Savior of Rome
PART
THREE: THE DREAM THAT WAS ROME
Quintus stared unbelievingly at his old friend, unable and unwilling to force the smile off his face as the general dismounted. Again, he thought. And again. And again. Does he ever lose? But the praetorian knew the answer to that. He turned to Maximus, offering his hand. "Incredible," he commented over their men's cheers.
The general merely grinned, oblivious to the blood seeping down the left side of his face. "As always," he confirmed, laughing. "And still alive."
Finding himself pulled into a backslapping embrace, Quintus returned it and replied with chuckles of his own. "Still alive!" he exalted. It felt too good to be victorious again for all the right reasons. "You have some magical charm I don't know about?"
"It must be my good looks," Maximus answered in kind as Valerius approached, excited and exhausted as the rest of them. All three men shook hands, and again, it seemed as if nothing had changed.
"I still do not believe you held the gap, sir," the infantry commander remarked after offering his own congratulations. Although they had known each other for years, Maximus supposed that Valerius had never realized how capable a man became when desperately faced with overwhelming odds. He, on the other hand, had become well acquainted with that phenomenon over the last few months.
"Practice," he responded easily, knowing it to be an understatement of the best kind. Both Quintus and Valerius laughed, understanding the truth in such an account.
Then the inevitable question came. "What now, General?"
That gave Maximus pause. He had options now, more than he'd had in a long time, yet some were distinctly more appealing than others. But he wasn't the only one with choices to make, and others had far less time to decide than he did. In the next few minutes, Commodus would have to act – and the brat surely knew that forcing him back into a cell could be charitably called difficult at best. Especially with his army behind him.
Quickly, his eyes scanned the field once more. Despite the bloody battle, his legionaries definitely still outnumbered the praetorians – yet, if he was lucky, they would follow Quintus' commands, and Quintus was good to his word; he had promised his support, and thus would provide it. Valerius, he knew, would follow him to Pluto and beyond, no matter the consequences or no matter the reason. Commodus, he saw, was still on the command hill, looking oddly smug for all the problems he was about to have. Their eyes locked for the shortest of seconds, yet that was enough for them both to know that only one of them would be leaving this field alive. He would act soon.
And let him try, Maximus thought darkly. If Commodus wanted a fight, he'd get one. However, now was not the time for challenges. There was too much to be done before he crossed that hurdle. He returned his attention to his officers. "Rome comes first," he answered Valerius, then ordered Quintus, "Make sure those fires are put out."
"Right," the praetorian replied, and shouted to one of his men. "Presario! Take a squad to extinguish the fires!"
As the officer complied with his commander's orders, Maximus continued. "We need to find out how many are wounded and how badly," he said quietly. "And how many dead."
Although he nodded compliance, Valerius was clearly unwilling to let the conversation stop there. "Felix is behind you, sir," he said bluntly. "Whatever you want to do, we'll do it."
The general nodded pensively, touched at his men's loyalty. Try as he might to put that aside, Maximus knew that his infantry commander was right. Very soon, whose side everyone was on would begin to matter greatly. He looked to Quintus briefly, before returning his study to Commodus on the hill. When would the ingrate act? It was only a matter of time… "Will the praetorians follow you?"
"Most will," the other replied. "Some will not."
Ignoring Valerius' raised eyebrows, Maximus thought quickly. "Then we do this on the field," he decided. "There is no reason to bring the fight to Rome."
"Good thinking," Quintus mused, then hesitated. "What will you do?"
Maximus looked him in the eye. "Finish it."
A flash of silver to his right suddenly caught his attention, and on instinct, Maximus began to turn – then searing pain ripped into the right side of his neck as a dagger tore by him, scything along the side of his collarbone, only missing his throat because of his unexpected movement. Clenching his teeth in fury and agony, he hissed and spun to face the blade's source, just in time to see Quintus tackle the praetorian to the ground. When he reached up to staunch the flow from the wound, he discovered that he wasn't bleeding too badly, but despite that, a sudden dizziness swept over him and he swayed. Valerius clutched his arm anxiously in support.
