TERRY

Case number 11037:  Al Jizah.  Terrain: urban desert.  Cargo: Minor female.  Clients: nervous, worried, borderline despondent- typical behavior for two parents who are worried about the life of their child.  Pretty average as cases go, all things considered. 

Fit all the parameters for a learning case.  They never get any easier than this, that much I do know.  And I've been doing this a long time.  Maximus hasn't, but he's got potential.  Don't get me wrong, now.  As far as extractions go, there aren't many men I'd trust more at my back.  Negotiation, however, is a different animal entirely.  Especially when English isn't your first language.  Or your second.  Add to that equation the fact you're conversing with people who also usually speak English as a secondary language..... you get the picture.  

Like I said- it's a perfect learning case.  The tricky thing about learning cases is that they tend to teach the instructor as well as the student.  And there's the real lesson, mate.  All cases are learning cases.  Some teach you more than others- but all have a lesson.  And the second you forget that- well, that's right about the time you should be retiring or they will presently be nailing down the lid, either on you or on your cargo- which means you're fucked either way. 

In this particular instance, Maximus was getting his first crack at going solo in the negotiation end of things, under my watchful eye, of course.  Not sure which one of us hated it more.... but this is our livelihood and if you think I am putting the general in the hot seat without the proper training then you're thicker than I thought.  Not when lives hang in the balance.  Not when they're cases handled by our firm.  And with all due respect to the Empire, 'Surrender or we'll put your head on a pike.' isn't exactly the sort of tactics we prefer employ- at least not at first, hey?

So progress report?  Officially?  Top marks for our friend the general.  Unofficially?  He is uncharacteristically disciplined (impressive considering you have to have an overdeveloped sense of discipline to even get into this line of work).  He takes a lot of notice.  Listens.  Learns.  Says little.  Unfortunately, he can be unduly willful if he judges something can be better done his way.  He still needs a bit of careful handling at times.  Which pretty much leaves me banging my head against the wall one minute- and then astonished by him the next.

Still, there's no getting round the truth.  He is an incredibly astute reader of people.  Which is, ultimately, the real skill.  Even if he misreads the subtext he still gets the man.  Today was a perfect example.  Despite his small error in English, the negotiation went well.  There was the usual cursing and taunts from his contact- but he managed to talk the man down nearly eighty thousand in one session.  Not bad for a rookie.  He was hard on himself about his error, though.  Too hard, I thought.  Dino agreed.

Normally, we wouldn't all need to be here working a single case, but I think we're getting close to wrapping this one up and I wanted Dino on hand for the drop.  Or for back up if it goes the other way.  Nothing like having another pair of hands to cover our arses, hey? 

Okey dokey....  So, back to the matters at hand.  Left to his own devices, I think 'Dimmesdale' would have spent the night flogging himself- and not in the good kind of way- so Dino and I took him out for a bit of boys being naughty.  Or rather, we employed the old tactic- drinks at a little watering hole I know under the guise of a 'meeting'.  Worked like a charm.  Much better than my previous attempt, anyway.  We had been working a week when we finally had a little downtime.  I made the mistake of asking if he'd called Heather.  His answer? 

"Why?" 

Why?  Jesus.  I just thought: 'Whoa- minefield, keep yourself out of that one, mate.'  And I have.  Mostly.  He just gave me that look.  That pleasant one that seem to say 'go there again, mate, and you will regret it.'  Fair enough.  I know modern women though- and have some history with that one in particular.  He bloody well better check in.  If he doesn't?  Christ, and he thought the tigers were bad....       

So, we had our meeting.  And we did talk business.  A little.  Contact was evenings, Tuesdays and Fridays- so we had three days before the next radio session.  Plenty of time to talk over the details.  Despite his small error, Maximus, or Duce as he was known to his contact, (cute, hey?) had a firm handle on things.  What he really needed was a night on the piss.  Get drunk.  Get laid.  Hell, get a fucking tattoo.  I didn't care what he did, as long as he got his head out of the game for a while.  Blew off a little steam.  We all could do.   

Which is how we found ourselves at the Mecure enjoying some imported beer and some entertainment of the feminine variety.  Dancers- not hookers.  Christ, you have dirty minds.  It was an interesting place.  Dark.  Rhythmic music infused with drumbeats and a score of other ethnic instruments provided a backdrop for conversations that took place in several languages, English, Greek, Arabic- and those were just at the nearby tables.  Exotic scents swirled in the air.  Incense.  Herbs- plus the usual mix of sweat and perfume, alcohol and smoke.  The dancers were even more exotic.  Full bodied and curvaceous.  The soft jingle of the delicate coin fringe adorning their costumes.  Long dark hair.  Bare feet.  Lots of soft brown flesh on display, undulating erotically.  

Now- me?  I've more catholic tastes in women.  Small.  Fair.  Willowy.  Now, Dino?  Those dancers were exactly the kind of women he goes for.  Dark and fiery.  Sensual.  Rounder, softer than the ones who usually catch my eye.  The general wasn't giving anything away, of course, but given the appearance of his first wife.... (and the woman he's currently NOT calling) I would say they were doing it for him as well. 

So, I did what any self-respecting man would have done in my position.  Sat back, ordered another beer and watched two dancers sway and undulate in a way that made me very glad to be a man.  Hey- if I can have a quasi-business chat and still find a way to look at attractive half naked women sashaying about, I bloody will.  And I make no apologies for it. 

The evening progressed.  We talked a bit of shop.  Talked a bit of shit as well.  Had a few more drinks.  Had a piss.  Had a laugh.  Eventually wound up at a booth in the back.  We touched briefly on the events of the day.  And what do you know?  The Stoic broke with tradition and actually frowned, no doubt thinking again of the error he'd made earlier.

I took a swallow off my beer and gave him the eye.  Could he be more morose?  He's fucking up my chi.  He is not the only one who's here to relax.  "Hey- it happens."

"Not to me."

Dino grinned at us both.  "Sounds a lot like someone else I know."  He gave me a pointed glance.

I gave him my best sickly smile.  "Don't even think it, mate."  Conversation degraded from there.  The usual drunken bravado and puerile remarks.  With a healthy portion of one-upmanship.  Fights we'd won.  Odds we beat.  Women we fucked.  Women we wanted to fuck.  The typical crap.  Dino was telling one of his stories.  All lies.  I finished my beer only to have Max toss down a wallet and claim the next shout.

