel to wrap his hands around Commodus' neck… No. I will not give him the pleasure of having me killed. Another time, he vowed. For my family and for Marcus. Yet now a new variable had entered the equation. Rome.

And Rome came first.

Finally, Commodus, withering under the heat of Maximus' glare, smiled and spoke. "So I see the great general has arrived," he jeered.

All Maximus' life-acquired self control went into restraining himself. He refused to take the bait. "Can I help you?" he asked coldly, fists tightly clenched.

Commodus nodded easily, the façade of the gracious emperor again in place. "Yes," he replied. "You can begin by giving me your allegiance, in order to command my army."

Ah, so that's the catch. Maximus stepped close to the man despite his repulsion. Softly, evenly, he spoke, making sure that Commodus heard and understood every word. "I will never serve you."

Commodus gaped furiously, and fear lit off in his eyes a moment before he brought himself back under control. Maximus smiled for him coldly. He sensed Quintus at his right shoulder, tensed to act. The question was: would Quintus stop him or help him, if it came to that? He'd read the indecision in the other man's eyes earlier, the regret and the hope. Quintus was a good man, only mislead – would he follow his heart, or would he follow this false emperor's commands?

Gulping, Commodus smiled again, and arrogantly demanded, "You're here, aren't you?"

Enough was enough. Quicker than any of the surrounding Praetorians could predict, Maximus reached out and roughly grasped Commodus by the throat. Shock and panic played over the other's features, but that was no longer enough. Maximus leaned close to his face and replied, all his pain and rage filling his words. "I am not here for you," he hissed. "I'm here for Rome. And for the memory of your father!"

He threw Commodus backwards into the waiting arms of his Praetorians, who anxiously waited for their emperor's command, weapons drawn. But Commodus was still reeling. The poor arrogant boy could not grasp that the general still did not fear him. "How dare you?" he stuttered.

Ignoring the Praetorians, Maximus stalked toward him once more, halting just out of arm's reach. "How dare I what?" he demanded. He was about to go on, but Quintus interrupted him.

"Maximus – " the other man warned.

"Yes, listen to your friend, Maximus," Commodus taunted, having regained at least a semblance of control. "It wouldn't do you much good to die now, would it?"

Unfazed, Maximus stepped closer to the man he knew he would eventually kill, damn the consequences. "Kill me and you'll have a civil war on your hands," he said dangerously. Commodus' focus traveled behind him, and Maximus knew that Valerius and the other Felix officers had arrived to stand face to face with the Praetorians surrounding him. "And you'll lose Rome," he added.

"You think I'm afraid?" Commodus suddenly asked haughtily, desperately trying to regain control of the situation.

Maximus offered him his most vicious smile. "I think you've been afraid all your life."

"Unlike Maximus the Invincible, who knows no fear?" Commodus shot back.

Laughing lightly, Maximus looked him in the eye. "I knew a man who once said 'death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back.'" He watched Commodus closely for a reaction, wondering if he would recognize the quote.

The emperor smirked naively. "I wonder," he mused cruelly. "Did your friend smile at his own death?"

His entire body hardened. "You would know," Maximus replied evenly. He threw the gauntlet down, and it made a very loud noise upon the grassy ground. "He was your father."

Commodus blinked, his jaw dropping in surprise at the unmasked accusation. Around him, the Praetorians, especially Quintus, shifted uneasily, not quite understanding the words' meaning, but knowing they were a challenge all the same. As Commodus continued staring at him speechlessly, Maximus forced his body to relax. He had made his point, and the emperor knew it. Nervously, Commodus began fingering the dagger the general knew he had up his left sleeve, but a cold smile made him freeze.

"Don't bother," Maximus said dangerously. "I will protect Rome, in the name of your father." He leaned close to the younger man once more. "I will do what he asked me to do."

Again, he was rewarded with shock playing all over Commodus' face. Just as Maximus had long expected, he understood. He had known what Marcus Aurelius' last wishes were. The last question of his guilt left Maximus' mind. And yes, his eyes told Commodus, I know as well.