"Are you all right?"
Irritably, Maximus pulled away from his infantry commander and strode toward the newly disarmed praetorian laying dazed upon the ground, Quintus' sword pressing closely to his throat. The praetorian commander was even more livid than Maximus was – after all, this was his man attacking his general. Fear lit off in Albinus' eyes as Maximus approached and looked down at him coldly. His sword hung loosely in his right hand; he could have killed the man without a second thought, but chose not to. All emotion left his face as he realized that this was Commodus' sorry attempt at concluding their all too long battle. Fool, Maximus thought with disgust. Coward. He could not even end this himself.
He studied Commodus' personal guard for a long moment, letting the man squirm ever so slightly, letting him know how stupid he had been to even try, orders or no. But this wasn't between him and Albinus, no matter how much he despised the incompetent and malicious praetorian. Cold realization sunk in, and with it a finality he had not expected. This would not be over until something else was settled. Albinus did not matter. His eyes traveled to the emperor.
Commodus, too, was watching him warily. The inevitable surprise was gone from his face, replaced by anger that almost approached fear. Two pairs of eyes met with only one thought passing between them. Just as Commodus dismounted his horse, Maximus started forward.
Quintus called after him, but he did not stop. His vision was narrowing down to only one focus – and only one. The blood dripping from the side of his face and his neck was irrelevant; the dizziness and the days of weakness were behind him. Nothing mattered except for those next few moments… Wary legionaries dove out of his path, but six praetorians drew quickly into a protective circle around their emperor. Appraising them with a single detached glance, Maximus discounted them quickly. They were only in the way.
Commodus suddenly smirked and looked hard into his eyes. The sneer grew into an aloof smile as Maximus refused to react. "Arrest him," he ordered confidently.
Before the general could even tense for action, Quintus, standing at his shoulder, spoke. "Stand fast," he directed the praetorians. The guards looked uneasily from one another, to their emperor, and then to their commander once more. They saw how he was standing at the side of the man who was supposed to be their enemy – yet Maximus had won the battle, had saved Rome. The confusion was plain – He saved us and we are supposed to arrest for it?
Livid, Commodus glared at the man who had helped him secure his throne. "You, too, Quintus?" he demanded. "Now you chose to betray your emperor."
"I chose to uphold Rome," the praetorian replied evenly, then took his allegiance as step further as he gave his men a second order. "Let them fight."
As the praetorians backed away, Maximus resisted the urge to his eyes in relief; the last and highest hurdle had been crossed. Quintus was with him, good to his word. Now he owed his old friend more than he could ever say, but he was more than willing to pay that debt –
In the name of Rome, whom Commodus had already hurt beyond repair, but would harm no further.
In the name of his family, who had died to ensure that the brat had a secure reign and that he had his vengeance against the man his father had ordered to oppose him.
And in the name of Marcus Aurelius, who had died for the dream that was Rome.
It ends here. As their eyes met, his gaze calmly told Commodus the facts of life: only one of them would leave that field alive. The contest was winner take all: life, death, honor, revenge – and Rome. Nothing could stop the inevitable clash and neither would have wished it otherwise. It ends now.
Slowly drawing his blade, as if he had all the time and advantages in the world, the emperor smiled benignly at his silent foe. Even as the praetorians and legionaries formed an anxious circle around them to define the battleground, he demanded arrogantly, "What, no final words?"
Maximus just stared.
Commodus let out an easy laugh, unafraid. "I thought not," he commented, trying to rattle the general with his calm disdain, but Maximus wasn't biting. "I am really quite sorry. We would have worked well together if you hadn't decided to defy me."
"I would not have had to if you hadn't decided to kill your father."
A collective wave of shock streaked tangibly through the air around them. No one had ever dared to accuse Commodus of what rumor had long convicted him of committing – until Maximus. The wily Senator Falco, lurking a safe distance from the fight, raised his eyebrows in surprise. Even the man whom had risen from the ashes of a dead emperor and through the chains of slavery had not been so rash as to go this far – until now.
