Water of Life

A special thanks to Uma for her beautiful words.

 

August 2003

HEATHER

Time marches on.  How easily the days slip one into the other, especially now in the heat of summer.  Lazy days.  Honeysuckle wind and the droning of insects make the perfect backdrop for slow afternoons spent in the shade of the wisteria that winds over the trellis outside. 

Maximus made good on his promise.  He did take me to dinner, but it was in the dappled sunlight under the trellis that he first read to me.  He started our evening by taking me to this little place down on the water.  We ate a simple meal with our fingers and watched the boats.  We sipped tart-sweet lemonade and had a wonderful conversation about silly childhood memories; trouble we'd caused, pranks we'd pulled... punishments we'd earned.

Over dessert, he have me a delightfully strange and heartfelt gift.  It was a small leather satchel with a strap that was meant to be worn over the shoulder and across the chest, leaving your hands free.  Inside it were two apples, a small blank journal, a fountain pen, a wineskin and an old leather-bound book. 

Max enjoyed my curious examination of his gift.  I fingered the soft supple leather and breathed in the rich scent before I looked at him with a question in my eyes.

"Flavia had one like it.  I rarely saw her without it."  His eyes glowed with the memory.  "I called it her 'everything bag'."  That made me laugh.  I held up the apple next and raised an eyebrow.  He colored slightly.  "She always had something for me- an apple or a pear.  I like sweet fruit...."

While I enjoyed his gifts, he spun a beautiful story, telling me about how he would produce a knife from his tunic and they would cut the fruit and share it as they read to each other, their fingers and lips sticky with sweet juice, and their hearts full of each other.

I pulled out the wineskin after that and he nodded with a cocky little smile.  "She always had something to ease our thirst as well, usually watered, sweetened wine."  He waved his hand dismissively.  "A drink for girls or little children...."  His smile grew warmer. ".... however, I found it quite..... refreshing... on those hot summer afternoons."  I laughed, thinking of the pair of them, lying together in the tall grass, giddy on sweet wine and their first taste of love. 

I smiled to myself.  It's always the toughest old soldiers who are the softest touch for sentimental gestures.  I shook the empty wineskin gently.  "Do you have a preference now?  For next time....?"

He nodded.  "I prefer a rich strong red.  A Bordeaux or a Shiraz."  

I filed that bit of information away for later and removed the journal, setting it on the table between us.  I ran my fingers over the unusual cover.  It looked like it had been papered with dried and pressed cornhusks.  "And this?"  Books were so precious in ancient times.  I couldn't imagine Flavia's parents being so indulgent.  Max had said they were well to do, but not overly wealthy.

He took the small book in his large hand and absently thumbed through the creamy blank pages.  "I was hoping you might keep a simple record of this special time of ours," he said quietly.  He didn't say it expressly, but I understood.  It would be a written record nobody but the two of us would ever see.  It made perfect sense.  It was his way to protect Flavia.  To honor her memory, he would reveal things about himself, and about her, that should never go beyond the three of us.

I smiled.  "Of course I will."  With a laugh, I dug out the pretty silver pen and wrote a brief account of dinner, right then and there- including the encounter with the cheeky seagull that so bravely stole a French fry from the Commander of the Armies of the North.  He'd laughed then and he laughed again when I blew gently on the wet ink and handed it over to him to read.

"You are good for me, papilio."

I blushed.  "And you have a nice laugh, Max."  Oh, how I loved it when he got that bashful look. 

He 'tsked' at me and recovered by reaching into the satchel to pull out the last of his gifts.  A book.  Aesop's Fables.  A childhood favorite of his, he said.  He let me look at it, showing me the beautiful illustrations.  I was awed.  I love old things and the book had to be two hundred years if it was a day.  I said as much.

"Three hundred and fifty-seven, actually," he said with a smug little swagger.

On the way home in the car, he told me about the story he liked best.  Typically his body language is very controlled and very proper, but as he told the story it became unusually animated.  Again, a glimpse of that boy, impassioned by his love for the tale that had sparked his interest and excited his youthful imagination.