I shook my head, pulling MY wallet from the table where he'd tossed it.  Shit.  Maybe I was more drunk than I thought.  Or maybe there was more to the general than I thought.  Like I said, learning cases, hey?

Max grinned.  "Think you invented that.... mate?" 

Dino laughed his arse off.  He will pay for that.  Mark my words.  In fact, I was just about to pinch his wallet when this high giggle had us all turning our heads.  Fucking Americans.  No wonder they have such a bad rep abroad.  Jesus.  This blond American woman had gotten up and was making a fool of herself, aping the dancers in a very loud, very patronizing way. 

Of course, the next thing I find is that Max has sent her a drink.  From me.  Fuck.  She was looking over at me and waving.  Fuck.  Fuck.  FUCK!  My two brothers in arms were smirking.  Bastards.  I surreptitiously slung them the bird as I smiled back at her.  At least she was young and moderately attractive.  Dino took the moment to mouth two words at me.  I had two for him as well.  Fuck off. 

I got up and turned to them, pasting on my best K and R face as I prepared to go over.  "I will fucking get you for this," I hissed a parting shot to the pair of them. 

Max saluted me with his glass.  "Enjoy."

I strode off with my game face on.  In the background, I could hear Dino yapping like a dog and felt my blood pressure climb.  Max's shoulders were shaking with laughter.  Dino's face was as ruddy as his hair, both with drink and with mirth.  I could have cheerfully strangled them both. 

I played the good boy, of course.  But her table wasn't far.  I might have jumped on the grenade- taken one for the team- but I wasn't out of earshot.  I said all the right things.  I bloody knew this game.  She gave me the green light (as if there had been any doubt) but I never stopped listening to them.

Dino:  "A twenty says he's going to realize we still have his wallet inside five minutes."

Max: "He already knows.... he's going to excuse himself to come looking for it.  I would...."

Wankers.  I called the waiter.  He took over my hastily scribbled note:

At least I'll get laid tonight.

T-

They laughed, predictably..... but they were right about my wallet.  I knew exactly where it was.  I wonder when they will figure out I've switched theirs?  Pity about that, hey?  Still, as easy a mark as the blond was, I seem to have lost my taste for them these days.  I bought her and her girlfriend another drink and took my leave.  Spun a sweet little story about being a good boy- saving myself for marriage- and sauntered back.  Threw myself down, already prepared for the ribbing I knew was coming.

It came from Dino, of course.  "Jesus, man.  You can't even score with a sure thing."  He chucked my wadded up little note back at me- followed by my wallet.  "What happened to 'getting laid'?" 

I gave him my most angelic smile.  "Sometimes a good night's sleep is preferred."  And then I got up to check if the girl I'd met earlier at the bar was ready to go.  She was.  Told her I'd meet her at the door in five.  Just had to make sure my sad buddies would make it home okay.  Worked like a charm- and had the added benefit of making me appear to be the responsible bloke when I was anything but.  She gave me the sweetest smile and went to get her wrap.  This time when I slipped back into the booth, neither of them were laughing.  I was.

Dino nodded to the pretty brunette waiting on me and elbowed Max.  "Man, he always does that...."

Max's eyebrow rose.  "So do you."

I just smiled.  "Hope you were paying attention.  This was an integral part of your induction."  That got him.  Max sniffed disdainfully at us both but his eyes were shining.

"Lessons are hardly necessary.  I was a master at that game two thousand years before the pair of you were even a glint in your father's eye."  He lifted his chin.  Considering he'd already turned down three women this evening, I suppose he's earned his bragging rights.  At least for tonight.  I wondered what had prompted him to send them away.  Was it because he was so deeply focused on the case or because of the recent changes in his personal life?  

I knew better than to ask.  I quite like my head where it is.  And if I'm lucky, I'm going to need it later..... one of them, anyway.  We made plans to meet in the morning and then I joined the sweet little thing waiting for me at the door, leaving Max and Dino to see themselves back.  Somehow, I think they can manage.  And even if neither of them passed the night as pleasurably as I planned to, at least Dino got some decent scotch and we actually got the Stoic to unbend a bit.  Hell, he even laughed.  Mission accomplished.

See, that's the thing about this job, though.... just when you think you're ready to close the deal, it all falls apart in your hands.  Yesterday, I never would have dreamed of mentioning Heather's name to him.  Today I found myself arranging for her arrival and hoping I was right about her.  About them both.  Max needed to be talked down.  And sometimes, your mates just aren't good enough.  Sometimes, only the woman you love can make it better. 

Trust me. 

I'm the expert.  

DINO

Her flight was early.  Tailwinds.  It shaved off nearly an hour, but I'd missed her arrival by thirty minutes.  I found her wandering in a nearby duty-free shop, killing time before she made her way back to the appointed rendezvous point.  She looked worried and nervous and from time to time, reached up to touch the pendant she was wearing, as if for reassurance.  I filed that way for later. 

I hadn't seen her in four months- since before she left for Italy.  Her fair skin was sun-kissed and darker than I remembered.  The contrast made her eyes look more green and it had deepened the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.  It made her seem very young.  We exchanged a warm greeting.  Intimate, but without any sexual overtones.  Not surprising really, given the situation and our history.  We had been lovers once.  I briefly wondered if we would be again, but it was hardly the time or place for such a conversation.

Putting my hand on her back, I took her bag and whispered into her hair that I knew she had questions but that it would be better if we waited until we got to the relative privacy of the car to talk.  She nodded, nervously brushing her fingers over the pendant again.  The soft, repetitious gesture drew my attention.  It was an unusual piece of jewelry.  Looked a bit like honey-colored amber ringed in gold.  I could see her heart beating in the delicate hollow of her throat.  She noticed my gaze and dropped her hand, ducking her head a bit as her cheeks colored slightly.  A gift from him, then.  I felt a brief stab of something- jealousy?  Hurt?  I wasn't sure.  Maybe just awareness things were different now.   

I almost wished we could talk freely.  At least it would have filled the awkward silence.  But then she put her hand in mine and squeezed gently.  Just once.  A flood of memories came rushing back, first and foremost among them the knowledge that we were friends.  Nothing could sever that bond.  I squeezed back as we did the usual song and dance in customs and immigration before I opened the heavy glass door as we made our way outside.

The arid heat hit us like a blast furnace.  She gasped softly, blinking at the brightness of the morning sun and coughing a little.  The air here was dry and hot.  Goosebumps rose on her skin in that strange way it does when you pass from the relative comfort of air-conditioning to the rudeness of the real desert.  The sudden emersion in such oppressive heat can take some getting used to. 

