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The dark leather armor of the Praetorians hangs uneasily from his frame. Seated, seemingly impassive, on a golden chair, his consciousness has become a raging war. Seething. Maddening. It twists and contorts in unknown fashions in a mind that has already been stretched far too thin by circumstance.

Alive. Maximus. Here. He remembers too well the campaigns in Germania. Remembers too well the honor, the sheer strength of the man that was his commander. It hasn't taken him long to understand why the General had acted as he had. He also knows he did not have the strength and conviction to follow this man he had served for so many years down his path.

He, Quintas, was a soldier. A soldier of Rome. A soldier of Rome obeyed. Unfailingly. Followed the orders of his Caesar without question. Throughout his service with Marcus Aurelius those orders had been easy to follow. Those orders held reason, justice, honor, even temperance... but now?

Beside him, Marcus' antithesis sits -- preens, really -- delighting in somehow finding a means to destroy a man who's simple conviction and courage could have stood for all that Rome had achieved; nobility, justice, service, duty, and honor. Most of all -- honor. All gone. All dashed by the spoiled whims of an immoral Emperor.

In his heart, he knows this is not the path meant for him. These Praetorians were little more than a civil force. Like the man he watches on the field of the Coliseum, he too should be in the field. Leading. Forging vast armies into glorious victories for the Empire. Not so, anymore. Not so, since Commodus deemed to promote him to the head of his guard. In actuality, he finds it more a demotion. He is a man of battle in his soul, not some indefinable bodyguard to Emperors.

He is unable to dismiss the cold shudder passing up his spine at his Emperor's words, "It has been arranged." Arranged? Will this arrogant boy never learn that nothing can be 'arranged' for the General? He follows this Caesar for one reason. One, sole reason. He already knows firsthand how far this Emperor's wrath will extend.

Perhaps in his heart he is a coward. Or, perhaps he is just wiser. He is no longer certain of anything, only thankful. Thankfully relieved that his family still survives and prospers. Too easily they could have shared a common fate with the General's family. Become kin to them in death. Even now, the General resists. Defies. Shows true heart and courage.

In duty, he follows his Emperor onto the field, cutting a swath through his Praetorians as they circle around the General in a grim reconstruction of yesterday's spectacle. He wonders then, if Commodus truly grasps the import of the surrounding cacophony? Grasps the power the General holds with this crowd; the same power that he held over the hearts of so many soldiers of Rome. The same power the General once held over him.

The Emperor's words scald him. The blatant cruelty with which Commodus taunts his former General manages to surprise him, even now. Even through the knowledge that he holds of the mettle of this sickened Caesar. Words drift softly across him. Spoken with deathly calm and utter conviction, "The time for honoring yourself will soon be at an end."

Intrinsically, he understands these words. They sing to him, and something regretful wells up within him. He, himself, has allowed honor to slip away. Melt and blend into the shadowy illusion of duty. Duty and honor have diverged upon different paths. This Emperor -- this creature -- he serves knows only the meaning of the first, and not the second. He sees now, that honor is an enigma, a concept lingering beyond the grasp of this presumptuous whelp.

A choice, once made, cannot be unmade. A man, however, can be reminded of that in which he once stood for, believed in, and make new choices. Right choices. Honorable choices. One certainty settles into his bones. Settles into his spirit. When the time comes, he will serve his General with honor once again. In this life, and the next.

Indeed, the time for honoring yourself, young Emperor, will soon be at an end.