 FIC: "Dust and Air" (1/1) "I want you to sit and watch this movie, Colin. No screwing around with your mates, no distractions at all. Tomorrow we shoot the scene again. And this time you'll do much better!" Colin Farrell looked up at Oliver Stone, barely controlling his desire to tell the director to get down on his hands and knees and fuck himself. He had given every ounce of anger and pain and frustration he had in him that afternoon, and he was physically and emotionally exhausted. The long, torturous shoot was nearly finished, and within a week or perhaps two, 'Alexander' would be in the can. Colin swallowed his Irish temper and lit another cigarette. "Okay," he said, pushing the annoying blonde hair extensions away from his face. "I'll watch the fucking movie again." Oliver pushed a button on the DVD player, and haunting music started to sound. Text of 'history' rolled down the screen, then a man's left hand was seen, his fingertips brushing the tops of wheat stalks. Colin sighed. A grizzled Russell Crowe appeared, looking battered, yet all-too-comfortable in his Roman garb and bad haircut. Colin felt his mood turning even more sullen staring at the masculine visage. I'll be compared to this bastard every second, he thought. And everybody will say how much more macho Crowe was. Before the shoot had even started, Oliver sat with Colin while they watched the Oscar-winning film 'Gladiator' together. Stone felt one of the major reasons he was able to proceed with 'Alexander' was the success of 'Gladiator.' And he believed Crowe's performance was a high water mark for an actor. Jesus Christ, it wasn't like Crowe had to lock lips with Joaquin Phoenix in the movie! It was a little different to be playing a bisexual Greek in a gold-trimmed skirt than a tortured Roman gladiator in a torn tunic! Wasn't it? "Russell is Maximus, just like you are Alexander," Stone said in a lecturing tone. "He's about to be betrayed by everything he believed in. Watch the pain in his eyes, Colin." Pain in the ass is more like it, Colin thought. "Colin, think about Alexander being betrayed and abandoned by his men. And show his pain in your eyes, the way it shows every minute in Russell's." Colin reached for his bottle of water, wishing fervently it were something stronger. On screen, Russell Crowe was on his knees, praying. "Whisper to them that I live only to hold them again, for all else is dust and air," the character Maximus said. "Dust and air," Colin whispered, fighting the impulse to cross himself. He settled back, trying to get comfortable on the couch in Oliver's tent. 'Gladiator' was a long fucking movie. But 'Alexander' only had a few more days to go. Only a few more days . . . Oliver sat silent as the film finally ended. The music swelled, the dead hero made his way to Elysia, and the gut-wrenching, tragic movie was over. For perhaps the hundredth time that evening, Colin sighed. "Well!" he said, grinding another butt into the overflowing ashtray; he stood slowly, stretching his aching legs. "Have a good evening, Colin, I'll see you in the morning." Stone didn't look up. "Okay, Oliver." Within minutes Colin had joined Gary Stretch, Joe Morgan and Jonathyn Rhys-Meyers for a 'night on the town' -- or as close as they could come, which meant their favorite bar near the hotel. Most of them were done with the shoot or nearly finished, as Colin was, and all four felt the need for rest and recreation. Colin, fueled by Oliver Stone's consistent pressure and evident disapproval, decided to drink to his heart's content. "I plan on gettin' falling-down pissed tonight," he said. "And then tomorrow Alexander can add being hung over to his pain." "Alexander was hung over most of the time," Gary said, laughing. "And he didn't have Oliver breathing down his ass." "No, just Hephaistion!" added Joe Morgan. "At least he was getting laid, which is more than I can say," Colin complained, tossing back a shot of Jack Daniels. Gary put an arm around Colin's neck. "Well, if you'd have given Jared half a chance, mate, I'm sure you could have been getting plenty!" Colin grimaced, chasing the shot with a swallow of Guinness. "Better than bending over every day for Oliver. Or watching Russell Crowe run around in a skirt constantly." Grinning, the former professional boxer showed off his rather impressive right bicep. "See that, lad? Russell was twice that big in 'Gladiator'! The man's a maniac!" "Get the fuck away from me, Limey," Colin slurred at Gary, motioning the barkeep for another shot. "I've had enough of Oliver and Alexander and fucking 'Gluteus Maximus.' I just want to drink in peace." "Cheer up, mate. You're bringing me down!" Joe complained, motioning his two companions away from Colin. "If you're going to be such an arse, you're on your own." "Fuck you, then," Colin grumbled. "I'll see you bitches later." Hours passed before a nearly incoherent Colin finally