Post by Regulus on Jan 4, 2007 20:58:31 GMT -5
www.fanfiction.net/s/3325349/1/ <--Review here too 
I watched Gladiator online tonight...and couldn't resist, hence my return and this.
I. Cell
“Strap on his armour. Conceal the wound.”
Emperor Commodus, Caesar of Rome, stepped away abruptly from his bound captive with a cruel smile flitting about on his lips, the trailing edge of his fine white cloak leaving a brief memory of his passing as he exited the cell. He left the two soldiers standing there staring at one another, one, the prisoner, Maximus, hanging from his restraints, his mouth tight with pain, the other, Quintus, standing several feet away, his expression unreadable.
Slowly, Quintus moved to the wall and gathered up the neat bundle of battered armour, bringing close to his former commanding officer and laying it at his feet. He didn’t meet Maximus’s eyes as he took the shin guards on top from the pile and knelt to put them on, working quickly and silently.
Maximus allowed this without moving or looking down, trying hard not to sway. The restraints that had bound him when his enemy was so close cut into his wrists as he allowed them to take some of his weight. Anything to lessen the pain. The blow had been unexpected and savage, real malice in its delivery. Closing his eyes, the former general focused on his breathing. In and out, slowly. He fought against the pain as he had in many battles before, swiftly, ferociously, doggedly, pushing it down beneath a calmer surface so it would not overwhelm his consciousness. The only difference between this fight and that of the battles he’d overseen as commander of the Felix Legions was that Quintus—his second, his best friend—had been on his side then. His betrayal hurt worse than the Caesar’s blade.
“Why did you do it, Quintus?” Maximus asked abruptly, the question ending in an agonised hiss as his back flared with unexpected agony, struggling back against his will. He bit his lip so the pain would not show on his face. He would not let show his former legatus how much it hurt. He would not.
Straightening up from the armour, the gladiator’s leather gauntlets in his hand, Quintus paused, still not meeting Maximus’s searching gaze. “I had my orders,” he muttered, stepping under the prisoner’s raised arm and standing on tiptoe—he had always been the smallest member of the Legions’ staff, Maximus remembered distantly—to fasten the first metal-plated gauntlet on. The shorter officer completed the task quickly and moved to Maximus’s other arm.
Suddenly burning with frustration, Maximus turned his head so he could see Quintus, who was looking down at the gauntlet straps he was fumbling with in his hands, his chin on his chest. This, the former general knew, was only a pretence to avoid his eyes: when Quintus was really concentrating on a problem, he tilted his head slightly to the left at a distinctive angle. “Orders from Commodus!” Maximus shot back. “The man who had just killed his own father. You knew that perfectly well then, Quintus, you know that now—look at me,” he snarled.
Quintus flinched as if struck, and with a jolt the gladiator recalled the fact that he had said the same thing months before moments after his legatus had ordered him taken away and executed. The other soldier had been unable to look at him then, and now it was no different. Fingers trembling slightly, the legatus of the Felix Legions fumbled to tie the gauntlet in place and stepped back to the pile of armour. “You shouldn’t even be talking to me,” he snapped, his voice shaking with anger. “Shut up. Just stop, Maximus. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Gods, Quintus, I do,” Maximus whispered, his eyes glazing over with pain beyond the physical kind he was feeling now. “My family was slaughtered at your command. My son was tortured, my wife raped. Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know why I’m talking about.”
The legatus halted as if the words themselves had created a barrier before him, his back turned to Maximus. After a moment, he took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and picked up the breastplate Maximus had worn in his soldier’s days. He bent his head over it as if examining it, running a hand over its chipped surface. “I didn’t want to,” he said softly. “I didn’t.”
Maximus lowered his head stiffly, his face an ugly mask of rage. “But you did. You followed Commodus’s orders.”
“Yes, Commodus’s orders!” Quintus roared, whirling around and starting forward. Maximus was shocked to see tears glittering in his haunted grey eyes. “He’s the Emperor, Maximus! The rightful heir to Marcus Aurelius! We swore to die for Rome once, you and I—he is Rome, and you defied him! You broke your promise.”
“He murdered the Emperor!”
“Maximus,shut up!” Fuming, Quintus dropped the breastplate over the gladiator’s head, and it slammed down on Maximus’s shoulders with painful force as the Roman officer circled around to his back to buckle it in place, his movements sharp and angry. Maximus gritted his teeth as the armour plate pressed hard against his wound, relying on the shackles to keep him upright as pain exploded inside his head anew. “Once upon a time, I followed his orders and you did not,” Quintus continued, only a little calmer. “Look where we are now, the two of us—I’m not the one about to die.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I live to serve Rome, and you die the foolish gladiator waving a sword in the name of a dead man. The story ends.”