For several long moments, the general and the emperor remained motionless, eyes locked in mutual hatred and challenge. Each knew that only one of them would ultimately survive, but only one of them was afraid. Wordlessly, Commodus stalked away. Maximus watched his back, aware that he had only won the first battle of what promised to be a bloody war. However, for the time being, that was enough. Closing his eyes momentarily, he whispered a silent prayer that no innocents more be hurt in the name of Rome. He also asked to be able to fulfill Marcus Aurelius' dream.

Finally, he turned back to Quintus and his officers. "Tell me what we have," he ordered.

A map was laid on the campaign table before him. "I have twenty-eight hundred Praetorians, four hundred of which are archers. Two hundred light cavalry," Quintus replied. "There's also four hundred retired soldiers assembled that may or may not be any good."

Valerius picked up where the other general left off. "The first Felix Legion is here, plus the Felix Regiment," he said. "That gives us just shy of five thousand legionaries and a few hundred archers. And then five hundred heavy in the Regiment."

Maximus grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "Ready to fight?" he challenged. His heart buoyed and his fatigue vanished at the mere mention of the Felix Regiment, his own brainchild and his heavy cavalry.

"Give the word, General," Valerius replied.

Quintus cleared his throat and gestured at the map. "I was planning to use cavalry as our spearhead, then to deploy the infantry after we shatter their front lines," he explained.

"Lethal to the cavalry," Valerius commented, looking to Quintus suspiciously.

"I know, but we don't have much of a choice," the Praetorian said defensively. "We're outnumbered and –"

"Desperate."

All heads turned to Maximus. Aware of their gazes burning into him, he continued alternating his study of the map before him and the surrounding terrain. Finally, as the tension in the air grew thick enough to taste, he continued. "Your spearhead," he explained. "Could get a lot of cavalry killed with little effect. If they have spears, they'd split us like pigs."

"Us?" Valerius echoed warily, but Maximus ignored him.

"No," the general mused aloud. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. It wasn't the greatest battle plan he'd ever constructed, but given the circumstances, it was the best he had in him. Besides, it had the novelty of being somewhat unique. Maximus picked up a stray dagger from the edge of the table. Using it to move the pieces representing each cohort, he outlined his idea.

"The Praetorians are our backbone," he said. "We keep them between the barbarians and Rome. Once they advance, First Felix's numbers one through five cohorts hit from the left. Six through ten hit from the right. The Felix Regiment will close the box from behind the Germanian forces with the Praetorian cavalry. Questions?"

The other officers, Felix and Praetorian combined, looked at him as if he'd gone insane – and as if it just might work. Surrounding a numerically superior enemy could either be called suicidal or genius, depending upon the tactic's degree of eventual success.

One of them, a young Praetorian captain, finally spoke up cautiously. "Sir, if we split our forces and the Germanians get through with the first wave…"

Maximus didn't allow him to finish painting that grisly picture. He knew full well the risks entitled by his plan, but also knew that there was no other choice. "The retirees are our reserve," he interrupted. "If needed, they will aid the Guard."

"They may not be worth much, sir," Valerius pointed out.

As if I didn't know, Maximus though with irritation. "Then we'll just have to make sure they don't get through," he said evenly, wishing for more time and a larger force, but knowing he'd get neither one, no matter what god he prayed to. He gave them a confident smile that was only partially forced. "Won't we?" he challenged.

Nods and mummers of agreement answered him. Their faith was growing slowly but surely. He could only hope he would be worth it one last time.

"Anything else?" he asked gruffly, eyes already scanning the horizon for the army he knew would be closing soon. No one answered. Quietly, he turned and studied each of his officers in turn, Praetorian and Felix alike. They all watched him, praying for the military miracle Rome needed so badly. Some he had served with before, others he had never even seen, but at that moment all their lives rested upon his shoulders and his next actions. It pained him that he did not know each by name. If they were to die under his command, he would prefer to attach a name to the faces he saw at night…. But there was no time for niceties or old habits. Trust in the unknown did not come easily to Maximus; however, he would have to throw caution to the wind one last time –

For Rome.