dragged down the empty street to the hotel, muttering to himself as he reached for a smoke. The pack in his pocket was empty, and he decided to get another before he turned in. He headed around a corner and down a flight of stairs toward the closest cigarette machine. As he grabbed for the handrail, he tottered, and his boot caught on the top step. His arms flailed about as he tried awkwardly to right himself; unsuccessful, he went tumbling down. "What happened?" Colin asked, raising his hand to an aching head. "My skull's broken, I think!" "You took a bad hit, boy. You need to move quicker if you expect to survive!" Sitting up slowly, his hand still on his head, Colin looked around. Dust blew in his eyes as he squinted to make out the face bending down over him. "Where the fuck am I?" he asked. Laughter broke out around him. "He doesn't remember where he is! Lucky man," someone said. He was sitting on the ground in a large yard surrounded by what appeared to be stone or clay walls, cages of wild beasts and men of varying descriptions, including some who were clearly armed guards. Most of the men were clad in rough tunics that seemed vaguely familiar, and, looking down at himself, he saw that he too was dressed the same. The sun overhead was intensely bright and hot, and Colin could smell his own sweat. When he lowered his hand, he saw it was smeared with blood. "Take care of that," a deep voice ordered. "Patch him up or we can't put him in the arena tomorrow." "Yes, Master Proximo," one of the guards answered, bowing to a richly dressed man with a silver beard a and swarthy, sun-lined face. Colin was pulled to his feet and ushered to a bench in the shade. A rag was used to wipe his scalp and a dirty piece of cloth was wrapped around his head. "Take a minute to rest. You need it," he was told, and a wooden cup was forced into his hand. He sniffed the contents of the cup and took a sip, suddenly thirsty. When he looked up again, he was being watched by another man sitting alone under the awning, his piercing eyes shining in the shadows. "Rest!" Men walked across the scorched yard and huddled in the shade, reaching for the buckets filled with water. Colin noticed the front of their tunics were marked with different colors, some red, some yellow. He looked down and saw a yellow spot of pigment on his own chest. "It means you will die tomorrow," said the giant man next to him in a heavily accented voice. "Have pity on him, Hagen. Let him have one more night of peace." He took another drink, trying to clear his head. "What's my name?" he asked. Someone laughed. A dark, smallish man walked over and leaned down. "You're the Celt," he said. "Just like I'm the Greek and he's the Spaniard." He pointed to the silent man in the shadows. "I'm . . . Colin." "Shut up and rest, Celt," said the giant called Hagen. "No one cares about the name of a gladiator, unless he wins. Think of winning." Gladiator? Colin shut his eyes and let his throbbing head rest against the wall behind him. Later the gladiators huddled in their close quarters, chewing on bread and goat's milk. Colin sat next to a Nubian who introduced himself as Juba. In the corner, the one they called the Spaniard sat digging on his arm with a sharp rock. Colin stared as the man obliterated some kind of tattoo. "Spaniard, why don't you fight?" asked Juba. "We all have to fight." The man looked up, but didn't speak. Colin moved closer, curious. On his own arms were many tattoos, and he could imagine how painful it would be to try to scrape them away. "I'm Colin," he whispered. "You're so familiar. Do I know you?" The Spaniard looked up at him with an intense stare, then shook his head. Colin sighed and turned away, seating himself in the opposite corner of the tiny room and turning toward the wall. "Dust and air," he whispered, then felt a strong hand close on his arm. He looked around. The Spaniard's face was inches from his. "What did you say?" asked the man. "Nothing . . . Why?" "You said something, boy. What was it?" Colin swallowed. "I said 'dust and air.'" The Spaniard's eyes were like polished steel. "Why did you say it?" Colin shrugged. "I don't know. It was in my head." With a sigh, the Spaniard turned away. Colin closed his eyes and tried to quiet his thoughts. He couldn't believe what was happening was real . . . he must be dreaming. After a time, he fell into a shallow sleep, continually starting awake when one of the men in the cramped quarters made the slightest sound or movement. When morning came, Colin was exhausted. The heat in the room was stifling, and the smell of the men overpowering. The gladiators were ushered out and tied together to be led through the squalid streets of the town. "Where are we going?" he asked Juba. Juba shrugged. "To the arena, they say." Six of them, all initiates, had been chosen to fight in two-man teams. Waiting in a dugout behind the shabby