TITLE: Vindobona
AUTHOR: Napra
FANDOM: Gladiator
PAIRING: Maximus/Cicero
RATING: NC-17, SLASH
STATUS: complete
ARCHIVE: Please ask first
SUMMARY: Eight years prior to the setting of the picture: Wars rage along the German border. The
centurion Maximus is serving Rome at Vindobona. Is he ready to become General? The encounter
with a dark stranger does not make decisions easier…
NOTES: The story takes place between the reoccupation of Vindobona (170 AD) and the First
Marcomannic War (172-175 AD). FYI: According to my storyline the battle in Germania at the
beginning of the film would have been the Second Marcomannic War (177-180 AD)
DISCLAIMER: The movie “Gladiator” which this story is based on belongs to Universal and
Dreamworks. There is no profit being made here, so I´m not breaking copyright laws by publishing
this.
Vindobona
+++++++++
172 AD
“Here´s to the General!” one of the soldiers shouted as he lifted his goblet. “General
Maximus!”
“General Maximus!” echoed the crowd.
“Wait, you lot, it´s not official yet!” Maximus laughed at the roaring men around him.
He had difficulty rising from the bench. The wine in Pannonia was not only sour, but
also strong. “I´m still a centurion. Still only a centurion. The Gods do not approve of
premature announcements.”
“And neither do they if you mock the speech of the devoted nobility!” said another
soldier.
The crowd burst into hearty laughter again.
Maximus´ smile grazed the tavern. Everyone was looking at him. But their eyes were
all glazed and marked by the wine. However, one pair of eyes was actually paying
attention to him. They were dark and filled with a zest for life that sparked the
centurion´s interest. The broad cheeks were beaming, not out of joy and festiveness
– it wore more the expression of a spectator who was about to judge the performer.
He felt a rough jerk at his arm.
“Maximus! What are your plans after the imperial celebration tomorrow?”
Maximus turned to face one of his older comrades, Faustus, and the corners of his
mouth twitched briefly.
“Will you take leave and rest on your laurels?” the man asked.
“I haven´t decided yet – I will probably return to Spain. My parents are waiting for a
life sign of mine and my father doesn´t trust messengers.” They both laughed and
toasted their recent victory.
“Isn´t it a bit premature to be turning your back on the enemy?” a strongly accented
voice shredded the tavern air. “Pulling your tail in, eh?”
Slowly Centurion Maximus turned around squaring his shoulders. He was surprised,
yes, even excited to see the man he had noticed before. Who would have thought…
“The General would be wise not to turn his back on you – traitor,” someone spat.
“Who knows what would come out of your beggar´s rags.”
Maximus was indeed quite stunned. He had barely heard what was going on. The
man addressing him stood proudly amongst the drunk legionnaires and apparently
not being one. He was tall, as far as Maximus could tell, slender, and his dark hair
fell around his face in a springy and very un-Roman fashion. There was only one
slight turn of the man´s head towards the insults he had just received that revealed
all the beauty of his profile, close to classical, yet healthier.
Eventually he felt Faustus nudge him in the side. “Tell that barbarian troublemaker to
go to hell, Maximus.” All was quiet in the room.
Maximus flashed a lopsided smile and said haltingly, “Are you troublemaker, as my
friend here suggests? Or is there a reason for your inquiry? Maybe you´re only an
entertainer engaged to stir up the party?”
The whole room boomed with laughter and Maximus grew bolder and bolder with
every one of the crowd who joined in.
But once black eyes glared at Maximus from under lopsided brows, the centurion´s
plan for getting up to face the young man shrank as he himself did in his stool.
“If I were a traitor,” the man began, and his voice became a hoarse rumble, “I
wouldn´t be warning you.”
Then he flung a dark cape around his tall frame and strode out of the door.
Maximus could have sworn that he had seen a smirk playing around those thin lips.
Again Faustus nudged him out of his musings. “So what d´ye think of that?”
“Hmm…” Somehow he found it hard to pluck his thoughts from that blossoming tree
of imagination.
“There are so many provincials like him. Live in the borderlands, become either
paranoid about invasion or passionate Roman haters. Usually end up as targets in
battle on either side. No sense of self-control.”
“No, he – he didn´t strike me as a village hothead.” Maximus heard the noise of
doors opening and closing. “Perhaps he was some kind of deity.”
Faustus´ slapped his back and chuckled. “He´s the walking oracle since there´s none
to attend out here in the middle of bloody nowhere.”
*
Maximus barely managed to wrap himself in his fur as he tumbled out of the tavern.
Not to speak of being able to negotiate with the barkeeper. The man could have
ripped him off like goatskin.
Yet the cold did sober him up a bit. He decided to roam the streets for a while.
