Title: Eternum Vale 01/0?
Author: Shana Nolan
Rating: this part: PG-13. overall: who knows?
Spoilers: Uh, the whole movie. This will blow the end for those who haven't seen it yet. (it makes more sense if you've seen it, too) Archiving: myself and the GladiatorGrrl website, others ask. Disclaimers: Dreamworks and Universal own these characters as they're portrayed, I'm just fixing a few things, like the ending, and some historical "things" that Ridley Scott messed with. No money, no harm, no intention for sale here.
Notes: This is for Emmy. She started the list and now that I've seen the movie, the plot bunny has taken hold. Happy birthday, hope you don't mind your gift a bit... dented.
Latin notes: Eternum Vale="Farewell Forever," Pater="father," Carus="beloved."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The smell of wheat was in his nostrils, rich, permeating, riddling his brain with thoughts that made little sense and perfect sense at the same time, welcoming him, and yet, at the same time, alienating him.

He had no idea how long he had been here, all he knew is that with the falling to the sunburnt ground his vision changed, and when it returned, he was here.

Wherever here was.

Standing on a small hill, watching the woman and child he knew as his family wait expectantly in the chariot hewn road, light caressing over them with loving attention, he tried to see the hills he knew so well. He had to be somewhere. He could feel that was not so far away from home; this was not Gaul or Germania, and certainly not Brittania.

But nor was it Rome. If it were his native Spain, his blood would be burning with native fires, which it wasn't. He felt cold and warm all at once, his skin tingling with a sensation he had felt once when being dragged along in a cart to...

He was dead?

The Elysian fields surely couldn't be this plain.

Running his hands along the prickly stalks of wheat, he let the sensation wash over him, the tenderness of the gesture surprising him. He was not gentle man, he bore blood on his hands more times than he could count, but for some reason, he felt deeply affected by this little motion. Daring to walk towards the pair on the road, his heart seeming to leap in his throat as he recognised the face of a woman he had made love to countless times, his feet were light as they cut through the field, bringing him all the closer to something he had been wanting to hold, to touch, to see, for far too long.

Something taken from him.

Now he understood. He had to be dead. He had made it to paradise and his eternal reward was to sit in a peaceful place and watch his son play while he listened to his wife tell stories, or moan his name as he held her in an intimate embrace.

Setting a sandaled foot onto the dirt-packed road, he smiled, watching small feet lope his way in joy, his memories flooding back to him now. The way she combed her hair, the way his son cried when he left for barbarian country, the whinny of the horse about to be spurred into battle, the clash of swords, the roar of tigers...

And the sound of his breath, hollow in his chest, as he fell to the dirt of the Coliseum.

He shuddered, fisting a hand, trying to hide the reaction as the distance closed between him and what he had been dying, somewhat literally, to have again.

"Pater!"

The smile widening, he held out his arms, anticipating the feel of the boy in his arms, dropping down to his knees to wrap time worn hands around the small frame, lowering his head as the mess of hair tickled his nose.

Savouring it, wishing the memory to embed itself over the sight of their bodies crucified, he raised his head as the sound of a feminine voice clearing her throat caught his attention. "Carus," he whispered.

She stood patiently, her tunica fluttering in the wind, her hair framing her face like he remembered it, the reuniting of their family returning a light of hope to his shattered self.

Freeing himself from young arms and standing up, he set hands on her cheeks, holding her face just in front of his to study it, staring deeply into the brown eyes. "Oh, carus."

"Maximus," she smiled, placing a slim hand on his neck, running her thumb along the edge of her jaw.

It was all too much. Surely this was paradise, the reward of the Roman soldier he had been promised so long ago, long before the days of Generalhood. Laughing, pulling her to him and kissing her fervently, tasting her lips as if he had never before, he heard her hesitate, the sound ominous in his ears.

"What?"

Sliding out of his grip, lowering her eyes and drawing the boy to her side, she regarded him fondly. "We have missed you, my wandering General."

"And I. But why do you back away?"

There was a pause, the wind whispering over the fields surrounding them, filling him with a sense of sudden dread. Her eyes met his, but they were not wholly welcoming. "You don't understand."

"I'm here with you, that's all that matters. I can't tell you how badly I've wanted to see you."

Her voice was soft, the regret evident. "Enjoy this time, Maximus, for you cannot stay here with us."

It was as if that knife had been driven once more into his chest. "What?"

"You cannot stay."

"I'm dead, aren't I? What, am I not deserving? What did I ever do wrong to be kept away from you and my son forever?!"

The boy looked up expectantly to her, his eyes wide with a knowledge that he, the great General, the great Gladiator, did not possess. "Pater has to go back?"

She nodded solemnly.

He paced the road, suddenly enraged. How dare he lose all this! Not now! He had held them both to his body and now he had to give them up again? "No! I gave my life for that worthless dog! My place is here, and I am dead. I will not leave."

"You have to leave."

"Why? Why?! Have I offended the Gods? Should I have not killed the barbarians or the whelp emperor? Give me a reason! What have I done?!"

"You have to go back."

Maximus froze, his feet deadly still. Crossing the distance that had suddenly grown between him and his wife, he snatched her hand and held it up for them both to see. "This is all I have wanted. This. You. My son. Not the glory of battle, not the men obeying my every word, not the love of the emperor and certainly not the sword fitted to my hand. Am I asking so much? Give me a reason."

"It is not my place to say. We love you Maximus, but you must go back. You are not dead."

If one had breath in their bodies while in Elysium, it would have trapped in his body. "What?"

"You are not dead."

"I felt the wounds, I saw my blood, I saw the earth spin as I fell and you say I am not dead?"

"You are not dead," she repeated.

The wind picked up around him, coiling around his legs as the coil of anger built within him. "It cannot be," he whispered.

Whipping around, throwing his hands in the air, he raised his eyes, searching for the answer. "What do you want with me?! I am only a man!"

But there was no great figure of Mars waiting with wisdom. He was one of three in a field, now feeling more lost than when he had arrived.

A small hand tugged at his leather petticoat. "Pater has to go away now."

The rage disappearing as suddenly as it started, he dropped once more to his knees, looking into the boy's eyes, the colour like his mother's. "We'll be together again. I promise."

"We'll be waiting. I love you, pater."

The tingling returned to his fingers, the wind blowing around them, and with a reluctant sigh that could weigh down the largest war horse, he stood, looking down the road. Was he just supposed to start walking? Was there a secret to this new condemnation, a key to the lock he was being forced to open?

His son pointed out in the distance, his finger aimed towards the hills. "Go and come back soon."

He nodded, gritting his teeth. Peace was not his yet. He could not rest yet.

"We love you, pater."

~*~

"Master, he's coming around."

"Quickly, let me see."

His world came back with an agonising moment of bright light, his hands too weak to cover his eyes. Trying to speak, the twitch of his jaw eliciting a sharp stab of pain, he let his lips part, his eyes half-slitted to the dim room he had been placed in.

"Can you hear me?"

He nodded feebly, unable to do anything else.

"We had thought that when you fell asleep you would not wake up," the old man, his white hair cropped close around his head, said, dipping a cloth in water and wringing it.

Blinking, recognising the walls of Roman architecture, he exhaled, wincing as it caused another bolt of pain.

"Don't try to talk. You're fortunate you survived."

"Yes, he is. How nice to see you awake again."

He narrowed his eyes, recognising the voice. Watching as the richly clad woman stepped up to the side of the bed, he had the urge to reach out for her, but found the lifting of fingers was still too much to handle.

"Don't exert yourself, sire. You'll soon enough be back on your feet and throwing tantrums."

He let his lips curl into a snarl, his eyes burning. How perfectly ill-timed to see her at his sickbed, tending him like some nursemaid. "You--"

Sitting on the edge of a wrinkled blanket, she raised an eyebrow. "Yes. How ironic for me to return to Rome and find you like this. Don't thank me though, some poor slave discovered you still breathing in the sand of the Coliseum and took pity on you as a human being. Or, that's what he said. Personally, I think he didn't want to look at your corpse."

He managed a hiss.

"That is, of course, implying you're human in the first place."

Before he could respond, the healer set a hand on the woman's arm. "Don't agitate him unless you want to kill him."

She smiled and patted a pale hand laid across the bed. "Oh, but that's the typical way for a Caesar to die. At the hands of those he knows best."

If he had the power to leap up and hurt her, he would have, but breathing was proving hard enough. His eyes locking on hers, the difference in temperament palpable, he set himself to get better and knock the ungrateful harlot into obedience once he had the strength.

"But I have better things to do right now. Get better, dear, and do have the courtesy to send the healer's servant sent to me to announce your death, should you decide to do just that."

Reduced to quiet fuming, he followed with his eyes the veil hanging around her head as she knelt down to kiss him on the head. As she walked away, her hips moving gently from side to side, he wondered if this was her genuine attempt to help him, or a move to manipulate his power.

The healer waited a few moments before shaking his head, bringing the damp cloth over and wiping it down his chest and part of his neck. "You Caesars never do anything small, do you? A Senator takes a mistress, and she keeps quiet, doesn't act out; but you, you have to tame the wild ones. Just have to take Venus for yourself."

Closing his eyes as the cool moisture took away the edge of the discomfort plaguing his upper half, he half nodded. The old man had a point.

However, he had been trained for nothing else. He knew nothing else. It was his destiny.

And now he was stuck with it, wounds and all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The sound of the slaves crushing grapes inside vats filling the air, she
stood quietly, observing the ease that the two women bore as they laboured
under the Roman sun. She had never understood how they managed to smile and
continue on in life as they did, enduring the slave's existence. And yet,
here they were, on the grounds next to the villa, covered in the juice and
peels of the ripe little fruit, working without complaint. She wasn't a
cruel mistress, nothing like some of her inner city sisters; she was not
fond of the whip, and despite her own questionable activities, she made sure
he kept his hands off her servants.

