Sorry about the delay – here's part 5. As always, please tell me what you
think.
Robin
"You cannot."
"I must." Angrily,
Maximus reached down and started lacing his boots tightly, trying not to snap
back at his wife, for inside, he knew that he was far more worried than he was
angry, but at the moment, his runaway emotions hardly mattered.
"Maximus, you cannot do this!"
His head snapped up as he rose, fury dictating his every
motion, but unlike every man he had ever known, Lucilla did not shrink from his
temper. Her blue eyes just levelly
demanded that he become more than he was. Through clenched teeth, he snarled, "And why not?"
"Because you have a responsibility–"
"Yes, I do," he cut her off. "To Julius."
Her calm and quiet voice was in direct contrast to his
belligerent tone. "To Rome, Maximus,"
Lucilla said softly. "You have a
responsibility to Rome."
Pain welled up within his soul once more, trying
desperately to do battle with what others might have called duty, but for him,
duty was far to insignificant a word. "That does not change mine to my son," he whispered, his voice suddenly
ragged as conflicting emotions washed like waves through his heart.
"No, it does not." His wife approached him and laid her hands upon his cheeks. "But you cannot go for the same reason that
you refused Commodus' demand." When he
moved to object, Lucilla placed a gentle finger on his lips. "You are the Emperor of Rome. You cannot risk yourself."
Her lower lip trembled slightly as she spoke the next
words, and the emperor was forced to remember that she loved his son, too, as
only Lucilla could. "Your people need
you as much as Julius does."
Anger – at her, at Commodus, at the world, and at himself
– welled up briefly inside Maximus once more, only to be drowned quickly under
another wave of pain. "I…"
Gently, Lucilla embraced him. "I know," she whispered. "But were you to die, even in a successful rescue, that would leave Rome
not only headless, but in Commodus' hands, and no matter what, he would
win. Julius knows you love him,
Maximus… Your presence can only make things worse."
Unspoken, though, was the final warning that even Lucilla
did not have the heart to say, and Maximus swallowed hard as it occurred to
him. Again, possibilities played
themselves out in his mind, and he could see the most dreadful picture forming
– should he go, and any of Commodus' men find one second long enough to seize
Julius and use his son's life as a direct threat against him – the emperor
dreaded the consequences of that dearly. He had always known he would give his own life without hesitation;
never, though, had he thought of the consequences of doing so. From far away, it was easier to take this
impossible risk, but could he really look own child in the eye and refuse to
save his life? Another man might be
able to do it – even Quintus had a more dispassionate perspective on such matters
than his emperor did – but Maximus was nearly certain that he could not.
Or at least he was certain that he would never be able to
live with himself if he did.
Again, Lucilla was speaking, unrelenting and gentle, and
she held him in her arms. "Let Quintus
lead the men…He loves you, and could never give less than his all. If this is possible, he will succeed."
"If…" The word caught in Maximus' throat, and he blinked back tears once more as his wife kissed him on the cheek. You knew the risks when you made the choice, he told himself firmly. It must be done, somehow…
And I
cannot do it.
Sighing, he nodded reluctantly into her embrace. "You are right," he whispered heavily,
hating the words even as he spoke them; as a leader, he had never once wanted
to ask any man to risk what he could not risk, or to go where he would not go –
but now he was not only a general, expendable enough to lead from the front;
now he was the Emperor of Rome, and so many more depended upon him than just
his son. Julius… But millions of lives were, as always, at his
fingertips, and he had sworn an oath, long ago, to Rome; even as Caesar, he
would honor it.
Silently, his heart wailed once more, even as he pulled
away from Lucilla to give the order for Quintus to come to him.
Julius…
When Quintus approached his old friend, Maximus was not
armored as the general had expected him to be; rather, he was still in the
imperial purple and again seated upon the antique throne. Inwardly, his mind railed in a moment of
confusion at the sight, but Quintus had fought at his general's – damn, it was
hard to think of him as his emperor at times, even now, especially now, with
the pressure on – side for too many years to doubt him. Whatever he had in mind, it was for the
best.
