Note: I don't own Gladiator. If I did, I probably wouldn't do much.
He was the ruler of the most powerful empire in the world. Rome. The name itself meant power, luxury, wealth. Those who did not take part of it were nothing. Those who placed themselves under it did so loyally, and those who sought to topple it were dust. To many men of Rome, the position of Caesar was to sit with the Gods, as no position could be closer;greater. And so did Commodus sit comfortably in that seat as many could have only dreamed of doing so. And yet, his people did not love him.
They had all loved Maximus. The Spaniard.
Commodus' head had always been sore with needs, desires, as he had often complained to Lucilla before. Still, there was a constant noise in his mind which had decieved his ears into hearing, even in solitude. A noise that echoed and buzzed in his head, injuring him further, tightening his bite, and watering his eyes with frusteration.
Maximus.Maximus.Maximus.
The crowd which had once cheered at the presence of their Caesar now cheered for Maximus. They cheered at his spurning of his orders, they cheered at him defying his power in vengeance of his father. Father. Father had loved him and betrayed his only son, the true heir. The Gladiator, mere pawn of the ring which hosted the most scorned and barbaric of beasts, was loved more than him.His head had throbbed with pain the day of the games in which he had met the Gladiator once again, when he was to crush Maximus underfoot for such defiance, but did not. He had feared the audience, loved the audience, what they wanted, he had wanted to be loved by them.
But Lucius. He had envied Lucius. Commodus' successor was, without a doubt, the most loved, loved by his sister, loved by his servants, loved by everyone. He had watched the boy sleep with great interest and envy. Watched his breaths - and listened, deep and slow - one who is loved does not take shallow breaths to stay on the verge of conciousness - like he did. It was the Caesar who was to climb into cold and unoccupied sheets at night to escape from his jealousy and his anger, only to be frightened by bad visions of things he couldn't control, those of which only an unstable man such as himself could come in contact with.Vexed because of the Senate, vexed over his people, his sister.
He hurt most when he thought of his sister. There had been a love between them, a family bond, but it didn't exist now that he had gained his immeasurable power. But why, why did she not long for him the way he did her? He was like a mongrel that was starved of food, but could not attain any, no matter how much he begged. His head ached him when he passed her by. It ached when he tensed over her scent, or tried to contain his lust whilst speaking in private to her, whilst he had placed her lips upon his forehead.Oh, how he longed to feel those lips upon his person again.It ached when his eyes met hers. Her eyes were now unlike those in which he had known for years.They had become cold, worrysome, like daggers. Eyes that feared and loathed his every move. They had newly belonged to her that night he had smothered the Caesar before him, Marcus Aurelius, his father. It had brought him much pleasure to hear " Hail, Caesar," pass through his sister's lips.
She had shared those eyes with Maximus, and had seen them as the Gladiator drove Commodus' own dagger into his neck, guided by his own hand. He had held onto his enemy as the blood from his jugular bled through his clothing, white and royal and stolen, wondering how he could have possibly lost the battle to the General.He had fallen dead on the floor of the Colosseum, and risen from the fields of wheat in the rolling hills of the afterlife. And it was the once estranged Caesar who wandered, searching for a soul who would recognize him, crying out to those who might have been waiting, out for his father in hopes that he might once again embrace his cowardly son. But he failed, and nobody loved him, and his head was sore.