"Mistress?"

Turning around, surprised to hear the matron that maintained the villa behind her, she smiled. "Yes, Hadria?"

Bowing her head slightly, the elder woman stood dutifully. "I was wondering of you would like anything special tonight for the meal... and if the master is joining us."

She laughed quietly to herself. Even if he was up and about, he wasn't going to be eating normal food for a while. "I doubt it, but prepare a soup for him so we may recover his strength."

"Is that really him, mistress? Caesar?"

Antonia Divius took a step closer to the matron, her earrings tinkling as they bounced against her neck. "He is a man, given to the same weaknesses as any other man, which is why he lays prone in my bed all day, not speaking and needing the healer to wash his wounds. His name may be Caesar, Hadria, but his manner is not."

"They said he was dead, killed in the Colosseum."

Antonia nodded and turned her gaze back to the slaves working at the vat. "So the Senators say, but I have not shared my bed with a common citisen. Nor will I start. Go, tend your fire."

Without further comment, Hadria left, darting back inside. "Always so many questions. It's a wonder I have any privacy whatsoever." Tightening the crimson and gold palla around her, she considered checking the bed, making sure that she still had one captive guest, bound down by injury and weakness, her kindness his main hope for recovery.

He was young at least; nineteen, ambitious with the youthful endurance to prove it. His moods were strong, swinging, like most child rulers, she mused, according to the situation. With this situation, he stood to fall, the rumour of his death strong enough to have his own sister announce that her son Lucius would take the throne once he was old enough. If Commodus was to survive, he had to return to Rome and not only take his title back, but his palace also-- right from the clutches of his only family.

Antonia sighed. Lucilla was a smart woman, Lucius a bright and promising boy, considering his bloodline, but they seemed to miss details about the Roman Empire. As much as she hated to admit it, if there was one thing Commodus Caesar knew, it was how to keep the mobs of Rome happy; his reinstatement of those damned games was proof enough.

Walking back to the airy room, wondering if she could pry enough out of her guest to determine his mood, Antonia smoothed the fabric once more, sliding it off of her head to expose the carefully pulled up hair.

"Good afternoon, sire."

The rustle of fabric was enough to tell her he was awake. Crossing the room, she settled on the edge of the bed, meeting his eyes. "Can you speak yet, or must I hold your neck closed still?"

His eyes narrowed at her. The comment had made its mark, for as she set a hand on his chest, he reached up and grabbed her wrist, holding it in place, staring at her. "I am still your emperor."

So he was healing. It had taken long enough. The supply of herbs alone was stripping most of her extra funds for the last fortnight; gratefully she had managed to keep the healer around by offering the freedom of one of his children, presumably sold into slavery in Capua. "But you are still weak, and using my bed as your resting place."

His voice was raspy, but returning. The pain was beginning to fade, aided along by the wine to numb his nerves. "It is your duty to serve me."

"It is also my duty as a Roman citisen to tell the Senate that you're alive, but since I haven't done that, I would think you'd be less inclined to order me around, Commodus."

Lacking the vestments and people to stand up to her, he hissed. "I am still Caesar."

"And I'm just the palace whore. You need to eat and bathe. I can smell you before I see you."

Commodus growled a bit, his words challenging. "Brave words from a former slave."

Standing up with a flash of anger, Antonia pointed at the white lorica sitting on a table across from the bed, the battle scene emblazoned chest catching the light, traces of dried blood running down the front and side. "And rude words from the man whose life I saved. Gods, Commodus, it never changes. I put up with you because it kept you out of your father's hair, and he gave me my freedom for it. Because of that I stayed, and now, when I risk my own life to save yours, you threaten me? I am the mistress of this house and I will not be talked to this way. If you want to lord over someone, go home and try it there."

"You have no right to speak that way to me, I am--"

Her clothes twisting with her sharp turn, she hissed. "A man? An emperor? Or something else, perhaps?"

"At my word, I could have you killed."

Stopping, drawing up to her full height, she smiled wolfishly. "Yes, but then no one would be here to love you."

There was a pause, silence falling between them, the sounds from outside suddenly flooding in where the conversation had waned.

"Nia?"

Standing quietly, shifting so that his view of her was blocked by one of the massive bed posts, she waited for the inevitable.

"Antonia?"

If there was one weakness that one could prey upon when it came to the only son of Marcus Aurelius, it was his need to be loved.

"Antonia, don't go please."

"I will not be addressed as a child nor an animal, Commodus."

"I-- Nia, don't leave me. I need you... please."

For all that she had endured with him, for all the cruelties she had seen him carry out on others, his petty little needs and demands, she knew she couldn't break away. She took him into her bed the first time by her own choice, and again it was her choice alone to do it this last time. Sighing, dropping the palla off her shoulders and letting the carefully trimmed edges of the linen tunica come into his view, she sat back down on the bed, took his hand in her own and kissed the masculine knuckles. "I know."

His posture eased with the gesture, his head relaxing back on the pillow. Taking a deep breath, wincing as it shifted the bandages over the healing wound in his throat, he tried to swallow and regain his normal tone of voice. "How is Rome?"

"Not burning, despite your belief that she cannot stand without a Caesar."

"She prospers?"

It was probably better to not tell the ailing dictator about his shortcomings at this point. "She stands, and no invaders are at the city gates, thank the Gods. The Senate however--"

"That bunch of conniving hyenas!"

"--has shut down the gladiator games again in your father's name."

Commodus' gaze hardened, turning her grip so he could squeeze her fingers in a clear display of distaste. Pausing to fill his lungs with a lance of pain, the anger waking his nerves again, he forced himself to sit up a little. "I will return, Antonia, and I will have Rome the way she should be. Those Senators will pay for this. They have defied me and they have defied the emperor, and it will not stand."

She sighed. Once a Caesar, always a Caesar. "Yes, Commodus, and then you will bring those garish games back."

"No," he started, "they aren't so bad. The people love them, and I will do whatever I can to make them love me. What are the lives of a few slaves and prisoner of war as compared to the glory of our Empire?"

"Inconsequential, in your view."

"But not yours," he commented.

She nodded slightly, choosing to not lie. The blood of many men, two of which had great prowess and reputation behind their names, still littered that field of sand, and she was none to anxious to see it reconsecrated. "I would prefer to not witness things like," using her free hand, she touched the cloth wrapped around his throat, "this, thank you."

"It was a good fight."

"Until you lost, you mean."

"I'm still alive," Commodus stated, the warning tone evident in his raspy voice, "that makes me the winner."

Antonia shrugged, sliding free her hand. "I suppose, but don't be too quick to assume you'll get out of this bed. I've seen stronger men with lesser injuries die after they seem to recover."

As the heir to the empire, the lesson that the body was fallible was glossed over and not brought to his attention. He knew many things, could deal with politicians and soldiers alike, but a simple wound that had poured his life blood onto the hot sand was alien. It brought fear to his confident manner, poked holes in his belief about those who loved him, and left him wondering, propped up in the bed of the woman he preferred to associate with over his wife, whether or not he would see his palace again.

"Nia?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever really loved me? Of your own will?"

Antonia paused. It was a loaded question, not to mention an old one. When her life was in danger years ago, she pleaded for him to protect her, adding the bit that she loved him. Commodus was hopeful, but not naive. He had probably figured out that she was jockeying for his loyalty then, and on subsequent occasions she had managed to work around the truth by saying "Of course" or "Do you doubt me?" It seemed to work well enough, but now, considering the risks she had taken to get him here and help heal him, maybe in the bottom of her heart there was some glimmer of what the young ruler asked of her.

Sighing, drawing a hand across his cheek, she managed a wistful smile. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

"That's not an answer, Nia."

Watching him as his gaze wandered over her face, she recalled the look on his face when he first saw her, sitting on the edge of his bed in the imperial palace with nothing but one of his lacernas draped over her body, the oil she had used to soften her skin making her exposed flesh gleam in the lamp light. He was seventeen then, and she was nothing more than a prize, but the look now was the same. She was still a prize, but one, he now realised, that was harder to replace.

Shifting up, drawing her knees across the bed, she crawled up to loom over his body, noting that in the time since he had come here, he was thinner, her legs braced easily between his waist as she lowered her shoulders. The fabric drooped off her frame as she brought her face close to his, studying the lines of his nose, noting the way his face was evening out, maturity finally touching his features. Hearing his breath catch as she let her lips drift over his, she chuckled. "You tell me, my emperor."

"You shouldn't have left Rome when you did," he whispered.

"And you," Antonia responded, kissing him lightly before continuing, the end of her hair falling across his chest, "should listen to your mistress when she tells you to go with her."

"I had to--"

His excuse cut off by her lips, she lowered her body onto his covered form, letting the curves of her body press tantalisingly into him, tempting him despite the fact that he had no strength to go further than what she was already doing. Breaking away, pulling one of his hands free from her neck, she smiled. "Of my own will I still touch you, and will do so further when you can respond properly. Until then, rest."

Brushing her lips over his a final time, she backed away, hearing his stifled whine as she slipped her feet onto the floor. Pulling the trimmed edge of the palla up to rest at her hairline, effectively covering her hair and shoulders, she bowed her head slightly, leaving the room with an easy gait.

Waiting a few moments until he knew she couldn't hear him, Commodus sighed and relaxed back in the bed, ignoring his body as it begged for more of her caress. Damn his mortality for being weak to a woman's charms.

And damn his heart for letting her capture his emotions so perfectly.

~*~

The words rang through him like a bell, over and over, repeating with a resonance so strong that not even the sound of battle could drown it out. All he could hear, wandering through inky blackness, was his son saying "we love you, pater," and it was all he could hold on to as he began to surface back to the waking world, the pain increasing in intensity as he went.