After a few steps forward, the general bowed; between the
two of them, the rules were far more lax, but there was the unspoken rule that
Quintus had made in his own mind: when Maximus was on the throne, he was the
Emperor of Rome. There were no ifs,
ands, or buts, either; he would act formally when such was the case. Other times could see him much more relaxed,
and during some moments, they could even act like the old friends they still
were, but right now was a time to respect tradition…especially with others
looking on. A quick glance at his
surroundings took in Lucilla, standing by her husband's side, looking as
unreadable and noble as ever. The
general had never expected to come to know Marcus Aurelius' daughter as well as
he had, but upon doing so, he had learned what she and Maximus meant to each
other – and that by reading one, you might as well have been reading the
other. Neither's expression ever
betrayed much, but even then, Quintus knew the two were closely intertwined.
Only
a split second had passed though, before the general returned his full
attention to his liege. As their eyes met, Maximus rose, and though he
moved with his typical confidence, Quintus could see that there was something
more hidden behind it. He had know his
emperor for more than sixteen years – nearly half his life – and they had been
friends since almost the beginning; therefore, it wasn't with any rational
observation that Quintus knew something was wrong. He could feel it, though, in his bones, and he knew the stress
was hitting Maximus hard. His friend
had become a good emperor, a great emperor, and he had always handled pressure
well, but the general could only imagine how he would feel in Maximus'
position, forced to choose between his family and his nation. Forced to choose between his son and Rome.
In the emperor's position, Quintus would never have trusted himself to make that choice, and knew that the chance Maximus was about to take, had it been his own, would have torn him apart. Then again, the general knew that this choice still had a distinct and vivid possibility of doing just that to his friend, and inwardly, he railed against it. He doesn't deserve half the pain he has gone through in his life, Quintus thought to himself. It would have broken a lesser man, yet he's always been so strong. A deep breath rattled unintentionally in his chest, and he silently prayed to the gods that this wouldn't be the one challenge Maximus could never overcome.
Still silent, the emperor held out a hand to his general. Automatically grasping firmly it in his own, Quintus studied the younger man's face and wondered if he couldn't see new lines forming there. Before he could complete the thought, though, Maximus spoke.
"I need you to lead the raid without me, Quintus," he said.
The general's eyebrows shot up at this unexpected development. Maximus' voice was level, but an old friend could detect a hint of strain beneath the surface; even then, though, that would never be enough for him to make this decision – unless he felt it to be the right one. Warring emotions whipped though Quintus, each in consort with the other. For a moment he felt relief, but fear quickly overshadowed its effect. He trusts me so much…
A shiver immediately followed that thought. Failure, then, was not an option. Quintus asked the next question quietly, though, knowing his old friend. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." Maximus paused, and his eyes drifted meaningfully around the room for a moment. "There are some risks I cannot take."
"I understand." And so, he realizes what the rest of us have always known.
Although his friend's eyes were still steady, Quintus could see the emotions lashing beneath the surface. "Thank you."
"We will find him, Maximus," the general said, tightening his grip for but a second, and trying to communicate his loyalty and determination all in a look. "And we will bring him home."
The ghost of a smile forced its way onto the emperor's face. "I trust you."
Three simple words were enough to drive Quintus' heart into his throat. So much was riding on him now… He was no stranger to responsibility, but he'd have rathered die than fail this time. I only hope that it is not misplaced.
Flames lapped against the pile of straw with deceiving gentleness, dancing easily in their deadly grace. Above where they rested upon the dirt floor of the old Republican fortress, though, another type of fire raged. Shouts echoed from the old stone walls and steel rang on steel as Roman fought Roman, mercenary against legionnaire, citizen against praetorian. The odds rose and the odds fell, for though the forces were unevenly matched, Quintus and his men had but one price to pay if they failed…and Commodus, and his men, knew that as well.
