Disclaimers: They belong to DreamWorks, Universal et al. I don't profit a whit from this except for my drug of choice, feedback.
Category: AU, Series; Part III of Arts of Subjugation. This story is a sequel to Sacrificial
Pairing Maximus/Commodus (implied)
Rating: R - M/M implied. If boy-on-boy is not your cuppa, you may want to take a pass on this one.
Warnings: It goes without saying that this is dark, still very, very dark! Elements of Non-Consent (implied only, in this installment).
Summary: Commodus' orders bring about a reunion of old allies.

Confession
By Andre

Quintus Magnus paces the long marble corridors of the Imperial palace angrily. His guilt has become a burden he no longer wants to bear, increasing immeasurably with each passing day since Maximus has been brought here. He has watched his friend carefully over the last five days. Five days? It seems to him more like an eternity of descent into the quickly rising madness of one uncontrollable youth. Stoic though he is, he wonders; after witnessing the horrors of the past few days, why would a man as wise as Marcus Aurelius leave the Empire in the hands of this immoral, half-mad child?

Attired in his armor once again, Maximus storms past him. A force of nature. The Spaniard looks to the entire world as if nothing untoward has happened, but he knows his former commander too well. He can recognize the small lines of fatigue etched around the General's eyes, the taut, pinched expression; sheer rage boiling so closely beneath a thin veneer of control. Thankfully he hasn't had to bear witness to the Emperor's treatment of his former friend since that first day, beneath the coliseum, but he has heard enough gossip, passed along eagerly by the slaves attending Commodus' personal chambers. None of it pleasant.

Slamming the door to his quarters, lodged within the Palace -- for Commodus does not want him far from reach -- he stops, sighs, and then warns off his slave Gallus with a quick nod of his head. His mind whirls, and he shakes his head, trying to sort out the mess of the last few days. Lucilla has been sent to a countryside villa after the execution of Gracchus, banished there to wait for Commodus' anger at her to cool. For the moment at least, the royal lady is safe. Upon her return, he is certain, there will be no way of stopping the brat Emperor from having his way with her, right or wrong.

Maximus has regained his former title of General, and now is kept close to the Emperor's heel, ostensibly to advise the youth on military matters that concern the Empire. He knows too well the true reasons though. Commodus fears the power Maximus would hold with an army at his back, even with the threat of an innocent boy hanging over his friend's head. He, himself, is also kept close at his Caesar's heel. He knows what is being said of him - Commodus' faithful dog - and yet, deep down, he is not.

He feels as if he has awoken from some deep, malevolent nightmare. Arisen and found that duty and honor no longer go hand in hand. They've diverged; he has done his duty to Rome, but at what price to his own honor? Commodus certainly exhibits none. In doing his duty, and upholding the Emperor's right to rule, has he sacrificed his own honor? Marcus stood for the Ideals of Rome; can the same be said of the son?

He sighs, head slumping forward in defeat. He wishes he could speak to his old friend about these things. Wishes things were as they had been. Time, and actions have caused a rift that might well be irreparable between him and Maximus. He knows that his former commander, and friend, doesn't give his trust lightly. Through his own blind dedication to orders, he has killed that trust, that friendship, that loyalty. A deeper bond of trust, he has never found with another living being in his life. All gone. Shattered by blind obedience and duty to a mad child-man.

A memory overtakes him suddenly, he closes his eyes against it, "Dirt cleans off a lot easier than blood, Quintus." He can hear Maximus' voice in his mind, begins to comprehend the simple truth of the words. How much blood is on his hands now? There is no way to erase the stains they have left on his life, on his soul. The blood of Maximus' family stains him. What has he done?

A sharp rapping sounds in his ears, slicing through the well of regrets. Gallus rushes to the door, opens it, and one of his Praetorians enters.

"Yes, what is it?" His own voice sounds flat, annoyed, and impatient.

"Caesar has asked for you, Sir." Having delivered the message the black and purple swathed form retreats back through the door.

