JANUARY 16th 2004

I sat by the large sashed window that gave out over the deer park and sipped on a cocktail. It was sweet and sickly; I wasn't sure why I had accepted it. For all my apparent veneer of self confidence, I don't do social chit chat very well and holding the drink was part of cloaking my nervousness. There was a time when I would have got smashed to cope with such an occasion, behaved outrageously and acted like a one-woman tornado. Not now though. Maximus would not have approved.

But still I needed to do something with my hands. I looked longingly at the woman across the room, Darcy I think she is called, who was smoking a cigarette- I almost asked her for one but two things stopped me- one- I hardly knew her and two- Maximus was watching.

When I say watching, I don't mean that he was checking up on me- I don't want you to think that he restricts me, that would be unfair. He is simply very protective towards me and he does have a strict notion about how he thinks we should both behave. It is his way and I understand what is driving him. Maximus is uneasy much of the time, still holding a sense that he is an alien in this world and he feels stiff and formal amongst the others in sharp contrast to their laid back style and easy camaraderie. I know that when he looks for me it is for reassurance- I am the lifeline that bridges his two existences. As much as his presence in my life is my joy, it is also a weighty responsibility.

Our daughter, Lily, was playing with a doll at my feet. She is two now and becoming more her own person every day. Today, however, she is quiet and subdued, not her usual ebullient self. Lily is the two of us - she has an innate dignity in her already that is her father, gazes out at the world with his eyes, purses up her lips in disapproval at any others who invade her personal space, but yet she is also me-  pale skinned and fragile, quick to laugh and headstrong. She is my world as he is; she is his precious jewel, the reward for all that he has suffered. He watches us both like a sentinel, quiet and intense in his devotion, never again to risk any harm to befall his family. We are first in everything for him.

"Mama...micta!" I turned to look at her as she pulled herself up against my knee and tugged at my hand. Placing the glass down, I led her across the room to the bathroom. Once the door closed, she brightened up, sat on the loo and chattered more freely about the family. Some of them she knows quite well but others she is unsure of. The occasion has overwhelmed her. Bright as she is for her age, her limited vocabulary does not allow her to articulate what her perceptions of the Brothers are. They are 'big men' to her. They are 'not her father'. But she is fascinated by the similarities that she sees.

I left the bathroom holding her but she wriggled down to run ahead without much attention and ran slap bang into a man walking from the room in our direction. He reacted quickly and picked her up; she was unhurt but her pride had taken a fall and I could see her wrinkling up her face to cry. The man said something to her and she stopped, laughed and answered him.

"Let's get you back to your Mum, princess." Terry Thorne. I have never met him before.

"Here she is," he handed her over to me and Lily snuggled up against my shoulder shyly but still grinning at her new friend. "Beautiful child...just like her Mum," he smiled at me.

"Thank you. You must be Terry. I'm Uma. Glad to meet you at last."

We shook hands, rather formally, but he grinned at me in a surprisingly boyish way. His hand was large and warm, a firm grip and oddly comforting. His eyes crinkled and there was a spark of devilment in them despite his proper behaviour. I liked him instantly. I am not usually so easy to convince.

"Pleased to meet you. Missed you when we got together the last few times. You couldn't make it when Dino and I jumped through..."

I nodded. "Yes, I couldn't make it. It was not long before we got married and there was so much to do. And then when Max brought me over to Oz, you were away on some mission, I think, but Max saw you though. He was impressed by you. He told me so."

Terry raised one eyebrow at that, as if he was surprised. I don't expect Max gave his opinion away to anyone but me. It is his way- sometimes I could slap him for that dour manner with which he greets the world. It makes him seem so stiff and colourless when the truth about him is so different. He is a man of passion and spirit but he has long learnt to mask his true self behind a Stoic face. Even now, he does not know how to drop the act.

"Anyway I am really pleased our paths have crossed at last- it has been too long. They all said you were a very beautiful woman but they didn't do you justice. Uma, you are very easy on the eye..." another smile and a slightly saucy raising of the eyebrows. He was flirting but it was not threatening or exceeding the bounds of good taste. However I still suspected Maximus would not have liked to hear it; I could imagine his expression and the stiffening of his back in readiness. He is possessive and suspicious even when there is little to fear and I have no intention of increasing his sense of anxiety. He will never have the worry of losing those he loves again.

But still, Terry Thorne's compliment pleased me and I felt the blush of scarce concealed self- consciousness rising. I looked at him and a sudden erotic urge possessed me. My blush deepened at the image of myself naked in his arms and to cover my sudden confusion, I excused myself hurriedly and walked away. His eyes seemed to follow me as I returned to the others and took my place at Max's side. He looked at me and a flicker of a smile, no more than that, crossed his lips. He took Lily from my arms and she clung onto him like a little monkey, her tiny hands on his face and kissing his lips. Max is generally uncomfortable with public displays of affection but Lily forces it upon him in her spontaneous way and he never shrinks from her. He loves that child more than anything in life. Except me.

People circled and chattered, I stayed close to my husband and child. But my eyes kept drifting to the doorway and Terry Thorne who was leaning on the lintel, drinking from a bottle of beer; he raised it in acknowledgement of my attention. His action was matey but his eyes conveyed another message; I wondered if mine did too.

