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He is undone.
No other specific set of words strung together could affect him so deeply. So completely. So absolutely. He'd not thought, after losing the family he held so dear, that anything could ever again hold this sort of sway over his emotions. He was wrong, he knows now. So terribly wrong.
Are the Fates sending him a message? Would they never finish with him, and allow him to dispatch of the one earthly piece of business he has left? Or will they continue placing yet one more challenge ever in front of him, just when he has overcome all others? Will they ever allow him entrance into the only place he seeks to dwell any longer, beside his family in Elysium?
And what now? He can see only two choices; submit, or fight and condemn Lucilla, whom he still cares about -- best not to think on that -- to understand intimately the same pain he suffers? The same pain that threatens to break his soul into tiny, aching pieces with each breath he draws? As Lucilla had pointed out to him that night, not long ago, Lucius was also innocent. He would prefer to fight in the arena and die than... this.
It has not once entered his thoughts to blame Lucilla. He knows this is no ruse she is helping to perpetrate. He knows her intent is true and honest. She, then, is just as helpless in this as he is. Perhaps more so. In the past he may have thought her cold, but motherhood has changed her. Changed her, even as fatherhood has changed him.
Instead, he is here. Chained. Beaten. Betrayed by his accursed body. Shamed. Dancing so close to the precipice of defeat. Easy. It would be easy to give in to defeat. Be so simple to refuse Commodus, and undoubtedly be slain in the arena above. Even as Lucius, an innocent would be slain. No. Refusing, resisting and seeking an end in the Coliseum, while it once held some honor, is now just a coward's way out. It will take far more courage and strength to go on living.
The thoughts whir in his mind even as he feels Commodus' stare burning into him, awaiting acquiescence. He closes his eyes slowly, trying to steady the whirl of morbid thoughts as he steels himself to speak words he would never have thought to utter, "If Caesar will forgive me, circumstance prevents me from taking Caesar's hand." Irony, rising like a fleeing bird into the night edges firmly into voice, as he tugs at the binding chains, "For Lucius' sake, I will agree."
This seems to appease the Emperor, a gleam of fevered glee settles into the hazel eyes. "Maximus, Maximus, I knew given the right... impetus that you would see the error of your ways." Commodus stalks around him in a tight circle for several long moments, before spinning on one white-clad heel to stare into his face, "Of course, I do know you are a man of your word Maximus, however, I should enlighten you, if you try to flee Rome... Lucius will die. If you try to be noble, and fall on your sword... Lucius will die. If anything... untimely befalls me..."
"Lucius will die." He grits the words out himself, through parched, angry lips and a sternly set jaw, "I think I understand Caesar perfectly." And he does. Understands all too well. He is still a slave, only now, his chains grow heavier. Chains more binding and limiting than his previous ones. It is easy to not have a care of living, when it is only your own life you are wagering. Now he must obey, serve willingly to spare the son of woman he once cared deeply for - still cares for. Would have married had it been allowed.
"Strap on his armor." The Emperor's command is haughty, gleeful, the sound of one triumphant. As Commodus leans in closer to him, he tenses, still unsure this isn't all some macabre joke, another mere amusement for a half-mad youth. But his liege speaks, softly, almost cooing with delight, "Have no fear, Maximus, this is the last time you shall have to wear such slave's armor."
His arms burn with fiery pain as the guards release him from the chains at last. He stretches them slowly, trying to work the aching knots in his tendons away. As Quintus moves forward to follow the Emperor's command, he growls warningly, and snatches the breastplate from the Praetorian's hand. "I will do it myself." He doesn't trust Quintus. Not anymore. Not after... all that has transpired. Surprise registers in Quintus' eyes as they meet his. Good, let the Praetorian be wary, know that his hard earned trust has faded away. Quintus looks down then, unable to meet his eyes, and he wonders. Wonders suddenly about his former confidante's motives, has Quintus, too, been trapped?