For Marcus' memory.

And for everything he once was and might be again, he prayed that failure would not visit him today.

"Then get to your posts," he ordered. Catching Quintus' eye with his own, he nodded slightly for the other general to stay, but there were few other things to be said first. "Santinus," he called.

His own master of horse turned to him. "General?"

"I'll be meeting you before Felix closes the box," he said.

Santinus smiled. "We'll be proud to ride beside you again, sir."

Emotion unexpectedly thickened Maximus' throat. "As I will to be with all of you," he replied quietly, nodding for the cavalry officer to leave. Again he studied the distant hills, searching for the Germanian army he knew would come into sight soon… His sharp eyes picked up the tips of standards on the horizon moments before the cry echoed out over the army.

"They are coming!"

Maximus' heart leapt with anticipation, but he did not feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that usually accompanied a battle's prelude. Without knowing how, he knew he had been changed since his days of glory as Marcus Aurelius' general. Unfortunately, he also knew that none of his officers would understand or accept that any more than he could. Therefore, he would just have to find a way to fix his problems on his own. "So it begins," he sighed quietly to himself.

Quintus moved to his side. "Are you all right?" the Praetorian asked in a low voice.

Vision still focused his enemy, Maximus answered honestly. "I'm tired. And I'm not sure why I'm here." Knowing he would be unable to meet his old friend's gaze, he did not turn toward him.

"You're here for Rome," Quintus said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Am I?" Maximus snorted. "This is a mockery of everything we spent years fighting for. That army should never have gotten so close to Rome."

"But now it did and we have to deal with it."

"Speaks well for Commodus, does it not?" Maximus said sarcastically. He felt out of place here. Although he'd tried so hard to cling to his old honors and beliefs throughout his days as a gladiator, he was only now beginning to realize that he had, in fact, partially failed to do so. His old discipline was waning; he knew that, watching the Felix and even the Praetorians – they reminded him of everything else he'd lost, losses that seemed pale in comparison with that of his family, but now were still causing an uncomfortable ache in his heart.

"Maximus…"

He closed his eyes briefly against the old pains that were threatening to rise up against him. "Don't try to talk me out of hating him, Quintus," he said harshly. "He killed his father and he killed my family. I will kill him."

Surprise sharpened Quintus' voice. "What?"

Finally, Maximus looked at him. The truth could stay hidden no longer, and he did not want to conceal it anyway. Too much energy had to be devoted to keeping secrets he could hardly bear to hold in. "He killed the Emperor, Quintus."

"You don't know that," the Praetorian said desperately. However, there was doubt in his voice.

"Don't I?"

"You can't prove anything," Quintus warned him. In the distance, the Germanian horde grew larger and larger.

"Can't I?"

A frown of confusion deepened the creases and scars present on his old friend's face. Curiosity, too, was there, though – which gave the general turned gladiator a slim thread of hope. "What are you saying?"

Taking a deep breath, Maximus decided to tell the truth. He had trusted Quintus in the past, and one act of betrayal could not discount all the times they'd fought side by side, all the times they'd saved each other's lives. Duty to Rome had forced Quintus' hand once before – let it force it again. "Lucilla knows," Maximus said quietly. He glanced back at the German forces arraying against his army, measuring distances. They had time, but only so much. Still, there was enough. Gesturing at the enemy, he changed the subject temporarily. "They'll halt at five hundred yards before they attack."

"Five hundred?" Quintus managed, struggling to digest the unlikely information he'd been given and balance this with the analysis that had come hard on its tail.

"Five hundred," he confirmed and then turned to Gallus, an older, gaunt Felix officer nearby. "Ready archers," he ordered. "Heavy weaponry stand by."