May 2000

MAXIMUS

My memory of crossing over is hazy. I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to death. Saw the path I must take open up before me and then the swirling mists overtook my vision. I thought that it was death. The pain eased and fell away, the ebb of my lifeblood seemed to subside, the weakness disappeared. My eyes opened with a sudden start and I found myself staring down a long dank tunnel; I was in the bowels of the Colosseum.

The place was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. My eyes showed me the final tunnel that led to the stairway up to the arena- for many men that had been their last walk upon this earth. I was one of those men- or so it had seemed. My lifeblood had seeped into the sand of that arena only moments ago and yet here I was apparently whole, if somewhat confused and groggy. Is this death?

My eyes and ears strained to piece together clues. I heard the buzz of an alien language, the laughter and non-threatening sounds of a safer world and I smelt age and rot not sweat and blood. There was also another aroma that I could not identify at that time. It was sweet and fresh like new mown hay or the sharp bite of a frosty morning. Yet the day was hot and the air humid. I later learnt that this was the smell of cleanliness.

Slowly I took in myself and my surroundings. As I glanced down, I saw that I was clad in strange clothes- some sort of breeches fashioned from a dark blue material, on my upper torso I wore a shirt of a soft white fabric. On my feet were heavy leather boots. Blinking and looking about me I observed the scene; the dull ache in my head and the nausea in my belly increased - but there was no pain.

Was this death? Had I been consigned to some subterranean cavern of the underworld? My brain was muzzy and confused, so I stayed on the bench, my eyes closed, waiting for some outside confirmation that would explain the bizarre chain of events that had brought me there.

"Excuse me. My name is Jeffrey Wigand. I have been sent here to meet you..."

That was how it had begun. The following few months passed in a torrent of images as I struggled to adjust to the incomprehensible reality that I had found myself in. I was not dead. Instead I had undergone a miraculous cure, been swept across time and now found myself in an alien world almost two thousand years after my time. Jeffery was a patient and thorough guide, a quiet man not given to warmth but full of integrity nevertheless who gave me great support. But I was still ill at ease with this new world and saw little reason for my continued existence in it; it often occurred to me that Elysium was a much preferable place.

It seemed the wayward goddess who had tossed my life about like a tiny boat upon a stormy ocean had still not tired of her sport. All I had wanted was to close my eyes and join my wife and son but now they were further from me than ever. I was even beginning to forget what they looked like.

Nevertheless I learnt to mask my uncertainties and dread as I had always done- and so I offered myself up to fate.

On my arrival I had discovered that I could understand this English language even though the facility to speak it took time- that was yet another strange anomaly of this new existence. By the time I was fluent and less unsure of my abilities, I felt able to contemplate stepping out independently. But I rarely made close contact with others. It seemed that as soon as I interrelated with most modern people the veneer I had acquired soon disappeared and I showed up my true colours. My strange origin began to peer through and people looked askance at me. So, I moved on quickly and kept myself apart.

It was no real hardship. As a general I had been forced to live a solitary existence even amidst the crowded intimacy of a fort; as a slave I had been even more guarded. Living inside my head was second nature to me.

There were the Brothers if I needed company. A strange bunch. Jeffrey introduced me to some- Bud White, an edgy, hostile figure who eyed me warily as one dog would another; SID, the bizarre automaton who supplied me with the documents that appear to be necessary to affirm one's existence; Lachlan, the young navigator of mechanical birds, one of the greatest wonders of a wonderful world. Then there was Cort, an enigmatic priest and others who lived in a land in the south, terra australis, whom I had never met.

It came to me one day as I sat on a hillside in northern California that perhaps I was looking in the wrong place. I came from the old world; perhaps I ought to return there and search for some answers to the displacement that I felt. I asked for money- there seemed to be a treasury of some sort although I was unsure of its source. With this I embarked upon a voyage of discovery. I was searching for a purpose and a place to belong. I did not hold out any hopes for either.

My first port of call was home - Northern Spain. Truillo or what remained of it now. It was a very different place from my memory. Gone were the rolling hills, the wheat, the herds of wild ponies down from the mountains, gone were the poplar trees and the jasmine bushes- nothing remained now of a ruined pink farmhouse and the rough graves of a woman and child. My land was now an industrial estate and there was scarcely a blade of grass left of what had once been my ancestral home. I wandered around the area one late summer evening, aware that I would never again return and stand over their resting place. This must be the last farewell. Instead of lying prostrate on their graves, I settled for sitting beneath the outer wall of a factory and weeping as once I had done at their feet. What crime so foul had I committed what hubris against the gods, that they  still sought to punish me? Why had they caused me to be here out of my time when all I yearned for had been to close my eyes on any human existence and take my place at the side of my wife and son in the Fields of the Blessed? Would I never know peace again?

The catharsis of sorrow unburdened me. I left that place and travelled to Italy, back to Rome and the Colosseum, the place of my crossing over and the site of my earlier humiliation and retribution. Perhaps I might be able to reverse the process and return to die as surely I had been meant to? The ruins of that great Flavian amphitheatre appeared sad and decaying to me, no longer the source of fear and savagery, but the ghosts of the long dead lay thick in its fabric and I found no solace or solution there.