I chuckled.  "Welcome to Al Jizah."  She shivered in the intense heat of the sun and shaded her eyes, looking out over the impressive golden vista.  We didn't linger.  It isn't particularly wise or safe for Americans to be so visible here, particularly now.  She actually fit in better than I did with my fucking red hair.  With her dark hair and golden skin, dressed as she was in a long skirt and blouse with her hair covered by a light scarf (and wearing strappy sandals that I appreciated more than I should have) she looked more European than American.

Italy agreed with her.  Or maybe the general did.  She had more sophistication than I remembered, but it all seemed to melt away the moment she smiled at me as we slid into the car and she kicked off her sandals and pulled off her scarf, twisting it nervously in her fingers as she asked me what was up and waited impatiently for my answer.

I wasn't really sure how to answer her.  I wanted to set her at ease... but it was going to be tricky.  "He wasn't hurt, but there was an incident-"

"God, you went loud?  Here?  What happened?  Did you save the-"

I stifled the urge to sigh.  "Honey, you know that's not what we do."  Not usually, anyway.  While the drop and transfer can sometimes be a little..... hairy.... (and I admit, I get off on that thrill) what happened in Tecala was the stuff of legends for the simple fact that it was such a fucking anomaly.  Helicopters and grenades are hardly everyday occurrences in this field.  Most of my time is spent behind a desk.  Talking.  Listening.  Or drinking shitty coffee and wishing my contact would hurry up and get to the fucking point so I could go take a much-needed piss.

Like the old man says, this job- it isn't about rescues.  It isn't about bringing anyone to justice or meting out our own special brand of it.  The last thing we need is heroics.  It's about getting the cargo back in once piece- preferably without paying out more than we earn in premiums.  It's a business.  Not a crusade.  At least, not usually. 

Which isn't to say we don't plan for every eventuality, trying to figure out where the cargo is being held.  By whom.  How many of them are there?  How well armed are they?  Who do they work for?  Who else might be working against them?  Those are the kind of details that limit the transfer to hairy instead of deadly, you know?  Between the two nights a week when Duce was bartering for human life, the team had been busting their humps to work out exactly those sorts of details- and during that process there had been an incident.  One that Terry thought might have emotional repercussions for the general.  I agreed with him.

Under all that Stoic shit, Max is a just man like the rest of us.  And we all know sometimes it's just easier to talk to a woman.  None of us likes to show vulnerability to another man.  And the simple truth was we were too close to closing this deal.  Our last contact with them had been on Friday.  The incident occurred on Saturday.  Today was Tuesday.  In fourteen hours, Max had a date with the radio.  He needed to be there, rock solid.  If they connected the clusterfuck to us, things could go badly.  Really, really badly.  Terry and I didn't think Max would flake out.  He's too much a professional for that, but it could affect his judgment.  It happens to the best of us when we're shaken.  Jesus- look what happened to Terry in Tecala.  We're men- not robots, however much we might wish otherwise at times. 

That was why Heather was here.  It was a command decision- and one that wasn't just some wild hair we got up our collective asses.  Off the record, I ran it by the profiler who does our psychological testing.  He gave me an equally off the record answer.  'Does he have a woman?  Get her there.  He's not going to talk to anyone else.'  He also told me not to tell her the details.  The Doc felt he'd withdraw- even from her- if he felt set up.  So, that's how I wound up in this car, trying to tell her what had happened- without telling her exactly what the fuck had happened.  No easy feat, even for a man who uses words for a living. 

I explained the best I could on the way back to the safe house.  She got quieter, just nodded along without saying much.  She looked away and changed the subject when it became clear I wasn't going to spell it all out.  "How is Terry?"

"Fine."

She snorted.  "How is he really?"  

That made me smile.  "Terry is normal for Terry.  Broken heart and doing shit about it.  That is Terry when he's fine."  There was a serious moment and then I cracked a grin at her.  "Pathetic, huh?"

"Takes one to know one."  Her smile was soft, despite her teasing words.  "How are you, Dean?"

"I'm fine- you know me."

She did know me.  Well.  Which was why she didn't ask twice the way she had after Terry.  I appreciated the gesture and noticed her hand had returned to the pendant.  "That's pretty."  I nodded to it, cursing under my breath- both at the pedestrian traffic and for the simple fact I really didn't want to know about their private life.  "Amber?"  I don't know why I asked, except that she always had this way of flustering me.  And there was no way I was going to give up any shit about what was going on.  Not even for her peace of mind.  It was better to get her talking than to risk talking myself.     

She shook her head and her eyes got a far away look in them.  "Italian glass and Roman gold," she said softly.  "Max doesn't believe in rings anymore."  That was all she said.  That was all she had to say.  Eleven little words. 

It's one of the first things they teach you in this line of work- words have power.  They can save a life.  

Or break a heart.

Maybe save one, too, if we're lucky.  

MAXIMUS

It had been a long time since the weight I carried in my heart had felt so heavy.  I hadn't slept in two days.  Hadn't bathed in three.  Part of me wanted to lay down and sleep a thousand years.  The other part wanted to expend this torment in the only other way I knew how.  Violence.  The urge to pick up a sword and swing and hack and chop was so palpable I could taste it.  Could feel it rising in my throat, sitting on the back of my tongue.  Choking me.

For all its wonders, there are times I hate this modern world.  It feels too small.  Too tame.  Like I am suffocating on cooled, purified air in a neat white box.  I do not know how to be a man here.  Or perhaps it is that I am the wrong kind of man, too earthy and unfettered for this airless place.  The great general who once wished for the barbarians to see and know Rome's light has found that he is the real barbarian in the end.  I find it ironic.  And disturbing.

I felt restless.  I longed for the world I once knew.  Wished for the freedom of that time.  The desire to strip away these uncomfortable garments without judgment and pit myself against another burned in my breast.  Bloodlust.  I ached to feel the poison run out as I sweat and bled; as I made my opponent bleed, grappling for primacy, feeling my power rise up and overcome all who stood in my path.  Letting the blood rush drown out the hurt and feel peace return as it drained away. 

How many times had I done that?  Fought and won only to return to my tents and take my ease with a woman, sometimes even before I had washed away the blood.  A raw joining.  Man covers woman.  It is the order of the world- for beasts as well as men, but for men the physical drive is twined with emotional catharsis at such times.  Man takes woman.... but however strong he is, ultimately his body betrays him and it surrenders to hers.  In return, she gives him peace.  It was a different sort of struggle than that found on the battlefield, but no less fierce.  And no less necessary. 