It was a guess, and a blind one at that, that he was somewhere outside Rome, the shadows of the great buildings not laying across his eyes, his body robed in something soft and cool, certainly not armour or anything made of animal skin. He could feel all his extremities, so somehow he had the chance to walk again if he could break free from the dark void. His chest and arm ached, which to his muddled mind meant he was stuck with the living still, the sensation ripping him further away from death, Elysium and his family.

They said he was not dead, that he had to go back. He had promised them that he would return to them, meaning it with every part of his being, but now he had to find out why he still had to face the world that beaten him so savagely.

Hearing a bird sing somewhere, possibly just outside the room he was in, he garnered his strength, setting himself to figure out what he had to do, the image of his wife and son etched into his memory, the smell of her hair burned into his nostrils. He would no forget them. He had held then in his arms and lost them a second time; when he would see them again, there would be no parting between them. Not even the Gods would separate them.

Fisting his hand, feeling the cloth gather between his fingers, he gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, forcing himself to fight off the darkness, his now sworn enemy, and see the light of the sun.

He heard male laughter, somewhere close. He knew that laugh. It couldn't be. They had been successful? They had escaped and managed to survive?

"Juba?"

His question, uttered by a raspier, rougher version of his voice, went unanswered. Blinking in the semi-bright room, acclimating to the daylight, he strained his ears, listening for more signs of his friend.

"Amicus?"

Hearing feet approach the room, pulling himself partially upright to better greet whomever it was, he braced himself, knowing he was in no condition for a fight.

The wooden door creaked open, and the face behind it split wide in a grin. "Maximus! My friend! You're awake!"

"Juba," he murmured. So he was with friends.

The dark skinned man walked to stand next the long wooden table that had passed as Maximus' bed, clasping his hand. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been run over by chariot repeatedly. Where are we?"

Juba laughed, the sound both happy and relieved. "In the slums of Rome, far too close to the bad vomitoriums. Do you want something to eat? You have to be starving."

Maximus swallowed. "Something sweet? Do you have fruit?"

The other man laughed again. "Bread and olive oil. You're the great General, that should be enough to have you up and fighting again."

"You're too optimistic, Juba." Sitting up, ignoring the wave of nausea, he ran a hand across his ribs, wincing at the little hole his finger caught on. "This is going to leave a nasty scar."

Juba crossed his arms and quirked his head. "It was supposed to kill you, not leave a reason to complain about your body."

"Complaints? My only complaint is that I can't return the favour to the whelp."

"You're welcome to spit on his grave, if we come across it."

The morbid humour brought a wan smile to his face. "So he's dead."

"All of Rome seems to think so. Lucilla is reigning in the name of her son right now."

"I need to see her."

Setting hands on Maximus' broad chest, pressing him back down to the table, Juba shook his head. "You're still a popular name-- too popular. Everyone thinks your dead, including her. Stay here, eat bread. I think I know someone who can help us."

The General in him ached to get up and move around, to regain his lost strength. "Who?"

"Well, he's supposed to be dead, too, but I've been asking questions. Seems we have some allies around here still."

"Who, Juba?"

"You'll see, my friend."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Maximus, be gentle, it's not that good a sword!"

Grunting, stepping back from his relentless attack on the other man, Maximus stopped the blow that he was about to land on the wooden shield held out in front of him. "So I noticed. If you want--" he leapt forward, feigning a blow to the legs, "me to recover my old strength, Juba, I need legion quality weapons."

The dark man snorted, raising the shield to keep his shoulder from being cleaved in, refraining from a comment regarding Spaniard stamina. "Next time I see some imperial guards I'll ask to borrow theirs, will that suit you?"

Narrowing his eyes, the former General took the pause after the snide comment to back the other man against a wall, turning the gladius backwards and pushing the hilt against Juba's sternum. "No. You've risked too much to keep me here. Any trouble with the guard and they'll finish what was started in the Colosseum."

"They closed the games again, Maximus. Didn't you hear?"

Backing away, he pointed at the swath of cloth passing as a bandage under the ratty tunic he was wearing. "I was otherwise occupied."

Juba nodded. "Lucilla shut them down in her father's name. The Senators couldn't be happier about it."

"I'm sure."

"But," pushing off the wall, he spun around and got free of the bronze blade's range, balancing back and forth on his feet, "it doesn't mean everything is perfect."

"Lucilla is the perfect heir to Aurelius' throne."

"You really are taken with her, aren't you? She's still the emperor's daughter, and still caught in the politics of Rome."

"She was my last ally, and the last eyes I laid upon before dyi-- falling unconscious," Maximus stated, trying to keep the defensive edge out of his voice.

Juba snorted, spotting one of the circular shields and diving for it. "You still want her."

"I always have. We had something once, her and I, and I thought," he lunged forward, the still healing tissue on his side aching with use, "that we could have something again."

"You spent too much time in your Elysium, you're dreaming still."

The former General's gaze hardened as he brought the sword forcefully down on the shield. "My family waits for me in Elysium, not Lucilla."

The dark man winced. The blow was a little too hard for a play fight, bronze striking bronze with a flared temper. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I realise that. Juba, if I want to return to any kind of life, I need friends, friends that can help me. With the power of Caesar's daughter I can get nearly anything I need. How is that wrong?"

"It is when you forget your family."

Maximus growled. "I will -never- do that."

Taking the chance to get back on his feet and gain leverage again, the other man shrugged. "Then try your luck, but some people may not welcome you. Just because she holds the palace does not mean the Praetorian won't kill you on sight."

Striking with an overhead swing, he grunted, "Then I must get Quintus to trust me also."

Stifling the urge to laugh, his skepticism about the loyalties of the well lined pocket of one of Rome's most powerful soldiers, Juba instead nodded and locked Maximus' blade in a parry. It was not his place to destroy this man's only set of hopes. "Do what you must, my friend."

"I will. Now tell me about our supposedly dead ally."

~*~

The afternoon wind whispered through the streets, bringing the stench of the slave quarter into his nostrils. He hated the way the city smelled no matter what the time, day or weather, one potentially nauseating smell replaced for another, assaulting his nose and sickening him to the point of willingly starving himself. He preferred open fields and agriculture, not this tightly packed humanity and its after-effects.

But he couldn't go back to that until he had found what, or rather whom, he was looking for.

Ducking behind a corner, pulling the beaten earth tone fabric further around his face to hide his features, he lowered his eyes as a few men walked by him, thanking the gods when they paid no attention to him. He could not let himself be exposed at this point; there was so much at stake.

Glancing up at the sun, the glint of a well-polished statue catching his eye, he sighed. An eagle, the sign of the great Rome and her Caesar, loomed over him like a carrion bird waiting to pick his bones even before his last breath left his body. He couldn't escape the damned thing even if he tried, and the fact that he had long fostered a hatred for everything the Emperor personified wasn't helping.

He was free, a servant that was thought dead, his master kind enough not to send a hunting party for him even though his mistress was butchered on the grounds as he lay unconscious. So often the slaves took the blame for the violence, but he was fortunate in a peculiar way, left with nothing better to do than track down a missing sister, last known to be a slave in the Emperor's palace, bringing him to the capital city and her "glories" with the elder sister's name on his lips, the memory of her laugh still touching his ears.

Sighing, crossing the now empty street and making his way a little closer to the heart of the city, he gathered his remaining drive to find his family again. His skin crawled with disgust, his stomach turning with a fresh gust of wind, but he had a goal.

~*~

"I will not be spoken to this way!"

Grinding her teeth, forcing herself to keep from shouting back, Lucilla turned slowly, regarding the younger woman, her eyes blazing with a challenge. "And how would you have me speak to you? Fearfully? With total humility? Or perhaps I should end each sentence with a 'yes, your highness.'"

"Anything," Marcia hissed, pulling at the gold threaded veil, "would be an improvement over this."

"Had you enough charms to seduce my brother to bed and have him get you with his son, you might stand a chance at holding your name of Augusta. Lucius is the next in line, and since -I- am his mother, I rule in his name... presuming I cannot banish this damned tyranny altogether."

Marcia's eyes blazed. "How dare you."

With a dismissive wave of a hand, Lucilla sighed, walking to fetch her wine glass, taking a large draught before stepping back into the argument. The young queen was naive and power hungry, plucked from a rich Roman artisan family to lay in the bed of her brother for the sole purpose of continuing the line of Claudius; but Marcus Aurelius was always more fond of her, his daughter, giving him an heir, rather than Commodus. Marcia knew this, but could never understand it. She believed it her right to be Augusta, to wear a gold wreath on her head, all others be damned. "The Senate will take this Empire back, not you."

"There has not been a republic since before Augustus, what makes you think the Senate is equipped to take it back? Or perhaps this is merely a ploy to keep the empire alive until your son can take power, leaving you in favour of the leadership until your natural death."

"My father wanted this to be a republic again, and I will do my best to make it so."

There was a primly raised eyebrow. "Your father died because his son and the rightful heir could not accept such a delusion."

"And my brother, the 'rightful heir,'" Lucilla grated, "died because of his acts. Do not follow him by supporting them."

Marcia's stance wavered. Backed into a corner, she was younger and less educated than the refined daughter of Aurelius, and she knew it. It was the ever constant thorn in her side, one that she was often reminded of. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you know as well as I do that women to not hold the power in this world."

"Of all people, I would think you could change that."

Lucilla paused, turned her back and made her way to the richly carved and enameled throne, sitting down in a strong posture. Raising her eyes to the other woman, she shook her head. "I will not end what peace we have left so I can hold the power on my own. If I cannot bring my father's wishes to the light, I will raise my son to be as good a leader as his grandfather."

"Unlike his uncle."

Lurching out of the stone seat, locking gazes with a veiled form standing in a doorway, Lucilla stiffened. "Your role here is finished. We have no need for your services now."