arena, the gladiators were armed and paired off. Colin was matched with a tall, scarred Roman named Tulla, who had been convicted of stealing and sold into slavery; Juba was teamed with the Spaniard and Hagen with the Greek. The Spaniard's tunic, like Colin's, had a yellow mark. Colin noted each team included one red with one yellow. Inside the arena waited their opponents, seasoned fighters dressed as mythical Greek and Roman creatures. Through the bars that separated them from the arena, they saw a huge gladiator dressed as a Minotaur -- half bull, half man. As they stood waiting in the wooden holding cage, Proximo approached them and spoke. "Listen," he said, pausing so the men could hear the cheering of the enthusiastic crowd. "Ultimately, we are all dead men. Sadly, most cannot choose how we die. But you can choose! You can choose to fight and to live, or to fight and die with honor." Proximo's eyes shone, staring at some vision the men couldn't see. "You go out into the arena as slaves," he said. "You come back -- or you die -- as gladiators!" Proximo motioned to the blacksmiths, who then came forward to shackle the pairs together by their wrists, each linked with a four-foot chain. The Greek was weeping now, and as they waited for the cage to open, urine ran down his leg. Colin stood behind, clutching a short sword, thinking if he had any sense, he'd probably piss himself, too. Next to him, the Spaniard reached down and picked up a bit of dirt in his fingers and rubbed it on his hands. The gates opened. Colin was oblivious to the roar of the crowd as he tried to keep up with the long stride of Tulla. A monstrous man wearing a lion skin struck at him with a long sword, but Colin was quicker and more agile. He crouched low and sliced at the gladiator's bare legs, cutting a hamstring. The force of the chain pulled him away before he could finish the screaming man, and then he could only watch as his 'partner' was impaled with a trident. Colin blinked, hesitating, now anchored by the body of the Roman criminal. "Cut his wrist!" shouted the Spaniard. "Free yourself!" Barely avoiding a spear, Colin crouched and hacked through Tulla's arm just above the shackle. Then he swung the chain around and snapped it at his first opponent, who, hopping on his good leg, was fast approaching. Tulla's severed hand went flying free into the crowd, and several people screamed. The manacle caught the ersatz lion in the face, and before he could react, Colin leaped forward and shoved his sword into the man's armored chest. Colin used one sandaled foot on the giant's belly for leverage to retrieve his sword. He circled quickly, looking around. The Greek was dead, but the other three novice gladiators all lived and seemed to have inflicted more damage than they had suffered. Colin moved toward Hagen, realizing instinctively that survival depended on teamwork. As he did so, the Minotaur thrust at him with his spear. Juba and the Spaniard used the chain that connected them as a garrote, pulling the huge bull-man back where Hagen's sword waited. Colin reached down and retrieved a shield from one of their dead opponents, then joined the fray. The Spaniard fought fiercely, taking down two gladiators for every one felled by the rest of Proximo's men. As the four newcomers -- two marked with red and two marked with yellow, the color of cowardice -- continued to improve their odds, the sound in the arena grew more and more deafening. Their better-armed and better-trained opponents fell, one by one. And finally only a tall, horned man-beast remained, an ax in one hand, a sword in the other. Filled with battle lust, Colin yelled and charged him, diving and flailing the chain attached to his arm. It coiled around the gladiator's ankle, and the momentum of Colin's lunging attack sent the man reeling. In a matter of seconds the Spaniard was on him, cutting his throat just below the heavy metal of his helmet. On the ground below him, Colin was sprayed with blood. The giant crumbled. The battle was over. The Spaniard reached down and lifted Colin to his feet, their eyes locking. The four stood, stunned, as the arena erupted with shouts and accolades. Streamers were thrown down on the victors, as well as coins. Juba grinned, and Hagen lifted his muscled arms into the air. Colin glanced around at the carnage and saw the body of the Greek, his head smashed in on one side. He tasted bile and turned away, suddenly fighting the urge to puke. "Don't look," the Spaniard said in a low voice. "Try to forget about it." Later the four were returned to the gladiator school at Proximo's estate, cleaned with fresh water and oil and fed meat with their bread. They were given a little wine to drink, and Proximo personally offered them congratulations. "Well done! Remember what I said. You are now gladiators!" That night in the small, dark room where the gladiators slept, the Spaniard sat nearby, and Colin sensed somehow that the man was ready to talk. Colin turned to him and whispered, "Thank you for warning me today. You saved my life." "You fought well. You've been trained with a sword and shield." Colin shook his head. "I must have been. But I don't remember." "I wish I could forget my life before," the Spaniard said. "It was all wasted." His words were coated with bitterness, and Colin was strangely drawn to the pain he sensed. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked. "My name is Maximus. But don't call me that before the others." From across the room, Colin heard the sound of Hagen's snoring. "Where did you learn to fight?" In the dim light, he made out a humorless smile on the Spaniard's face. "The Romans taught me to fight. They taught me to fight and to lead men . . . and they taught me to hate." Colin had a strange feeling he knew this man already from some past life. It was almost as if he could see the Spaniard before a great army, wrapped in the skin of a wolf, riding a war-horse. "I helped enslave some of your own tribe in Britain," the man who called himself Maximus whispered, "and Hagen's in Germania. All this I did because I believed strength and honor were the most important things . . . Strength and honor!" His deep voice was rough with emotion. "Because of that my wife and my son were killed -- crucified and immolated by the brutes I used to serve." Colin moved closer, wanting to touch his shoulder to the Spaniard's, but unable to do so without rubbing against the scabbed-over sore from the offending tattoo. The Spaniard gave a deep sigh. "They want me to kill, and I can do that. I can do that very well." Colin stared straight ahead, listening to the Spaniard's breathing. "It's all that's left to me." Wishing he could find some way to deny this, Colin started to speak, then thought better of it. Awash in the Spaniard's shared misery, he pulled his knees up to his chin and closed his eyes. A few days later, Proximo approached their cage as the gladiators waited to be called into the arena. He spoke directly to the Spaniard, exhorting the man to take time in his kills in order to try to win the crowd. "You strike too quickly," he said. "Feel what the crowd wants, and give them that! Remember, you are an entertainer." Colin watched Maximus' face as he steeled himself for the fight ahead. He knew by now the man would not be moved by Proximo's words, because the Spaniard had no desire to please the slavering audience. He only wanted to kill, as if each life he took could somehow ease the pain of the two lives lost to him. After stopping for an instant to again rub his palms with dirt, Maximus entered the arena and, exhibiting nearly superhuman reflexes, quickly felled five opponents. One huge gladiator remained, wearing thick armor and a heavy helmet. Carrying one long sword already, Maximus leaned over and picked up another from one of his victims. He plunged both into the torso of the last opponent and turned away to stare up at the crowd as the man staggered behind him. Then he suddenly reached around, pulled both weapons from the bleeding gladiator and, with a razor-quick slash of two swords, decapitated the man. Maximus stood for a moment, his face expressionless, as the arena crowd looked on in stunned silence. Then he sent one of the swords clattering into the pavilion where Proximo and his richest guests were seated. "Are you not entertained?" Maximus shouted. "Are you not entertained? Is this not why you came?" He threw down the second sword and spat on the ground. Colin watched all this with the other gladiators, unable to look away for even an instant. The sight of Maximus' furious assault fascinated and in some way excited him. The man was an enraged killing-machine, and the audience loved him, despite themselves. The crowd erupted with shouts and cheers. The words "Spaniard, Spaniard, Spaniard" were raised in a deafening litany. Maximus stood in the center of the killing ground, staring around himself in seeming astonishment. Colin leaned against the wooden bars of the holding cell, his heart pounding. It now looked as if he wouldn't have to fight that day, and as warm energy rushed through his legs and arms, he wished the opposite were true. That evening Juba, Maximus and Colin sat on one of the flat roofs of Proximo's school, looking out at the vast Moroccan landscape and talking of their homes. Maximus and Juba spoke of their families and the afterlife, wondering aloud if they would meet their loved ones again someday, but Colin said little, having no memory of his own past. He looked away but listened to their voices, recognizing the warmth and even eagerness the Spaniard showed when imagining himself dead and reunited with his wife and son. "You'll see them again," said Juba. "But not yet." "Not yet," Maximus finally agreed, but Colin could hear the yearning in his