I was lost here in this place where a 'man' is expected to find relief watching violence on television rather than expending it himself.  Get a massage.  Get a blow.  Take a hot shower.  Fute.  What a joke.  Am I supposed to be content with these half measures when I have had to freedom to experience them in full?  When I have known what it is to soak in a deep steaming bath and had my whole body expertly massaged with fragrant unguent before I took a relaxing steam- how can a mere shower compare? 

It is the same with ease of a different sort.  Men of this time are still men- and they still say the same things: You just need to get laid, man.  Get a girl.  You'll feel better in the morning.  Of course, they would be appalled if they saw what was in my mind's eye; roughly taking a woman with the filth and the blood of the battlefield still on me while my own blood roared loudly in my veins.....  I am quite certain not only are such things abhorrent here, but no doubt seen as deviant and likely illegal as well.  Still, I wanted it.    

But such thoughts are too raw for this sterilized place where the mere hint of the idea that a man might wish service and servitude from a woman is met with such scorn it rocks me back.  I have been called ugly things for making such statements.  I do not make them publicly anymore.  Perhaps I am like modern men in that.  Surely, the thought is still in their minds, simply not expressed.  People today just do not understand.  There is no dishonor in it.  I did not ask for anything I was not willing to give.  Did I not bow in service?  Put my sweat into the land that nourished my family.  Toiled for them.  Sacrificed.  Bled the ground red on three continents.     

Dominus.  The master.  I had asked for much, and in return gave to them my life, laid down for them again and again as I watched over them with a ready sword.  Is that not a fair trade?  Must I be made to feel shame for wishing to ease this ache in my chest the only way I knew how? 

I did not know what to do now.  I withdrew into myself.  It was remarked upon.  Another failing.  Yet another reminder I was still a barbarian.  I saw Thorne scratching notes into a file.  No doubt mine.  And no doubt a criticism.  Another to add to the list.     

I felt like sinking into the deep dark earth, letting it cover me.  Heal me.  I am sure that is a wrong thought as well.  I seem to have a lot of them.  I longed for my Papilio's softness.  I ached for the peace of my home, for the scent of herbs from her garden and the taste of lemons on her lips.  I wished to sink my hands into the rich earth and smell the fecund scent. 

It is a habit of mine.  

There has been much speculation on it over the years from those who served under me.  Why does the General kneel and finger the dust?  I have heard many theories that amused me.  The Gods speak to him through the earth.  It aids his grip in battle.  He wished to feel the ground we would be fighting on.  He was testing the wind's direction.  He tastes it- if it is bitter he knows we will be victorious...... and numerous others over the years.  Not one ever hit on the truth.  I am a farmer.  It reminded me of my home.  My family.  They are the reason I fought so viciously.  The scent of earth brought them back to me with startling clarity, reminded me what I was fighting for.  One sniff and I could feel the wheat under my palm.  Smell the harvest on the wind.  Feel the heat in the pink stone.  Taste the salt of my wife's skin.  Hear my small son's laughter.....

Blessed Mother, my heart was heavy.  

I returned to the safe house in the early hours, ignoring the watchful eyes of the others, acutely aware of my appearance.  I could smell myself.  It was not pleasant.  But worst of all was this uncomfortable feeling, as if my skin was stretched tight, dry and cracking, too small to contain the storm within for much longer- and yet there was more work to be done.  The life of another child hung in the balance.  I must not fail again.

HEATHER

I think he smelled me before he saw me.  His nostrils flared and for a handful of moments he simply stood there, leaning against the closed door of his room, staring at me as if I were some apparition.  He looked terrible.  Pale under his tan, rumpled and dirty.  His clothes were filthy, stained and torn in places.  A fine dusting of the sandy desert grit covered him from head to toe.  There was blood on his sleeve and more on his pants. 

It was shocking to see him so disheveled.  He is so careful with his appearance when he works, so concerned about making a mistake, as we would be dropped into a different time where we are unfamiliar with current fashions.  It's a joke for us at home.  It's his closet that has all the designer labels in it.  Ironic considering he's most comfortable wearing nothing but a dress shirt, open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up.  He is also smart, and used to using clothes to project a certain image of understated authority.  That his casual European elegance was so unkempt said reams about his current state of mind.    

I moved closer.

And wondered if he realized that he'd shaken his head, trying to dissuade me of the idea of approaching him.  I doubted it.  I did not listen.  And he did not speak.  There were smears of old blood on his face, crusty and black.  Fresh blood on his knuckles.  I could see the dust that had settled into the fine lines of his throat. 

Closer still.

I could smell him, ripe with sweat and that acrid scent left behind by adrenaline.  Or fear.  I touched him.  His eyes were wild.  And he was impossibly hard.  His throat worked but no sound came out as he tried to push me away.  I caught his hand instead and ran my thumb over his bruised knuckles.  He'd hit something.  Or someone.  I could feel it in him, the struggle for mastery.  He was a man on the edge.  Physically.  Emotionally.  And he was slipping further and further down the slope with each wild breath he took. 

I reached for him and he shoved at me again, more desperately this time.  Withdrawing the small metal tin from my pocket, I pressed it into his hand.  Inside was earth from our garden.  He still didn't speak but there was a question in his eyes.  I whispered for him to open it.  He did and immediately held it to his face.  I felt his chest rise and fall as he breathed in the scent of our home.  He went still under my hands as he replaced the lid, clutching the small tin tightly in his big palm.  This time, he didn't fight me when I reached to undo his belt.

He let out a deep shuddering breath as I opened his pants.  His scent was stronger now, rising yeasty and warm from his groin.  It was his natural scent intensified.  Overwhelming, but not wholly unpleasant.  It appealed to some primal part of my brain.  Slipping my hand down, I rubbed into the whorls of hair and stroked the standing column of flesh.  He tensed and grabbed my wrist. 

"Do not.  I am rank."  I wondered what it cost him to attempt to deny what he so desperately needed.  "This is not how I meant it to be."

Still within his grasp, I squeezed him lightly, rubbing his tip against my palm.  "Doesn't it feel good?"

He looked away, reluctant and a little embarrassed it admit it.  His chin lifted and he swallowed again.  "Yes..... it feels good."  The hold he had on my wrist loosened.  Making a circle of my fingers, I manipulated his skin back and forth over the head.  He groaned softly, his powerful body twitching as random nerves fired wildly under his skin. 