He shakes these musings off as Commodus begins to speak again, demeanor still one of an enthusiastic and benevolent victor, "Fetch the Numidian and send him along to the palace, the general shall need a new manservant." His thoughts reel at the layers of implication there. This Emperor indeed has learned well the arts of subjugation. He knows he cannot allow the same fate to befall his friend that befell... Cicero. He pushes that thought away quickly. His emotions are already too raw, too battered to deal with yet another deep pain. He must set that aside until later, when he has the time to mourn loss after bitter loss.
"Come brother, there is one last piece of business to attend to." He can only steel himself as he follows the man he is now forced to serve.
His thoughts are numb. Numbed with the guilt of enjoying something so simple, so civilized as a real bath. As long overworked muscles unwind, uncoil, and relax in the hot, herb-scented water, he tries to form some cohesive sense out of the madness of this day.
Proximo had been correct. The young Caesar did indeed know how to work and manipulate the mob. He had been winched up into the arena beside Commodus, onto a field strewn with rose petals, fluttering along the sand like paper drops of blood. He might have died there. In some ways he wishes he had died there. Not so, though.
Instead, amidst great fanfare, he had been granted his freedom. Not the freedom he has so long desired, but the freedom to serve this rapacious Caesar to ensure the safety of those yet alive that he now holds dear. Risen from his status of slave and infamis to be returned to his former stature of general. Commodus the Benevolent, the crowd had cheered, and thus in one action, the Emperor had regained the love of the fickle mobs. It was too much. Yet, the price for non-compliance is too high for him to refuse.
Commodus had returned to his box, having ordered him escorted back to the palace to be 'made suitable for the Emperor's company'. The words knife at him even now. The last bloody images to fill his mind of that place as he had been ushered away was the sight of Commodus, seated haughtily upon the throne, Quintus at heel, overseeing the execution of one traitorous senator by the name of Gracchus.
Morose thoughts subdue him. He should have never agreed to meet with Gracchus. Should never have allowed himself to be beguiled away from his path of simple, cold vengeance. Had he stayed the course, not opened his heart again, to Lucilla, to Rome, Commodus would not have this leverage over him now. But he had. He had been human, and responded to his loyalty for a dead Emperor, and his feelings for that Emperor's daughter. Now, the tables turned, her fate, and the fate of her son are in his hands, and he will do what he must.
What he must. His blood runs cold, and he shivers, despite the hot water embracing him. Now, here in the relative solitude of the palace baths, his mind replays one scenario alone, over and over in his mind. His body has betrayed him, and such betrayal is an inconceivable concept to someone used to such command of everything around him. He had wanted to fight back, desperately, yet apparently, like any man, he too has limits.
He begins to scrub at his skin, attempts to wash away the memory of unwanted, unsolicited touch. Banish and erase the scalding shame rising in him. He is treading a sword's edge; on one hand he is disgusted at his body's seemingly enthusiastic response to Commodus' touch. On the other hand, he is grateful, for the sake of Lucius, that he was able. He has no illusions that this is over. In fact, he is intensely aware that in all likelihood this is just beginning.
"Maximus?" His reverie is interrupted by a familiar and comforting voice, "Maximus... why are we here, in this cage of marble?" He raises his head to meet the eyes that belong to Juba, "He could not kill my great name, and so he has bought my compliance." The bitterness in his own words surprises even him.
"He uses the great Lady against you, then?" How should he answer this question he wonders? How can he ask Juba's forgiveness for placing his friend in even greater danger than when they fought in the Coliseum? At least there, one could see their opponents. "He uses her son against me." It is the only reply that he can manage.
"I understand, my friend. You would not have her suffer as you have." Those words cut. Deeply. Sharply. Juba knows him to well, but in protecting Lucilla, he is also consigning his friend to a possibly darker fate.
The arrival of Quintus cuts short their conversation, "The Emperor has asked for you, Maximus." Nodding curtly to his former second in command, he glances up at his friend, and allows himself a weary sigh as he rises out of the baths to dress himself. His mind tumultuous, he can only imagine what Commodus would desire to see him about.