Commodus' jaw worked speechlessly for several long seconds, and Maximus just met his furious glare with his own icy stare. Fear had finally entered his eyes, for even if he won, the assembled soldiers had heard the accusation from the man who had once been Caesar's general, closer to Marcus Aurelius than even his own children. Should Commodus deny it, they would still wonder. With fifteen words, the general turned gladiator had poisoned the emperor's reign forever.
"You lie," Commodus finally spat.
Maximus looked at him levelly. "I don't need to."
There the last straw snapped; Commodus rushed forward and attacked. Maximus quickly parried the angry blows and fell back cautiously before the onslaught, reminding himself all the while that, though furious, Commodus was still a talented swordsman. Despite that the general had years of experience and practice on him, Maximus could not afford to underestimate the brat emperor. Besides, he remembered, battle wounds and days of beatings had not weakened Commodus the way they had him. Still, he had no intention whatsoever of losing. Only of paying attention.
Finished gauging his opponent's strengths and weaknesses, Maximus suddenly planted his rear foot and ducked under a wide swipe Commodus slashed at his head. He spun inside the smaller man's swing and let his blade scrape loudly across Commodus' precious white-gold breastplate. Their positions suddenly reversed, Maximus favored the emperor with a cold grin and moved onto the offensive, beating Commodus backwards with frightening ease. Ineffective thrusts were batted aside like so much garbage as he moved implacably forward, not once losing his economical control of his actions. Every breath and every movement counted toward his final objective of defeating the emperor.
Regardless, Commodus fought back vigorously, if not effectively. Unable to parry every thrust Maximus made, he nevertheless managed to avoid all but the most vicious of blows. That one connected just below his left elbow, cutting him deeply and quickly staining his white tunic with bright red blood. Infuriated, he snarled and launched himself forward, only to discover that Maximus refused to fall back. Again, the general used his greater athleticism to avoid wild blows and twisted behind Commodus, sending him sprawling with a perfectly timed elbow to the head.
Panic entered Commodus' eyes briefly as he twisted on the ground to look up and saw his enemy standing over him, utterly unreadable. His breathing was coming hard, almost raggedly, as he stared helplessly. The surrounding guards also stood perfectly still, wondering if the next few seconds would define the fate of an empire… Maximus allowed him to rise.
As they faced each other once more, Commodus suddenly smiled and drew a dagger with his left hand. Maximus only looked at him, daring him to move, challenging him to strike – but then did not give him the chance. He advanced and attacked, blocking what few thrusts the emperor was able to manage in his surprise. Finally, Commodus seemed to remember the blade in his second hand, and brought it flashing down toward Maximus' unarmored neck for a deathblow, just as their swords locked together in a parry.
Maximus, having expected the move, countered more quickly than the surrounding eyes could follow. Changing his sword from his right to left hand, he brought his right arm up to block the dagger. It skipped harmlessly off his armored wrist guard and bounced to the ground, lost through the force of the impact. Before Commodus could strike again, the general disengaged his sword and struck with the full force of his weight behind the blade, knowing that a miscalculation would cost him an arm, if he was lucky.
The emperor's blood splattered on Maximus' face as his head departed his shoulders, flying, rolling and coming to rest several feet away. The general stood, motionless, for a long moment, almost unable to believe that the battle was finally over. His family was avenged. He could live again, perhaps, in peace. Closing his eyes, he felt a giant weight lift from his heart. He felt drained now that it was finished. Rome was free.
Finally, Maximus opened his eyes and looked down at the dead emperor, aware that hundreds of gazes rested upon him, and thousands of hopes. He looked up. "Marcus Aurelius is avenged."
The silence around him was deafening. The entire army stared; uncertain if to mourn, to celebrate, or to fight now that their mad emperor was dead. Maximus became keenly aware that every praetorian's eyes were moving to Quintus, their commander, for their cue; the 1st Felix, on the other hand, watched him, wondering if they had not yet one more battle to fight. For his part, Maximus merely waited, wondering privately how it d would all turn out. He had never looked far beyond killing Commodus, never wondered what would come of it. He had never thought he would survive that long. A voice from the edge of the circle concluded the drama.