I was no longer a Spaniard- not by the standards of the second millenium- I had never really been a Roman. My culture was gone, nothing but ashes and dust, although its roots still clearly flourished in the modern world. The languages of Europe abounded in my own tongue, cities still built their monuments with Rome in their mind's eye, literature and film was steeped in updated forms of our classical legacy. In a strange way, I could exist here- sometimes arrogantly aware of philosophies that they misunderstand, other times like a child stumbling my way to self knowledge. But it was a mission for me- to orientate myself and re-educate for an alien civilisation.

I went to London. My initial reason was that I spoke the language of the English with rather more fluency than that of other European capitals and seemed not to have an accent; it had often been remarked in America that I sounded like a Brit. I planned to stay a few weeks in the small drab hotel in a less fashionable side of the city where I found myself. My money would not last forever and the time would come when I would need to find a profession.

London fascinated me. In a sense there was an element that reminded me acutely of Rome as I remembered it. London was a cultural centre, the hub of much of the European scene, a crime ridden and dangerous place but one imbued with a sense of its own traditions and importance. Visitors flocked to its historic sites, world leaders came to meets its rulers, rich and poor alike lived side by side in a dynamic cosmopolitan mix.

This city was one of great richness in its history- it had indeed been founded by Romans in the first century, back in Claudius' day- and had enjoyed importance from then right through to the present time. It was a tangible walk through time for me and I spent many days wandering its streets and reading in its libraries. One day, I took myself to the British Museum; I had seen an advertisement for a new exhibition which was now open to the public, 'The Roman Bloodlust- Combat and War.' My interest was immediately caught. What would these people make of my own civilisation and its driving forces?

The exhibits were impressive if selective, the notes ranged from unerring accuracy to crass ignorance. I bridled at some of the assumptions. Noticing that a lecture was to be held in the large theatre on that floor, I queued up and took a place at the back to wait for the speaker to commence.

The lecture theatre was full: school parties - unruly and generally bored, older men and women whose arrogance suggested they had little knowledge so thus knew more than the experts. At two o'clock a screen descended and a young woman took her place on the podium.

I heard her voice but I could see little of her - she was obscured by the shadow and the flickering light of the moving picture. The lecture began with an image that stunned me. It was myself. I gazed on it in horror and shrank further back against the rear wall cautiously checking the people about me for any signs of recognition as once I had retreated into the shadows when young Lucius had revealed his origin and how I might meet those who would recognise me.  But there were no pointed glances or comments made behind hands. I seemed to be invisible to those about me.

Still reeling from the experience and the shock, the picture changed and the speaker commenced her lecture in which she compared and contrasted the myths and facts of the lives of Roman men of violence - gladiators, soldiers, charioteers.

The woman was a convincing orator although her knowledge was patchy. Several times I had the desire to stop her, annoyed by a dismissive or mocking comment but at other times I was touched by her obvious affection and scholarship. It intrigued me that a mere woman could find herself in this position and marvelled at the change in status of females in these modern times. I was not fully certain that I approved.

The talk over, questions asked and answered, I watched her step down from the lectern and make her way up the steps to the exit. She was tall and willowy, dressed casually in the ubiquitous denim, a white shirt and a rather masculine pair of boots. Her hair was dark brown and glossy, worn long and plaited; she was pleasant to look upon with small even features and pale blue eyes. All told she was a pretty girl- or maybe even a beautiful one -although her face and figure were devoid of adornment or artifice. She seemed younger than she must have been to hold such a position and I wondered if she was married and what her husband thought about her flaunting herself in such a public arena. I find the attitudes of men in this world as inexplicable as those of the women.

As she passed level with my row, her head turned and our eyes met. It was a curious moment. I felt as if I had been here before in this exact same moment, that this unknown woman was even familiar to me and for the first time since I had arrived there was a sense that my presence here might just have a purpose. The woman frowned slightly, a slight pinching of her brows that was oddly affecting, as if her memory was jogged too but she did not acknowledge me nor I her. But I knew that this was not the end for us.

Later that evening, I was seated at the bar of a tavern, one of the places that they call pubs here, drinking a glass of wine. I surveyed the crowded room and watched these modern people in their own familiar world. My eye roved about stopping to scrutinize the women, the usual longing for the comfort of a female body ever present. It is one of the few times when I feel at one with this new existence of mine to be buried deep within a woman's cunt. Some things never change.

A scantily clad girl noticed me - her short skirt revealed a pleasing expanse of dimpled thigh, her tight upper garment scarcely containing her ample breasts. She sat by me on a bar stool, tossing her artificially coloured hair and addressing me with the bold effrontery of a seasoned whore. "You not from round 'ere?" 

I found a bed partner for the night.

Sometime deep in that night, a dream assailed me. The woman from the Museum unfurled her bound locks and shook her hair loose around her naked shoulders; she lay down beside me on the pillow and I moved over her. My bed mate welcomed me in again but I dreamed a different body. The image haunted me and preyed on my mind for the following days.