Half-listening to his officer repeating the orders, he returned his attention to the oncoming Germanians. The old battle-calm was coming on now and the adrenaline was starting to stir. Perhaps not as much had changed as he had thought.

"She knows?" his second-in-command asked quietly.

"She knows." There had never been a doubt in Maximus' mind – once he'd seen the stricken, pleading look on Lucilla's face as she sat by her dead father's side, he had known of Commodus' guilt. He had known all he fought for was dead.

To his credit, Quintus did not ask how Maximus knew. "What were you going to do?" he queried.

Swallowing his reluctance, he decided that Quintus deserved to know. If only things had turned out differently… "I was going to speak to Gaius and Falco, to tell them what I knew."

"To tell them that the Emperor had been murdered? Why?" He could hear the other man's frown behind his words. "They wouldn't have been able to do anything."

"No…" Maximus paused a long moment. "To tell them that Marcus hadn't intended Commodus to be his heir."

"What!"

Slowly turning to face Quintus, Maximus locked his emotions far beneath the surface. "He told me the morning he died," he said quietly, certainty making his voice cold. Despair threatened to overtake him, but he fought it back. Now was not the time. Grieving for an old friend could wait. "That is why Commodus killed him."

Quintus' eyes grew wide, but the general turned away, unable to bear the questions asked in those very same eyes. Those were still the questions he did not want to answer, did not want to even consider the answers to. But there was a dream he would still die for.

"General!" a voice made both heads turn expectantly. Seeing the approaching Praetorian, Maximus looked back to his enemy. They were definitely coming – and definitely motivated enough to attack Rome.

"Yes?" Quintus asked.

"Caesar wishes to see General Maximus," the Praetorian said formally.

Maximus never took his eyes off the Germanians. Moving at a faster pace than before, they were close enough for him to tell that they were getting restless. Unfortunately, his enemy was uncowed and ready to fight. "Tell him I am busy."

"Maximus…"

"I don't serve him, Quintus," he said quietly, surprised at his own control. "I never will."

After a moment's hesitation, his old friend snapped in a clear voice. "You heard the General, Centurion!" The sound of hurrying footsteps announced the Praetorian's departure.

"Thank you," Maximus said sincerely. The last person he needed to see at the moment was Commodus Aurelius. His mind needed to be clear of distractions, were he to win Rome today.

By his side, Quintus also studied the Germanian forces. Obviously, the enemy was prepared for a bloodthirsty battle; rather than the confident, screaming mass they had encountered along the Danube, this force was grimly silent. From the corner of his eye, Maximus saw the other general's face hardening into his own pre-battle mask; his eyes were narrowed and his body was tensed. The only relief would come from battle, they both knew. Again, Maximus measured the distances as their enemy halted.

"Five hundred yards," Quintus whispered, almost in awe. "The gods must love you." They laughed together. Maximus was only half-listening, just as Quintus was only half paying attention to his own words; however, they had been serving together long enough to recognize the fact that their idle banter was really only a temporary way to alleviate the pressure. Like the rigid formations their army held on the field, it was a tradition worth continuing.

Maximus glanced to his right and saw his stallion standing by impatiently. It was almost time. A flash of gray caught his attention, and he looked down. Sitting patiently at his feet was the mascot of the Felix Legions – the Wolf of Rome. A wistful smile lit his face and he reached down to absent-mindedly scratch between the ears of the wolf he had raised from a pup. Skelton whined quietly and wagged his tail. Maximus dropped to one knee in front of the wolf. "You ready to go?" he asked. Skelton yipped excitedly in reply.

Gravely, Maximus reached down and scraped a bit of dirt into his hands, then, as was his custom, rubbed it in carefully. His focus was clear now. Perhaps it had helped to tell someone why he had become as he had, to tell the story that had started it all – but all the reasons were irrelevant now. All that mattered was Rome and the barbarian army that stood outside her walls. He brought his hands to his face and inhaled; the breath he let out expelled all his worries and tensions. Maximus the gladiator was Maximus the general once more. Today he would fight for Marcus Aurelius again.