"Hail, Caesar."
He turned to see Quintus drop to one knee. Valerius quickly joined him, then was followed by all the praetorian and legionnaire officers alike. Soon, the entire army of Rome had accepted him unconditionally.
Maximus swallowed. The last thing he had wanted, the last thing he had fought for… That dream was coming back to haunt him once more. "I want you to become the Protector of Rome when I die…" When revenge had been his goal, he'd never contemplated success and life coming hand in hand. Even when Rome's freedom had been at stake, he had never imagined fulfilling Marcus' last wish the way the old man had wanted him to. But now… now what? A position he had never wanted and a duty he had never asked for were his for the taking – and he could not refuse them. His own words, a promise he had made before circumstances had become so deadly, came back to him. I will always serve Rome.
He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, and nodded, accepting the allegiance of the warriors around him. Led by Quintus, they rose, and his officers moved forward. For a moment, Maximus had to wonder if he was doing the right thing – but he knew that no one else could. There was a dream left to fulfill…
As the post-battle clean up began, he had moved off, by himself, for several long moments, simply staring at Rome, the jewel of the empire – the city that was, for all practical purposes, his, but Maximus did not want to think that way. The soldiers left him alone out of respect, but he could feel their eyes upon his back. Curiosity was running amok on the field; everyone was wondering: what will he do? Chuckling to himself, Maximus inwardly admitted that he had no earthly idea.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Falco, Commodus' favorite scheming senator, lurking nearby, obviously trying to figure out how to best profit from the current situation. Oh, he had heard much about Falco…and none of it was good. That, too, drew a rueful smile from him. The whole of Rome had been turned upside down that day, Maximus knew – first by the arrival of a barbarian army, then by Commodus' death, which the populace was still unaware of. Making them aware would be interesting as well, and he had not the first idea how to do that. Politics, his relationship with Marcus Aurelius notwithstanding, had never been one of his strengths. Despite the hundreds of philosophical midnight conversations he had shared with the old emperor – with topics ranging from tactics to chess to politics to history or to the sciences – Maximus had never expected to have to learn from their abstract discussions. Sure, he had listened, but now he was wishing he had heard a lot more. Unwillingly, he admitted to himself that he needed guidance.
A quiet voice from behind would have made him jump if he'd still possessed the ability to be surprised. "Maximus?"
Tearing his eyes away from the city, he turned to Quintus. "Yes?"
Uneasy, the praetorian studied him for a moment, his face unreadable save for its concern. "I brought a medic," he said suddenly. As Maximus raised his eyebrows curiously, he clarified: "For your head. And your neck."
Laughter wrought forth from him with surprising ease. In all the excitement, Maximus had forgotten about his still bleeding wounds. Upon reflection, he decided that it was good thing that they'd not left him alone for too long. Nodding to the nervous medic, he kept his eyes on Quintus, trying to forestall the inevitable awkward silence. "Thanks," he said quietly. "You always did watch me better than I did myself."
The praetorian blinked. Frowning slightly in meditation, he finally spoke with painful honesty. "I wanted to apologize," Quintus said. "For – "
"Don't," Maximus cut him off. "You did your duty; I did mine. There is nothing to apologize for."
Quintus, however, looked unconvinced. "Then do not thank me, either," he said.
Reaching out to momentarily clasp his old friend's shoulder, Maximus disagreed. "Ah, but I will thank you – for friendship."
A reluctant smile finally found a place on Quintus' previously stern features. "Friendship," he repeated, nodding.
"Sir, would you please hold still?" the medic asked timidly, breaking the emotion of the moment. Both generals laughed, and Maximus shot the medic a sidelong glance.
"Do I scare you that much?" he had to ask.
"No, sir – I mean, yes, sir – I mean…" the young man stuttered, only to be drowned out by Maximus' laughter.
"Where did you get this guy?" he asked Quintus, truly wondering how he'd come to affect someone he'd never even seen before so unintentionally. Had the legend grown so much? What did the people of Rome see him as? A hero? An avenging monster? A man?