Finally I gave into temptation and visited the Museum again. I had read her name on the lecture notes that she had distributed but when I searched the board for today's talk, it was a different speaker- my mystery lady was not mentioned. A young man gave the lecture; I drifted away. Browsing through the exhibits, still unwilling to leave the only place which gave me any contact with her, I heard someone call her name. It was an unusual name, Roman in origin perhaps, and unmistakable. My head turned swiftly to follow the direction. There she was behind a large funerary urn, discussing another object with an older man, obviously someone in authority.

I watched. I waited. She finished her conversation and stood back to observe the case thoughtfully.

"It is wrongly attributed."

"Pardon?" Her head spun round and her blue eyes sought mine out. "Were you speaking to me?" She seemed surprised and I noticed a slight blush of colour rise from her cheeks.

"I was. The cingula is not legionary - it was a type used by auxiliary for a period, based on a the traditional accoutrement of a unit of Syrian cavalry that were incorporated during the reign of Hadrian- but it fell out of use apart from left over pieces that legionaries sometimes used. Troops were often a rag bag of eras and armour; the uniformity often displayed in your images is very far from accurate..."

"Excuse me...." The woman was unconvinced. "I assure you that this exhibit has been correctly identified..."

"I believe not." I bowed my head slightly to show my acceptance of her right to hold her own opinion but her reaction showed me that she felt slighted by this observation of mine. I grimaced. I think I have made a mistake. It is so difficult to talk to women. I had hoped to open a discussion between us but she was not prepared too defer to my greater knowledge. It was an awkward moment- I am not used to being crossed by women.

"My apologies. I did not mean to question your scholarship." I made a stiff bow but I knew that my demeanour was haughty; I do not find it easy to admit my errors and was even given to a certain rigidity of expression with the emperor himself. It had often amused him - he found it a relief after the fawning of court sycophants. But this young lady had no such tolerance for my arrogance.

"Then why did you?" Her reply was shot back at me but then she suddenly grinned. It was like the sun breaking through a dull sky; I felt a shaft of light pierce the wasteland of my heart. "It's a speculative field at best. I'm not such a stiff that I can't listen to an opposing viewpoint, but you need to work on your opening gambit...hi, my name is..." She extended her hand and shook mine; I returned the unfamiliar greeting awkwardly and held back my own name. She did not appear to notice.

We chatted a little about the matter and some of the surrounding exhibits before she politely excused herself and moved away. I could not think of a reason to make her stay. Her retreating form was as sweet as her frontage except for one thing- it meant that she was abandoning me to my loneliness again.

UMA

I noticed him almost immediately as I entered the lecture hall. The man was sitting in a corner on the back row, remote from everyone else and appeared uneasy in the crowd. I think it was this furtiveness that brought him to my attention- he was darting a look around at other people as if he expected them to recognise him. I wondered why it bothered him. But there was something oddly familiar about his face; I felt that I had seen it before, even that I knew it well. How strange.

There was something else bizarre about the experience. The lecture hall was in darkness but my eyes kept drifting over to where he sat as if there was a pull that I could not resist. There was a stillness about him, an innate authority that compelled attention, a watchfulness that implied readiness. In retrospect I cannot fathom why I did not immediately know who he was- his face was on the screen beside me in giant detail but some aura must have surrounded him, protecting him from discovery.

I remember looking across at him as I left the lecture theatre and our eyes meeting. He was the most impressive man that I had ever seen and his blue green eyes enchanted me. Over the next few days, I recalled his image constantly in my head and mused to myself the eternal conundrum - why do men like that never feature in my reality?

I am thirty years old, an assistant curator at the British Museum, Roman wing, education department. At the present time I am unattached and uninterested. The way I see it is, if you have successfully resisted the lure of marriage and family by my age then I was probably safe from it for life.

My life has been an uneventful one - university, good degree, MA and PhD. I am a career woman in the making, still paying her professional dues but with plenty of ambition and a plan in my head. There have been a few near misses romantically but none that I have regretted in the long run. My social life revolves around a group of girlfriends - all single and likewise career-minded like me, all defying their biology even if they seem constantly on the prowl for the one who will be different from the rest. Funny thing is every time they find him, they run a mile.

I have had a pretty lean season recently. I dated a bloke over last Christmas and New Year but when he took a job overseas, I gave up on him and since then my love life has comprised one or two unremarkable one night stands. It's a funny thing about celibacy but it kind of grows on you after a while. I'm beginning not to miss it.

Apart from Alpha Male in the lecture theatre, that is. He managed to leave quite an impression on me and made me remember what it felt like to have all the old juices flowing. It was a pity that we had merely been ships that passed in the night but that was life. You make your own choices and compromises. I was generally happy with my lot.

And then he kept reappearing. I had exchanged a few rather prickly words with him over an exhibit one afternoon. He seemed awkward and rather shy but I detected that he had a desire to engage me in conversation. His manner seemed at odds with his imposing presence; there was something about him that I could not put my finger on but it didn't suggest reserve or lacking in confidence.

From that time on, I caught him hanging about several of my lectures and regularly on the Roman history floor; I wondered what on earth he was there for. Was he a stalker or just some History nut? It seemed unlikely on both counts but you never know these days. However as he showed no further interest in speaking to me or engaging me in any way, merely observing me with his quiet poise, I tried to ignore him and pretend that he was not there. Am I joking? I looked for him every time I was in the public rooms and felt a sense of anti-climax if he was not around.