Turning around as she set her glass of wine on a richly carved table, Marcia, widow of Commodus Caesar, hissed. "You whoring bitch. Get out now."

Quirking a slight smile, the interloper took a step in, unfolding her arms from the crimson and gold palla. "On the contrary, Lucilla, I think you still need me."

"In the name of Rome, get out now before I have you killed," Marcia snarled.

Lowering the fabric from her head and stepping across a patch of light on the floor, Antonia chuckled. "Well, well, I missed you too, Augusta. Isn't it strange on how quickly you turn on a potential friend when there's no man to tell you who you belong to."

"You were never my friend, whore."

"Oh, so that would be why he chose to come to me when you whined. Or, perhaps that is also why he sought the touch of an experienced lover in my bed when he could only find a cold eel in the imperial one."

Leaping forward, the fabrics tangling around her ankles, Marcia screamed in rage, diving for the bejeweled throat, one of her hands striking Antonia's shoulder before she stepped out of the way, sending the girl to the floor.

Leaning down, soft linen and wool pooling around her ankles as she bent down, Antonia smiled and shook her head. "Before I could only put up with you and hope you would find your wits when you reached post-pubescence, but now I see that with womanhood you have become stupid and power hungry. Where's the fearful sixteen year old I had to teach how to dress? Better yet, where's the fear?"

Lucilla, having observed the whole scuffle, moved to stand behind the former mistress. "Gone with her respect of those who truly hold the power."

Standing up and walking away, giving Lucilla a bemused stare at her pronouncement, Antonia shrugged. "It happens. So, will you listen?"

Considering the worth of someone who had been in the family for many years, wondering if this was a move of loyalty or a move of blackmail, Aurelius' daughter assumed a pose worthy of her bloodline. "Say what you must."

Marcia clambered to her feet, seething. "No! Cast this bitch out into the street!"

"You're welcome to do just that, Lucilla, but you may want to wait so you can cast Marcia out as well."

"I beg your pardon?"

It would figure. "What? Our dear Augusta here hasn't told you that she intends to adopt your son as her own? I think Commodus put the idea in her head some time ago--"

Lucilla's gaze turned to the young queen, darkening considerably.

"--and if she does that now, it means she gets to rule in his stead until he's old enough."

Backing away from the weight of the accusation in Lucilla's eyes, Marcia stammered, wrapping her palla around her as if it were armour.

"You..."

"Lucilla! Sister! I would never harm you."

"Not with an audience present, anyways," Lucilla grated, some of the anger coming back. "He is my son and you will not have him!"

Stepping out of the way, leaning back to rest on the arm of the throne, Antonia watched as the other two in the room battle it out. She knew this would happen once she brought that little bit of truth to the light, and she was not one to pass up watching a good verbal brawl. Lucilla was a fire breather when she wanted to be, and the mention of her son in that potential position of being taken away from her was more than enough to bring out the fire. Marcia, backed into a far corner, her posture defensive but beaten, she was trying to protest the flinging accusations and threats, but largely unheard.

"The day you take my son is the day the sun ceases to rise!"

"Lucilla! I only want what is best for the boy!"

"Best?!" With a single step forward, Lucilla leveled a finger at the other woman. "What is best for him is his mother, and that is me. How dare you think you could ever replace me! You couldn't bathe yourself without the servant girls helping your scrub your arse, what makes you think you could raise my son?!"

Shrugging and settling into the throne, crossing her legs and leaning back, Antonia cleared her throat, almost reluctant to let the berating end. Technically, she still had more news to give this pair, but right now, that knowledge might cause an explosion of tempers that could rival the fire that took Rome in Nero's time.

But the chance to put Marcia in her place as a small, petulant child that occasionally outdid Commodus for temper tantrums-- she wouldn't pass that up.

"Yes, Nia?"

So Lucilla did hold her in some, now arguably smaller, affection. "Your son may be in danger, and not just from this girl of a queen, Lucilla. He's a bright boy, one that deserves to live."

"Yes, he does," the only true heir in the room hissed, "yes, he does."

Marcia, still in her corner, blinked. She could feel her power slipping out of her hands as the former mistress talked. As a female in a patriarchal world, she was now beginning to realise that she could hold power, but she couldn't get it the way she thought she could. The now rich whore got it by wrapping the men she chose to bed around her finger, playing them for their support, but doing it in a way that guaranteed that she kept her freedom, topping off the act by getting Marcus Aurelius to free her from slavery. The sister of Caesar held the love of her father, her brother and her son. Her name left her with prestige and her late husband left her riches and a son with the right lineage.

What did she have? She was a widow, and there was no second son of Aurelius. Nor was there an heir to the now departed first and only son. She would either take Lucius as her own, rule in his name or get out before her name was next on the assassination list. She was a young girl who had little or no skill in the world outside the palace, barring, of course, her ability to cry her way out of responsibility.

It was all a matter of survival. Her survival.

"So where is Lucius? Out playing Hector with his wooden sword again?"

Lucilla smiled finally. "He's actually found some of the toys my brother and I used to play with; he told me he wants to be a great General when he's old enough."

Antonia, her hands curled together around an empty wine chalice, nodded. "Probably a safer career than Emperor, all told."

Both women laughed shortly, knowing the fact to be true despite its morbid overtones.

Marcia, gathering her last vestiges of courage, wishing for another glass of particularly strong wine, stepped forth, walking up to the side of the throne and meeting slightly humbled eyes with Lucilla. "Lucius is your son, I will never deny that."

"Your head may part from your neck if you do, -Augusta,-" Lucilla warned tightly.

"So you'll drop your suit of adoption, Marcia?" Antonia smiled, poking holes in the waning safety of the young woman's position.

Marcia ground her teeth. She wasn't giving up yet. Not for that bitch, not for Lucilla. "Your son is safe."

Crossing her arms, Lucilla waited for further assurance, but hearing none, sighed. "Well, it's a start."

~*~

"Mistress, you're home very late, are you alright?"

Stripping everything she could disrobe without struggling and draping it over Hadria's arms, Antonia nodded. "I'm fine, but the damned streets of Rome are in serious need of re-smoothing. I could take a chariot through Gaul and enjoy a gentler ride. Hadria, a meal please. I'm famished and the palace's cook seems to be plagued with small fish and rotten fruit."

Following behind long enough to realise that the taller, trim woman was done with her instructions, the housekeeper rushed to her kitchen to stir the coals alive.

Loosing the fabric from her body, the linen unsticking from her frame, Antonia sighed and hoped that she had made a wise move. The palace was not the wisest place to be at the time, and the question of loyalty was being asked of everyone at the slightest misgiving of the right person. Marcia was right about one thing: she was the emperor's whore, naturally assumed to be loyal to him, maybe even in death.

Her loyalty was questioned by everyone; gods protect her when, or if, she finally revealed her final secret.

The secret that was currently snoring in her bed. Well, at least his vocal chords seemed to be returning. The grating of his wounded throat was hurting her ears.

Sliding on a fresh tunica, one of the men's style that she kept around because it was lighter and she preferred the feel of it, she crossed to the side of the bed and pulled the thin blanket back, sliding into her already warm bed. Settling her head onto a pillow that had not been stolen, she closed her eyes and set herself to a short rest before Hadria would come and wake her with dinner.

But, as she stretched a leg, a hand slid onto her waist, fingers experimentally caressing over her thinly covered flesh. Chalking it up to the perfect end to a forgettable day, she let his touch wander over her body.

"I'm pleased to see that your libido has returned with your snore."

There was an audible exhalation, and the fabric of the bedsheets rustled as Commodus shifted closer to her, his arm sliding protectively around her waist. "You smell of the city, and of my palace."

She sighed, hoping for the "ill-timed" interruption of her housekeeper. "You still have your sense despite your broken nose, my dear?"

"Were you at the palace? Did you see my sister?"

Clasping his hand as it settled below her breasts, she nodded. "Yes. For a palace without a leader, they seem to be doing fine."

Despite the tightness in his throat as he moved, Commodus shifted to lay up against her back, the warmth of her skin far more welcome than the rays of sun when they cast through the room. "You did not tell them about me?"

"Why would I?" Antonia murmured, closing her eyes.

"Because I am alive, Nia. Caesar lives."

"Obviously. I do not share my bed with corpses."

His eyes narrowed. "So what was said then?"

"Not very much, outside of the bickering between Lucilla and Marcia."

"Which you helped to induce."

Stifling the laugh, she nodded, feeling the nude skin of his chest pressing into her shoulderblades as he inched to loom over her neck and head. "Marcia would argue with the sun if she thought it could enhance her beauty. She hates me, you know."

"You called her a cold eel again, didn't you?"

"Yes, but she is powerless without you or a male heir in her belly. Would you any affection for her, the latter would be her continuing right as an Augusta."

His was a laugh, short and harsh. "I prefer my sister as such."

"As Augusta, or for carrying that ever important heir?"

The pause was significant, his next words clearly chosen with care. "My wife is a child, better for parties than breeding. Children born from you are nothing more than half-breed bastards, despite my willingness to be with you. And as for my sister, I have never -publicly- claimed to take her as anything but my sibling."

"But if you changed your title to Pharaoh and figured yourself an asp crown," Antonia dared, "you would feel obligated to keep the line... pure."

Commodus shrugged and nuzzled his nose against the back of her neck. "Why deny it?"

"Because you would lose me if you did it. I have no desire to lay in an incestuous bed."

"You would dare leave your Caesar."

"I would rather pleasure a doddering old Senator."

Kissing her neck, his lips likely moist due to her good store of wine, he forced his voice into a soft purr, trying to get back the former tone of his speech. "They would never keep you in the manner you are accustomed to."

"Likely true."

"And," he continued, nuzzling under her jaw as she didn't resist him, "you would still be a slave, nothing more than a servant that had the honour of being plucked by a notable man."

"I will be grateful for your father for that until the day I die," she stated evenly.