"Ahhh… Maximus' famous warped sense of humor returns," the praetorian replied lightly before answering, "I have no idea." He turned to the fretting medic. "Ignore him. He's just a cranky old general who's been hit in the head too many times."
Trying not to move – and thus set off the nervous medic – Maximus gave his second-in-command his best mock-glare. "Old?" he challenged. "I believe you are two years older than I, Quintus."
"But not nearly as cranky," the other rejoined with a grin.
"I will not argue with that," the general declared, winching as a tender spot near his eye was dabbed at, ever so gently, by the medic's cloth. He waved away the anxious apology before it began. He and Quintus shared a knowing look before the Praetorian asked the unavoidable question.
"What are your orders?"
"I have no idea," Maximus replied truthfully, a helpless shrug sneaking past his usual control. Indecision was a rarity in a man such as he, but sometimes he felt paralyzed by choice. "We will enter Rome – but how and where are a mystery to me. What we have done here is… well, extraordinary. In a few moments, much has been changed."
Quintus snorted, seeing his obliquely made point. "Politics."
Nodding, Maximus agreed. "Yes, politics," he grumbled. "And they're something I'm going to have to learn rather quickly…" A grin slowly spread across his face. He might not know much about them, but there was someone nearby that did. And, more importantly, that someone was an opportunist. "Get me Senator Falco."
Falco looked up to see the commander of the Praetorian Guard approaching him, steel in his cold eyes. Quintus Magnus had always struck him as a singularly incorruptible man, insusceptible to bribes, women, and anything else that the crafty politician had at his fingertips. So how had that bastard general-turned-gladiator managed to win his loyalty? And they call me a snake, he groused. General Quintus just made him the Emperor of Rome! To make matters even worse, the mob likes Maximus. He was supposed to die here, not kill Commodus!
Fear alighted in his mind. General Maximus was not a fool. Surely he knew Falco's political position – it was rather obvious from his presence on the battlefield. How, then, would he deal with that?
Suddenly, his association with Commodus didn't seem like such a great idea.
The young praetorian officer entered the bowels of the Coliseum, unsure of the reasons for his mission, but he knew his orders. Presario wrinkled his nose at the stench, then spotted Cassius, the intrepid announcer and manager of the games. Heading toward the plump man, Presario reflected upon the past few hours and what they held. It was easier to understand these gladiators now and what they fought for. His first battle had opened many doors for him, and he appreciated what it was like to struggle against impossible odds for your life and honor. Cassius looked at him curiously, and Presario found himself despising the corrupt man. Little did either of them know that the announcer was about to be out of a job.
A voice sounded from outside her quarters. "My lady?"
Lucilla frowned. It was Falco, her brother's pet senator, and therefore one of her worst enemies. She could not fault him directly for the failure of her father's dream, but his hands had helped to tear it apart. Without his advice, Commodus would never have stopped the plot against him until it would have been too late, and maybe now she wouldn't be a virtual prisoner in her own rooms, wondering if she could keep her mad brother happy enough to spare her son.
"My lady?" Falco repeated.
Annoyed, she let out a sigh of resignation. The bastard would never go away without an audience, no matter what he wanted this time. At least her brother wasn't with him. Then he would have just walked in. "Enter."
To her right, Lucius only spared the senator a disinterested glance before he returned to staring out the window. He was too young to understand, but she was not. Falco looked nervous, even timid – both emotions out of place in the normally suave politician. Her instincts started sounding alarms. Something was wrong.
"What is it?"
Falco bowed clumsily before speaking. "The barbarians have been defeated," he began uneasily. "But your brother, Emperor Commodus, is dead."
Her heart leapt into her throat. Were the gods perhaps not so cruel after all? Could Rome yet be saved? And Maximus…
"Dead?" Lucius echoed, jumping up from his window seat. The poor boy would probably mourn his uncle, who professed to love him and, in the next breath, threatened his very life.
Lucilla found her voice as Falco nodded toward her son. "In battle?" she asked. How unlike it was of Commodus, to allow himself to be placed in mortal danger. This was almost too good to be true.