*****

Emotionlessly, he approaches the throne and makes his obeisance. Eyes sweeping over the room, he notices that not only are the Emperor's personal bodyguard nearby, but that Maximus lingers, shadowed and inconspicuous at the edges of the chamber.

"You wished to see me, Caesar?" His voice remains neutral, an affection that has become somewhat a trademark of his.

"Ah, Quintus, there you are." The Emperor, eyes glinting with a malevolent fire, drill into him; make the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "I have a job for you." Commodus smiles ingratiatingly, voice smooth and soft, calm -- too calm.

He knows well enough that this tone is usually a harbinger of unpleasantness. He fears just what this 'job' might entail. "What would Caesar have me do?" Again, he manages to keep his voice flat, stoic. He can distinctly feel a second pair of eyes burn into him, this set even more affecting -- the tempestuous eyes of his former commander. He feels judged by that level, knowing stare, and finds himself sorely lacking.

Commodus gestures, bidding him closer and each of his muscles coils warily as he obeys. He schools his demeanor ruthlessly, no sign of his present discomfort showing in the placid, inscrutable expression worn upon his face.

"I know you serve me loyally, completely. Is that no so, Quintus?" The Emperor's voice is both silky smooth and oddly child-like.

How does he answer this? He is averse to lying, and yet he cannot tell this insane creature the truth of the depths of his disdain. He compromises. Eyes drift downward; head bows slightly, a gesture Commodus is used to seeing from him as a gesture of ascent.

"I serve Rome, Sire." Not once does his implacable, emotionless tone waver. It is a truth, one that remains unshakable. So many truths, excuses, and explanations held in that one phrase.

He notices the subtle shift in Maximus' posture behind him, the lifting of the man's head, slight narrowing of the eyes, heavy measured stare, grim tightening of the lips. His former General knows him far too well and has sensed his avoidance in his answer. Let Maximus make of it what he will.

Commodus' voice is cool, silky, chilling, as he speaks, "You shall divorce your wife, and marry Lucilla. I know that I can trust you to make certain she will hatch no more plots against me." The youthful Emperor turns, pins him in place with a haughty hazel stare, "And I know, since it is my will, you will not lay a hand on her." Caesar's full lips twist into a knowing smile, "After all, my sister must maintain a certain level of respectability…" The lilting, oily voice trails off.

The implications are clear, and staggering. This vain child wishes him to set aside his wife, to watchdog Lucilla, facilitating the youth's immoral, and unwanted incestuous pursuits. All the while affording the lady the respectability and safety of marriage.

He is stunned. Shocked, rocked, and numbed into silence. If he had not already known the youth mad, he would be convinced of it with this pronouncement. His mind whirls, shifting and reeling with a cacophony of thoughts. This is madness. Utter madness. Before his mind can even form any semblance of a suitable reply his mouth forges ahead.

"Caesar, my wife… my daughters…" For the first time he can remember, his voice belies and betrays almost every thought and emotion flying through his consciousness. Vivia has been nothing but the model of a Roman matron; he cannot simply cast his family aside without thought, care, or consideration merely to capitulate to the whims of an adolescent potentate to whom honor is a foreign concept.

Hazel eyes narrow, and Commodus' expression twists with displeasure, "You would defy the wishes of your Caesar? Decline the honor this would accord to you?" The Emperor's voice still remains cool, calm, and immeasurably dangerous.

He steels himself, tries to form words that will appease this monster, "Caesar, I serve Rome. Faithfully." Again, a half answer is his reply. In the swift passage of precious few moments he has formulated a plan, the only plan that can assure both safety and honor, for himself and for his family.

Commodus' eyes bore into him, heavy with the weight of deepest meaning, even though the accompanying words are delivered in the lightest, most carefree of tones, "Good." A long pregnant pause, "Good. You will be rid of your wife, Quintus, one way or … another."