The evening was balmy and tranquil.  The deck was warm under our bare feet and the late summer sunshine cast long shadows all around us.  It seemed a magical time.  We ate slivers of tart apples and sipped wine as rich as his smoky dark voice while he read aloud.  I closed my eyes and rested my head on his leg.  I felt his fingers absently playing with my hair as he read, but in a sweetly innocent way. 

His language was beautiful, somehow both foreign and soothing.  He was eloquent.  A master storyteller.  Truly a dying art.  Today we depend on television and radio, CD's and MP3's.  Maximus was from a time where stories were told orally.  And he was incredibly good at it.  His voice carried the feel of the story as he read- not just growing louder and softer, but infused with passion and sorrow, excitement and trepidation as the story unfolded.

Though he had shared the heart of the story with me on the way home in the car so that I would have a richer, more full understanding of the story, and of him, he read it so well I felt like I could almost grasp it from the Latin alone.  When he turned the last page and fell silent, I felt as if I'd been on an emotional journey, as powerful as any moving book or film I'd seen or read.  It was an extraordinary experience.

"That was lovely."  He gave me a curt nod.  "Thank you, bellus."  For a moment, his bashful look was back and then he smiled and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear.  It was intimate but not a precursor to a kiss or an embrace. 

"It was my pleasure, papilio."  He rose and helped me to my feet.  "It has been a long time.  I rarely hear or speak that much of my own tongue except in my dreams."  Or with Uma, I thought.  How he must love that about her.  The thought made me warm inside.  Of all men, he deserved to have those precious moments that made his heart glow.

He tucked the book and the knife he'd used to cut the apples back into the satchel and pulled the wooden toggle through the loop, securing the flap.  He slipped it over my head, adjusting the straps to lie flat over my shoulder and between my breasts, the way a cheeky boy might have.  The backs of his knuckles brushed my breast.  It was the softest touch and appeared completely innocent, but I knew I would think about it later and wondered if he would as well. 

With a look of regret, he checked his watch.  "I must go now if I am to make my flight."  I nodded and he patted the book in the satchel at my waist.  "You provide the book next time.  One of your childhood favorites.  Like for like."

"A book, some wine, and some sweet fruit."  I clasped his hand and we both squeezed.  "I'll be waiting...."

He gave my hand one last squeeze and made this slight little formal bow.  I waved as he drove off and my heart felt lighter than it had in ages.  I threw propriety into the wind and skipped back inside, feeling every inch a girl again.

 

~ * ~

 

We saw each other a few more times that August.  Neither of us logged the visits.  There seemed little point.  They were hardly a traditional 'visit'.  In truth, most of them lasted only a few hours.  Usually he would try to schedule his trips so that he had a layover in Seattle.  Most often, we would meet at a park near the airport and just steal a little time to read to each other under the maple trees.

I would bring wine and sweet fruit.  We both would bring books.  And we had such fun.  Even in the rain... and that, friends, was how I discovered the General of the Felix Legions did indeed know how to puddle jump.  Though to be perfectly fair, he only did it once and I think it was solely for shock value.

It worked.

I stood there, open-mouthed.  He 'tsked' at me and told me it wasn't proper deportment for a lady in public to stand there with her mouth hanging open... but all the while, those eyes of his twinkled with merriment. 

 

 

September 2003

Heather

The next time I saw Maximus was during the week where all the Sisters decided to visit the Temple.

 

 

He had recently been with Ann and I was on my way to meet Dino.  We shared a sweet moment together that seemed in a way to somehow reinforce our plan.  It was almost like proof that what we shared was somehow outside the boundaries of the Game.  Our growing friendship had no bearing on our intimate relationships with others.  I sensed no jealousy on either of our parts.

He was soft with me, and sweet... but still himself.  It felt like two friends meeting and sharing a secret as we went about our separate ways.  And as it ever is with Maximus, I understood that though he may play with boy with me at times, he is first and foremost a formidable man with an incredibly sharp mind.  He spoke.  I listened.