At one point I did not see him for several weeks and then believed that he had finally got over whatever was bringing him there. I resigned myself to the inevitable, even if my mind often tried to recall his image. But just when I thought that I had finally ridded myself of the almost schoolgirl crush, I saw him once more.

One late October evening as I left the Museum, the crisp smell of autumn on the air, I saw him leaning against a wall by the staff entrance. He had noticed me and his eyes were fixed on my person but his face showed no emotion or recognition. I determined this time to speak to him, curious about his motivation, unafraid of him surprisingly. Despite my better judgment and all I had ever read about encouraging unwanted attentions, I decided to approach him, aware even as I did, that this was probably foolish in the extreme.

"Hello again. I've seen you around a lot off and on recently. Are you following me by any chance?" I was always blunt.

The man looked away briefly, long enough for me to take in his glassy eyes framed with thick lashes, and the way they caught the light. A slight grimace passed over his handsome features and he jerked back his head, raising his chin defiantly. "As a matter of fact, I am."

His answer, as blunt as my question, took me by surprise. "You are? Why?" Was the only reply that I could manage. He looked down at his feet, rubbed his right hand across his neatly trimmed beard and seemed to be thinking of an answer. "I want to talk to you about the Roman world."

It was an unexpected response and I must say I felt a little deflated. I supposed I had imagined that he had developed some interest in me - a naïve, girlish fantasy unworthy of a woman of my age and maturity. I felt foolish and blushed a little.

"Are you an historian?" I asked for something to say to cover my confusion. 

"No, but I have some knowledge", was his cryptic reply.

We looked at each other- I thought that he would not speak further. But then he suddenly blurted out, a little rushed and embarrassed as if he had been rehearsing this nervously in advance: "Would you do me the honour of dining with me tonight?"

For a third time he had surprised me. Go to dinner with a complete stranger who appeared to be stalking me- even by his own admission? It was against everything that I believed in. So I answered, "Yes, I would like that," because that is exactly how I felt. I wanted to find out more about this enigmatic and attractive man.

We walked to a small bistro in Covent Garden and took a table. He ordered for us and poured my wine. His confidence seemed to have risen now and he appeared in full command of the situation but I did not have any sense that he was hitting on me. All the evening his conversation was polite and friendly but he gave little away. He told me that his name was Max and that he was an ex-army officer. He had a personal interest in the classical world and asked a few leading questions about my research. I found myself rambling on nervously in my usual fashion while he sat back and listened to me thoughtfully, his hand on his face and his forefinger resting against his upper lip. His face was an impenetrable mask but his gesture was oddly arousing; it made me notice his fleshy, sensual lips and I imagined what they would have felt to kiss. I was really suffering in the worst way.

"I'm sorry to go on and on - am I boring you?"

"Not at all. Your knowledge is impressive. I am happy just to sit here and listen to you."

And he really seemed to mean it. For the rest of the evening that is what he did and I only realised later when we had parted how little he had told me of himself. He did offer to take me home but I declined saying that I could get the tube; he walked me to the entrance and we said goodnight there. It was another hesitant moment.

"Well, thank you for your company," he did one of those polite little nods, almost a small bow; it was absurdly old fashioned.

"Um...thank you for dinner. It was very pleasant." He nodded again and knitted his brows as if momentarily angry at himself. I turned to take my leave but felt his hand lightly on my arm. "May I see you again?"

And so it began. We met almost every day, sometimes for lunch or dinner, sometimes to take a show or a film, other times we merely walked in the park or stopped at a pub for a drink. Max was friendly and interesting but I had little success in opening him up; we spoke mostly of safe topics, my work, books he had read, politics, world affairs- he seemed very intelligent but almost childlike in his desire to learn. It was most odd. I liked him but I couldn't figure him out. He became more mysterious and enigmatic to me the more I saw of him.

Alone in my apartment, I would think of him, aware that the friendship that was growing between us was becoming more difficult for me. I wanted him but he seemed to show no physical interest in me. He had never touched me other than to don my coat or steer me through a doorway, he did not flirt or ever make a suggestion or comment that might be construed as sexual. In short he was completely platonic in his dealings with me. But I longed for some declaration or sign of interest.

What women wouldn't want in the company of such a man?

Max was like no other man that I had ever known. His physical shape alone was striking- he was simply not built like modern men. He was of average height, certainly not tall, but formidably broad and muscled; his back was so solid that the mere sight of it made me weak. His neck was so thick that it spoke of strength and vigour. Despite his bulky upper body, his hips were relatively narrow and his legs seemed shapely, although his thighs were strong and bulged promisingly in his jeans. I had also spied the prominent package which was hard to miss. Just to be in proximity to such a body seemed to increase my own sense of my femininity. I had never felt this way with a man before.

But Max was not just an impressive body; he was also an incredibly handsome man. His hair was dark brown and cut short, with a slight fringe that was rather like a Roman would wear. His dapper beard was a slightly lighter shade and framed a manly square jawed face with a high bridged nose and a few interesting flaws here and there

that saved him from too much uniformity. His eyes were surprisingly soft and liquid, long-lashed and expressive. His mouth was full and sensuous- I felt that I could stare at his face all day long. I dreamed of him. I day dreamed of him. I fantasised erotic interludes. I imagined romantic scenes. But he showed no sign of moving towards any other stage. I resigned myself to my secret crush and contented myself with merely being in his presence. I spoke to my best friend Ruth- she suggested that he might be gay. I found that hard to believe but realised that it was possible. It might just explain everything.