Commodus stiffened. "Don't speak his name in matters like these. Ever."

Antonia sighed melodramatically. If she hadn't already caught him talking in his pre-waking delusions about the happenings in Germania, she wouldn't understand his recent desire to remove the name Marcus Aurelius from everything that surrounded him. But, given Commodus' patricidal actions, she chose to use it to her advantage. Blackmail of sorts, guaranteeing her life should he become angry with her.

"Yes, my liege."

"I love you, Nia."

"Yes, my liege."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fidgeting under the stares of the other men, the young man adjusted his cloak, trying to cover his skin and hide any marks or scars that could get him recognised. He was no wanted man, but being in the wrong, potentially violent, company was nearly as bad as being a criminal.

"So you know how to get out of Rome, boy?"

He raised his eyes slowly, locking his gaze with the paler man, the intensity in his face almost alarming. "Yes, I can get out the same way I came in."

Juba smiled disarmingly, trying to lower the tension in the room. Maximus seemed a little hard on the skinny boy and his tattered brown cloak. "Can you show us? We can pay you for your troubles."

Maximus turned his head quickly, surprised at his friend's offer. They had money? "What's your name, anyways?"

The boy paused. "Plancus."

"That's all?"

"That's all I go by," Plancus retorted back.

Maximus leaned back, feeling his instincts as a military leader kick in. This boy could be a spy or a scout, but he would never be a good soldier, his manner challenging. "So what are you? A thief? Some runaway son of a Senator?"

Under the hood of brown, the face scrunched up in a grimace. "I was a slave until my owners were killed, and I only thieve to eat."

"Your owners?"

"Yes. My master has been missing so long, he must be dead, and my mistress I saw butchered on a cross."

Juba, about to move on to a different, lighter topic, paused when Maximus leaned forward, the sudden change in his expression softening with sympathy. "They crucified her?"

"Yes," Plancus spat, the anger obvious. "She was a good lady, I never thought her as too hard."

"Then why are you here?"

"My sister might be here. I want to find her."

Juba furrowed his brows. He hadn't heard this part. "You have family here?"

"Maybe, I-- I don't really know." Plancus paused, shoving back the thought about being alone in the shithouse of a city that was Rome. "She was a slave in the palace, a wine tender maybe, or a washerwoman. We didn't hear much from her after she left, or I didn't anyways, and whenever I asked about her, I was told to forget her. Even if she wasn't dead, she wouldn't be able to come back to us."

Juba coughed. "We need that way out, Plancus."

"Show us the way and maybe we can help you find your sister," Maximus added, ignoring Juba's surprised expression.

The boy nodded. "I guess. I don't really have anything to lose, and I can't remember what she looks like. I was only a baby when she left the master's lands."

"What about the rest of your family?" Maximus, now wanting to know where this boy came from, his story familiar, perhaps being about one of the families he knew, questioned on.

"Mater and Pater are in Elysium, my youngest sister died before she could crawl. The only two I don't know about are my older brother and sister, and I have not seen either for many years."

"Older brother?"

Juba sighed, but his expression of frustration went ignored.

"He went to war. That's all I know."

Maximus nodded, watching Juba as he stood and took the floor, forcing the topic back to the original subject. "Plancus, can you meet us somewhere in a few days and show us this way out?"

"In two days, during the feast of Saturnalia. The streets will be less watched by guards intent on merrymaking."

Juba quirked his head, to which Maximus nodded. He knew his holidays: this would be a perfect time. "That's fine. Where?"

"Near the entrance to the Circus Maximus?"

Both men shook their head. "Too many people."

Plancus wrinkled up his nose. "By the Colosseum, then? It's closed to the public."

A silence hushed over them. Juba, not entirely enthused over the idea, chewed on his lip and wondered if it would be wise to return to the place. Being caught there would be bad for all of them: many people's loyalties were still divided over the games being closed once more. To be caught meant scrutiny, and possible exposure of whom they really were.

Maximus, however, was considering it. It would be far more abandoned than that great racetrack or any of the temples, and he honestly didn't know Rome well enough to find some nameless alleyway or hovel. But it was a frightening thought. Could he go back and not be plagued with nightmares of those last moments before falling to the ground? Would the sounds of the crowd screaming his name echo in his ears? Or perhaps he would spot his own blood on the sand, some morbid mark of what he had lost and gained in this strange new life that he was currently stumbling through.

"We can pick someplace else if you want," Plancus nervously said, sensing the heavy weight of the previous suggestion.

Maximus broke his reverie at the instant the boy stopped speaking. "No. The Colosseum it is. We'll see you there just as the sun reaches it's highest point in the sky."

"See you then." Backing away and towards the door, the boy nodded.

"Don't betray us, Plancus," Juba quickly added.

The boy nodded again and left their sight. Maximus sighed heavily.

"Why did you volunteer to go to that hell? Wasn't your near death a good enough memento?"

Casting a glance at his heavily scarred shoulder, Maximus held out his hands. "There will be no crowds and no weapons this time, Juba. Because of that place we were brought here; now, because of it we shall leave."

Juba shook his head. "I don't think I understand you, Spaniard."

"Sometimes I'm lucky to understand myself."

~*~

Waiting until twilight, cutting through the streets, his eyes turned upward as the great walls of the circular arena drew closer, Maximus let his thoughts wander.

He was different now, a man reborn, lacking a true home or family, his only friend equally alienated from what he used to have. It was daunting, this new, unwilling independence, something he wasn't used to, something his military training didn't seem to offer much advice on. All he had was this urge to get out of this massive capitol city and head back to lands he knew, hoping that some of his neighbours would see him and help him in repayment of favours he had done for them in the past, or find some of his army, the men still loyal to his leadership, their existence in this Empire still rooted enough to help him re-establish himself once more.

But some things he would never have again. He didn't think, in all honesty, he could handle a family again, the pain of losing the one he adored a weight that pressed his chest down with every breath. The misery that had taken over his heart was too great, the need for vengeance blackening his mind with a rage that lingered over him even now. Land would come eventually, its acquisition a welcome convenience if he could not make himself a place in an already established villa. Despite his name, despite his stature, despite his past actions and the famous names of people he knew, he could live out his life in the willing service of another if he had to, finding joy in helping others that could help him find meaning to his life once more.

Stopping before one of the public entranceways, noting that the gate had been left carelessly ajar, Maximus paused, unsure if this was a wise thing to do. He had come here to banish his demons before he would meet the boy with Juba, but now, he was a little nervous. Adrenaline raced through his veins and tickled his nerves as if he were going into battle, the twilight of Rome not unlike the hazy colours of Germania's skies shortly before that last, great battle.

"Gods be merciful."

Pushing at the gate, finding it shifting easily under his grasp, Maximus slipped inside, walking through the long corridor that would hopefully lead him into the centre of the arena, towards the sand and open area of so many battles and slaughters. He could practically smell the blood still, the panic and sweat of men about to die, their fates shoved before them with the force of a dull tipped spear.

Coming free of the last arch, the last rays of sunlight spilling over the tops of the great stone walls, he searched up, taking a real look at the building without the din of thousands of people distracting him. It really was massive, this temple of death and carnage, built for the purpose of entertaining bloodthirsty hordes and their tyrannical leaders. But it actually was beautiful. Even his unrefined sense of art was drawn in by the complexity of the architecture.

Taking a few more steps into the middle, passing beyond the pillars that marked the outer ring, he knelt down, staring at the dirt around his feet, wondering if there were still footprints he could recognise as his or his compatriots. Digging his hands into it, pulling up a pile of the grains, he rubbed his palms together slowly, feeling the texture, trying to draw some emotional echo of everything that had happened here, finally drawing it up to his face to sniff at the stuff.

Catching nothing more than what he had already smelled in the wind, he shook his hands free and stood, wandering aimlessly, soaking in the sights around him, his memories playing with his senses.

And then, as he turned on his heel and looked out towards the corridor he had come from, he spotted someone. Two someones, actually, one clad in a soldier's uniform, the other in a lighter shade of well made clothing; a woman, judging by the draping of the palla, the crimson red fabric framing her face as she met eyes with him briefly. Maximus stood up a little taller, hoping that this was not the very attention he wished to avoid, and waited.

Gesturing with a shift of fabrics, the woman pointed to a spot outside of his vision, ordering the soldier away, leaving her standing there alone. Not wishing to seem like an aggressor, Maximus nodded slowly and went back to his exploration, keeping his ears tuned for the tell tale sounds of her or the now invisible soldier approaching him.

He would not lose his chance at escaping Rome.

~*~

Antonia raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was the only one curious about this place."

"My lady?"

Turning to see her bodyguard, the burly but noble brother of Hadria, she smiled. "I'm fine, the man in there seems more curious about me than I of him. If I need you, I'll call for you."

His posture terse, the servant nodded. "I'll be waiting."

"I'm sure you will." Taking a few easy steps, pulling the veil and palla off her head, exposing the gold palla clasp from its hiding place inside the folds of crimson fabric, she took her chance. She was no weakling, and this man could be of use, maybe even someone she knew, judging by the way he held himself. He was no politician, but neither was he a servant, too tall and straight backed, his exposed arms cut with muscles. Most likely a soldier, his legs set apart in a strong stance, his stare sharp enough to drive a lesser man into obedience. "Greetings," she called out, letting her gait swing into an easy sway of her hips, the undertone of sexuality always a helpful ploy in dealings with men.

"I thought no one came here anymore."

"Generally, no, but you've found my place of curiosity. What's your name?"

"Maximus."

She smiled. A regal name, one she recognised to a dead man. "Antonia. What brings you here?"

Maximus squinted as she approached, something in him recognising her. "I've been here before, I wanted to see it again without all the people."

"You mean without blood spilling onto the floor? Unless, of course, you enjoy that sort of thing."