Vindobona – the stronghold the legions had built against the hordes of Marcomanni,
a German tribe, who threatened to invade the province of Pannonia. But the limes,
the great rampart, had not prevailed. Five years ago his plague-stricken countrymen
had been overpowered and Vindobona reduced to rubble.
The ground even sounded cold. The tapping of the heavy boots on the road, unusual
to Roman ears, brought Maximus back to the Pannonian winter and a shiver ran
down his spine. The road – the only visible trace of Roman civilisation after it had
burnt down. Truly his men had done excellent work rebuilding the entire fort in only
two years. Now the soldiers were encamped here, officially to defend Carnuntum,
the nearby capital city of Pannonia.
Endless seeming rows of barracks escaped the eye that knew the shape of them too
well for them to be noticed. Maximus inhaled the sharp winter air. Word had been
sent that the cold bit down on you even harsher in the northern regions of Germania.
He wasn´t too keen on finding it out for himself. Roughly he rubbed his cheeks.
Maybe he should grow a beard.
Probably the great Caesar Marcus Aurelius had already arrived in Carnuntum. There
he would be preparing the celebration of Maximus´ promotion to General, he who
had helped raise Vindobona from its ashes. It would be an extravagant feast. Marcus
Aurelius was generous, yet not careless with his wealth. There had to be another
reason for the Emperor Himself to come all the way to the limes.
The centurion wavered across Vindobona´s uneven cobblestones and nearly tripped
up once as his eyes got lost in the moonlight. The Emperor had told him about the
chariot waiting for him at the town gates of Carnuntum, the tubas, the cheering…
Voices… was he hearing things? He had drunken a lot.
“I will not. Mind yer´ own business.”
Then that croak. Sounded like a crow. It came from around the corner ahead of him.
Maximus´ ears led him to a group of men. He could not determine their number
because they stood in the shady alleyway behind the warehouse.
The scream. It was a scream. It cleared his head like a dose of cold water.
Immediately he dropped his fur and bared his left arm and the tattoo marking it.
“I am legion – what are you doing here?!” he demanded pulling one of them at their
cloak. A short intense stab of pain gushed from the arm through his body and he let
go. Like a whirlwind the men – three they were – ruffled their clothes and scurried
out into the night.
Maximus´ arm had been slashed. He ripped a few shreds from his undershirt and tied
it around the wound like the healers had showed him at an early stage of his
training. He had forgotten the screaming during incident. There it was again, very
present, resounding in his brain, penetrating his senses.
The centurion groped around in the dark, touched warm and wet. It was rough
under the slippery surface – beard stubble? It would match the male voice.
“It´s alright, it´s alright. They´re gone,” Maximus managed to say. The screaming
receded to loud, hysterical gasps. “Now you must tell me, are you hurt?” The gasps
grew louder. “Are you hurt? ” he repeated very slowly. He had to get the man out
into the light to find out.
Maximus grabbed the shivering heap and dragged him onto the moonlit street. “Let´s
see,” he commented like he hand so many times after battle, tending the wounds of
his comrades if healers were few and far between.
The look in the man´s eyes was uprooting. The centurion had seen many injuries
before. Flaps of slashed skin hanging from cheeks and jaws, and the specific heat
and texture of cloth drenched in blood was nothing new to him. But those black
holes of terror staring at him, sucking in Maximus´ own control – it was the first time
he ever looked directly in a wounded man´s eyes. Somehow he had always avoided it
before.
Panic – he had to stop him from panicking…
He shielded the man´s eyes with the palm of his hand and said, “Take a deep breath.
In and out. You can do it.”
It probably helped Maximus himself more than anyone else for the man´s breathing
still wasn´t slowing down. Maximus felt the urge to encourage him, tell him he wasn´t
going to die. But he rather did not mention the word death. He was not going to let
this man be drawn into Pluto´s realm.
“Now – ” Maximus began slowly, “I´m going to get up now.” He heard the man cry
out. “I – I´ve got to get my horse. I only want to get my horse. You can´t walk, can
you?”
The man grunted and forced out a barely intelligible, “Dontleaveme…”
The white of his teeth glinted in the pale light through his cut cheek as he moved his
jaw to speak.
Deep breathing. He looked down the quivering form to find a free hand. Maximus
grasped the one not clutching onto the wound on his side and held it tightly.
“Now – err – it´s good that we speak the same language, isn´t it? So, what´s your
name? I mean, maybe you shouldn´t speak…”
The man gave out hoarsely, “Cicero.”
Chickpea, Maximus thought to himself. The one name that would not have occurred
to him in as such.
“Alright, Cicero.” He squeezed the hand. “You´re going to get up now. I´m here. I´ll
help you. You can do it.”
Maximus´ hand slid down Cicero´s neck which was not bleeding, then further down to
his shoulder till he had a secure grip on it. With his other hand he pulled the man up.
Cicero was taller than expected. At least two fingers difference lay between their
heights.
