We Live in the Hearts of those We Leave Behind
We Live in the Hearts of those We Leave Behind

Sorry about the delay – here's part 5. As always, please tell me what you think.

Robin

madwookie@prodigy.net

www.felixlegions.com

CHAPTER FIVE: COMING HOME

"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.