One evening we had arranged to meet in a pub local to my apartment and I found myself there early and joined by Ruth and another few girlfriends. Max strolled in with his brisk walk that always seemed to contain an edge of challenge in it; my friends clocked him the moment he entered and almost wet themselves.

"Jesus Christ. Will you look at that? Have you ever seen such a specimen?" squealed Mairead, my Irish mate.

I looked over, smiled at Max who acknowledged with a curt nod and replied, "That's Max."

There was a group intake of breath. "Max? Your gay pal? He cannot be gay!" Ruth stammered.

"Then maybe I just don't do it for him." I retorted.

At that moment, Max stood before me, inclined his head at the other women with a whispered "Ladies," and held out his hand to raise me from the chair. Ruth leaned in on my ear and I heard her whisper. "Not gay. Gagging for it. Get going, girl."

Her alliterative encouragement made me giggle as we walked away. Max frowned. "Did I say something amusing?" I could hear the note of pique in his voice.

"No, it wasn't what you said. It was an observation that my friend made." He did not enquire further.

As the evening progressed, I made a decision. Perhaps he was reserved and waiting for some sign from me. So I came to the conclusion that I had to be the assertive one - I wanted him and he must take some pleasure in my company- he was a man after all and he must have sexual desires. Summoning up my courage, I took my hand in his as we walked along. I felt the slight stiffening of his fingers but he did not withdraw from my grasp.

His hand was large, thick fingered and the skin was calloused. It was the hand of a man who had laboured hard all his life and it again made me wonder at his background. "Max?" I asked as we strolled along the city street on this cold November night. "Can I ask you something?"

He looked across and gave me a half smile. "Of course, anything."

"Do you like me?" It was clumsily expressed.

"Very much. You are a..." and his voice tailed away.

"A what? A friend? More than that? I'm not sure what you want from me, Max. Look...I have some feelings for you. If you want to explore them...I'm willing..."

He stopped dead and turned to face me. "What do you mean by feelings?"

I took the bull by the horns and launched straight ahead. "I am physically attracted to you. If you want to make love to me, it's OK, Max, but if you don't that's also fine too..."

My words seemed banal and immature. I looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He said nothing for a moment and the cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. I had caught him off guard. When he did speak his voice was even lower and huskier than usual. "I, too, have feelings for you but I would not presume to harm your reputation...."

"What?" I asked bemused. "If you want to make a move on me, make it. We're adults; I'm no innocent girl..."

His face seemed to change, his chin jerking forward pugnaciously. "I think perhaps I should take you home..."

I smiled. "Now you're talking," I stepped in close and raised my face to his; he backed away.

"Stop behaving like a whore." His growled reply stunned me with its cold authority.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked him. He did not reply merely carried on walking along the street. He was angry and I could not fathom why.

"Max...please..." He stopped but did not turn round. "I'm sorry if I have said the wrong thing but I just can't work you out. I don't know what you want from me. You just don't act like other men I have dated, you are like someone from outer space...I don't even know anything about you...you have never even told me your full name..."

Slowly he turned and something rang a bell in my memory at his movement. As he faced me, his head slightly lowered before he raised it steadily to stare into my eyes. His voice grated on a low register as he muttered, "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, former general of the armies of the north, client to the emperor Aurelius, enslaved in the reign of Commodus...is this really what you want to know?"

OH. MY. GOD. GLADIATOR. Max was the Spaniard. I felt the ground sway beneath me and my world faded to black.

MAXIMUS

I had worried and toyed for days with a desire to tell her who I really was but I knew that it would be too much for her to bear. In the few weeks that we had been meeting, I had fallen quite hopelessly in love with this woman. The other Brothers had warned me that I would eventually feel an irresistible pull to a certain woman  and that she would be the one mapped out for me by this strange world we occupied-  but I had paid the talk little mind. I had no intention of ever giving myself over to love again, aware that whatever its delights, the loss of it, its painful end was something I never wished ever to taste again. Not that love ever ends. I still felt about my wife and son as I had always done. The worse pain than the end of love was its eternal quality. Would I carry this lonely burden to the end of time?

And now I had met Uma. She was like no one I had ever known. In truth she was unlike my wife in every possible way and I know that Serene paled into insignificance next to this golden girl. But then my wife had been a quiet provincial maiden, the perfect wife for a warrior such as I, the kind of woman who would wait patiently for her man and never give him a moment's worry or a hint of scandal. Not that Serene was always docile. Within the home, she had a spirit and temper and many is the time I was on the receiving end of her tongue when I failed to carry out some perceived duty. I had loved that about her. All my adult life, I had received the instant obedience of soldiers and junior officers but my wife refused to be in the least daunted by my presence. It was refreshing and wonderful to hear her chide me and then give me her smile of promise. For in the dark of the nights, my provincial girl with her flashing brown eyes and her temper, became a wild and willing lover. There was little we had not done in our brief times together.