“Cicero!” he shouted. Maximus just about managed to prevent him from sinking to
the ground again. He wrapped the other man´s arm around his own shoulders and
supported Cicero´s back with his arm.
His efforts were rewarded with a cringe.
“I – I´m sorry. You´re hurt there, aren´t you?”
“Uhuh,” Cicero nodded. “Lower.”
Maximus´ arm then rested on Cicero´s hip and he somehow manoeuvred the invalid
down the road to healer´s house.
Blood-drenched strands of hair were dangling from his lolling head and touched
Maximus´ cheek from time to time.
The centurion tried to keep his head high, not show his exhaustion. He saw dark
houses, rows and rows of them, they all seemed to look the same.
Vindobona had changed for him. At first it had been a neutral military camp that
soon would have to become his home. But this soon meant the smell of community
spirit and victory. Now had a menacing dullness about it. And the streets never
seemed to end.
Maximus willed himself to smile. It felt like forcing oneself to vomit. “I didn´t know
we built such awful roads. The stones seem so uneven these days.”
“You drank too much.” That came from Cicero´s mouth.
“How do…?” He couldn´t believe it. It was him. The dark beauty from the tavern.
“You´re right,” Maximus answered just as curtly and then laughed, this time
genuinely. He could feel the man wince, and it broke Maximus´ heart that Cicero
could not join in.
*
“We can´t just sew him together like a sheep´s hide?!” Maximus roared at the
physician and then laid eyes on Cicero´s half-naked form trapped on the operational
board. There were little cuts all over his torso and lower arms, and a deep slash from
his chest down to his stomach. And his face – now that it was displayed to direct
light – it wasn´t human. It had something of a wild animal with its prey hanging from
its mouth.
“These are sword cuts, Maximus. This man could equally have just come out of
battle. You should know that they won´t heal simply by the Gods´ hands. Now get
that water off the stove and light some more torches,” the physician ordered pulling
up the sleeves of his long night-gown.
When Maximus returned with a bowl of hot water, Cicero was murmuring away,
thrashing his head from side to side. Maximus bit on the inside of his cheek. Silently
he lay his hand on Cicero´s forehead as he had done before. Burning flesh heated his
own ice fingers.
“The sooner we start, the better it will heal,” the physician said calmly. “Maximus?”
The centurion nodded and walked round to the other side of the board, Cicero´s eyes
following his every move.
The physician washed needle and gut strings, then pointed to the side table. “Give
him that leather strap to bite onto.”
“Will he be able to open his mouth that far for me to get it in?” Maximus asked
fumbling with the restraint.
“He will have to,” the man answered while he sponged the blood from Cicero´s skin.
“If he screams, he will tear the wounds.”
Quickly Maximus did as he was told and adjusted till Cicero´s teeth had a good grip
on the leather.
The needle entered Cicero´s chest first. More blood gushed out.
Maximus decided to concentrate on Cicero´s eyes. And although the red water and
the soft texture of the blood-drenched sponge made the bile rise in Maximus even
more, he wiped the invalid´s forehead with it the best as he could. But his
ministrations shielded those eyes, if only for a few moments. And Maximus could
take a breath.
Muffled screams and whimpers followed the movement of the needle and this morbid
rhythm seemed to lull Cicero into a state of half-consciousness.
“I´m going to stitch his cheeks now,” the physician stated. “They are most sensitive.
We should restrain him.”
*
Cicero didn´t rest that night. Neither did Maximus sleep. With the invalid´s nails
numbing his hands as Cicero held him tightly, the centurion sat beside the cot in
silence.
Cicero was thrashing his head from side to side. Maximus tried to still his motions,
but he couldn´t get a grip on the injured man´s head without hurting him. Carefully
he placed two palms on Cicero´s ribs, applying pressure in slow waves. This had
worked with traumatised soldiers after battle. And indeed, in helped. The centurion
was surprised – but why should it be any different with a patient not afflicted by
battle?
Maximus leant over to lay his cheek against the bandages around Cicero´s mouth. He
noticed his own dagger piercing his thigh, but he couldn´t turn back now. The grey
linen was tarnished by blood, it felt hot and wet against Maximus´ cheek. He lifted his
own head a little to see if Cicero was still asleep. He froze. Black eyes were wide
open.
Too horrified to speak, Maximus just stared back. The eyes weren´t looking at him
though. They were more looking through him, as if at some distant point – in the
past? He didn´t even hush the invalid when his escalating rambles muffled out
through the bandages. There was nothing he could do to break out of the man´s
absorbing gaze.
Sometime the eyelids fluttered and closed. And so did Maximus´.
*
Maximus crept into the house again and closed the door to the fist light of day.
Whilst freshening up outside he had felt the distinct urge to cast a few stones at the
singing birds.