Examining her clothes carefully, the crimson cloth betraying her higher status along with the gold that bejeweled her exposed flesh, he paused. She was so familiar... "Hardly. It was my blood spilling onto this sand."

"A gladiator?" What curious luck. "There was a gladiator that drew the crowd's love here, his name was also Maximus. Perhaps you knew him."

Best not to give it away, not until he could figure out how he knew her. "Yes. A great man."

"A dead man," she murmured back.

"So he's truly dead?" His side ached suddenly, the invocation of that last battle stirring his nerves to life. So much was a blur...

"I never saw his body, so you never know. I was told he was carried off on the shoulders of men loyal to him." Choosing to circle him from a safe distance, her knowledge of the famous General Maximus connecting with the man before her, she had to play it safe. In his book, she was on the wrong side, even though-- if it was him-- they knew each other, if nothing else by mutual acquaintance.

"Have we met?"

"Possibly. I actually don't live in the city, but I have plenty of connections here," ~including two Emperors and their kin,~ she silently added. "Have you been to many of the festivals? Perhaps we have a mutual friend?"

Forcing himself to talk about himself in the third person, Maximus drew a breath. "So, how do you know about this gladiator? Did you bet on him? See his last fight?"

"I was out of the area when it happened, but I lost... nearly lost someone I'm rather attached to."

"Who?"

Antonia paused, seeing this as the most dangerous question. She could admit that it was Commodus she was referring to, but that meant letting out the secret that he was still alive. It wasn't -really- a problem, but because she had dressed the way she had earlier that morning, dressed like a mistress who still had an emperor to serve and/or service, she was meaning to tell Lucilla that her brother still lived, giving the noblewoman a chance to get her bearings before Commodus could travel to the capitol himself and take back his crown.

But to this man, which could in fact be the mortal enemy of that emperor, she could not admit that fact. She would not. Licking her lips, she crossed her arms. "One of the participants. You may or may not know him."

There was a reason she was being so uncooperative, undoubtedly. "You're lucky that he survived."

"Yes," Antonia lowered her eyes, accidentally missing when Maximus took a step closer. "Yes, I am."

"I should have died out there-- here-- myself, but sometimes the gods smile on certain people." Using the moment, a glint of genuine emotion compelling him to touch her, make contact with this beautiful woman, he extended a hand, setting it on her arm. Looking up to survey her clothes and face for some sign of who she actually was, he stiffened as he eyes passed over the clasp of her palla.

Carved out of gold or some highly polished facsimile of it, was the imperial seal, worn by the Emperor, his family and those he allowed to wear it.

He knew her through the palace. He could see her face, younger in appearance than it was now, in the backdrop of his memories; in the presence of Marcus Aurelius, spending time with Lucilla, sparring with Commodus...

"Antonia... your name is Antonia..."

It was too late. She couldn't escape now, and the tone in his voice, his sudden realisation of how he knew her, confirmed her own suspicion of him. This was the Maximus, the General turned Gladiator that tried to kill the man she was now allowing to recover in her bed, and if she did not play the next few moments -very- carefully, her blood might litter the floor of the Colosseum.

"Maximus, I--"

"You were his mistress! I knew I recognised you! Have you come here to mourn that bastard?"

Backing away quickly, the man she had spent many years watching interact with the ruling family of Rome trying to close the distance and touch her, maybe harm her, Antonia almost called out for her servant, but relented, praying that whatever had brought her here would choose to spare her.

Feeling one of his muscular hands close at her throat, drawing her down to her knees and pinning her beneath him, her back pressed into the Colosseum sand, she coughed. "Please, you don't understand!"

"Is he alive? Is that the one you 'nearly lost?'"

His fingers were digging bruises into her flesh, but she would not completely surrender. Loyalties aside, she had no wish to die for any man. "Get off me, General!"

"Answer me," Maximus responded, holding his grip on her, his other hand pinning her arms above her head.

Staring into his eyes, something snapped. A sudden memory of some of the story she had heard about him put a bitter taste in her mouth. Had it not been for his grip keeping her from swiveling her head, she would have spat on him. "It's none of your affair, dead man."

"Is Commodus alive or not?"

"No more than you."

"I can kill you with a snap of a wrist."

Her eyes narrowed as she tried, and failed to swallow, her voice cracking. "Don't you have enough of my family's blood on your hands? Fine, kill me, I'm ready. I won't tell you any more."

Maximus froze. "What?"

"I won't tell you any more. What, did that wound take your hearing?"

"No. What about your family?"

Surprised as his iron grip receded off her windpipe a little, she let the snarl touch her face perfectly, the deeply buried anger and sadness finally expressing itself. "He was just trying to help you. You got him killed, you managed to live and now you threaten me?!"

"Who?" The alarm was in his eyes. Did he miss something vital?

"You feign ignorance?! How dare you remember me as a whore and forget about him when he died for you!"

"Who?!"

Forgetting everything outside of the moment, the reason she had come to Rome, the man snoring in her bed, even the last few weeks, Antonia stayed pinned underneath him and leveled an icy stare, her voice falling to a harsh whisper. "Cicero. You got him killed after all those loyal years of service to you. Cicero was my older brother, you bastard."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stumbling back and releasing his grip of her entirely, Maximus grabbed for an invisible support. Cicero and Antonia, his servant and the Emperor's mistress, were siblings? This was improbable. She had never been on his lands, and he had never caught the two of them together. "I don't understand."

Rising to her knees, feeling the welts forming on her neck, Antonia kept her stare locked on him. "Of course not. We were, our entire family, slaves. Of course they separated the pretty daughter for duties befitting a woman with no real reason to live. Stick her in the palace with the deviant Caesars, see if she lasts a few years. My brother and I, we corresponded when we could, abusing the palace and army as we could to keep contact, but we never really saw each other. I haven't seen him for five years, and the second I come back to find the palace in upheaval, I find out that not only have I lost the man who granted me my freedom, the one who kept me alive because he preferred me over his wife, but also my brother. And now you want my blood simply because that brat of an emperor may still be alive? I don't think so. You don't own me."

"He never mentioned you."

"You never asked, I suspect," she coolly replied.

Maximus hesitated. In some ways she seemed more upset over his death than he did. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise him, but something felt wrong here. "I guess I should apologise."

"For my brother or my neck?" Her temper was still raised as she finally stood up, brushing the dirt and gods-know-what-else off her clothes. Meeting dark eyes with his, she sighed. "Now if you don't mind, I'll be going. I have duties to attend, and some news to deliver."

Stuck in place as she took the first step, turning her back to him, Maximus shook free the shock and leapt forward, grabbing her arm, stopping her before she could leave him alone with this new set of questions.

Antonia visibly flinched.

"What news?"

"Lucilla always liked you, and I'm assuming she still does, so I'll spare you the rest of my personal thoughts. If you're smart, and I know you to be just that, you'll get out of Rome now before everything sets in motion."

"What is that?"

She raised an eyebrow. Whoever had been kind enough to raise Maximus from the dead clearly didn't have the link to information she did. "Marcia, that stupid little whelp, is bucking for the throne, and pulling Lucilla's son into it all the while."

Not releasing her arm, ignoring the daggers in her eyes, he cocked his head. "She's trying to take Lucius?"

Antonia rolled her eyes. "Great, so you know that family, but not mine. How upper class of you. Yes, she is, and with the return of Commodus, that could put Lucilla in a very dangerous position."

"He's alive?" His voice was an incredulous hiss.

"Fine, review time. Lucilla closed the games and is ruling in the name of her son and future heir. Marcia wants to adopt Lucius, take the right to rule in his name and probably find a way to keep it that way."

"But women can't rule. Not as Caesar."

Antonia made a sour face. "She would kill the boy if she knew it would bolster her position."

Maximus' eyes darkened. Lucius was too good, had too much potential, to be killed. Not even Commodus had ruined him... not yet, anyways... "Commodus."

"Is recovering. Not as fast as you did, apparently. He wants Rome back and since I would prefer to live a little longer, I'm not stopping him. I wouldn't recommend you do it either. If the palace falls to his loyalty, and we both know he can make it so, killing you a second time will be first on his list of things to do."

"Right before opening the games again," he grated.

Trying to pull free, yanking a bit of palla from his fingers, Antonia shrugged. "Probably. Anyways, been nice catching you up on all that you've missed since your miraculous resurrection."

"I'll find you again."

She waved a hand back less than enthusiastically, the heavy red cameo on one of her fingers catching his eye in the fading light. "Hoc coactus sum." (To this, I am forced and compelled.)

~*~

"Sire, I would ask you to not do that. You're still very weak."

Regarding the servant woman with an offhand glance, Commodus perched himself at the edge of the bed, dangling his feet just above the floor. "I'm fine."

"My liege, my mistress gave me specific instructions to not let you out of bed," Hadria protested, wisely keeping herself out of grappling range of the young ruler. She was a loyal servant, but not a stupid one.

"These legs have carried me across far more dangerous things than a woman's bedroom, I would remind you to recall that."

Hadria sighed and let him discover it for himself. Let him fall on his arse, fine.

Taking a breath, setting a bare foot on the tile floor, Commodus held his breath, surprised at how strange it felt to touch the cool floor. Had it really been so long since he had walked? Would he even remember how to?

Taking a deep breath, planting both feet on the floor without further hesitation, he rocked forward, the tunica sliding down to his knees as he stood up, the fabric of it a little looser around his body than the last time he had worn it. Rocking off the edge of the bed, standing with a slight wobble of unhappy legs, he felt his head spin, no longer used to this vertical alignment. Smoothing the pale wool free of wrinkles and touching his throat absently before lifting that first foot, he took in a deep breath, leaned forward, shifting his weight to his right foot...

And fell to the tiled floor as his knees gave out, buckling from lack of use and weak muscles.