"No, my lady," Falco said quietly, then hesitated, misunderstanding her feelings on the subject. "By General Maximus."
"Maximus?" she whispered. Lucilla was on her feet. Relief and gratitude washed through her all at once; the two people she loved most in the world were safe. Possibilities racked up in her mind, dreams and discarded truths arose from the grave. "How?" she demanded.
Shifting uneasily, Falco gave her an obviously truncated version of the tale. "The emperor called upon the general to win the battle. He did so and then defeated your brother in single combat."
Maximus, the savior of Rome… Lucius' words chanted over and over again in her head. She had once thought them a curse, but now they seemed a prophecy. Lucilla closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were drawn to her son's almost-excited face. He knew not what this meant. Then again, neither did she, really. Heart racing, she grasped her child's small hand in her own.
"The army and the praetorian guard back him," Falco finished.
"When do they enter the city?" she questioned.
"Within the hour," the senator answered anxiously.
"Arrange it," Lucilla ordered decisively, dismissing him with a small motion of her hand. A gigantic weight seemed to have lifted from her shoulders. Lucius was safe. Rome was safe. Maximus was safe. All her dreams, once shattered, now were alive again. Lucius quietly tugged on her hand.
"Mother, what happens to us now?"
Juba emerged squinting into Rome's sunlight just in time to see Senator Gracchus ushered away by six waiting praetorians and their officer. What had earned them their sudden freedom, Juba did not know, but now he stood, lost, among Proximo's remaining gladiators. They looked to one another uneasily. Ten minutes ago they had been slaves. Now they were free. What was going on?
Citizens lined the streets, whispering and shouting anxiously amongst themselves. Rumors flew lightly with the breeze that made standards flap lazily on their poles. Some insisted that the barbarian army had been victorious and would burn the city. They maintained that their countrymen should be fleeing, not lining Roman's main avenue in anticipation. The praetorians streaming back into the city were only a sign of worse things to come. Others, who scoffed at the idea that a Roman army could lose any city, especially Rome, merely waited for the victory procession that was surely forthcoming. They knew that Rome was safe, it was said. After all, the Senate and the Emperor's sister were waiting, weren't they?
In the end, the crowd grew calm. The city could not have fallen, although her gates were still sealed tightly, against what no one knew – save the praetorians, and they were, as always, grimly silent. Rome was victorious once again.. Rome was undefeatable! Curiosity became the rule rather than the exception. But, as always, some rumors persisted longer than others. Some were whispered over and over again throughout the mob, no matter how ludicrous they seemed.
They said that the Emperor was dead.
If he was, few would mourn him. It normally mattered not to the citizens of Rome who was in power, save that they were left alone to do their business, to raise their families. As long as they were fed and clothed, who cared about the occupant of the famed Imperial throne? It was nice to be noticed now and again, or to be given games or public feasts, but such things only lasted so long. Life went on no matter who ruled the empire. However, Commodus Aurelius had ruined his early popularity. If asked why, anyone could name the reasons – citizens were starving and the grain reserves were almost empty; praetorians often had to keep the peace through force of arms and vicious threats. Only the nobility knew any level of relative comfort, and even they lived in fear of Commodus confiscating their property should they displease him. All in all, Rome was ripe for his death – though few dared to hope the rumor was true. Most knew that the gods were not nearly that just.
Justice… now that lay at the heart of another rumor carried in upon the spring winds. Spreading wildly through the crowd – even more rapidly than that of Commodus' supposed demise – was an attractive story, no matter how implausible it seemed. However, certain citizens were entirely too adamant in asserting its truth – and declaring that they had seen – beyond a doubt – General Maximus leave the city in armor and under escort by none other than Quintus, the commander of the praetorian guard. Had he been called to win the battle? The gossipers had no answers, only unending questions. But however unlikely they seemed, those questions spread, and the crowd buzzed in anticipation.
A shout rose and was carried across the multitude. The gates were opening.