He walked straight into the operating cell and nearly bumped into the physician. The
thin man was huddled in a blanket and looked old.
“How is he?” Maximus asked.
“It´s a miracle you got him here,” the physician commented. “His cardinal humours
must be balanced well. He could have died, you know.”
Maximus laid his hand on the physician´s shoulder and whispered. “Keep it down.
You talk of him as if he weren´t here…”
“Oh – he can´t hear you. I´ve sedated him.”
Maximus stiffened and looked around the physician´s tall frame. Yes, Cicero seemed
to be sleeping soundly – if he wasn´t dead. He smiled weakly at the medic´s wife who
was watching the patient from beside the bed.
His attention was drawn to the physician again. “Why couldn´t you sedate him during
the operation?” he demanded.
“Because it would have killed him then. Maximus,” the physician moaned. “I´ve
treated probably thousands of your fellow warriors, even yourself. Why do you keep
questioning my qualifications as a medic? It´s not as though this is the first invalid to
meet your eyes. You don´t even know him, do you.”
Maximus ignored the statement. “You suggested they were soldiers. The ones who
attacked him.”
The man tilted his head. “Ah – presumably. The cuts are definitely from a Roman
spatha. However, the men might have found one somewhere in the gutter which
would be rather unusual. Nobody leaves his sword lying around.”
“But they could have wanted to throw suspicion upon the Legion.”
“Who am I to know. I´m not the quaestor in this operation.”
“Antonius – what you did…” Maximus rubbed his forehead.
“It´s alright. It is my responsibility to deal with my patients and their escorts. Besides,
you´re going to be a General soon.” The medic did not smile, but Maximus knew his
bitter irony all too well.
“You have a big day ahead of you. You should sleep at least a few hours,” the
physician added.
“I´m leaving for Carnuntum soon. I´ll sleep during the journey.”
“Then I suggest you go home and prepare. One thing – what if he´s a criminal?”
“Don´t worry about Cicero,” Maximus said as he walked to the bed. A weird sight –
Cicero´s face bandaged up to his nose. He was breathing noisily. “A man who owes
another man his life will not abuse this trust,” he whispered.
“Are you sure this man has a sense of honour?” the medic said lowering his voice
even more.
Maximus turned to face him. “Trust.”
*
3 weeks later
The midday snow stung his eyes as he stepped out of the coach. He hated travelling
in coaches. He just wasn´t used to it – not being in control of his own vehicle. The
driver could take him anywhere between the Danube and the Rhine. And the muggy
darkness inside that numbed your senses, which were burned to a frazzle once the
sun hit you again.
“Where are we?” Maximus asked.
“General!” He stopped dead as the driver addressed him with his new title. “We´ve
arrived. Back in Vindobona, Sir.”
He smelt the raw air that hung over the field camps around the settlement. Over
were teeth chattering praise and gold plated glory. He would have to return to being
a soldier again. At least the celebration and the two weeks of preparation for his
tasks to come as General of the Felix Legions lay behind him. At last. No, he was
being ungrateful towards the Emperor. What he had received from him in Carnuntum
on those long walks through the forests of Pannonia had been so honourable, so
enlightening. Yet he cringed at the thought of the endless seeming moments riding
into town on a golden chariot – the imperial chariot. His mind had been elsewhere.
“I am sorry, Sir. We ‘ave to ride the rest of the way to your house. They´re
refurbishing…”
“Yes, I can see that. Thank you,” Maximus added with a friendly nod towards the
driver. “I´ll take care of my luggage.”
“But General…”
“Here,” he cut him off handing him his payment.
Maximus walked behind the coach to unfasten his horses´ reigns from the vehicle.
After lugging his belongings on the animals, he rode off the main road where they
were building and along the back streets of Vindobona. He even passed the corner
where he had found Cicero. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the
black eyes he hadn´t recognised at first, blinded by the rest of the man´s appearance.
His heels dug into Scato´s sides, and the horse sped up dragging the other behind
him in a canter. Occasional salutations from soldiers he passed, he brushed off with
a curt “Salve” and rode on – back to the medic.
“Antonius, my friend!” he gasped as he encountered the man in front of his house.
“Where is Cicero?”
The medic looked at him as if a tree spirit had hopped from a branch.
Maximus did not get off his horse, only bent down to grasp the older man´s shoulder.
“Cicero – the patient you so graciously took care of while I was…”
“Yes, I know!”
“Hmm?”
“He left.”
The General then did jump to the ground. “What?”
“He said – he just thanked me for everything I´d done for him and he left. I don´t
know where he went. It seems he´s no more than a pedlar.”
That zest for life he had seen in Cicero´s eyes was not the weary mien of a beggar´s.
“Of course I protested,” the medic continued. “But his mind was made up.”
“Where – where did he go?” stammered Maximus.