 

 

18 September 2003

MAXIMUS

You would think I have learned better over the years, but I am still surprised at how quickly my ordered life can descend into chaos.  The next letter I received from Heather was shortly after it became public knowledge that my wife had left me.  We had been struggling for many months.  I respected her decision to return to her own time.  I understood it.  Even knew it was the best choice for both of us... but it was not without pain.  What kind of man would I have been not to mourn the loss of my woman?

Little by little, letters and shows of support trickled in; the odd message on my answering machine.  Dinners prepared by our neighbors and left on my doorstep.  A bottle of very fine malt appeared in the mail.  No card.  I suspected O'Leary.  Another bottle arrived.  Not top of the line, but close.  A lesser known label but one that I particularly favor.  It could only be from Hando.  He has a surprisingly fine eye for detail.  We shared a bottle once. 

I also received a couple of notes, shows of solidarity from the others.

 

and

 

 

Even one incredibly tasteless note dropped to me by way of IM.  

 

Sometimes I find it difficult to fathom the minds of modern women.  What kind of heartless man would celebrate his wife's departure from his life?  And what kind of woman would send such a callous note?

Two days later, I received a letter in the mail.  There was a butterfly impression in the blue wax on the back.  My papilio... but I already knew it was from her.  Even if I hadn't recognized the handwriting, it smelled of her.  Lavender.  I poured some wine and settled myself on the deck out back to feel the sun on my face as I read her words. 

 

 

Her words were a balm to my aching heart.  I finished the bottle of wine and started on another.  I gave tears to the night.  Mourned my loss and took strength from the kind gestures made to me.  Heather's words helped me see what had been around me all along.  My woman was gone, but I still had family.  The proof was in all the messages of support that I had received, in the two bottles of malt inside, and in the letter that I held in my hand.

I might be alone, but I was still loved.  I did a lot of thinking that night.  Made a lot of decisions.  Decided to accept a position as an operative for TOL, pending satisfactory completion of the mental and physical tests I knew would be a requirement to enter that line of work. 

I wrote to Heather the following morning, just before I tossed my bags in the car and locked the door on my family home for the last time. 

 

 

 

October 2003

HEATHER

Fall came.  I hadn't seen Max since the leaves turned.  Like he had before when Flavia was no longer in his life, he threw himself into soldiering.  Challenging his mind and body.  And I would bet wearing himself out so that sleep came easier at night.  At least, I hoped so.

He'd called me twice, both times late in the evening hours.  We spoke only briefly.  What he'd really wanted was to hear me read to him.  Both times I talked my throat raw.  The first time, he noticed and interrupted to say a quiet goodnight.  The second time, I think he fell asleep.  He'd stopped talking and his breathing had evened out.  For a long time, I just held the phone and listened to him breathe.  Just like a girl would, I guess.  I wondered if Flavia had ever held his head in her lap and stroked his brow, watching over him as he slept.  I hoped she had.

Life went on.  I was enjoying the new family I'd gained- Sisters and Brothers.  I think it was very much like any other family with its silly squabbles and complex internal politics- but I suppose with so many heartstrings involved, it was to be expected.  Still, we managed, as all families do.  Ours was large and spread over the world.  Our lives were all busy but we did try to meet once a week online, sort of an open call for anyone in the family to drop in at will.  One never knew who would show up.  It was usually quite entertaining- as most of us sipped wine or scotch or margaritas while we chatted. 

Late one October evening, I was chatting with two of my Sisters when Maximus unexpectedly turned up.  He was alone in a hotel room (he didn't say where) in the final few days of preparation for his first assignment with TOL.  It was strange seeing him interact with us in that setting.  My bellus was nowhere to be seen.  He was the General Maximus, self-sure and dignified.  It reminded me of how he'd been with the senators in his film.  He might swing a sword, but his mind is just as sharp.  He gave away nothing and somehow entertained us all. 