voice. Colin had skipped the afternoon meal to stand in the corner of the gladiators' quarters, facing the wall as he released his pent-up excitement into a rag. While the action had relieved his tension, it had left him somewhat melancholy. This talk of death and the afterlife did nothing to elevate his spirits. Two guards came up the stone steps. "Proximo wants to speak to you, Spaniard," one announced. Maximus stood without a word and followed the well-armed men. Colin glanced at Juba, concern in his eyes; then both returned to the gladiators' quarters. Within an hour the same two guards came and summoned Colin, ordering him to follow. He was ushered to a private chamber in the servants' quarters and told to wait. He surveyed the small room, empty except for a stool and a sleeping pallet. One narrow window offered a limited view of the setting sun. Colin sat down on the stool feeling patient but curious. Within minutes, Maximus entered. Colin stood up. "Are you all right?" he asked. Maximus nodded. "Fine. Proximo thinks I can win my freedom when we go to Rome. We've been summoned there to participate in the Emperor's games . . . He says, 'win the crowd and you'll win your freedom'!" "That display today won't win the crowd," Colin commented. "You spat at them." Maximus' eyes looked amused. "I can do better," he said. "Not fight better! You were fuckin' amazing today." Colin felt a tingle in his fingers as he remembered. "You thought that a fitting display?" Colin shrugged and looked down. "I only know I'll never forget it. You were like a man possessed -- no, more like a god!" When he glanced up, Maximus' eyes were boring into him. "I'm no god," he spat out. "But I'm still a man!" He reached over and grabbed Colin's arms, fingers drilling flesh. Pulling Colin close, he kissed him roughly. Colin whimpered into Maximus' mouth, letting his lips open and his tongue yield. His body shook and he could feel his own pulse pound in his taut groin. He pulled away, shoving Maximus back. "Don't. I'll come," he said, panting. "Give me a minute." "Proximo said I could have whatever I wanted," Maximus said hoarsely. "A woman or a boy. I said I wanted you!" Colin reached out, welcoming Maximus back. "Fuck, yes," he said, "I want you, too!" They kissed again, pressing firmly together, Maximus' large hands on the back of Colin's head, one of his legs shoved against Colin's crotch. Colin held tight to Maximus' wide shoulders as he rubbed himself on the well-developed thigh muscle, happy to continue the contact until he left a fitting tribute. He sucked air through his nose noisily as the kiss continued and his excitement crescendoed. Maximus suddenly pulled back. "Colin!" he said, staying Colin with a steely stare. "Say my name." "Maximus!" Their bodies slammed into one another with such force, they staggered for a moment. Maximus backed Colin against the wall for support. Then he put his hands under Colin's buttocks and raised him up, holding him against his thigh. Colin writhed there until he finally discharged what felt like copious amounts of seed, his fingers digging into Maximus' shoulders, his face pressed into the man's sinewy neck. "Oh, holy fuck," he said. "Jesus Fucking Christ!" Maximus continued to hold the trembling Colin against his leg. "Are you a Christian?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling in Colin's ear. Colin shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe." "I thought you a barbarian Celt." "I don't know what the fuck I am, Maximus. Except in love with you, I think." With that, Maximus carried Colin to the soft pallet and gently lay him there. He looked down for a minute, then stripped off his tunic and stood silently, his massive legs steady, his rigid organ a thick bar of reddened flesh against his stomach. Colin stared up at him, taking it all in, noting the many scars creasing the flesh of Maximus' legs and chest and arms, wanting nothing more than to touch him, to feel his roughened skin, to taste his lips, his tongue and his manhood. "Please," Colin said. "Tell me what you feel." Maximus' eyes clouded over. "Fear," he said. "I'm afraid." Colin reached out his arms. "Please don't be." Maximus went down on his knees on the pallet. "I don't want to feel so much. I won't allow myself to hope for more than this." His eyes met Colin's with some sort of silent entreaty. "Then don't. Just fuck me." Leaning down, Maximus gathered Colin in his arms and slowly lifted him, enclosing him in a tight embrace. Colin cupped the man's war-weary face with both hands and kissed him, first gently, then more insistently, ending with a small bite on Maximus' bottom lip. Then they went tumbling on the mat, rolling, entwining their limbs like wrestlers searching for a hold. Both men started to sweat, their well-trained muscles flexing with the effort. Maximus emitted a low growl as Colin finally flopped on his back, and, having