"Shhh..... close your eyes..... let it happen....."  I slid my hand deeper into his open pants and rubbed his scrotum, hefting the warm weight in my palm as his breathing grew heavier.  ".....relax..... just feel....."  I felt the exact moment he gave in.  Saw his fingers flex and tighten on the tin of earth.  His arm snaked around me, holding my body tightly against his side.  I saw his mouth work and then he bent forward- just once- and spat crudely on himself and then again into my palm, wrapping my fingers tight around his cock as he leaned back heavily against the door and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to me. 

I didn't play or tease.  I knew what he liked.  It was quick.  And wild.  The arm around my middle tightened almost painfully.  It was hard to breathe.  I put my cheek against his chest, feeling lightheaded.  He made almost no sound but his legs trembled and he shivered as he came with a deep grunt.  The force and distance of the initial pulse was surprising.  It must have been days since he'd allowed himself this release.  He shivered again and another pulse of creamy seed splattered softly on the rough stone floor at our feet.  He buried his face in my hair and shivered again.  I closed my eyes, stroking him gently as he rode out the last of it. 

He was even more silent after, but his body betrayed him.  He was sweaty and I could feel his heart beating so fast in his chest.  He was more docile in my arms now, boneless in the wake of his orgasm, but I was aware he was far from relaxed.  I had been allowed this intimacy for one reason alone.  He unwilling to unleash the full measure of his need without first blunting its sharpest edge. 

This was only the calm before the storm. 

I ran him a bath.  He watched from where he was leaning against the door, still unmoving.  He hadn't even bothered to close his pants.  They lay open, spattered with semen, crudely displaying the soft droop of his genitals.  I could smell his ripe scent on my hands, like some strange invisible thread that bound us.  My cheek felt gritty where it had rested on his chest. 

Returning from the bathroom, I gently brushed my mouth against his, whispering to him.  Asking him if he had any scented oil.  He usually travels with it, preferring soaking in a fragrant tub of water to the sluicing of hot shower, time permitting.  His cheeks colored slightly and he nodded curtly, avoiding my eyes.  I followed the line of his gaze.  The bottle was on the bedside table.  I suddenly became aware that my hands already carried a hint of the spicy fragrance.  His chin rose but he still did not move away from the door, nor did his color deepen further even though I could tell he was embarrassed.  My poor, sweet Bellus.

I went to fetch it, giving him a moment of privacy to recover while I poured some into his bath.  I needed a moment to recover too.  In the trash by the bed had been an empty packet of lemon drops.  It seemed so sad to me; Maximus longing for ease, sustaining himself with a few simple tastes of home and the lonely touch of his own hand.  Tears pricked behind my eyes.  I blinked them away, adjusting the temperature of the water before I led him back to the bathroom and undressed him. 

He submitted without complaint, allowing me the intimacy of undressing him at my leisure.  In his pants pocket was a wad of foreign currency.  And the kernel of seed corn he'd taken with him when he left.  Fifty-seven.  A fleeting sheepish smile ghosted over his face as I found it.  The only time he took any initiative to do anything else was when he paused to relieve himself before settling into the tub with a low rumble of appreciation as the water enveloped him.

I stripped and knelt on a folded towel by the side of the tub.  He simply closed his eyes and let me wash him; his hair, his chest, his legs and feet, under his arms, between his legs.  Even to pull the skin back and clean his most tender flesh with warm soothing water.  He groaned softly at the intimate attention but did not grow hard.  If anything, he only relaxed more.  By the time I was done with the last of him, the water was tan, like old tea.  I drained it and refilled the tub again, adding more of the spicy oil to the water before pouring it between my hands and using it to massage his big body, paying particular attention to the places he likes best.  Palms.  Soles of his feet.  And a few others, known only to the two of us. 

For a time he accepted my ministrations in silence and then his eyes opened.  Again, he avoided my gaze.  He looked at my body instead, first my mouth and then my hands and then my breasts.  His fingers twitched.  So did his penis. 

"Join me."  It was not a request.  He opened his legs wider and I slipped between them, settling back against the heavy bulk of his body.  He did not massage me with the oil as I had done to him.  He only closed his eyes and held me tightly against him, burying his face in my hair.  "You smell of home..... of sun.... and herbs..... and earth."

I smiled, thinking of the last time he'd told me I smelled of earth.  "I missed you."  

His hand slipped between my legs, cupping me possessively.  He did not say he missed me but I felt him smile against my neck.  For long minutes we simply lay there, breathing together in the same rhythm.  I traced the thick bones of his wrist, enjoying the wet rasp of his rough dark hairs against my fingertips.  He moved his hand from where it had been resting against my stomach and slid it between my legs.  His hips started moving, beginning a slow rocking.  I felt the soft bristly touch of his beard on my neck and then the not quite so gentle pressure of his teeth.  His hands wandered.  He was rubbing himself on me.  The wildness we'd blunted earlier was rising swiftly.  Urgently.   

He began an act of love that was less about pleasure and more about solace, even though he was incredibly dominant.  He touched me because he wanted to, because it gave him comfort, because made him feel good- but there was no question of primacy.  His authority was absolute.  So was his vulnerability, and he sought to bring me there too, physically if he had to, so he would not be alone in his need. 

We abandoned the bath for the bed, new lovers too long parted.  It wasn't rough; his earlier release had muted the physical need for a violent joining- but it wasn't particularly gentle either.  Something had disturbed him deeply and there was a sense he was taking me without apology- but only so he could crawl inside me and hide from the world; a blend of strength and weakness.  It wasn't domination he craved.  It was intimacy, raw and unfettered.  And he achieved it, in a way that was uniquely Maximus.

We kissed and touched until both our bodies were weeping with want and then he rolled us, arranging me on my back while he knelt up over me and put my feet on his shoulders.  I missed the weight of his body.  I felt empty and whispered to him to come inside, to come home, to fill me with his body and his love.  He did not.  Instead, he caught the edge of the sheet in his thick fingers and used it to wipe away the wetness trickling from his tip and from between my legs.  It was only then that he crudely spread me with his fingers and fit the head inside, grunting as he began to push. 

Without our lubrication to ease his passage, the friction was almost too intense- and suddenly I understood.  He wanted me to feel every inch of him.  And he wanted to feel every inch of me.  He is large- nearly too large to take this way.  There was discomfort as he pushed deeper.  I pushed back with my feet and my hands, not so much to slow his descent as to prolong it.  It was painfully exquisite.  Raw.  A breaking.  He was using his body to speak to me.  He didn't know how to tell me how he felt.  He couldn't explain.  But through the act, he could.  And did. 