“I told you, I don´t know. When I asked him he simply said ‘where I have to´ or
something. He hasn´t been seen since.” Antonius shrugged. “I asked for him in the
tavern…”
“He wouldn´t be going there again, I assure you,” Maximus said under his breath.
“Thank you again,” he added and climbed his horse.
Antonius smiled compassionately. “Go and have a rest. Medic´s orders.”
Maximus managed to utter a huff and rode off.
“And congratulations, General!” he heard Antonius shout after him.
*
Iced-over twigs and fur branches whipped his face as he galloped through the forest.
He held his head low against Scato´s mane so he wouldn´t get knocked off, but his
eyes were sharp as blades. Every once in a while he called out “Cicero!”, knowing he
was performing a completely futile task. Images of his friend flashed through his
mind – Cicero lying curled up in a heap of rotten leaves, of his wounds not healed,
but enflamed.
Maximus revelled in the pain of branches slashing his face.
“Cicero!” he shouted as his horses startled at the steep drop that opened up before
them. One last time he had cried out for him. The echo reflected a curse more than
anything else. Maximus sunk his face in his horse´s main and sighed. Suddenly
Argento whinnied and pulled Scato back from the edge.
He believed he could ride home again.
What was this ungrateful man thinking anyway, Maximus grumbled inwardly. That
his life would be saved and he sewn together to then run away like an outlaw? Was
Cicero an outlaw?
Damn, he had taken the wrong turn. What a warlord – lost his sense of orientation.
He had been allotted to officer´s quarters, his own personal barrack. Magnificent
prospect indeed… Maximus snorted and headed towards the fort. It was getting dark
and the soldiers were heading home to prepare dinner. There wouldn´t be anything
in his new house when he got there, so he decided to ignore his rumbling stomach.
No light… but a faint glow in the west. Maximus pulled at the reins, no, he was
drawn himself. He chased his horse through the Porta Sinistra out of the fort´s
bounds. The source turned out to be that shabby cottage on top of the hill he´d rode
past so often. From here you were able to look down onto Vindobona, its
surrounding township, and even further to the faint glow of the border patrol
campfires along the Danube. Maximus dismounted and concentrated on the little
glimmering spots in the distance. Once he had been amongst those men, riding
along the limes, day-in day-out. Sometimes get to lead an offensive against the
Germans. Now there were others to do his job.
The General kicked a gravel stone and watched it disappear into the blackening
valley.
As he drew closer to the house, he drew his dagger and slipped through the door
without a sound. Indeed, there was someone in the front room. Maximus noticed the
warmth of the stone walls and the smell of cooking. How long had this person been
staying here? And most of all, who? A squatter perhaps? He nearly dropped his
dagger. It could be…
Maximus burst into the room casting the weapon to the floor the moment a shadow
disappeared into the adjoining room. He swallowed. That and the crackling of timber
on the hearth was all he heard for the moment.
“Cicero?” he croaked, cleared his throat and said, “Is that you?”
“General,” the distinctive accented word came out like chalk on a tablet. “You´ve got
to stir the broth.” Yes, it was hanging above the brazier. A steaming cauldron. “It will
burn if you don´t.”
Maximus took a deep breath. “Cicero – how long have you been here? Antonius was
worried about you.”
Again he heard the shadow speak. “I will leave if you wish.”
He had enough of this and marched across the living room. “Step out of the dark.
This is ri…”
He stopped dead as Cicero appeared before him. His head hung low, thick strands of
hair dangling in his face and nearly touching Maximus´ as Cicero sighed heavily.
The General clasped his hands behind his back and retreated a step. That relieved
the stinging smell of ointment a little.
Clearly Cicero would know that he expected an explanation.
“There was no better place to hide, Sir,” he said eventually.
Maximus´ muscles twitched at the pitiful form before him. It could make you forget
the man in the tavern.
“I didn´t want them to seek me out and possibly drag the medic and his family into
it.”
“You could go back to…” Then Cicero looked up. And Maximus realised there was
nowhere to go for him.
“I´m close to being a leper, looking like this,” Cicero said with cynical casualness and
motioned to his face. “The people, they – they believe their fortune will be ruined if
they associate with me, that somehow my misfortune would wear off on them. I
haven´t been injured in battle – as you know, Sir,” he added.
“You´re damn right. It happened on a back street of a Roman settlement!” He tried
to smile against the bewilderment in Cicero´s face. “Now the threads have been
pulled, everything will heal.”
“Oh, the wounds will scar over, Sir. If that´s what you mean.” Maximus picked up a
slight lisp, or it sounded more as if Cicero had his mouth full. He wondered how the
man could eat in such a state.
“What are you doing here?”
Cicero moved over to the cauldron. “I thought, Sir, you might like some hot stew.”