Quintus Magnus, the emperor's general, fought side by side with Presario, a young major of the Praetorian Guard, each striking with equal desperation and fury. Time was not growing short; rather, far too much of it was passing – and then the frenzied shout of "Fire!" emerged to drive them on even faster.
Footsteps rang hard on cold marble floors, while, finally away from prying eyes, Caesar Maximus Decimus Meridius Augustus paced. His world hung on the precipice of fate, and it killed him to be unable to affect which way it would fall. All his life, Maximus had exerted iron will upon events surrounding him, been controlled perhaps to a fault, and forged forward with a kind of recklessness that some would call courage, yet at that moment, all he could do was wait. All he could do was hope.
Lucilla sat nearby, watching him from behind a seemingly composed face, but she knew every facet and molecule of his soul. In many ways, she was the very center of his being; the one constant in his forever changing world. Vows and duties mattered not at all next to her love, for Lucilla, truly, in the end, only Lucilla, made his life worth living. Now, she felt a pain and worry twin to his own, knew of the pounding of his heart and the gut wrenching helplessness nothing could alleviate. Yet, she could do nothing for him, no matter how much comfort she offered. Julius was not her son, not by blood, and though she loved the boy – she would have loved him for Maximus' sake if nothing else, but she did love him – her feelings were not of a parent forced to choose between their child and their country. Should Quintus fail, she would not be permanently scarred by this blow.
No one could share his pain, not now, and not even her,
but, as his heels beat the hard floor, those who loved him knew and strived to
understand his heartbreak. Most of all,
Maximus was fully aware of the chance he was taking, and of its monumental risk
of failure. He did not need to be told
what could be. Despite that, or perhaps
because of it, prayer upon prayer and hope driven by despair joined in the
depths of a city's pleas for their emperor's son. Maximus they knew as a good man, the chosen heir and son of
Marcus Aurelius; his was also a kind yet firm rule, though they knew he had
suffered much in his life. So,
together, and alone, the hearts and hopes of his people stretched out to him as
he paced, praying for him, but forever unable to share his grief.
On the opposite end of the a cold and darkening hell of
choices, another royal person paced, yet his hope was no longer the reverse of
the emperor's; rather, now they were aligned. Once, having vindictively ordered
and wished for an innocent child's death, he had been ready for the
consequences. Now, though, Commodus had
no desire to die. In light of
possibilities he had never before considered, revenge and ambition seemed
somehow…less all absorbing. His
yearning had not waned, yet it had been overshadowed by something far more
powerful – the will to live. Suddenly,
too, he knew what he had risked.
Vengeance had once tasted so sweet in his mouth, when he
knew he could succeed. When there had
seemed to be nothing for Maximus to do, save submit, the choice had been
easy. When Maximus had refused, that
order, too, had been straightforward. Upon thought, however, nothing seemed so simple anymore. No, he was not having an attack of
conscience; if necessary, the prince was still capable of ordering a child's
death. Rather, it was the fact that
Julius was Maximus' child. Again, though, compassion did not drive the
sudden change; fear, however, influenced it greatly. Need for vengeance had driven the prince for a long time now,
forcing him to be patient and strong. Commodus could only imagine Maximus wounded and driven by revenge.
And that thought made him afraid.
Without warning, a crash sounded from other side of the
broad wooden door, and made Commodus' still loyal Praetorians shift anxiously
and arm themselves. From the looks that
passed between them, then, and the continued racket from the outside, he knew
they had been found.
A panicked glance at his surroundings finally revealed
the uselessness of his bolthole to the prince. One way in, same way out – once that had seemed a good way to hide and
ensure security; now, it simply made the small storage room a death trap. Commodus tried to take a deep breath to
steady himself, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a gasp. What could he do? Where could he turn? There
was no one left to help him, and surely, even his sister would turn from him
because of this, even though nothing he had done in the past had made her do so
before. Even Lucilla could not forgive
him for this – for necessity, his
terrified mind reminded the rest of him – because it was necessary, wasn't
it? Shouldn't he rule Rome? Didn't he have the blood? The power to decide that question, though,
belonged to someone else.