It was erotic.  Intimate.  Highly charged.  He wasn't out of control physically as he'd been the first time.  This time, it was his emotions that ran unchecked.  He thrust deliberately.  It was slow and bordered on being too deep.  His preference.  Mine too, to tell the truth.  A few more strokes and his movements had caused a new rush of wetness for both of us.  He glided more smoothly now, but we were both so sensitized from earlier it made little difference.  He started to tremble and then eased off, holding himself still inside me.  I could feel the beat of his heart in the thick cock stretching my bruised flesh. 

He shifted and slipped a hand between us, running a finger around where we were so intimately joined, gathering the wetness there.  He rubbed it on my lips and flicked his tongue over it before kissing me deeply as he resumed thrusting.  The pause only seemed to heighten the sensation once he started moving again.  We both groaned.  I felt his mouth on my neck.  Not kissing.  Just this animal feel of teeth on the most vulnerable part of my throat as he jerked helplessly in my arms.  His smooth rhythm faltered as the wildness rose up and finally swallowed him. 

He held me motionless under him and thrust fast and deep in a way that must have stimulated him strongly.  It was the combination of being pinned and feeling him helpless to the urges of his own body that made me come.  I'm not even sure he knew I had, as lost as he was in himself.  The physical release was secondary to the emotional catharsis of that moment.  He is usually so quiet but as he shuddered and stilled while his body pumped its seed, he choked on a sob.  A few more hitching thrusts and it was over.  The storm abated. 

Or so I thought.  

I simply held him, stroking his back as he lay slumped against me.  I felt bruised.  My vagina stung.  But in a way that made the pleasure level out instead of dropping away.  I had missed that feeling, the sweet ache his body leaves behind in mine.  He rolled to his back, pulling me against his side.  There were no murmured apologies.  No soft query if he'd hurt me.  No asking if I was okay.  For him, it is the natural conclusion of this act.  Our bodies experience the aftermath differently and he sees no reason to apologize for it.  He likes it.  I do too.  And I like that unshakable confidence of his, that almost primal acknowledgement of our differences. 

We kissed softly.  I asked if he was thirsty.  He nodded.  I rose to get him a drink and felt his hand on my hip, stopping me from walking away from him.  He gently nudged my legs apart and I shivered as I felt his semen trickle down.  He cocked his head, watching with his tongue on his lip as a pearly bead ran down the inside of my leg.  He brushed the hollow of my hip with the rough pad of his thumb and watched with no small measure of satisfaction as his gift seeped from me to wet the stone below in small dark drops.  Without embarrassment, he cupped me between my legs and brought his hand to his mouth, kissing his fingertips gently before pressing them against me as I moved off to get the water.  Maximus is such a sensual man.  It always surprises me how he can make the simplest thing erotic. 

He drank deeply from the glass I brought and then we curled up together.  He still hadn't said much- and nothing about what was bothering him, but I hadn't really expected him to.  He's one for repressing his feelings.  Most men do, but it a hallmark of his time as well.  I whispered to him instead, speaking of simple things.  Of how good he'd made me feel.  Of how much I'd missed him.  Of our garden back home and projects I'd done while he was away.  Of the birds that were nesting in our trellis.  Of the stray dog I'd been feeding.  Of the family gossip I'd heard.  Even of the news that pictures of the Creator's son had been published recently in the papers.

"He is a fine looking boy."  He paused.  "Fairer than Marcus, but no less handsome."

I looked up, surprised he'd seen the pictures.  "You've seen them?"

He shook his head.  "No."  And yet he was obviously familiar enough to comment on the similarities.  I was amused.  Maximus is such a dark horse.  He hadn't said anything to me about such a meeting.  But then again, he wouldn't.  He can be so frustratingly closed-mouthed when he's trying to protect those he considers family.   

Our eyes met.  I'd expected his to be twinkling as they do when he plays such games with me... only they weren't.  They were wet and filled with pain. 

"Maximus....?"

He closed his eyes and lay back, tucking his hand under his head even as the other pulled me closer.  Tears seeped from under his lashes.  I was surprised when he spoke. 

"Two nights ago, I was trailing one of them-" he used a Latin word that means something like 'animals'.  But also carries the meaning of feral or dirty.  "It was midday.  The streets were full.  He was nervous, looking behind himself often.  He saw another man trailing him- not... not me, I was well hidden- but he has many enemies.  He panicked, fleeing as if all the demons of the Underworld were at his heels."

I wondered where he was going with this.  He never speaks to me of the details of his work.  And I have never heard his voice as it was then, soft and shaking with anguish.  Another tear seeped from under his long lashes.  "He drove off at speed.  There was a small boy in his path..."  His body trembled with revulsion at the vivid memory and he swallowed hard before continuing.  "He did not even try to swerve.  The boy was nothing to him.  A street urchin, dirty and brown, skinny.... like a little scarecrow."  I gasped.  "His tiny body was broken, crushed under the wheels....... as if he'd been ground under a horse's hooves." 

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.  That was too familiar an image.  I thought I might be sick.  "Oh, God....."    

"I made a choice... I let the man get away to remain behind with the boy.  He was still alive when I got to him, bloody and crumpled like a paper doll.  He had no shoes and a hard crust of bread was still clutched in his fingers.  He died in my arms calling for his mother."  A powerful shudder wracked his body and he turned into me, pressing his face into my belly as he wrapped his arms around me and wept.

Oh, God.  This was about Marcus.  Some silly mention of a picture of the Creator's son had triggered an unexpected torrent of words from a man who rarely speaks of such matters.  And he probably wouldn't have if he hadn't held that small boy's broken body in his arms as his life left him.

I don't know how long we lay there.  I just stroked his hair and rocked him.  It was a long time before he spoke.  "Filius meus."  He breathed the words like a prayer against my skin.  "My son.  Holding that boy.... I couldn't help but think of him...."  His voice was soft, rough with tears.  "Wondering what he must have thought as he died... who he cried for.... whether it was quick-" his voice hitched, ".... or lingering..." 

There was the sense in his tone that he had never dared voice those thoughts to anyone.  Thought them, perhaps, but not voiced them.  It hit me hard.  People in his age just repressed things where today we are encouraged to speak.  They internalized.  Coped through revenge.   

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and put his head back down on my body, as if he could absorb solace from my skin.  How I wish he could.  My hand found his.  "I held his tiny body on the day he was born.  Imagine how it felt to lay its blackened remains to rest?  How can any father look on that and want to live?"