The chilling, malicious promise that vibrates in the Emperor's voice makes his blood run cold. Run colder than the accursed snows and ice in the northern wilds of Germania. Peripherally, he is aware of Maximus' building ire behind him, the General barely manages to restrain himself from shaking in undisguised rage.

"I serve Caesar." It is the only reply he can manage, and thankfully he manages a respectful bow without belying his own shaking rage.

"See to it then," Commodus replies offhandedly, short attention already beginning to shift and focus onto other plans and puzzlements.

Dismissed without thought, he manages to make his way out of Caesar's sight without his stoic control taking flight. Maximus' eyes still burn into him from behind. Without even thinking or planning it, he halts. Stops just inside the doors that flow back out into the palace's long, tomblike marble corridors. On his heel, he turns meeting Maximus' level, measuring gaze, and in a gesture too long forgotten, raises a hand, clenches fist, and places it over his heart.

As he stalks from the chamber in a swirl of black and purple silk one short phrase echoes through his mind like a raging storm: strength and honor.

*****

He seals the scroll meticulously and hands it to his slave, Gallus, with strict instructions to deliver it to only Maximus, and to do so with all haste. What he has written is brief, a confession of his complicity, however unknowing, and a request for his former leader to look after the safety of his family. He knows Maximus' mettle enough to know the man would never hold against an innocent woman and children the mistakes and dishonor of their husband and father. He may take some small comfort in that one fact.

His life pours out behind his eyes in mere seconds, flashes that encompass a seeming eternity. His induction into the legions, his marriage -- albeit arranged, the birth of his daughters, and his many campaigns. One figure, one person stands out in bold relief throughout almost all of them. Maximus. He draws in a deep, shaky breath then sighs deeply, regretfully. He wishes he could speak with his former friend, explain his own misguided actions to the man he most trusts. Trusts even now.

It is not possible. Not anymore. He has only one course of action, and he knows well that Maximus will understand this as well. Perhaps at least in this one gesture he can somehow atone his many grievances against the one person he cares most for. Cares most for? He shakes the thought, and all its attendant emotions away intently. No time now. No time for reminiscences, or should haves. No time for confronting feelings locked carefully away for over a decade. There is only time for action. Just time enough to save his family, and perhaps by extension, Lucilla, from the hands of Commodus' scheming.

With a rigid resolve borne of a finely honed sense of honor, he changes almost ritualistically into his dress armor, heavier and more embellished than his current attire. To his mind it is only fitting. Idly, he traces the raised gold images affixed to the dark leather, as his mind reels and struggles against the ever-increasing waves of reminiscence and regret crashing through his consciousness.

With solemnity, perhaps more solemnity than he ever thought himself capable of, he stiffly kneels in front of the small table of candles and tiny figurines that represent his ancestors. Although not as devout as some, he is still a man of some piety. A sudden chill, followed by an unnerving focus settles over him. His mind recites a silent, meditative litany, hopes, prayers, and dreams, all whose result -- should they be answered -- he shall never witness.

//Ancestors, forgive me. I have failed your memory. I have failed my own
honor, and there is only one way in which I may atone. Father, watch over
my wife, my children, they are innocent. Let my faults not lie on their heads. Mother, I beg you, allow me to rest upon the fields of Elysium, even
though I am undeserving. I desire only to make amends to those with whom
I cannot in this life. All else is mere illusion and dust.//

Reverently, he blows out each candle in careful turn, the familiarity of the ritual calming and smoothing his frayed nerves. He stands, and then quietly draws his gladius; his fingers unconsciously caressing the finely wrought bone hilt fashioned to fit his hand snugly. The sensation of the use-worn bone, smooth beneath his calloused fingertips sooths him with its familiarity.

//One last battle then.//

Placing both hands firmly on the hilt, he holds the gladius away from him, its sharp tip pressing against the sternum of his armor. One forceful push, and it will be done. His muscles coil, gathering force. The blade must be driven in swiftly, with strength behind it to accomplish his ends. His eyes flutter closed as he draws in a deep breath of air - his last on this earth -- as he prepares to drive his sword home. His last conscious thought rises unbidden.