Suddenly, Commodus found himself wishing very strongly
that Maximus' son might live.
Cries began to echo through the streets as the bloody and
ragged force of mismatched legionaries and praetorians approached the
gates. The city, once deathly quiet and
united in hope, reacted convulsively to the sight before them now. As one, thousands surged towards the palace,
where their clamor could already be heard. The warmth of sunlight beat down upon them, too, making a muggy day even
hotter, when bodies pressed closely to one another, straining to guess at the
result of the mission all knew about.
As the soldiers entered the gates, though, the crowd
began to shift uneasily. They were
pressed closely together now, in a tightly knit formation that no eye could
pierce. Their manner was strangely out
of place, though, with everything the people had expected, and as whispers
spread, the multitude began to worry. Victory had been, they thought, inevitable – after all, their emperor
was a great general who had never lost a battle, and he was far too good a man
to lose his son to such treachery. Good
had to triumph over evil.
Without breaking stride, though, and with no hesitation,
the formation reached the palace. Only
then, did their rigidity break down, revealing two riders at the very center –
Quintus Magnus and Commodus Aurelius. The general dismounted, though, and was lost from sight as six
praetorians closed in on the prince.
A gasp rose from the crowd, though, defying the solemnity
of the situation for but an instant, for there, on the palace steps, was the
Emperor. He moved forward slowly, with
a deliberate and measured stride, his wife, stepson, praetorian commander, and
key advisors trailing behind. Maximus'
face was expressionless and inhumanly calm; he stopped at the bottom of the
stairs. Once again, the ranks parted,
and General Quintus stepped forward to meet his liege, a slight, small, and
still form cradled in his arms.
Wordlessly, the general laid his burden at the foot of
the stairs, only a yard from his Emperor's feet. He stepped back then, his head bowed in the deafening
silence. For several long seconds,
Maximus stood motionless as a statue, all color draining from his face. Some in the crowd thought that they saw him
blink, but others swore that he never moved at all, his face remaining
expressionless as the crowd digested what this had to mean. Still more people would later insist that
there were tears on Quintus' face.
Slowly, then, Maximus moved forward with two mechanical
strides that spoke of the greatest control. He knelt at his son's side, pulling away the cloak wrapped around the
child's dead body and his fingers gently brushing the slack features. For but an instant, his head bowed, and some
claimed that they saw his shoulders shake. But the moment passed, and he leaned over to tenderly plant the ritual
farewell kiss upon Julius' forehead. He
remained bent over for several long seconds, then his head came up, and he
rose, lifting his dead child in his arms. Maximus turned slowly, nearly overcome by sorrow, to bring his son
inside one last time.
But there was nothing soft about the eyes that sought
Commodus Aurelius. For one short
eternity, he allowed his gaze, hurt, angry, and cold, to burn into the prince –
but there was no satisfaction in watching him squirm. Not now. He was too
physically and emotionally drained. So,
he turned his eyes to Quintus, his old friend, whom, intellectually, Maximus
knew, was grieving for his mortal failure. Somehow, the words came steadily and calmly. "Take him away."
Unable to speak, the general simply gave a nod and
half-bow in reply, his right fist striking his chest in a gesture that meant
more than compliance and more than loyalty; though they both knew it, the time
for words had not yet come. Long years
of friendship, though, transmitted Quintus' sorrowful regret and heartfelt
apology with only a glance – and somehow, Maximus found the heart to understand
them from beneath his pain. It was easy
to accept that the tragedy was not his friend's fault; emotion, though, would
forever make it impossible to believe that it was not his own.
Completing his turn, the Emperor again mounted the steps,
shattered dreams crumbling beneath his feet, taking, for the last time, his son
home.