Tears rolled down my own face at his soft admission.  An image of him lying between two graves played in my mind's eye.  Mounds of dirt with fresh wildflowers on them.  It was the flowers that made my heart ache for him so terribly.  The idea that bloody and broken, he'd decorated their graves before he lay down between them, wanting with all his heart to join them in Elysium. 

We simply held each other and cried together.  So many past conversations played in my mind.  Things he had said to me.  Things I had heard him say to others.

Wild ponies play near my house, they tease my son.  He wants to be one of them.

Such joy in the memory.

My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife.

Father to a murdered son.

To my boy, I tell him I will see him again soon, and to keep his heels down when he's riding his horse. To my wife...that is not your business.

Again, thoughts of his son came first.

Other conversations we'd had about Roman culture suddenly made sense in a completely different way.  Like when all the pieces finally fall into place.   The loss of his wife had cut him deeply but as a Roman man, no matter how much he had mourned her, it was the death of his son, the end of his line, that was the shattering blow.  The way he was with his wife- that was the private man, but his son... that was his public face.  To see his line flourish; it was his image of the purpose of a man's life.  Marcus wasn't just the future; he was a link to the past as well.  The blood of the ancestors lived on through him. 

"Do you know what a son means to a man like me?"  It wasn't a question he expected me to answer.  It wasn't a sexist question either.  But it was a real way of knowing that I could never quite understand his world.  That is the distance between our ages.  And still, my heart ached for him.  I may not be able to fully understand, but love is a wondrous thing.  A gulf of two thousand years stands between us.  Love bridges it and allows my heart to walk with his on the other side. 

"Filius meus."  His words were soft and low.  His son.  His destiny.  The future.  Marcus had carried the line forward; the purpose of Max's life had been completed.... and to lose that link- his entire line gone.....  It wasn't just a blow to him.  All his ancestors had been cheated of a future.  How disturbing that must be to his sense of self.  It made me think of something he said to me once. 

"We believed it too.  When a person died, a family member kissed their last breath and inhaled their anima- you would say spirit or soul- and it lived on in us, as did all those who had gone before us."

Perhaps in his mind, he'd imagined passing his anima to Marcus.  His death was the end of so many things.    

Other conversations we'd had began to surface in my memory.  How he'd told me about the Underworld.  All the dead are there in Elysium... together with the lives yet unborn.  The future.  The souls of your family yet to come.  I hadn't realized it until this moment.  Without Marcus, the links were broken, the cycle had stopped.  He must feel like an outcast.  The man who had caused the end of his line.

My heart ached for him.  For what he suffered.  For what he suffered still.  Even the gentleness of this moment hurt him.  He is so starved for it, yet it is partly of his own choosing.  The memory of an empty packet of lemon drops brought fresh tears.  For so long he had held himself apart, not wishing to feel so much again.  And now he does.  Opening himself to love meant opening himself to pain too.  It was a double-edged sword; one that had pierced him deeply in the last days, and again today in this bed that was draped in golden sunlight and smelled of our lovemaking.  I would have done anything to drink his pain into myself. 

Love.  It is such a simple thing.  When you need me most, I will be there for you.  That is love.  It's not what you get back in return.  It's not flowers and hearts and pretty declarations.  It's being the one trusted enough to catch the fall. 

Meus Bellus Maximus.  He is the kind of man who is not normally on his knees or crying.  That is the point.  But you can't fall far if someone is there to catch you.  And as long as I had breath in my body, I would always be there to catch his fall.  I held him tighter and we whispered together of the past and of the future, too.  Memories of his son.  Sins of the father.  His desire to see his line flourish once more.  His frustration that he was no longer potent.  His despair at the loss of another innocent child.  His vengeful feelings.  He did not simply wish to plunge his sword into the man who'd taken the life of that small street boy.  He wished to squeeze the breath from him with his bare hands.  That he could not do so without jeopardizing the case he was negotiating disturbed him deeply.  Without revenge as a way of coping, he was floundering. 

It suddenly dawned on me that was the reason Terry had sent for me.  That Max had yet to comment on my presence here revealed just how deeply he had been rattled by the boy's death.  I smoothed my fingers over his bruised knuckles, a question in my eyes.  They were not the only bruises his big body carried.  

He looked away.  "I did not know what to do....."  He paused long enough for me to wonder if he was going to finish explaining.  Finally he sighed deeply and rolled to his side, nuzzling his face against me so he did not have to meet my eyes.  "I could not find the boy's mother.  I spent many hours looking.  I think he might have been an orphan.  I arranged for his body to be....." 

He swallowed hard and didn't finish.  I knew what he meant.  He'd made the necessary arrangements for the tiny body to be cremated.

"In my despair, I found a place where men fight for money."  I suppose that should have shocked me.  It didn't.  "I won."  He gestured to the wad of money I'd pulled from his pants earlier.  "If I cannot find the boy's family before I leave this place, I will find another dark haired little boy who needs shoes and food....." 

He was being modest.  There was more money piled on the counter than most people here made in all their adult lives.  

Rolling away, he lay back against the pillows.  "This is not how I imagined my first visit to these lands."  

I scooted down and put my head on his thigh, gently ruffling the hair at his groin and absently playing with his soft flesh as we spoke.  "What did you imagine?"

"In truth, I was curious.  I wished to walk in the steps of Alexander and Marc Anthony.  That is what this place is to me.  After Marc Anthony and Cleopatra, it was absolutely forbidden for any member of the royal family or ANY general to ever enter the province.  Even for a trip."

"How come?"

"It was the heart of the wealth of the Empire, as well as the granary, and the danger of losing it was immense."

"Yeah?"  I'd never imagined it from that point of view before.  

He nodded and then grinned wryly.  "It was always the place a general with a loyal army would look to start an insurrection.  It was treason for a general to go there.  Immediate execution."  His eyes sparkled in a way they had not since he left Italy so many weeks ago.  "I have spent many hours walking the city."

His comment made me laugh.  "You always did like to live dangerously."  I touched him softly.  "I'm sorry it couldn't have been a more pleasant experience."

A serious look replaced his teasing smile.  "I am too, Papilio."  His eyes had taken on a different light.  Softer now, but no less hungry than they had been earlier.  We made love again, softly this time, with a care for our bruised flesh.  It was gentle and pure.  As cleansing as the bath we'd shared earlier. 