But Uma was a very different woman. I was amazed and entranced by her intelligence and learning, impressed by her confidence and poise, amused by her quick humour and facility with language, aroused by her flawless beauty. I had little experience of women of education and high society, apart from my time with Lucilla, and in many ways Uma was more like the princess than my humbler born wife. She had the pride and carriage of a woman who knows her place in the world and does not seek for a man to give her prestige. I was no better at understanding and handling Uma than I had been with Aurelius' beautiful daughter. But like the imperial lady, this did not stop me longing for her in my arms. Uma made my head spin and my heart sing. I had never thought to feel this way again.

Guilt possessed me. My wife and son had only been dead these three years (or so it seemed to me) and yet I still felt that it was a betrayal to want another woman in this way. As time passed, Selene's face grew dimmer in my mind while Uma's rose vibrant and real in her place. I was ashamed and yet common sense told me that this was the way of things - but I had not yes managed to assuage my sense of culpability in her death. I still mourned them both and probably would all my days.

What did I want from Uma? I wanted to feel love again. I wanted her to look upon me with eyes that shone for me alone. I wanted to lay bare her body and give my love to her. I wanted to make her my wife.

But how could I tell her that? How could a modern woman accept that in a matter of three weeks, a man could be so sure? It was our way but it is not hers. She had indicated that she wanted to sleep with me and I had shown offence at her words. It was not the behaviour of a respectable woman in my time, certainly not from the woman you hoped to marry. Yet in these decadent times, Uma was perfectly at liberty to take her pleasures where she thought fit, much as a man would in my day. I was tempted, sorely tempted by her offer, but it would not do- I did not want her merely to be a woman for me to use. This was not what I intended for her.

And so I had told her. And she had fainted away. I had caught her in my arms as she slithered to the ground and carried her to a nearby bench where the cold night air revived her. I watched anxiously as her eyes flickered open and came to rest on my face. She made a little whimper of recognition and her hand reached out to feel the contours of my face. For a long time she remained silent and then she whispered, "Take me home." At the entrance of her apartment block we parted. She did not even say goodnight. I wondered if she would ever see me again.

Through cold wet streets I trudged trying to fathom what I might do to win her back. I had no battle plan or strategy. All I could do was throw myself upon her mercy. So I did.

It was way past midnight when I rang her bell.

UMA

It is impossible. It cannot be. Time travel is a fantasy. Maximus is a celluloid character. What in heaven's name is this all about? Is he deranged? But one thing was clear. The moment that he turned and spoke those words I recognised him; scales fell from my eyes. My friend was indeed Maximus the general who became a gladiator and who saved Rome from the evils of Commodus before dying tragically in the arena. Or not dying. Instead he had turned up and was now my boyfriend. And I was away with the fairies.

I took a bath, a long soak, donned pyjamas and a dressing gown, curled up with a Scotch and thought. I did not understand. I would not believe. I was in the grip of an irrational fear. I longed for him and wondered if I would ever set eyes on him again.

I sat and stared at the wall opposite me and remembered, piecing together everything that he had said to me since I had met him. His evasiveness, his reserve, the alien nature of his reactions began to make a strange sort of sense. But what kind of sense was this? That the guy I had been dating was in reality a Roman general from the second century AD? Are you joking? That makes sense?

The doorbell rang. It was after one in the morning. But I knew who it was. As I opened the door, I saw him standing there, left hand placed on the wooden lintel, hunched over and leaning in on me. He looked haunted and beautiful, like Maximus had done when he had stared up at the majesty of the arena and wondered at what hand fate had dealt him. There was no doubt in my mind. This man was Maximus.

"I wanted to explain..." he began.

"Come in..." I answered and ushered him into my lounge. I watched his disappearing back - his bulk seemed to dwarf the narrow corridor. Inside I poured two glasses of Scotch and handed one to him. We sat down and he began to talk. My reserved friend suddenly opened up as if a faucet had been broken on his emotions. Out poured thee story of his life and the journey that he had taken since he had found himself alive and well in this future world.

Face to face across the low coffee table, a safe distance, he told me a fantastical story that could have had him sectioned if it had been told to anyone else. Maximus spoke in concise and simple words, embellishing nothing, giving me the unvarnished facts. His language was fluent but rather stilted, used no modern expressions or slang and even cursory scrutiny revealed it to be somewhat archaic and stylized. Why had I not seen this before?

He concluded his account and the room fell silent. We continued to stare at each other.

"What do you want from me, Maximus?" 

At first he gave no reply, no indication of what he perceived to be the reason for his presence in my life. I could see that he was struggling in his head - there was an inner conflict behind those expressive eyes even though his face was set in its usual rigid countenance. I was beginning to read him better. A sudden urge possessed me to take this lonely wounded man in my arms and hold him to my heart.

"At first I wished for someone who would understand me. But now, I long for..." he stopped. I willed him to continue. 'Say the words, Maximus, say the words...' The phrase screamed out in my head. "...but now I long for you to love me..."

It was such an honest declaration from a man of great pride and dignity that it took my breath away. Even then I sense how much it cost him to say such words to me. Rising from my seat, I skirted the table and fell to my knees resting my hands softly on his upper legs. This was the first time that either of us had touched intimately. I raised my face to his. "I think that I fell in love with you the moment that I saw you."