As he completed the ritual, Quintus turned to him. "Who did he want, Maximus?" The Praetorian's anxious look begged for the truth.

Rising, the general looked him in the eye. "You don't want to know," he replied seriously. Julius led Argento forward, and Maximus met him half way. The enemy was breaking discipline now, chanting and screaming eagerly in their own language – there would be no negotiation, Maximus knew. The Germanians were out for blood, and they figured they could get it. He would have to show them how very wrong they were.

Quintus blinked hard and looked at him, at last understanding. A torrent of emotions raced across his features; his jaw worked uselessly as he fought to keep it shut. Abruptly, he held out a hand. "Strength and honor."

Maximus smiled sadly, wondering if he'd read the look right. Why was it that everyone wanted him to be what he was not? Yet there was no use fighting it now. "Strength and honor," he echoed, clasping his friend's hand. Heart pounding, he mounted his horse. As Julius handed him his plumed cavalry helmet, Skelton moved to his general's side, waiting. Unable to leave it at that, though, Maximus did not move. He had to know. "Are you with me, Quintus?"

The commander of Commodus' guard locked eyes with him, searching his face. The general looked back, waiting; however, having known him as long as Maximus had, he knew the answer before the Praetorian spoke. Honor came before all else… Quintus' chin rose with pride.

"Just give the order, General."

Relief coursed through Maximus. He would fulfill that dream after all, and he felt his heart lift. Now he was able to leave and do what had to be done – but there was one last thing to say. "Wait for my signal," he commanded.

Quintus nodded. "Consider it done."

Maximus' gaze focused on the proud walls of Rome for a moment. They were a symbol of the very empire herself – they stood for all that was light and good in an otherwise dark and cruel world. To his knowledge, they had never failed to protect those that depended upon their strength. Today would not be the first time. "No one gets through that gate," he ordered. Whatever else passed that day, the people of Rome would be safe. He would make sure of that.

"We'll all be dead before that happens," was the reply. He saw his own determination was mirrored on Quintus' face, and knew it to be the truth.

With a curt nod, Maximus rode away. The battle had not yet started, but the most important skirmishes were already won. As he rode quickly through the ranks of the First Felix's cohorts and his men rose in a silent salute, he felt his heart fill with pride. This was where he belonged – not in the coliseum, entertaining a bloodthirsty mob, but in battle, fortunate enough to be backed by the best army in Roman history, men he trusted as brothers in more ways than one. They would win the day, he knew – not because there was no other choice, or because they had to protect Rome – but because the Felix standards had never been lowered in defeat.

He cut behind a hill and was suddenly again in the midst of his Felix Regiment. A cheer burst from them as he rode to their front, and all his lingering doubts vanished as if they had never existed. Quickly, he scanned their battle-worn faces – looking for reservations, yet he found none. These were his men, just as they had always been. There would be no qualms about what was to come, and no misplaced loyalties. But they watched him, expectant and waiting. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he grinned.

"Felix!" he bellowed – for they were the original Felix Regiment, the first to proudly bear the name and the standard of the winged lion – and they echoed the cry in return to him, loud, lean, and hungry for battle. Scanning their joyous faces, he continued:

"Today we find ourselves in an interesting situation – but no matter what happens, we fight for Rome! We fight for the memory of Marcus Aurelius."

For a moment, a lump rose in his throat and Maximus was unable to speak. But Argento skittered under him and he forced it aside. "Hold the line, and stay with me! This isn't anything we haven't done before. But remember – what we do in life echoes in eternity!"

The cheers echoed around him and their volume threatened to give the cavalry unit's location away to the enemy, but it was too late for Maximus to trouble himself with such semantics. Drawing his sword, he nodded to the unmounted archer at his side.

The lone, flame-tipped arrow arched gracefully into the sky.

Quintus, flanked by Lieutenant Presario at the raised command point, felt his heart leap as the signal arrow graced the blue sky from behind the cavalry's hill. Instantly, he wiped his arm forward. "Loose!" he commanded.