achieved the superior position, he placed the flat of his right hand on Colin's chest and pushed down, holding him in place. Colin groaned, struggling to move. "What now?" he asked. "Do ya' want a matched pair?" His loins were once again animated with excitement, his stiffened part moving with its own will. Maximus used his free hand to stroke it. Colin shuddered. "What weapons will we use, Gladiator?" he taunted. "These." Maximus squeezed as he spoke and Colin cried out. "Let me up!" he insisted. "No." Colin strained to reach Maximus, but was unable to escape the human vise of the man's strong arm. "Fuck!" he said, frustrated. "Let me touch you!" "I want to touch you," Maximus said hoarsely. His left hand continued to work over Colin's crotch, first encasing him in a sheath of pressure created by thick fingers, then pulling at him in quick, rough strokes. "Oh . . . holy shit!" Colin gave in and threw back his head, closing his eyes. "Look at me and say my name," Maximus ordered in a guttural tone, leaning in. Colin's body shook. "Fucking . . . Maximus!" he cried out as he came with enough force to spray his own chest and Maximus' hovering face. He was rewarded with a smile from the grim gladiator, deep creases accenting the corners of the expressive eyes. "Good effort," Maximus commented, releasing his hold on Colin's chest and rubbing at his face. "I needed a bath." "Let me kiss that off," Colin offered, rubbing his nose against the sticky stubble on Maximus' chin. "Sit in my lap," Maximus ordered, stretching out his legs. Colin complied, trapping Maximus' engorged penis between them. He felt a slight flutter in his chest, imagining the possible pain of penetration, but he mentally braced himself for this inevitability. He would have Maximus at any price! Maximus pulled him as close as possible. "Hold me tight," he said. "Squeeze me with your thighs." Colin's legs enclosed Maximus' stiffened flesh while the gladiator began to heave upward, supporting himself with his arms, fingers splayed. Perspiration popped out on Maximus' forehead as he pumped, eyes tightly shut, seemingly struggling for his release. "Don't you want to bugger me?" Colin asked, holding the man's wide shoulders. "Isn't that what you need?" "No . . . I just need to feel you next to me . . . I need to be . . . against you." Maximus panted as he continued to raise himself with his arms, lifting Colin with him. Colin held on, riding Maximus' lap, squeezing his thighs as tight as he could, waiting to feel the telltale signs of impending climax. "I can't," Maximus said. "I can't." "Let me help," Colin begged. "Let me use my hand!" Maximus shook his head, keeping his eyes shut, continuing to work. Sweat now rolled down the sides of his neck. His breath snorted out through his nose. "Let go, Maximus. Just let it go!" Maximus suddenly stopped pumping, and his arms stiffened. Between his legs, Colin felt the eruption. A thick, profluent stream squirted Colin's chest and stomach, as Maximus gave a long, low moan. "That's it. That's what you needed," Colin praised, pressing his face against Maximus' cheek, kissing the moist skin, his arms encircling the still-quaking shoulders. Making low cooing noises, Colin rocked against Maximus, realizing after a few moments that the stoic gladiator was crying. Colin held the man for some time, his hands gripping the muscled back. He knew how difficult it had been for Maximus to let himself go, to allow the suffering of his life and his losses to breach the threshold of his steely control. The sexual release had opened the doorway for his pent-up emotions, and now all that was left to the strong former soldier was to sit and weep until the pain petered out. The sun had gone down and the room was in semi-darkness when Maximus' tears finally stopped. Colin eased the man down on the pallet and pulled him close, kissing him softly and saying nothing until they both fell asleep. The crowing of a rooster woke Colin early. Maximus still slept against him, and he hugged the strong, naked body, unwilling to let go, ready to fight any guard that came in and tried to separate them. What was it about this man that moved him so? When had Maximus' pain become Colin's? He felt like it had started in another life . . . and would last beyond this one. Maximus stirred, waking. He held Colin close. "I don't want to die," he whispered. "I don't want you to." "We won't," Colin insisted. "We won't die." Maximus sighed. "I can't protect you in Rome. I can't protect myself." "You don't need to protect me. I can take care of myself!" Colin said brashly. "Colin, we'll be massacred in Rome. We can only pray our deaths will come quickly and we'll meet in Elysium after. It will have to be enough." Colin blinked back angry tears but didn't protest further. "I only hope we can find the time and place to lay together again," he said. "We will." But they didn't. When