*
The starved General practically wolfed down the broth and the bread with it. As he
rolled over on his back to digest, he stared at the nooks between the dark wooden
beams above. This building had been no less than a lodge when he´d rode up this hill
the last time – what was it, last summer? It used to be a guest home for visitors of a
higher military rank than the average legionary who was expected to shack up with
the rest of the Vindobona Legion.
Cicero came in with spring water and filled Maximus´ cup. The cosiness of this
arrangement definitely did nothing help him with the decision he had begun to form
since he´d re-entered Vindobona.
The General leant up and took a sip before asking, “How on earth did you manage to
get this hovel shipshape in so short a time?”
“I – well, this is the only room I managed to fix, Sir. You´ll have to sleep where you
are lying now.”
Maximus did not cut off his inquisitive stare.
“I´m sleeping in the back room just down the hall,” Cicero complied. His smile was
lopsided and not by choice.
“It´ll be freezing in there. Nowhere near the hearth.” Maximus scrutinised the servant
Cicero was becoming. And now Maximus was supposed to trust him with his life
through Cicero having laid his life in the General´s hands – out of some unwritten
tradition?
“You can sleep here.” He patted the couch adjoining his.
“Sir, don´t you want your own…”
Maximus raised an eyebrow. “You don´t know on what or on whom I have slept
during my tour of duty! Compared to the foxholes in the Germanic forest this is a
senator´s bedchamber.”
*
As the hearth´s cradling glow sank into darkness, the General clung onto the other
man´s presence as he slowly fell into a slumber. It would probably be one of the last
nights in another man´s company for a long time now. He was of a higher rank now.
On border patrol he would have his own more comfortable tent compound, his own
cook so he could eat his better meals alone, and the new air about him that only
resulted from a mere title, but had such impact on his environment.
Maximus twisted and his nose grazed the roughness of wall tapestry. Of course there
were easy ways to acquire nocturnal company, more so as a general. For a split
second Maximus played with the idea of his own courtesan, but discarded it in an
instant. That wasn´t real company. You could just as well find comfort in a tradesman
selling you his goods. But what about the people he really cared about? Would he
ever be able to talk to his comrades in the same way? Share the old stories? Hear
their honest opinions like he always had, just as he had been honest with them?
A hoarse moan cut through his thoughts. Immediately he turned to see how Cicero
was doing. It was too dark to make out any shape, but he only felt fur where he´d
been lying. As he crawled over to the adjoining couch, he bumped into Cicero, who
was sitting up.
“Sorry,” Maximus rasped and grabbed his own blanket to wrap around him as he
settled down next to Cicero. “What are you doing up?”
“Couldn´t sleep.” Cicero´s voice was thick with – tiredness? “Did I wake you?”
“Nooo… I wasn´t really asleep, either. Worried about tomorrow.” Shouldn´t he be
asking the invalid about his worries?
“You know, if you want to talk about…” Maximus began.
“I just don´t want to be alone. That´s all,” Cicero whispered, and coughed. Some half-
chuckle? Or was it a sob?
Maximus didn´t care. He was glad there was someone around who felt the same way.
So he put his arm around the bony shoulders. Giving comfort could indeed be
comforting. Cicero shuffled a little and mumbled something. Soon though, his
shoulders sagged and he relaxed into Maximus´ touch.
“D´you feel lonely – sometimes?” Cicero asked after a while.
An invisible smile spread across Maximus´ face. But then he thought of the weeks,
months, years to come and sighed. “Not yet.”
Slowly his other hand crept up and down Cicero´s arm. It was clad with the linen
Maximus had given him. He would never forget the look in Cicero´s eyes as he
unpacked one of the simple night-gowns from the little baggage he´d had with him in
Carnuntum. And then the nearly caressing touch Cicero applied on the rather rough
material. How long had it been since Cicero had worn linen? Had he ever?
Cicero shifted again, resting his head on Maximus´ shoulder.
Maximus broke the silence, “I´m probably leaving tomorrow or the day after, it
depends how quickly the papers are transferred.”
His heart clenched as he felt Cicero´s grip on his arm.
“I´m going to battle,” he added and this apparently added to Cicero´s confusion.
“But, Sir, you´ve just been promoted?”
“Listen, I´m not one of these spineless noblemen who lean back and let the legions
bleed for their own honour and glory.”
This time Maximus avoided Cicero´s touch and lay back down on his couch. “I´m
going on border patrol. Where´s a better place to look after your men than in the
midst of them.”
The floor creaked as Cicero got up to light a lamp.
Maximus followed him. The night was cold since the fire had gone out. He fumbled
for his terracotta robe in the half-dark. Simple and warm.
While Cicero was preparing the wick for the oil lamp he moved closer, placed his
palm on Cicero´s back. His shoulders seemed like an impenetrable wall.
“I don´t want to give up that self-confident, independent stranger I met that night in
the tavern,” he rumbled.