It was all he needed to hear. My shy and reserved friend suddenly transformed into a passionate lover. Reaching for my face, stroking a finger down my cheek, he dropped his lips to mine and kissed me for the first time.

His mouth hovered close to mine, the warm alcohol-tinged breath flooding my senses. With rather more mastery than I had anticipated, he took my upper lip and kissed it softly, then moved to my lower lip and did the same. The effect was like a formal request that could only have one answer. My mouth fell open in a sigh and he gave me a full kiss, his tongue licking a pattern before flickering to enter me. Such a delicate manoeuvre from such a man.

The kiss deepened. His hands slipped own to my waist and lifted me into his knee while I slid my arms around his neck. Soft whimpers and expirations of breath added a seductive backtrack to our lovemaking. His tongue played with mine, his lips sucked and his teeth nibbled; I returned the lingual flirtation. My fingers played with the crude leather thong that girt his neck and the thick sinew beneath his hairline.  He felt like the embodiment of all a man should be- hard, unyielding, overwhelming strength and devastating control. I would have given him anything that he asked for in that moment; I have never been so passive before with any man in my life.

We fell back onto the couch and his hand wandered down my body, felt the contours of my breasts, the smooth valley of my belly and then along my left leg; he instinctively hitched it over his and as we kissed I felt his arousal. In this he was as other men, needing to rub against a woman's body in his urgent desire.

I melted into his arms; my body gave him the signal of a willing woman. Only the layers of our clothing were keeping us from the inevitable consummation. My mind jumped ahead and I imagined him deep inside me, the velvet soft-hard flesh of his naked cock sliding into my wet darkness. A groan escaped involuntarily from my lips.

Urgently now, I began to undo the buttons of his shirt, aching for the touch of his naked flesh. He merely kissed me and held me to him. I slipped a hand inside and ran it over his solid flesh, ruffled the light hair on his large pectorals, burrowed down the bands of muscle and sighed as I felt the scruff of his lower hair thick and curly about his manhood.

But his hand moved swiftly and stopped me. "No!" I pulled away in surprise and lay panting beneath him looking into his eyes for some explanation. "We must not. It is too easy to take pleasure without consequence. You are not a woman of easy virtue and I am not a man of priapic tastes. Time will show us if this is the way for us."

I am a modern woman. My virginity was given away long ago on the back seat of a car to a selfish schoolboy. I have slept with countless men since some whom I have loved, others whom I have not even known, occasionally some I haven't liked very much. Sex is something that men and women do when the urge takes them. That night the urge had never taken me more strongly but this man wouldn't hear of it. His dignity and worth shone even brighter in my estimation now that I knew what it cost him to treat me in this way. I began to understand the virtue that lies in saving oneself for the real thing. It is just a pity that a man like Maximus is so hard to find.

I heard myself say, "As you wish, Maximus." It was the first time that I had deferred to him but it set the mark for the future. I had handed our relationship into his safe keeping and was now allowing him to command me. Wise? Who can say? It did not feel like an imposition then and to be frank it rarely ever has. Perhaps I was wearied by the relentless pursuit of feminism and the tiresome ineptitude of modern men. I never ever regretted bringing Maximus into my life and placing it into his hands. It made a woman out of me.

MAXIMUS

She was even more intoxicating than my febrile dreams had imagined. Her taste, the sweet honeydew of her lips, the warm willingness of her mouth drove me almost to forget myself. As her body softened in erotic surrender, I longed to rip away her clothes and gaze upon her nakedness, suckle on her secret places, plunge myself into her - I wanted to use my strength and size to grind her beneath me. But good sense at last prevailed. This beautiful girl, who has so clearly been used before by men who did not appreciate her worth, would not be treated as a mere receptacle for my lust. As much as I desired her body, it was her soul that I most wanted to possess. She would be mine and then our bodies would join together in a glorious commingling that would transcend the earthly pleasures of the flesh.

But 'not yet, not yet' - as a wise man once said to me.

It was almost dawn when I left her, eased her clinging arms from my neck, took one last kiss and told her I would see her soon. Out on the greasy streets, a grey light beginning to brighten up the night sky, I walked with a different step. The burden that I had carried with me for too long seemed suddenly less onerous. My thoughts turned to my dead wife and child and I faced their memories honestly. I would always love them, forever mourn them, never really forgive myself the act of pride that had condemned us all. But at least now I could accept that the real instigator of our tragedy was an evil madman and that my part in our fate was merely as a hostage to fortune- we were damned the moment Aurelius had confirmed me as his interim successor.

The gods had given me a strange and twisting path that wove its seductive way from humble obscurity to high command and almost limitless power before plunging me off the edge of the abyss to the depths of infamy and despair. But they had not finished with me. Here in this strange new world - my Terra Nova- I had been given a second chance and this time I would not waste it. Whatever I did in my life from this day hence, whatever trials and tribulations were sent my way, my abiding priority would be the safety and happiness of my beautiful girl. Nothing would ever harm her again. I would work my fingers to the bone to give her a good life and everything she needed. And she would reward me with handsome sons and lovely daughters to lighten my life. I saw a rosy dream of the future mapped out before me. This time I would be the Mother's chosen one.