Hoof beats sounded. Marching feet echoed against the concrete. Three standards flapped in the wind, legionnaire and praetorian side by side – for the first time, many in the crowd realized. Ahead of both infantry standards was that of the famed Felix Regiment, heavy cavalry unit of the Northern Army, widely acknowledged as the best in the world. But the eager eyes of the populace barely noticed this. They were drawn inevitably to the man, tall in his saddle, who lead the procession. It was Maximus.
Shocked, surprised, and delighted, the crowd began to roar. Quintus Magnus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard, followed the great general closely. Beside him rode a burly infantryman, uncomfortable on horseback and unrecognized by the crowd, but clearly a legionnaire. Select infantry, cavalry, and praetorian officers marched in their wake, heads high and proud, the saviors of Rome. The lot of them was distinctly unpresentable, covered in blood, mud, and gore, every last one of them fresh from battle and not the parading sort. Most had never marched in a general's Roman triumph, nor was this exactly an event of that sort, but they were proud, and deserving. The crowd cheered them wildly, despite their faults and grungy appearance. No one cared what the soldiers looked like – they had saved Rome! And slowly, the crowd realized, Commodus was nowhere in sight.
The roar grew in volume, and slowly became a chant. Maximus! Maximus! Maximus! Maximus!
At the end of the long via, the voice of the crowd reached uneasy ears. Senator Gracchus, only reinstated moments before, looked nervously to his colleagues, wondering futilely if they had traded one dictatorship for another. Falco, too, shifted restlessly, having vastly underestimated the effect Maximus' mere presence would have on the crowd. Both simultaneously looked to Lucilla and Lucius, the surviving members of the Imperial line, wondering what would become of them. It was a well-known fact that Commodus had killed the general's family – so what was to become of the emperor's relatives now that he was dead? Lucius, caught up in the crowd's excitement – Maximus was his hero, after all – merely squinted to better see the approaching soldiers in the distance. Lucilla, for her part, avoided the senators' gazes, heart caught in her throat. Her world teetered upon its axis; everything she had dared to dream for was coming true, yet would it perhaps prove to be unworthy of all her fantasies? She did not know.
The crowd grew louder and louder the closer he came to the palace, making Maximus frown and increasing the raw pounding in his head. He'd anticipated their reaction, but not fully understood what it would be. They expected an emperor, wanted an emperor, but he could not do so – not without first fighting with all his power to see Marcus Aurelius' vision fulfilled. It might not work, but he would never abandon the dream that was Rome. To hell with the mob's expectations. He would do the right thing. They would come to understand. Besides that, he was under no illusions about the obstacles he was about to face.
Suddenly it became hard to breathe, as his heart leapt into his throat, as he saw her. There was Lucilla, radiant in dress of white, standing at the top of the steps, awaiting him. Much of the senate was with the princess, but Maximus had eyes for her alone. He had so few dreams of his own left… dare he to dream this one? Just once, he decided to throw caution to the wind. Just once… And there was no time to question his conviction. They had arrived, and the mere sight of her was enough to banish all his aches and pains. May the gods forgive me for what I am about to do…
Slight pressure on the reins was all that Argento required to halt; the well-trained stallion was nearly as tired as his owner. Ignoring the deafening cheers of the people – although he was fully conscious of the fact that they grew louder by the moment – Maximus dismounted and strode forward, mounting the steps. He did not need to look back; he knew that Quintus and Valerius were right on his heels, lending support and, more importantly, doing so that the Senate would see that the army was behind him, praetorians and legions alike. Servants scuttled forward madly to collect their horses, but they too, were paid no heed by the general. Maximus only had one goal in mind.
He did spare the senators a side glance, noticed Gracchus among them. Fellow conspirator the old man might have been, Maximus was well aware that he would be the hardest to convince. His instincts lit off at the mere sight of the crafty, though honest, politician. The senior senator would be the last to trust him, or the last to understand why he did what he did. As such, Gracchus' shocked expression as Maximus swept right past him and his colleagues was to be expected.