        //Maximus, old friend, forgive me.//

At the moment when his muscles prepare to explode with necessary force, he feels warm strong, calloused hands fitting over his own, stilling him. His eyes snap open, confusion storming and swirling in their depths, and meet steely blue-green. Maximus.

"Don't" Maximus rasps, the myriad emotions in his former comrade's voice undecipherable.

Time stills. Moves in a mere trickle. Heartbeats stretch hours instead of seconds, as he remains locked and momentarily lost in those unreadable eyes. Maximus' steady hands begin to draw the blade away from him. He allows it, nodding in understanding - at least believing he understands.

Never once breaking the General's intent gaze, he kneels at Maximus' feet, finally bowing his head forward, baring the nape of his neck to the man whom he has wronged. He wonders if he is even worthy of the soldier's death his friend apparently will afford him?

"Quintus…" The voice is gruff, raspy, strained.

He lifts his head, stares into the weary face of his friend and wonders. Wonders long and hard at Maximus' intent, the man he knew would end it quickly, not cause his family to suffer - and yet, did he afford this general any better?

The gladius clatters from Maximus' hand to the floor with the flat ringing of metal, and the Spaniard turns away momentarily, searching for words. In usual fashion Maximus presses right to the heart of the matter. "I have no desire to kill you, Quintus, or to see you end your own life."

Astounded, he cannot stop himself before the sharp, accusatory words escape him, "You wish my family to suffer in payment for what I've done?" Incredulity plasters itself across his usually placid, unreadable visage.

The reply is gruff, quiet. "The slave pits may have changed me, Quintus, but not that much. I have no thirst for revenge against you. You did your duty." The words more than insinuate just what form the object of Maximus' revenge takes.

Hearing those words, from this man, his friend whom he has so grievously wronged, tears at his control and he clamps tightly down upon his own tempestuous emotions. After all that has passed before, this man does not … hate him? Does not … blame him? Even when he holds himself the most responsible in this sordid, sorry affair?

"Maximus," he dares the use of his friend's name, his tone pleading, "My family…"

"Will be safe, Quintus." The confident words hold promise.

"How … " he flounders, finds his tongue, begins again, "how did you know?" He glances quickly in the direction of the now discarded gladius. He has forgotten how well his General can read his intent. He had imagined the events of the past months had washed all their previous understanding of one another away in a torrent of betrayal.

Maximus stares down at the gladius, replying softy, voice tinged with undecipherable emotion, "It is what I would have done."

He nods quietly, knowing intrinsically the truth in the Spaniard's words. Maximus would have done the same in his shoes, always taking the honorable path. The honorable path… he wonders again, for the seemingly millionth time what could have forced Maximus to deny Commodus? What information did his former commander have that made him turn his back on honor and stalk out of the Emperor's tent that fateful evening. He is, frankly, afraid to ask.

At last, he rises stiffly, never taking his eyes from the stoic General, yet unsure of Maximus' purpose here. Against his better judgment, he asks, "Maximus, why are you here?"

The answer is as enigmatic as the man, "Many reasons." Maximus pauses, retrieves the discarded gladius and carefully returns it to its owner, "You do intend to sheathe that, yes?"

He suppresses a chuckle, it is so like Maximus to couch a command in irony, and he is certain, for all the friendliness of tone, that this is indeed an order. Reverently, he sheathes the blade, a long, tired sounding sigh rising up from him. With a sidelong glance at his friend, he snatches up a pitcher of wine and two cups, pouring, then thrusting one of the mugs in Maximus' direction.

"Thank you." The Spaniard glances at the cup, and then downs its contents in short order.

He is aware of the long silence, the uncomfortable air, the immovable barrier that seems to have erected itself between them since Germania. It should not surprise him; it is a barrier of his own making, forced by his hand, his orders. Why did he ever give the order?