Some time later, we wound up there again.  The bath.  He was nearly asleep.  I sat on his lap facing him and fed him a simple meal while we bathed and soothed our stinging skin and sore muscles.  I wondered if I'd ever be able to close my legs again.  My body ached with the force of his loving.  But it was a good ache.  I didn't think I'd ever felt more content than I did in the bath with him that afternoon.... 

Until he spoke.  He seemed to blink and shake himself, as if he'd just seen me for the first time.  His eyes flicked from the honeyed date in my fingers to my face.  And then he frowned.  "You should not be here."  Now that the demons tormenting him had been eased, his mind was clear to entertain other matters.  I could see the light come on as he worked it out. 

He was directly opposed to any personal contact when working.  It wasn't just his culture, it was his nature.  He wanted his woman firmly out of any hint of his public life.  No matter how much influence this modern world had upon him, I was certain that was something he would always be very old fashioned about.  I tried to hide my smile and failed.   

His frown deepened, pulling his lips into a moue.  "Do not make light."  I braced myself for it.  He is a plain talking man.  I knew what was coming was going to be painfully blunt.  "This is my world, not yours."  He stroked the column of my throat with wet fingers.  "I do not want you here.  I do not want a woman who seeks to show me that she can do what a man can."  His face softened and he touched his forehead to mine.  "I want a woman who can do what I cannot."

He pulled away and lifted his chin.  "If I need sex, I can get it from a whore.  If I need company, I can get it from a man."  I cringed a bit at the starkness of his words, not quite prepared for that much blunt honesty- but there was something appealing about it too.  He was who he was and he would not apologize for it.  Even when it grated, I wouldn't change a single thing about him.  His uncompromising nature was one of the things I loved best about him.  Without it, he would not be the man who stood in the sand in front of fifty thousand Romans and dared to defy an emperor.     

"And what exactly is it you need from me?"  I opened my mouth again but he pressed a wet finger to my lips.

"A home." He said simply.  "And a place for this."  He tapped his chest, just over his heart.  How can you stay mad at a man who says such beautiful things?

We dried each other gently with the same big fluffy towel and crawled into the rumpled bedding.  Maximus was exhausted.  He actually set an alarm, something he almost never does.  That he was tired enough to worry his internal clock might not wake him was telling. 

He made his appointment on the radio that night.  Walked out of the room we'd shared focused as ever, as if he hadn't spent the last three days in emotional agony.  So typical of him.  He is the strongest man I have ever known.  And the most gentle. 

Four days later, they closed the deal.  A few days after that they made the drop and retrieved the cargo.  No heroics.  No rescues.  No going loud.  Just one innocent child returned to frantic parents and the laughter in one good man's voice as he called me to say that he was coming home.

MAXIMUS

I managed to hold my tongue on the radio that night, even though I wanted nothing more than to kill that whoreson with my bare hands.

A learning case, they'd called it.  I learned much, but I think the greatest knowledge came from the realization of just how impressive the reach of a Thorne and a butterfly can be, given the proper motivation.  After my appointment with the radio that evening, I returned to my room and woke my woman.  We loved again.  Fiercely.  Quite impressive for a man of my years, I would say.  I was like a boy again.  A boy with a very sore cock, when all was said and done- but I have never slept so well.  Or been so smug. 

The morning came too soon.  The desire was there yet again, but we still ached too much.  She suckled me sweetly with her mouth instead- as I did to her.  It was soft and indescribably tender, soothing each other, loving each other with our lips and tongues.  A fine way to greet the day.  It made me smile.  It has been many years since I could not get my fill of a woman.  I wanted her still.  It feels as if I am thirst and she is an ocean of cool sweet water.  I could drink of her forever. 

I think her mind was much the same.  She gave me something upon parting, much the same as when I had given her the pendant she now wears.  Not a gift, a symbol.  Unity.  She had pressed it into my palm.  It was an ankh made of blue lapis.  Everlasting life.  I can still hear her whisper in my mind.

You are my air, Maximus.

It was a good symbol.  Strong.  A symbol Christians also wear for protection- but for us it was more.  The notion of eternity entwined with that of giving life, and with it, the acknowledgement that I had chosen to wear a symbol that matters to her too.  A unity of ideas and a blend of old and new, much like we are.

I pulled off the leather thong at my throat, discarded the tooth that I have worn since boyhood, and threaded on the ankh.  Her eyes were wide and round.  She had not expected that- which pleased me- but I also wished for a tangible mark like the one she now wore.

I touched her softly, her cheek first and then her pendant, following the line down between the fullness of her breasts and over her flat stomach to the dark hair below.  She smiled at me.  I smiled back and refastened the thong at my throat.  "Now I have a new symbol to protect me.  Mars was the bringer of death.  This is the bringer of life."  We kissed softly.  She held me tightly to her breast.  My Papilio.  If I am her air, she is my earth.

Everlasting life?  I pray to the Gods that I might be granted one with her.

Later that morning, I was at the table drinking tea and reading the paper when Thorne came down, scratching at himself crudely as he threw himself into the chair and lit up.  Observing me, was he?  Trying to read the signs?  Too bad.  I wasn't the one with the cigarette, now as I?  He stared on.  I turned the page and kept reading. 

Adding yet another spoonful of sugar to his tea, he finally broke into a grin.  It was difficult not to do the same.  "So, how's Heather?"

I did not look up from my paper.  "I sent her home."

He choked on his tea.  I excused myself and went back to my empty room.  We did not discuss it again until the case was over and everything had been resolved.  The clients and cargo were safely away.  O'Leary had returned to the pile of work waiting for him.  We, too, were nearly ready to depart; his plane to England, mine back to Italy, to home and the harvest of a new love.  Before we left, we shared a drink in the airport bar. 

Checking his watch, he rose.  I stood too.  "I owe you a debt of thanks."  His eyebrows went up at my solemn words.  "Leadership involves much more than leading.  It also means reading the signs.  You are a great leader of men....."  It was not easy to say, but it is the truth and I owed it to him.  And to myself.  ".....but if you ever bring her near the action again, I will kill you."  He nodded once in all seriousness and then he laughed as he shook my hand. 

It felt good.  

So did the knowledge that I would soon be welcomed home with open arms.  We parted.  I touched the new symbol at my throat and smiled, wondering if she would like the one I had for her.  Safe in my pocket was the tin of earth she'd brought for me.  Inside it, the kernel of seed corn had begun to sprout new life.  All it needed was the earth.  Her earth.  As I did.  And for the first time in more years than I want to remember, I was looking forward to the future instead of longing for the past.