At his back, the scorpions, ballistae, and archers let fly their deadly barrage. Clay fire pots tumbled lazily through the air, their appearance momentarily underlying the destructiveness they promised. Hard on the heels of the catapult's volleys came the scorpions' massive iron bolts and the archer's tar-tipped, flame-delivering arrows. With the first impacts, the screaming began.

Quintus nodded to Gallus and let the archer's commander continue fire at his discretion. Drawing his own sword, he spurred his horse onward to join the lines his Praetorian Guard had formed at the front. Five hundred yards distant, the angry Germanian tribes let out a war cry and launched themselves forward, mindless of the burning Roman countryside beneath their feet. "Infantry advance!" he called to Valerius.

The burly man thrust his sword toward the sky in reply, and Quintus watched the Felix's standards rise as the marched swiftly to their respective positions. The killing box would be closed quickly, he knew; the cohorts of the 1st Felix were behaving exactly as ordered when they bypassed the front rank of onrushing Germanians to create the left and right walls of the trap. The only remaining factor was Maximus' Felix Regiment, yet to emerge…

Suddenly, there was no time left for thoughts, regrets, or tactical strategies. It was time. Quintus drove his blade into the air. "Forward!" he cried, and as a deadly black mass, his Praetorians moved forward to defend Rome.

The Germanian tribal armies crashed violently into the thin Praetorian lines, but despite the concentrated pressure, the ranks held stubbornly. Just as some Germanians began to break through, the reserve force at the Praetorians' rear came into action and stormed those who lived to make a run at Rome's gates. Then the cohorts of the Felix Legion pressed in from the left and right flanks, and the tribal forces suddenly found themselves surrounded from three sides by Roman infantrymen who swung their short swords with deadly efficiency from behind their rectangular shields.

At Quintus' command, the Praetorians moved even further forward, pushing the Germanians into a sloppy, half-panicked withdrawal. However, as more and more barbarians rushed into the battle, Rome's protectors' were fought down to a standstill. Valerius, reading the situation even as he beheaded yet another Germanian, shouted to his trumpeter. Abruptly, the Felix cohorts drove ahead, tightening the corridor in which the enemy was trapped. The barbarians frantically lashed out, disorganized and losing what loose formations they had originally held. They were being torn apart through attrition and because they had no maneuvering space. One chieftain began desperately calling for a strategic retreat, but a battle cry abruptly drowned his voice out.

"Roma victor!"

Lead by Maximus, the Felix Regiment smashed into the regrouping Germanian forces, closing the top of the box and crushing the barbarians between four sides of Roman troops. Like a spearhead, the front riders of the Regiment continued deep into the enemy lines, wrecking havoc and raining death upon all in their paths. Aboard Argento, Maximus struck left and right, often killing an enemy before they even realized he was towering above them. He fought like a demon with long years of experience behind him, spotting openings and opportunities long before an adversary could defend against his skill. Sensing movement to his left rather than seeing it, he dug his heel into his stallion's side and caused the horse to leap sideways – and the spear barely missed his face. Howling, the general rode down the enemy spear-thrower and was almost decapitated by a swinging axe for his trouble. Argento reared at the last moment, saving them both and nearly depositing Maximus into the mud, but he was far too experienced a rider to let himself be thrown. Wheeling his mount around to avoid the axe-handler, he drew a dagger and let fly, with scant seconds to aim before the Germanian again almost brained him with the axe. However, his aim was true, and he left the dagger buried in his enemy's throat.

The axe-wielder fell backwards with the force of the throw and took Maximus' next opponent with him. In that split second's breathing space, the general quickly scanned the field for trouble spots. Unfortunately, one appeared even as another Germanian attacked from his right. A sweep of his sword and one more enemy fell, but no amount of killing would fix the gap he saw forming in his third cohort's lines. Spurring Argento forward and crushing yet another man beneath his horse's flashing hooves, Maximus called urgently "Valerius!"