"Because you had to. Because you weren't aware of other possibilities." Maximus' voice shocks him from his reverie, he had not been aware he spoke the last aloud.

"Maximus," anger creeps into his voice, perhaps it is too difficult to accept forgiveness from his friend for all that has transpired at his hands, "How can you of all people defend what I have done?" His feet begin to pace about the chamber without the consent of his mind. "I blindly followed orders, and condemned you, and your…" He bites the words off, takes a deep breath, and tries to regain his vaunted, stoic control.

Maximus' words shock him, they are soft, regretful, "I am the only one responsible for what happened, Quintus. I wanted to go home and forget about Rome and her wars. I thought I could do that cleanly, but I was wrong…shortsighted and stubborn. I let my pride blind me."

The raw, unmasked pain in Maximus' voice stabs at him. No matter how much the Spaniard may deny it, in his heart he is the cause of every iota of that pain. His friend's despair invites him to comment, "Maximus, you are the last person in this Empire who would act selfishly, or impulsively." Oh how those words damn him. He has always known that. Knew that even then. Why, oh why did he not question? Why did he blindly carry out the orders of that whelp Emperor, who so clearly holds something terrible against Maximus?

Maximus abruptly changes the subject, deflecting a rapidly approaching torrent of mutual guilt deftly away, "It is not safe, here, Quintus. Walls have ears. It's amazing the wealth of information and idle gossip I learn daily from Juba."

He is momentarily confused, "Juba?" His mind fires and he makes the connection, "ah, your Numidian friend."

Maximus nods slightly, it is more a rising of the chin, and slight tilting of the head, "Yes. The slaves in the palace seem surprisingly well informed."

"They always have been, Maximus."

The Spaniard's brow furrows in concentration before speaking, "There is much we need to speak on, I will begin making arrangements to have Vivia and the children taken from Rome tonight. We must move them soon."

Unable to form words, he merely nods numbly. In the pit of his soul he feels he does not deserve the friendship of this man willing to save has family. Unbidden, words form into sentences which stream forth from him, a confession he has long needed to make. "I do not deserve this, Maximus. What I did … was wrong. What I did …"

"Was your duty," the rich, deep voice cuts his words off, as his General merely watches him. "You are not the only one who has confessions to make. Listen to me." Maximus' voice commands his full attention as those blue-green orbs burn into his. "This place is not safe, and Commodus must still view us as the enemies he thinks us to be. He seeks to play us, one against the other. We must maintain this farce, but we need to talk. Tomorrow, Commodus sends me out to meet with some of his field officers to assess the strengths of the legions; I believe he will send you to 'watch' me. Come on horse. We will talk then when the walls do not have so many ears."

He nods blindly. He knows in his soul that everything has changed. Turned upside down and started anew. There are no questions now. No divided loyalties to wrangle with. No more regrets. He will serve this man, his friend, unto his least breath. No matter what else happens, it is resolved within his will. He will never betray his General again, no matter the personal cost.

Incredulously, the Spaniard's lips quirk up into a small smile, the slightest spark of life dancing just behind the blue seas of Maximus' eyes. He feels strong arms on his shoulders. Feels the warm forehead of his friend as it presses against his.

"Strength and honor."

"Strength and honor," he manages to choke out, his heart in his throat as Maximus quietly slips out of his rooms. His mind whirls. What could his friend have to confess? Certainly nothing. And yet… and yet the Spaniard's words linger, haunt and taunt him. "
Because you weren't aware of other possibilities." Other possibilities? What possibilities? What had his friend, and the Emperor for that matter, been hiding all these many months?

Despite himself, and all his command and control, his heart, and hopes soar. With the dawn he will have his answers. Questions too long lingering will have their answers. He has made his confession and found, once again, some measure of trust with his beloved friend.

And he knows he shall not sleep so much as a wink.

-Fin-