He stepped away, pausing only for a moment before stepping around Maximus once more and starting down the hallway. The former general watched him go through hooded eyes, still burning with a mixture of anger and hate and something else as the door of the cell slammed shut and the pain returned.
II. Upwards
Quintus watched the two warriors in front of him as the first ray of sunlight pierced the gloom of the labyrinth beneath the Coliseum floor. They were so different—even one who did not know either of them could tell by the way they stood. Commodus lifted his face to the sun, his expression calm, while Maximus stared blindly ahead, panting slightly, now deep within himself. The injury was causing him such pain, enough that he didn’t even react to the sounds of his name being chanted by the crowd. Quintus remembered the last time he had seen his former general this way, when late into a skirmish with Germanic barbarians an arrow had plunged itself deep into his shoulder, slicing muscle and snapping bone. Already feverish from the heat of battle, the pain had driven Maximus truly mad—if Quintus had not knocked him down himself and pinned him between two corpses, shouting his name and shaking him hard, he would have killed himself on the barbarians’ blades.
That was only a dream now. Quintus blinked once as the guards stepped into the arena and formed the circle of battle.
III. Arena
Maximus tried to remain standing as Commodus staggered away from him, his eyes those of a hunted animal. The emperor was panicking while the gladiator was remaining calm, but the latter was the only one armed now now. It had become a different game, a different hunt, but could he see it through? He was bleeding heavily now, warm liquid trickling down his leg from his back. The pain was blurring his vision.
“Quintus! Sword!” Commodus screeched as Maximus leaned forward, panting. “Give me your sword!”
Through visions flicking before his eyes, Maximus saw Quintus at the far end of the makeshift ring, a small figure enlarged only by the shadow of his cloak stirring in the slight breeze. Maximus waited dully for his advantage—and only hope of surviving—to die while his former officer betrayed him once more, but something flickered in the legatus’s eyes as he glanced to Maximus, and he stood motionless as Commodus stared expectantly at him.
After a moment, Commodus swung around violently and implored the guards next. “Sword! Someone give me a sword!”
So this was where his downfall would lie, Maximus knew as the rattle of metal on scabbard’s edge filled the air. The soldiers would obey their emperor as Quintus had all those months ago, without question, with remorse, perhaps, but with doubt, never. Quintus, though, was an exception to his own rules here…he had doubted Commodus—and himself—for a moment there.
As Commodus reached out a hand for a sword, Quintus started forward, his steps purposeful and angry. “Sheathe your swords!” he ordered, his voice echoing over the boos of the crowd. “Sheathe your swords.”
The order was obeyed at once. Maximus stared at his former second-in-command as he stepped back to his place, meeting the gladiator’s eyes clearly for the first time with a challenging gaze. The one-time general took a moment to realise that Quintus was giving him a chance at victory. One chance offered to him by someone he had considered a traitor, but this gesture was tinged with real regret. Sorrow, even.
Slowly, Maximus turned his gaze back to the livid Commodus, loosening his wrist slightly and allowing the sword to slip from his fingers and drop to the dust of the arena. It rang a muffled note in the sand as Commodus drew a long dagger from his gauntlet and attacked. The hunt had changed to a dance of death.
IV. Elysium
“Maximus!” Quintus whispered in the stillness of the arena, the echo of the fall of an emperor still reverberating in the silence. The general swayed, reaching out a bloody hand slowly, his eyes unfocused.
“Maximus!” He stepped forward now, disbelief and anguish written on his face. Maximus had killed the Emperor. Killed the Emperor. Commodus was dead, a white shroud left in the sand of the arena. But Quintus could not make himself feel remorse—all he wanted to do was apologise. But what to say to his general after what he had done?
Maximus’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on Quintus, his face calm and grave. “Quintus,” he said simply, pausing for a moment to stare at his officer. That gaze was not forgiving, not quite: instead, it was accepting, and a little sad. “Free my men.”
It had always been their men first, always…
“Senator Gracchus is to be reinstated.”
Quintus couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—Maximus’s gaze held him there, rooting him to the spot with its quiet power. He tried to reply, but something stuck in his throat held his words as Maximus spoke for the last time.
“There was a dream that was Rome. It shall be realised. These are the wishes of Marcus Aurelius.”
“Free the prisoners,” Quintus said slowly, turning his head only slightly to nod at two of the guards in the still-existent circle before looking back at Maximus. “Go!”