Hadria nodded to herself. Personally, she was amazed he could stand up without help.

Hissing through his teeth, Commodus forced himself to get to his hands and knees despite the pain and weakness plaguing him, the anger borne tension in his muscles pulling a little too hard on his healing wounds. Not too long ago he could have defeated the greatest gladiators and now here was, no better than a mewling infant, weak and helpless, dependent on a woman to keep him protected.

The gods were cruel sometimes. Or, he darkly mused, this was his payment for his previous actions.

"Do you need help, sire?"

Glowering at the floor as he braced himself, trying to stand up again, he stifled the more violent of his thoughts. ~She's only trying to help you.~ "No. Go and do... do whatever you do around here."

Raising an eyebrow, Hadria bowed her head and left, hoping that there wouldn't be any loud crashes following her leaving him alone. If nothing else, her mistress, though gentler than most, did not take well to unnecessary damage to her possessions.

Waiting until the woman had left, he let out a pained breath, rose up into a kneeling position and blinked. His vertigo was easing now, but the insipid failing of his muscles was going to be something he would have to remedy-- the sooner the better. He was a Caesar, damn it all, born to rule, and, in his own belief, hold a sword in his hand.

Gathering what energy he thought he had, he stood once more, rising up off his knees one leg at a time, this time managing to hold himself upright for a few seconds before feeling his joints try to give out once more. Flouncing back gracelessly on the bed, he panted, kicking himself mentally for being unable to do something simple as walk across a room.

At this rate, he would have to start with a chalice before he took up the sword again.

~*~

Lucilla paced the floor, Quintus and two of his Praetorian watching her nervously.

"My lady, what is that matter?"

Averting her gaze from the path she was wearing into the marble floor, she met the eyes of the head of Rome's armies. "I want my son out of this palace by the next full moon."

Quintus gasped. "What?"

"Didn't you hear me? I want my son, Lucius, out of the palace before the next full moon. That's over a week to find him someplace safe."

The guards, their armour making noise as they shifted their feet, exchanged glances with their commander. Surely she was jesting.

"My lady, this is rash. There is no safer place than the palace. We can guard his room, keep out strangers--"

"It is not strangers I fear, Quintus," Lucilla said, her voice marked with a deeply discontent tone.

"My lady?"

She went back to her pacing, waving a dismissive arm towards the two guards. "I will answer your question alone, Quintus, no other way."

With an unhappy sigh, the commander turned to the Praetorian loyal to him. "Leave us."

Nodding quickly, weapons held at bay, the two soldiers slipped out of the room.

"What is it, my lady? Who do you fear?"

"Marcia," Lucilla growled in response.

"I don't think I understand--"

"She wants to adopt my son, Quintus, keep the power for herself. If she does this I fear for his safety, and mine. With my claim to the throne gone with my progeny, I'm as disposable as a slave. I won't let that happen. Not while I still breathe."

Quintus clenched his fists. Just when he thought order had begun to restore itself to the Empire, now this was happening. He liked Lucilla far better than the Augusta, perhaps because of her connection with his old commander Maximus, or perhaps because she was a good woman, intelligent and rational. Either way, he was inclined to help her and keep her safe, despite the legalities of the situation.

"Where would you have us hide him, my lady? If they hunt for him in the city, surely any place you might be inclined to pick will be the first place they search."

"Do you think me so stupid, Quintus," Lucilla pressed, letting her voice raise with a flare of temper. "Do you think I would turn my nose up over common city areas because I'm a descendent of the great Claudius?"

"Of course not, I was just--"

"Assuming. How lovely of you." Turning on a heel, she paused, an idea striking her. "I think I have a better goal for you: keep the palace distracted, and I will take care of this myself."

Quintus cocked his head. What Muse had touched her all of a sudden?

"My servants will keep everyone out of my chambers, and will be instructed to say that Lucius is spending time with me. All I need is one day, and I can return before Marcia gets suspicious... long enough to make her inevitable temper tantrum futile." Lucilla laughed bitterly. "That's one thing my brother taught me well: I know how to prevent, cause and end any temper tantrum known to the Empire."

He nodded quickly. His comments, agreeing or otherwise, were not being asked at this point.

"And, it will protect Lucius. His fate is what truly matters. I will die before that whelp takes him as her own son." Pausing, making herself stand still, the thousand different potential dangers taunting her, she drew up to her full height and regarded Quintus warmly. Although she didn't completely trust him, his loyalty too easy bought by the offer of power, he was a good enough ally to keep her plans secret. "There is one thing you can do for me, Quintus."

"Yes, my lady?"

"Fetch me my brother's mistress Antonia. I need to speak with her in private right away."

Saluting her, he nodded shortly. His was not the right to question her actions. Turning on a heel, he strode down the hall, leaving Lucilla alone with her thoughts.

Sighing, wondering if she had just made an incredibly stupid move-- playing on the apparent affection Antonia still had for her once playmate and owner-- she murmured a quick prayer to the gods and resigned herself to fate. Nia had no love for Marcia, and Marcia openly loathed the older woman. When Commodus still stalked the marble halls, Marcia was powerless to get rid of the mistress, fearing a husband's wrath, and arguably, his undistributed libido. Now, without her brother and his power to hold her down, she was well inclined to have Antonia killed... would the she still served in the palace.

Convenience really was a beautiful thing. The villa Nia rightfully owned and maintained was out of Marcia's grasp and the Augusta knew it. Lucilla had seen the rage over that in her dark eyes when Antonia had appeared in the throne room that day, and had secretly enjoyed it. If the sister of Caesar could not back the power hungry girl in a corner by herself, perhaps the mistress could help.

But first she had to agree to the plan brewing in the mind of Aurelius' only daughter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Maximus, you're mad to trust that woman."

The former General regarded Juba carefully. "I don't see that we have any choice."

Juba threw up his hands. "We can leave now. Plancus is meeting us in a few hours, that's all we need to get out."

Maximus narrowed his eyes. Suddenly his goal of getting out as soon as possible was falling aside for far more complex ideas. "He's showing us the way, not guiding us. I'm not ready to go back to Hispania yet, not after what I've learned."

"Is it the boy emperor or the woman you met in the Colosseum?"

Wincing, Maximus paused in his response. He definitely wanted to see Antonia again, to speak to her and maybe get some resolution to the ache in his heart over Cicero's death, but she seemed so angry. So angry at him, as if it was his fault that her brother had died.

Perhaps it was. "Both. Lucius is in danger and she seems to be motivated to protect him... and me, if I was hearing her right."

"You have a rare touch with women, my friend," Juba said sarcastically, catching the look in his friend's eyes.

"True enough."

"So we're not leaving?"

Maximus caught the barely hidden sigh. "No. I still have friends here, friends that need me. I want to help them."

"And Plancus?"

"We'll meet him as planned."

Juba crossed his arms and cast a look at the pile of supplies they had gathered over the last few days. "I suppose."

"You're worried."

"I could go home, but I don't know if I could get back there without getting captured again. I could stay here, but what can I do? Wait until the games open again and be killed while thousands of people watch? No, I don't think I want that. Or I can go with you. You're a good man, and my friend."

"But," Maximus added, "you don't agree with me wishing to get involved with the very people that tried to kill me."

"No, I don't."

A silence cast over them. Standing up and picking up one of the gladiuses, Maximus grasped the handle and squeezed his palm against the ridged surface, pondering. Maybe he should do this alone, Juba's life not worth risking for people he didn't really know. As the man Marcus Aurelius wished to have as a son, Maximus had an invested interest in this intrigue over Lucius, his need to honour the old emperor still motivating him to action befitting his former role in society. Juba didn't have any of this; maybe he didn't want it, either.

"Juba, my friend, do what you feel best for you. This is my affair, and I can't force you to follow me."

The darker man smiled and shook his head. "At this point I go where you go, General."

Maximus sighed. So much for keeping others out of danger.

~*~

"Nia, hand me my good tunica."

Perched on the edge of her bed, Antonia wrinkled her nose. "It was ruined, unless you want me to throw it in the wine vat and dye it purple so one can't see the blood stains."

Commodus huffed. "Oh, that's right. Do you have any that would be appropriate? I know you keep other men's clothing here."

Giving him a dubious look, she waved a hand in the air. "Yes, I keep a set of extra clothes around for each of my harem of men, in fact there might be a Senator's robe you could borrow--"

Lunging forward, suddenly in her face, his voice was low. "I don't take that lightly, Nia."

"You don't take anything lightly," she returned, not wavering her eyes from his intense gaze.

The young Caesar backed away, chagrined enough to not push his luck. He could dress himself now, or at least he hoped he could, but fighting off his mistress and her deadly limbs was likely improbable. Taking a final glance at her, he paused, catching a glimpse of discolouration around her throat. "What happened to your neck?"

Antonia leapt back on the bed, startled as one of his hands pushed aside the fabric she had gathered around the worst of the bruises. "Nothing."

His eyes narrowed. "Someone touched you. Who was it?"

She assumed a defensive posture. Great, now he was getting possessive. "No one."

"I don't believe you."

Thinking quickly, she shoved his hand away and covered the largest of the purplish marks with her palla again. "I was attacked in the street-- it's of no consequence, I'm fine Commodus."

The thought that somehow had dared to assault her in -his- city enraged him. Letting the linen garment that had passed for his tunica tangle around his legs as he slipped his way between her knees and grasped her face between his palms, his voice was steady. "No one touches you. No. One. You are a mistress of the great Caesar and are not for common thieves and citisens, and a transgression of that is death. I'll have this man's testicles for hurting you, Nia."

Not entirely humbled by his sudden show, Antonia studied his face. It wasn't an issue of whether or not he was serious, it was the fact that if he knew who had made those marks, his retribution would become a vendetta that would drive the potentially mad Commodus over the edge for good.