The scar on his left jaw was prominent when Cicero half-turned his head. “Taking
pity on the outcast?”
He could feel Cicero´s muscles flex and let his hand drop. Then Cicero spun round
and for the first time after the incident Maximus felt as though the taller man was
looking down on him.
“Don´t do it,” he whispered, and then that one relieving moment of inferiority ended
for Maximus. All of a sudden Cicero looked so young now that the half-dark
camouflaged the stitches which actually marred his cheeks. “Maximus.”
“Don´t. You´ve been lucky up till now. I beg you, please don´t risk your life. I know
about – ” Cicero halted.
“What are you talking about?” Maximus said affectionately. “It´s only routine
precautions we´re taking along the borderlines. You don´t have to worry about an old
soldier like me.”
Despite the encouraging words fear and worry started to creep from Cicero´s
hunched form into the General´s veins.
Maximus hesitated. “And wouldn´t it be a little premature to be turning our backs on
the enemy?”
“I said that,” Cicero said and cocked his head, comprehension crystallising in his
eyes.
He was going to go for this, Maximus decided. If he didn´t ask now, he never would.
“Do you know anything?”
Maximus watched the man wind out of his grip and sit down at the bedside. Cicero
ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
“I´m a deserter,” he said at last, dryly. “From the German Army. There – have been
negotiations between the Marcomanni and the neighbouring tribe, the Quadi, to
combine forces against the Romans.”
“H-How – ”
“It wasn´t easy crossing the border, I can tell ye´. Roaming the woods, prowling
along the limes. But after a couple of days you find a week spot, climb over and run
for your life.”
Admiration for Cicero´s bravery and the realisation of his disloyalty mingled in the pit
of Maximus´ stomach. “Why did you flee?” he asked.
“Because I´m a coward.” Cicero´s short laugh rasped through the wooden beams.
“Someone you should despise, righteously despise. I was not prepared to die.” He
looked up. “You know, this volcano of anticipation amongst the people – it was like
this black shroud was draped over boiling battle frenzy. They all awaited doom or
glory since the first Roman dispatchers had been seen in German territory. Unlike
most Marcomanni I have always rejected violence…”
A pang flashed through Maximus. How could one not respect his pacifist attitude and
punish him with the knife of cowardice? For the first time he realised how much the
Emperor´s ideas had rubbed off on him. Yet, how could the world function without
defending the true way of life, the Roman way, against radical, rejecting ignorance –
other than with the sword? He didn´t understand Cicero.
“I know what you´re thinking,” Cicero went on with a wave of his hand. “But I
believed in peaceful melding of cultures. The Romans have so much to show us…”
“Who were those men?” he interrupted Cicero.
“Marcomanni. My countrymen. I recognised one of their amulets. Obviously sent out
to kill me for defecting to the enemy.”
Maximus threw his hands in the air. “Any more infiltrators behind our lines?” He
started to pace the room.
“General!” Cicero stood up again. “If you would allow me to become your adjutant?”
Maximus straightened up and shook Cicero by his shoulders. “But you – ” he
chuckled bitterly. “If this mission endangers my life, why are you so eager to
accompany me?”
Cicero avoided Maximus´ eyes. “I see it –” Cicero swallowed, “as my duty to do
nothing else than serve you till the end of my life.”
“You would be betraying your people.” Maximus said stepping closer. He dropped his
gaze for a moment, then looked up again forcing Cicero to look at him with his
piercing stare from below. Haltingly Cicero cast his eyes upon Maximus at last.
“Better a traitor to your own people than to your own heart.”
As hands firmly slid along forearms, Cicero let his chin drop on Maximus´ wool-clad
shoulder, nuzzled it. It was roughness and heat that Maximus felt through the thin
material, and Cicero´s gulp. His hand caressed Cicero´s hair, gently kneaded his scalp,
then lifted his face so he could see Cicero´s eyes. Both took a deep breath. The
exhalation came together in their kiss.
Tentatively Cicero let his hand stroke Maximus´ cheek, who smiled at Cicero´s
clumsiness, then grew more passionate. Cicero gasped as Maximus dug his hand in
the back of his night-gown and kissed and sucked at his neck. Soon the hand crept
around the front and roamed Cicero´s chest while Maximus´ lips found his mouth.
Maximus revelled in the feeling of hardness and heat pressing against his stomach
and flicked Cicero´s tongue a few times. Leisurely his hands slipped out of the gown
and down Cicero´s long back to his buttocks, his fingers easily rimming the cleft
through the flimsy material. Immediately Cicero tensed up and bucked against him.
Maximus covered Cicero´s lips and cheeks with kisses, then whispered into Cicero´s
hair, “Have you ever shared your bed with a man before?” He gently blew it and it
tickled his face. “Are you afraid it might hurt?”