The general smiled slightly at him before he fell.
I watched Gladiator online tonight...and couldn't resist, hence my return and this.
I. Cell
“Strap on his armour. Conceal the wound.”
Emperor Commodus, Caesar of Rome, stepped away abruptly from his bound captive with a cruel smile flitting about on his lips, the trailing edge of his fine white cloak leaving a brief memory of his passing as he exited the cell. He left the two soldiers standing there staring at one another, one, the prisoner, Maximus, hanging from his restraints, his mouth tight with pain, the other, Quintus, standing several feet away, his expression unreadable.
Slowly, Quintus moved to the wall and gathered up the neat bundle of battered armour, bringing close to his former commanding officer and laying it at his feet. He didn’t meet Maximus’s eyes as he took the shin guards on top from the pile and knelt to put them on, working quickly and silently.
Maximus allowed this without moving or looking down, trying hard not to sway. The restraints that had bound him when his enemy was so close cut into his wrists as he allowed them to take some of his weight. Anything to lessen the pain. The blow had been unexpected and savage, real malice in its delivery. Closing his eyes, the former general focused on his breathing. In and out, slowly. He fought against the pain as he had in many battles before, swiftly, ferociously, doggedly, pushing it down beneath a calmer surface so it would not overwhelm his consciousness. The only difference between this fight and that of the battles he’d overseen as commander of the Felix Legions was that Quintus—his second, his best friend—had been on his side then. His betrayal hurt worse than the Caesar’s blade.
“Why did you do it, Quintus?” Maximus asked abruptly, the question ending in an agonised hiss as his back flared with unexpected agony, struggling back against his will. He bit his lip so the pain would not show on his face. He would not let show his former legatus how much it hurt. He would not.
Straightening up from the armour, the gladiator’s leather gauntlets in his hand, Quintus paused, still not meeting Maximus’s searching gaze. “I had my orders,” he muttered, stepping under the prisoner’s raised arm and standing on tiptoe—he had always been the smallest member of the Legions’ staff, Maximus remembered distantly—to fasten the first metal-plated gauntlet on. The shorter officer completed the task quickly and moved to Maximus’s other arm.
Suddenly burning with frustration, Maximus turned his head so he could see Quintus, who was looking down at the gauntlet straps he was fumbling with in his hands, his chin on his chest. This, the former general knew, was only a pretence to avoid his eyes: when Quintus was really concentrating on a problem, he tilted his head slightly to the left at a distinctive angle. “Orders from Commodus!” Maximus shot back. “The man who had just killed his own father. You knew that perfectly well then, Quintus, you know that now—look at me,” he snarled.
Quintus flinched as if struck, and with a jolt the gladiator recalled the fact that he had said the same thing months before moments after his legatus had ordered him taken away and executed. The other soldier had been unable to look at him then, and now it was no different. Fingers trembling slightly, the legatus of the Felix Legions fumbled to tie the gauntlet in place and stepped back to the pile of armour. “You shouldn’t even be talking to me,” he snapped, his voice shaking with anger. “Shut up. Just stop, Maximus. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Gods, Quintus, I do,” Maximus whispered, his eyes glazing over with pain beyond the physical kind he was feeling now. “My family was slaughtered at your command. My son was tortured, my wife raped. Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know why I’m talking about.”
The legatus halted as if the words themselves had created a barrier before him, his back turned to Maximus. After a moment, he took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, and picked up the breastplate Maximus had worn in his soldier’s days. He bent his head over it as if examining it, running a hand over its chipped surface. “I didn’t want to,” he said softly. “I didn’t.”
Maximus lowered his head stiffly, his face an ugly mask of rage. “But you did. You followed Commodus’s orders.”
“Yes, Commodus’s orders!” Quintus roared, whirling around and starting forward. Maximus was shocked to see tears glittering in his haunted grey eyes. “He’s the Emperor, Maximus! The rightful heir to Marcus Aurelius! We swore to die for Rome once, you and I—he is Rome, and you defied him! You broke your promise.”
“He murdered the Emperor!”
“Maximus,shut up!” Fuming, Quintus dropped the breastplate over the gladiator’s head, and it slammed down on Maximus’s shoulders with painful force as the Roman officer circled around to his back to buckle it in place, his movements sharp and angry. Maximus gritted his teeth as the armour plate pressed hard against his wound, relying on the shackles to keep him upright as pain exploded inside his head anew. “Once upon a time, I followed his orders and you did not,” Quintus continued, only a little calmer. “Look where we are now, the two of us—I’m not the one about to die.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I live to serve Rome, and you die the foolish gladiator waving a sword in the name of a dead man. The story ends.”