"Ah, Maximus, there you are." Commodus, his tormentor, sits at a long table, smoke rising and dancing above the lamps casting light over the scrolls strewn over its surface. "You sent for me, Sire?" Simple. Direct. He finds he has a difficult time forcing out the honorific - and yet he must. For Lucius' sake. Those three words are fast becoming a mantra he clings to. A justification for all the humiliation he must bear at this Caesar's hands.
Gesturing grandiosely at a food-covered table nearby, Commodus entreats him, "Sit, and eat. Surely, even you are hungry after such an ordeal." The Emperor's manner is so lighthearted after this day's bloody work that it sickens him. He doesn't wish to admit to his weakness. Admit to himself, that he would like nothing more at this moment than a real meal for the first time in months. At the warning flashing in the Emperor's eyes, he yields, and obeys - for Lucius' sake.
He watches his captor through wary eyes as he finally allows himself to indulge in the concept of eating, and does so heartily. He will need strength to bear what will come... after. He is still adjusting to the concept of being attired in a civilized manner, instead of in the slave's tunica he has grown oddly accustomed to.
His leeriness does not go unnoticed. "Relax, Maximus. No talk of the future tonight. Tomorrow, I shall let you hear my will on that matter." The words chill him. Unsettle him. They ring too much of a pronouncement, and send the small hairs on the back of his neck to prickling.
He has to look away when this Caesar speaks again. Has to school his features ruthlessly, to not allow his evident disgust to rise to the surface. He must... for Lucius' sake. "Tonight... well. Tonight is for discovering all those things which I could not this morning." Commodus' voice is husky with certain intent, and it sends a shiver of revulsion up his spine.
"Come here, Maximus." A command coated in a sugary voice, but a command just the same. He wills himself to rise. Wills one foot in front of the other as he crosses over to stand before the man that holds sway over him by sheer force of immorality. The next words are spoken with petulance, sounding for all of the world like a wounded child seeking solace, "You will love me, Maximus." That, he knows, is one thing that shall never pass, no matter what he is forced to do in the name of Lucius' safety.
He steels himself as a strong hand trails upwards, tracing the thick muscles of his arms, as Commodus rises, moves closer. He fights against his own impulse to shake with disgust and rage. Fingers trail over his jaw, tracing patterns with an oddly soft touch. "There is not a man in all the Empire to match you,
Maximus." Commodus' voice turns almost ethereal, haunted, "And now, at last, you -are- mine."
He wants so badly to strike out. Wants nothing more than to make an end of this Caesar. He has always known Commodus was not moral, but he sees now also, that this Emperor is half-mad, or more. He understands all too well now, why his beloved Marcus Aurelius appointed him to the task that had doomed his fate. He has failed his true Emperor, and it shames him.
He schools himself from recoiling as Commodus leans into him, against him, and just like earlier that morning, he feels the warm press of Commodus' face in the crook of his neck. He is confused, now. What is it this man wants from him? If it is only the physical, Caesar can certainly just take it. Command it. Commodus is, surely, aware of this fact. Does this too-young Emperor somehow view him as a kind of extension of their great father? Or as something else? This side, this mood of Commodus' is an enigma to him.
His eyes close against the madness surrounding him, as he feels strong hands travel over his shoulders. The touch is too gentle, unsettling, disturbing. He remains motionless, his mind railing against the unwanted words assaulting him, "I have long loved you, brother, surely, you must know that?" He is startled and apprehensive at this revelation, but the fevered words go on, just as this morning, "You shall have all that you desire... and more." He controls himself enough to bite back his retort.
The body draped against him tenses suddenly, and he can palpably feel the change in Commodus' mood, "We shall sleep now, Maximus, and talk more of this in the morning."
Shaken by the sudden shift, he manages to form words into a reply, "As Caesar wills." Rigidly, he propels himself forward, to the bed he is obviously meant to share this night, even if only in sleep. Thank the ancestors, only in sleep. He doubts he will sleep well, however. He feels far too unsettled. Far too much like a lamb, being led to slaughter... Sacrificial.
-Fin-