Lucilla, however, seemed far from surprised when he moved toward her first. Their eyes met and locked – both knew that these first few moments and actions would shape Rome's future. In that first second, though, they knew that they would shape it together. With a small smile, she offered him her hand.
The crowd let out a renewed roar as he accepted it and kissed the back gently. "My lady," he said quietly.
"General." Her fingers closed on his for but a second, her feelings conveyed through the touch, no matter how slight it would seem to an outsider. "I am glad to see that you are all right."
"Thank you." Oh, how he yearned to draw her into his arms – and knew she wanted it, too – but control won out. He frowned slightly. Control always won out. But then the smile won, too, over the frown, when he looked into Lucius' exuberant face.
His eyes flickered back to Lucilla, and Maximus inclined his head ever so slightly toward the senators. Eyes shining, she offered him a small, private smile that he'd not seen in… too many years. Her political expertise would have put any of Rome's conscript fathers to shame. Gracefully, the princess moved her hand to his arm and led Maximus back toward the watchful senate. He studied them quickly, swallowing his ever-present hatred of politics. Most of them were as confused as he was. Good. He could use that.
"Senators," Lucilla said clearly, "allow me to introduce General Maximus Decimus Meridius, the savior of Rome."
To a man, the senators bowed – they had little or no choice, really, given the situation. It was plain that the general had the loyalty of the army, and that, in pure Roman political realities, meant that the throne was his for the taking. The senate's formality of approval always went to the man whom the army backed. Maximus acknowledged them with a curt nod, understanding why they shifted uneasily under his direct, evaluating stare. Not one of them knew his intentions or his past, aside from what rumors whispered of him. He, too, knew little of them, which evened the playing field, although they were unaware of that, something he intended to ensure remained true. Besides, with Lucilla as an ally, he was sure that his political naivety would not last long.
For a moment Maximus reflected upon the irony of his situation, but only long enough for a course of action to become clear in his mind. "The barbarian army is defeated," he said abruptly. "Commodus is dead. Rome is safe."
"What are your intentions now, General?" Gracchus asked pointedly.
Maximus remained silent for a brief span of time, wondering helplessly how to put into words what he felt so that it might be understood. There was no way to describe the depth of the responsibility he felt to Marcus Aurelius' dream, or the devotion he felt to the old man's memory. How to explain what they had only dreamed of before? No words could truly describe his intentions, or his dreams. Finally, he spoke. "First," Maximus said slowly, "we put Rome back together."
"And then?" Gracchus pressed.
"Then we fulfill Marcus Aurelius' dream of Rome," he said quietly, but without hesitation. There was no doubt in his mind of what had to be done. And, as always, Maximus told himself that he would succeed or die trying.
Raised eyebrows greeted his avowal with skepticism; even the few among the senators who knew what he meant could not have possibly believed that he would follow it through. Why should he, being in uncontested control of all Rome? What did he have to gain by giving Rome back to the people, when he had it all? Nothing, and thus they could not believe it. Each was too accustomed to the trickery of the political arena to believe such words so simply said.
Lucilla averted the inevitable arguments by speaking first. "Gentlemen," she said cordially, "Now is hardly the time or place to discuss these matters. Perhaps you should do so at the regular senate meeting?"
Gracious nods greeted her request – clearly, they appreciated her version of tact over Maximus' lack therefore of. Quickly, the senators disbanded, some waving to the crowd before disappearing, others simply departing without fanfare. As they did so, Lucilla took Maximus' hand in her own and led him inside. Unbeknownst to either, however, was the fact that Senator Gracchus had followed them, his curiosity having gotten the better of his common sense.
The moment they had escaped the prying eyes of the crowd, both the princess and the general swung to face each other, their carefully pent up feelings finally bursting to the surface. For just a moment, neither moved, both too shocked by success to fully grasp what joy they now held in their hands. Then Lucilla, with uncharacteristic emotion, flung herself into his arms. "You did it," she breathed.
Maximus closed his eyes briefly and felt the weight of his old failures leave him. He nodded, then pulled back to look in her bright eyes. As she smiled at him, he drew her close for a passionate kiss sure to be the first of many to come.
finis.