Proximo and his gladiators traveled to Rome, Colin and Maximus sat side-by-side in the caged wagon, too close together for the others to see they were holding hands, their fingers intertwined. They spoke little, not wanting to give voice to their feelings or their fears, experiencing the same awe as the others when the eternal city came into view. Though Maximus had served the Empire, he had never seen Rome, and the sight of the vast Coliseum seemed as overwhelming to him as it did to Colin. They had been closely guarded every minute on their journey, and when they reached the city, the mob closed in around them, pawing and pulling at them, both fascinated and repelled by the trained killers. Somehow the chaos and adulation seemed familiar to Colin. He noticed how the women, especially the whores, crowded around Maximus, just as he himself fielded suggestive glances from well-dressed Roman nobles. They were celebrities. "Win the crowd," said Proximo. They seemed to have won some of them already. They were housed in real cages this time -- cages with iron bars. People walked by, looking in, pointing and commenting on the potential of the gladiators, preparing wagers. The games of the Emperor Commodus were to continue for 150 days, and the people of Rome stood in long lines every day to claim a spot in the audience of the greatest arena on earth, clamoring for the bread and circuses the new, young emperor provided. "I mean to kill him," Maximus whispered as they waited for their first appearance in the Coliseum. They were fully armed, carrying massive shields and wearing helmets for the first time. Maximus knelt down and rubbed the sandy soil in his palms. "What? Who?" "The emperor. Commodus." Maximus' voice rasped. A chill shook Colin's arms and some faint recollection tried to break through his murky memory. It wouldn't come, and trumpets heralded their entry into the killing field. "Go. Die with honor," Proximo said. Wind seemed to be sounding in his ears as Colin walked across the sand of the vast arena, oblivious to the cheers and catcalls of the surrounding mob. The gladiators did as they had been instructed, standing tall, facing the imperial box. Commodus appeared, resplendent in white and gold, dark and handsome and dangerous-looking. The crowd of fifty thousand erupted at the sight of him. Colin stared at the young emperor, imagining he could feel Maximus' shaking hatred for the man. "Those who are about to die salute you!" they said in unison. Beside Colin, Maximus was silent. The herald announced the game, a re-enactment of the fall of ancient Carthage. Proximo's gladiators were to portray Hannibal's barbarian horde slaughtered centuries earlier by Scipio and his legion. Maximus, relying on his military training, quickly spat out instructions about fighting together to stay alive. "Stay near me," he told Colin. At either end of the arena, the giant gates opened. Chariots raced in from both doors, manned by drivers and archers, some in gleaming gold armor. A few of the gladiators were felled immediately. But the rest listened carefully to Maximus and followed his orders, toppling the chariots by using their shields, sending them careening from the arena or into one another. Maximus grabbed the reins of a white horse and jumped on, racing from one end of the arena to the other. Colin stood awestruck at the man's horsemanship, remembering his vision of Maximus on the back of a war-horse, wrapped in fur and armor. "Watch yourself!" Hagen called, breaking Colin's reverie. Colin looked up and saw the final chariot bearing down on him. He threw his shield and dove, landing hard on the sandy ground. Darkness took him. When he opened his eyes, the face of Oliver Stone was looming over him. "What the fuck happened?" Colin asked. "Where am I?" "You're on a stretcher. You're going to be air-lifted to the nearest hospital," Stone said. "You got drunk, fell and broke a couple bones." "No." One of the medics from the set appeared, a long needle in his hand. "No morphine until I talk to him," Stone snapped. He looked down again at his troublesome star. "If we weren't nearly done with this thing, I'd break your fucking neck," he said. Colin continued to struggle with his thoughts. "What happened? Did he die?" "Did who die?" "Maximus. The gladiator." Oliver shared a concerned look with the medic. "He might have a concussion," the man said. "He probably hit his head." "Colin, you know the gladiator dies. It's the end of the movie, remember?" He dies, Colin thought. He fucking dies. It was all just a bullshit dream. Nothing but dust and air. "Give him the shot," Stone said, "and get him out of here." The medic tugged at Colin's sleeve. "No! No fucking shot." Colin stared from his back at the blue sky overhead, remembering the last scene of 'Gladiator' when the dead hero was elevated "Let me be," he said. "I want to feel the pain." The End |