Across the field, Valerius took a moment to dispatch of his current foe. When he responded, it was without taking his eyes off the battle. "General?" Another man fell beneath the burly man's blade.

Still galloping forward, splitting opponents and avoiding allies, Maximus shouted a breathless reply. "The lines! Third cohort!"

Only one who had been with the Felix as long as Valerius had would have known the desperation in Maximus' voice. To others, it would have merely have been a command, but the long-time legion commander knew differently. The Germanians were completely trapped – unless they could break through the walls of the box, and Valerius knew the consequences of that as well as his commander. But even as Maximus saw Valerius spin, relaying new orders to his men, the infantry ranks began to buckle under the increased pressure of the barbarian forces.

Suddenly, Maximus was pitched forward in the saddle and almost thrown over Argento's head as the stallion skidded to a stop before a spear could be thrust into his chest. One eye still on the ever-widening gap in his carefully constructed battle plan, the general struck the intruder down with a solid blow to the head. Valerius and his men were moving rapidly to fill the hole, but Maximus' experience told him that they would not reach the third cohort in time to prevent a breakthrough and no one else was close enough to stop the advancing foot soldiers. Again, he spurred his mount and burst through a final Germanian line to fill the gap.

Jumping off his stallion and facing the score of enemies alone, Maximus set himself for the attack and knew that he had a long moment before reinforcements arrived.

The first two were confident enough to rush ahead of their comrades, and met their ends accordingly, one through decapitation and the other through a quick thrust to the heart. Spinning, Maximus ducked behind one attacker and toppled him to the ground at his comrades' feet, forcing them to slow or jump over his prone form. With brutal efficiency, he danced between the others as they came, dispatching them with an easy ferocity that would have been considered unfair to even the Coliseum's audiences, but good sportsmanship could not have been further from the general's mind. He was fighting for his life, and for Rome, and success was all that counted. He had to hold the gap until his men arrived.

A sudden burst of air prickled at the back of his neck; even as he spun, he knew he was too late to prevent the blow from dropping. Maximus braced himself for searing pain – but a snarl came from behind him and he caught a glimpse of Skelton's teeth closing on his attacker's throat. Smiling, the general shifted back into action. He'd forgotten what it was like to have allies.

Motion to his right made him turn once more, instinctively raising his sword. But the blade was swept aside as its edges became entangled in the chain of a big Germanian's mace. The ball of the weapon – fortunately slowed by its encounter with his sword – struck Maximus in the left side of the face, knocking his helmet off and tumbling him to the ground. Experience alone saved him as, head reeling, he rolled toward his enemy, straight into the other man's knees. The giant staggered and fell, landing right on top of Maximus' chest. Like an axe chopping wood, the general's elbow smashed once, then twice, into the Germanian's skull, but the man pushed away, roaring with anger and pain. Undaunted, Maximus twisted his body with his enemy and thrust his sword into the giant's back.

Then he was up again, vision slightly hazy from the blow, but knowing he'd survived much worse in his lifetime. Without thinking, he felled another rushing opponent, blinking furiously as blood seeped into his left eye. He turned toward the incoming Germanians once more, only to find himself back to back with one of them; he quickly slammed his sword hilt into the man's face and dispatched of him as well. When he returned his attention to the gap, he saw the line of enemies approaching more carefully now, wary of this one man who could hold a score of them off –

And their moment's hesitation was all it took for Valerius and his reinforcements to arrive. Seeing that they held the ground, Maximus immediately hacked a bloody path back to Argento, who was standing miraculously unharmed just behind the third cohort's lines. Mounting, he again swept his gaze across the battlefield, searching for weak points. When he found no points to demand his immediate attention, he rode hard to where the Felix Regiment was holding the Germanians in. Gathering groups of his riders together, he directed small but deadly cavalry charges into the heart of the enemy; riding knee to knee and opponents falling all around them, his Felix Regiment again earned their reputation as dealers of death.