"It was a foreigner, someone from the north, I think, judging by his accent. He's long gone by now, just let it go. I'll heal."

For a moment his eyes wavered. His grip on her lower jaw loosened, but rather than backing away and going back to his previous task of dressing, he pressed closer against her, his thumb brushing over her chin.

"Sire?"

His eyes softened finally, his mouth parting slightly. "A woman as beautiful as you should never be harmed. I can't stand to see your perfect form touched by anyone who can't appreciate it."

She breathed a sigh of relief over the shift of his mood. At least when he was this way, he was less inclined to throw things like urns across the room. "Anyone but you, you mean."

He nodded smoothly, drawing his hands off her neck and over her shoulders, occasionally catching his fingers on folds of silk and linen, finally settling them around her waist, pulling her closer against his chest. "You belong in a bath of jewels, swathed in gold and perfumes."

"As my Caesar wishes, it is so."

Stopping his fingers in their slow wander underneath the woven threads of blue and silver, he cocked his head, exploring the deep brown of her irises. "You can't love me any more, can you? My near death has driven you away from me, hasn't it?"

She suppressed the incredulous scoff. From a distance he could miss it, but at this point, nearly on his lap, there was no doubt he would catch it. "It would be too painful to love a ghost," she admitted truthfully.

"But I'm not. You can feel my flesh, I'm not a cold corpse."

"No, you're not. I-- Commodus, I--"

 In his lighter but ever intense eyes a wash of sadness veiled them. Freeing his right hand and drawing her head down, leaning in with a tender kiss to her forehead, he murmured quietly, "Ssh. I will show you that I'm still very much alive. I'll make you love me like you once did, Nia, I swear to you."

Feeling her frame pulled into an embrace that all but screamed "mine," she closed her eyes. Her survival depended on the goodwill of the man holding her, and the thought of what he might do if he found out she felt otherwise was enough to make her shudder.

"It will all work out."

~*~

Slipping away finally, tucking herself behind one of the stands of olive trees, Antonia leaned her back against the wall of the villa and took a deep breath.

Commodus' mood swings, present in him probably since childhood, were both a blessing and a curse. It seemed to her that those that grew to understand them, shifting focus and tone of voice as the young ruler oscillated, they were the ones that did well in his presence, able to satisfy Commodus' needs and wants without inducing a tantrum or one of his melancholies. They became his inner circle.

But there were those that never picked up on the clues, missing the look in his eyes or his suddenly altered body language. Servants, slaves, Senators, men or women, it didn't matter who or what they were, it took one mistake in judging his mood and they'd be removed from the palace or be eternal victim to his power.

In her case, she had never meant to be the mistress, his favourite to pin against a wall and exercise his burgeoning urges on. She was Lucilla's servant and default playmate, picking up on the quirks of the dark haired boy that used to watch as she combed Lucilla's soft red hair, a slave to a bright girl and the early, non-familial exposure to women for the would-be Emperor.

And, ironically enough, Marcus Aurelius' gift of her freedom meant her binding to the occasionally unenviable role of mistress. If she had stayed a slave, she probably never would have felt Commodus' touch.

A horse whinnied in the distance. Her villa was close to the road, so the sound itself wasn't unusual, but nevertheless it broke her reverie.

She really didn't have it so bad. Once she actually loved Commodus, welcoming his touch, even his moods, losing herself in his eyes and offering that key tenderness whenever someone accidentally destroyed his fragile ego. Those were purer days. Days when she could appreciate his gift of a well furnished villa, clothes that suited the way she captured a room when she entered, gold from some pillaged city; whatever he was indulgent in, she was not foolish enough to turn him down.

Or perhaps she was too naive to turn him down.

A gentle wind picked up, lifting the edges of the silk she had pulled over her head before she had stepped outside, the smell of manure, wine, and recently plowed fields assaulting her nose, inclining her to lean her head back to rest it on the wall behind her, closing her eyes. There were moments like these when she felt free, truly free, the wind whispering through her clothes, blowing over her skin and cooling her all over, the sun only touching her where her olive-toned skin was exposed. Inhaling deeply, using fingers to pull her hair out of the tight bun, she let the dark curls fall past her shoulders and inside folds of fabric, ignoring the light footsteps approaching her. Cracking a smile, she waited for a greeting.

"You look like a goddess, standing there."

Her smile broadened. Judging by the tone of his voice, he was in a similar mood as earlier, although now he was in her territory and clearly willing to play. "Thank you."

There was another footstep, and she felt the wind partially blocked by a body. Extending a hand a little out from her body, she opened her eyes just in time to feel two male hands curl around it, Commodus' intense gaze locked on hers as he kissed her knuckles.

"Is this your serpentine way of asking for something, or are you finally thanking me for saving your life?"

He smiled quirkily. "Perhaps a little of both. How many layers of clothing are you wearing, Nia?"

She could see his intentions from the start. "Not enough to keep you out."

His steps smooth and easy, his eyes alight with that presence he could give-- the one that made her forget how much she hated his tantrums and darker acts-- Commodus forced her to back completely up against the wall, flattening her spine as he gamely slid a hand down her front, stopping as his fingers touched the sash bound around her waist. Licking his lips, his voice was soft, "You could never wear enough to do that, carus."

Antonia swallowed and watched as he undid the light blue sash, unwinding it from her waist and pressing his palms just under her ribcage. Feeling her inhale, he closed the distance between them, drawing his nose over her cheek, inhaling her smell just before taking her lips, tasting the tang of wine, pressing his hips against hers as his hands snaked up her back and freed the palla from the rest of her clothes, letting it slide down the wall behind her and pool at her feet.

Hearing the sound escape her throat, her body aching for this kind of touch after so long an abstinence, she tangled a leg around his, crushing his frame to hers, feeling the outlines of body easily through the tunica and lazily draped toga, pleasantly surprised to discover that his experience had not stripped him of all his muscles.

When her hands tangled in his hair, slipping through the short black locks he made a little moan, parting her lips and taking her mouth for his own, stealing her breath away. His grip had solidified around her waist, part of his palms partially on her hips as he pinned her in place, his thumbs absently working circles into her still covered skin.

About to push the toga off his shoulder, Antonia paused when she felt the tremor in his legs. So he was still weak, probably too weak to do anything resembling this, despite his likely determination to ignore such limitations. Pushing his head back, caressing his cheek, one of her fingers drifting over the now disjointed bridge of his nose, she used her best, silky tone. "Kneel on the ground."

He narrowed his eyes, the moment of silence punctuated with a wave of failing strength. With a heavy sigh, he stepped back a little, kneeling down, his hands extended out towards her, his face relaxing as soon as she shifted to quickly straddle his newly formed lap. Savouring the view for a moment, watching her as she slid the white, red bordered toga off his shoulder and down his arm, pushing the great pool of fabric towards his waist, Commodus sighed.

"Sire?" Working at freeing the metres of light wool off of him, she squeezed her legs against his, catching the momentary shudder of pleasure.

"Nia, you--"

"Sssh." She smiled and shoved the last bit of cloth aside, only the tunica separating her from his bare skin. Nuzzling his face, nipping at his lower lip before pulling the edges of her dalmatica and tunica up beyond her knees, she settled back on his thighs and leaned in to take his mouth in a similar manner as he had just done to hers, his hands slipping underneath the hems of the silk and linen, feeling the heat of her body as he grew ever closer to the area between her legs.

Chuckling as she ran her hands down his chest, running fingers over the outlines of his ribs, she felt him squirm when she pressed her palms into his abdomen, wriggling at the sensations that the pressure was causing. Using her tongue to tickle the roof of his mouth, distracting him from the light brush of her removing the tunica from his lap, she waited a moment more before sinking a hand around his hardness, his eyes widening, first in shock, then in delight.

"Vulpes," he hissed.

"Serpens," she chuckled back, lazily working up his nerves with practiced motions. Sliding her back to the wall, she saw his look of need, about to console him with some well chosen phrase when someone close to their location coughed.

"M'lady," Quintus said, taking a few steps closer, not yet recognising the man she had pinned underneath her.

"Can I help you with something?" Recognising his armour, her eyes narrowed as she slipped her hands off their occupation and set them around Commodus' neck, pulling his face to the wrinkled dalmatica. "I'm a little busy, if you hadn't already guessed."

"Antonia, you're wanted at the palace."

There was a growl as the young emperor recognised the voice of the General that betrayed him. Clenching a fist around soft linen, he felt Antonia stroke his hair, clearly trying to keep him quiet.

"By whom?" Her voice was smooth and melodic, challenging the Praetorian to push his luck with common decency.

Quintus shifted uneasily. He had spotted the toga with the red trimming, cast aside with some of the mistress' clothing, and choosing the wiser idea of not making some off-colour remark about her choice of partner. Whichever Senator was foolish enough to associate with her clearly had no great goal of keeping his reputation intact. "Lucilla, m'lady."

"Aurelius' daughter wants to see me? How strange." Ignoring the fist tightening around the fabric at her breast, she smiled politely. "Meet me in the villa, I'll be ready to go shortly."

Quintus nodded crisply and turned to walk back onto the road, heading for what Antonia suspected was her front door. Easing Commodus' face free from her breast, she kissed his forehead, intentionally ignoring the harsh stare he was throwing at her, waiting until the neatly clad Praetorian was out of her sight to speak. "Forgive me, but I had to hide you."

"He'll discover soon enough that I'm alive," he monotoned back, his accent bogged down in the ire over her muffling him.

"Not while you're half dressed and about to mount me, Commodus."

His eyes narrowed. "You're my mistress, Nia. He expects nothing less of you."

With a cock of the head, Antonia stood up, covered her legs and stared down at the prone form of Commodus Caesar. "Quintus isn't a stupid man."

Her half-hearted defense of the soldier cooled his formerly friendly manner. "If he doesn't welcome me upon my return, he's a dead man."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*