He stepped away, pausing only for a moment before stepping around Maximus once more and starting down the hallway. The former general watched him go through hooded eyes, still burning with a mixture of anger and hate and something else as the door of the cell slammed shut and the pain returned.
II. Upwards
Quintus watched the two warriors in front of him as the first ray of sunlight pierced the gloom of the labyrinth beneath the Coliseum floor. They were so different—even one who did not know either of them could tell by the way they stood. Commodus lifted his face to the sun, his expression calm, while Maximus stared blindly ahead, panting slightly, now deep within himself. The injury was causing him such pain, enough that he didn’t even react to the sounds of his name being chanted by the crowd. Quintus remembered the last time he had seen his former general this way, when late into a skirmish with Germanic barbarians an arrow had plunged itself deep into his shoulder, slicing muscle and snapping bone. Already feverish from the heat of battle, the pain had driven Maximus truly mad—if Quintus had not knocked him down himself and pinned him between two corpses, shouting his name and shaking him hard, he would have killed himself on the barbarians’ blades.
That was only a dream now. Quintus blinked once as the guards stepped into the arena and formed the circle of battle.
III. Arena
Maximus tried to remain standing as Commodus staggered away from him, his eyes those of a hunted animal. The emperor was panicking while the gladiator was remaining calm, but the latter was the only one armed now now. It had become a different game, a different hunt, but could he see it through? He was bleeding heavily now, warm liquid trickling down his leg from his back. The pain was blurring his vision.
“Quintus! Sword!” Commodus screeched as Maximus leaned forward, panting. “Give me your sword!”
Through visions flicking before his eyes, Maximus saw Quintus at the far end of the makeshift ring, a small figure enlarged only by the shadow of his cloak stirring in the slight breeze. Maximus waited dully for his advantage—and only hope of surviving—to die while his former officer betrayed him once more, but something flickered in the legatus’s eyes as he glanced to Maximus, and he stood motionless as Commodus stared expectantly at him.
After a moment, Commodus swung around violently and implored the guards next. “Sword! Someone give me a sword!”
So this was where his downfall would lie, Maximus knew as the rattle of metal on scabbard’s edge filled the air. The soldiers would obey their emperor as Quintus had all those months ago, without question, with remorse, perhaps, but with doubt, never. Quintus, though, was an exception to his own rules here…he had doubted Commodus—and himself—for a moment there.
As Commodus reached out a hand for a sword, Quintus started forward, his steps purposeful and angry. “Sheathe your swords!” he ordered, his voice echoing over the boos of the crowd. “Sheathe your swords.”
The order was obeyed at once. Maximus stared at his former second-in-command as he stepped back to his place, meeting the gladiator’s eyes clearly for the first time with a challenging gaze. The one-time general took a moment to realise that Quintus was giving him a chance at victory. One chance offered to him by someone he had considered a traitor, but this gesture was tinged with real regret. Sorrow, even.
Slowly, Maximus turned his gaze back to the livid Commodus, loosening his wrist slightly and allowing the sword to slip from his fingers and drop to the dust of the arena. It rang a muffled note in the sand as Commodus drew a long dagger from his gauntlet and attacked. The hunt had changed to a dance of death.
IV. Elysium
“Maximus!” Quintus whispered in the stillness of the arena, the echo of the fall of an emperor still reverberating in the silence. The general swayed, reaching out a bloody hand slowly, his eyes unfocused.
“Maximus!” He stepped forward now, disbelief and anguish written on his face. Maximus had killed the Emperor. Killed the Emperor. Commodus was dead, a white shroud left in the sand of the arena. But Quintus could not make himself feel remorse—all he wanted to do was apologise. But what to say to his general after what he had done?
Maximus’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on Quintus, his face calm and grave. “Quintus,” he said simply, pausing for a moment to stare at his officer. That gaze was not forgiving, not quite: instead, it was accepting, and a little sad. “Free my men.”
It had always been their men first, always…
“Senator Gracchus is to be reinstated.”
Quintus couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—Maximus’s gaze held him there, rooting him to the spot with its quiet power. He tried to reply, but something stuck in his throat held his words as Maximus spoke for the last time.
“There was a dream that was Rome. It shall be realised. These are the wishes of Marcus Aurelius.”
“Free the prisoners,” Quintus said slowly, turning his head only slightly to nod at two of the guards in the still-existent circle before looking back at Maximus. “Go!”
The general smiled slightly at him before he fell.