“No, I –” Cicero replied breathlessly. “Yes, I have. I was just overcome with – with…”
“It´s alright. We can go slow.” Maximus noticed his voice had become all hoarse,
throaty. He truly wanted this man. Forcefully he buried his face in the flap of Cicero´s
night-shirt, kissing and licking the skin that smelt of spice and tasted of home.
Cicero´s hands curled in his short cropped hair, twisting the locks and firmly pushing
Maximus´ head lower and lower.
A husky laugh escaped Maximus. “Let´s get you out of this,” he said, rubbed the linen
on Cicero´s flanks and slipped his hands under the material, subtly brushing Cicero´s
hips. Cicero complied with a glint in his eyes and divested himself from the gown.
For a second Maximus pressed himself against him, soaking in the naked heat,
before disrobing himself and lying down on his couch. Cicero joined him. They
clasped hands.
“You´re shivering…” Maximus breathed and pulled the fur blanket over them both.
Seeking Maximus´ iron heat, Cicero rubbed his body against him as their tongues
intertwined again. Maximus rolled him on his back and pushed Cicero´s hands onto
his own buttocks. Both men groaned out loud as their hips ground together in an
edgy, over-sensitised frenzy.
“Take me,” Cicero whispered and nibbled at Maximus´ ear.
Maximus´ hand immediately fisted around Cicero´s erection.
“Ah – not only like that…”
Maximus chuckled. “I know. I´m just wondering if I should have a bad conscience for
abusing your position.” He tugged at Cicero a few times, at a very slow pace. “You
don´t have to think you owe me any of this.”
Cicero bucked his pelvis. “I want you inside me. That´s all.”
“Bene.”
Maximus had to get up to find lubricant of some sort. He darted towards the other oil
lamp. Should have cooled down long ago. As he returned to their bed, he was
greeted by two long legs snaking around his hips and pulling him close. A sharp sting
of desire pierced his heart and he fell onto the other man nearly spilling the oil.
His fingers were soon inside Cicero, but he couldn´t wait any longer. Neither could
Cicero. With a nod against Maximus in the midst of their kiss, he urged him on. He
was close, Maximus could feel Cicero´s nails digging into his flesh.
The young man climaxed at Maximus´ first deep thrusts. He enjoyed watching Cicero
writhe under him, eyes squeezed shut. Maximus dragged his semen-covered hand
from Cicero´s subsiding erection up his body and clasped his shoulder. The thrusts
sped up, and he sent himself straight into Elysium.
*
For quite a while Maximus had been lying awake, watching the orange sunrays seep
through the small windows. Although he was lying with his back to Cicero, he felt
him wake up. A rough cheek rubbed against his naked shoulder, soft kisses fluttered
about his skin. Maximus found his lover´s hand. He wrapped it around himself and
clutched it to his breast.
“Thank you for sparing me the nightmares…” Cicero uttered, hoarse from sleep and
nocturnal exhaustion, expectedly. Maximus grinned.
“That´s the least I can do to ease your pain.”
He brought Cicero´s hand to his lips.
In an inner eruption of severity Maximus rolled over to face Cicero. Held back by the
stripped beauty in this man´s damaged face, he hesitated. Nevertheless he spoke,
“Cicero, if I lend you my trust, will you do something for me?”
Cicero smiled knavishly, as if he knew this wasn´t going to be the last time these
words would pass Maximus´ lips.
“Anything, my lord.”
“Your first task as my adjutant. Ride to the Emperor today as my secret dispatch and
inform him about the following plans.” Maximus propped himself up on the elbow.
“There´s no use having built upa fort without fortifying the flanks. We need more
military bases. He is to supply as any men as can be spared for the Armies of the
North and come to Vindobona himself to discuss the situation.” Maximus nodded
encouragingly. “Will you do that for me?”
“Not to prove my loyalty. It´s yours already. Not to pay my dues to the one who
rescued my life. But I´ll do it for the man I hold in my heart.”
“You know, you cast a spell on me the moment I saw you for the first time in that
tavern.” Maximus chuckled. “For a while I thought you were a Celtic druid of some
sort!”
Both burst out laughing. The laughter subsided into sighs that soon became moans
of lovemaking.
*
One last hungry kiss from the hooded stranger and Cicero was off down the hill, on
his way to the road.
Snowflakes fell in Maximus´ collar, melted and ran down his back. Shivering he
wrapped himself in his fur and watched Argento carry his love into the worst of
weathers. As long as it would only be snow and wind Cicero would have to face on
his ride to Carnuntum. Maximus looked up into the white-grey emptiness of the
winter sky. The words to an ancient song echoed in his mind…
On an Island I long to be,
Evening brings a whisper of the summer breeze.
I hear the sound of the ocean wave on wave,
Crying “You, who have turned away from home.”
* * *
the end