"Barritus!" The Germanian war cry snapped Maximus' head around just as he finished knocking one of the few mounted barbarians off of his horse. Searching the field with a practiced eye, the general found the cry's source even as it was echoed from nearly a thousand other enemy lips. "Barritus!" A chieftain with more courage than sense was rallying his tribesmen to rush upon the weakened Praetorian lines, and his men responded by running forward, mindless of the death and carnage before and around them. Even as he watched, Quintus, now on foot, was calling to his men not to let them break through, but Maximus knew the Praetorians were tired and potentially in grave danger because they'd been bearing the brunt of the attack for the entire battle. Calling to the closest Regiment members, the general gestured up the field with the tip of his sword. It was a signal all his men knew well, and the cavalrymen instantly joined with him and formed a compact triangle with Maximus as the point.

Their small spearhead hit the Germanian rush on its flank and killed much of its desperate momentum before the lines were broken through. Hacking and slicing indiscriminately, Maximus fought his way to Quintus' side just in time to deflect a fatal blow aimed at his old friend's head. The offending spearman went the way of his dead comrades. He had time to spare a second's grin to Quintus before more barbarians were upon them and his attention was stolen away. For a moment, though, as the tide of the battle turned permanently in their favor, it seemed as if the past could be relived. Side by side and grinning, the two old friends beat back their relentless enemy for the last time.

Finally the field grew quiet and the fighting died, the exhausted silence interrupted only by the occasionally cry of pain drawn from a medic's patient or the curses of the few remaining and surrendered enemies. Maximus scanned the bloodied field with his eyes. Theirs was the singularly most ugly type of warfare, but once again, Rome had prevailed and proven that she was indeed the queen of any battlefield, no matter the circumstances or the odds stacked against her. Although the once beautiful countryside was now marred with corpses, blood, and fire, the empire was safe from her enemies, thanks to the courageous men of the 1st Felix and the Praetorian Guard.

His gaze shifted to them – the proud, tired, and victorious soldiers of Rome. They moved quietly amongst each other, exchanging words, nods, and backslaps here and there, their battle-rushes draining now, leaving behind only a great – though satisfied – feeling of fatigue. All but the most grievously wounded were rising to their feet to acknowledge their triumph over impossible odds. The smiles told the story; they had lost friends and comrades, but they had defended Rome and would gladly do so again. This victory belonged to them.

Maximus stabbed his bloodied blade into the sky in a vehement salute to his men. "Roma victor!" he cried, his voice making Argento dance beneath him.

As one, the praetorians and legionaries echoed his exclamation, the rivalries between their services defeated far more easily than the enemy had been. They were one, drawn and bound together by the ties of battle and blood, and the success of defending their home.

Their roar rose above the field and echoed into the city itself, where Lucilla, still by her son's side, heard the shouts of a victorious Roman army. Her eyes closed against old memories as she wondered if Maximus could hear them as well and questioned what he might think of what had come to pass and become of Rome. Perhaps he was right to abandon the ideals when he had, for surely, they had died with Marcus Aurelius. Lucius, the excited child, merely leapt up to the closet window and struggled to see the victory he was sure lay beyond the city's walls.

Inside the cells of the Coliseum, Juba, too, turned his head at the noise, unsure if to be disappointed or pleased. So Rome had withstood more invaders. It did him no good, sentenced to die as he was. The center and light of the empire seemed very dark indeed to his eyes. He had lost two of his best friends, Maximus and Haken, to the "greatness" of Rome. What did he care if it lived or died?

High on the command point, Commodus also heard the battle cry of success and its rousing response. Cold fury filled his soul – how could that damn Spaniard again have the loyalty of an army that owed their single devotion to him, the ruler of Rome? He was Rome! But the soldiers paid little heed to their emperor's wishes, cheering Maximus continually, grateful for the leadership and courage that had held the day. A slow smile spread across the emperor's face. He would end it now.

Commodus turned calmly to Captain Albinus and nodded.