Wine flowed.  We flirted.  We are women, after all!  He spoke of slaves and gladiators- and of prices and gifts.  And then it was my turn to answer.  What gift would I give the mighty Maximus?  I couldn't match the creativity of my Sisters' answers.  I chose something simple instead.  Salt.  I think they thought I was nuts, but Maximus understood.  His response told me so.  In his day, salt was precious, even used for currency.  Hence our word salary.  My answer also carried with it a feeling of 'salt of the earth' and hinted at my growing knowledge of his era.  I wondered of my answer had made him smile. 

We drank and laughed.  The conversation grew increasingly bawdy and I grew increasingly more quiet.  One of my Sisters begged him to share a fantasy.  I suspected it would be something silly like Terry's obligatory mud wrestling comment every time he's prompted for a fantasy.  What a laugh.  He would never reveal anything so private as a sexual fantasy in a public setting.  I wondered if Maximus would.

I was surprised by his response. He spoke of a fantasy that didn't seem like a fantasy at all, despite how it was couched.  'Three women', he teased the three of us.  And then he qualified it: A slave girl to attend to his bath.  A mistress to attend to his body.  And a wife to attend to his heart. 

The others laughed and playfully scrambled to divide up the positions he had named.  I just felt sad.  He was alone in the world, about to depart on a dangerous assignment and his answer, though flip, was incredibly revealing.  He wanted a woman's softness in all the spheres of his life.  He wasn't only alone.  He was lonely.  Couldn't they see the longing in his answer?

I said little, unwilling to spoil their light mood or to reveal what Maximus had kept hidden.  One Sister clamored to be the servant girl.  The other debated between wife and mistress.  I didn't want to play the game and simply resigned myself to taking whichever of the three 'options' was left over at the end.

I was not surprised when the second Sister chose to play the part of mistress.  (With some prompting from Maximus himself.)  They had grown increasingly intimate as of late and I knew the feelings ran deep on both sides.  It was not my place to interfere, though I found it interesting how the parts were eventually divided up between us.  Or maybe I was just reading too much into a simple game?

Perhaps.  But perhaps not.  I did know having the role of 'wife' fall to me left me feeling uncomfortable.  Too exposed.  Like some secret longing I'd never even heard from my own heart and suddenly been snatched away from me and whispered aloud before an audience. 

There was much teasing about a slave's duties in the bath and a mistress' duties in bed.  I felt uncomfortable when the attention turned to the 'wife' to fulfill her part of his fantasy.  I thought about how I'd read to him until he drifted off and made a simple comment about holding him while he slept. 

He left not long after that, thanking us all for an enjoyable evening and for taking his mind off his coming 'campaign', at least for a little while.  I left a little after he did, disturbed by the conversation on a number of levels.  I walked the house for a while, restless.  Drank another glass of wine and took a walk along the lake out back, but I still found myself unable to quiet the emotions that had been stirred within me.  In the wee hours of the morning, I found myself back in front of the computer, writing him a letter. 

 

 

His reply was waiting when I woke.  The time stamp amused me.  He had written it within minutes of the time I'd mailed it to him.  He might have left our chat, but it seemed he had had a restless night as well. 

 

 

Sweet bellus.  It was so easy to imagine him enjoying his mail.  Surely after having spent so many years of his life waiting for correspondence that took weeks or months to find him, how he must have appreciated the nature of letters that could find their way back and forth in a matter of seconds.  It took a few days for me to find the right words, but eventually I found a good balance between honest and heartfelt.    

 

 

He wrote me back a few nights later, on the eve of his departure to Croatia.  

 

 

He is such a beautiful man.  How right I was about not being able to manage anything casual with him.  I did not write him back.  I knew he was busy preparing to leave and I didn't want to take up any more of his time than I had already.  And to be honest, I didn't know what to say.  As it turns out, he did.  He called me later that night and spoke to me only in Latin.  It was just like his masterful storytelling.  I didn't need to understand the words to know the emotion behind them.  The boy would miss his girl.

 

 

November 2003

HEATHER

I knew Maximus was busy on assignment in Croatia, but as our nation celebrated Veteran's Day, I was unable to resist the urge to write to him.  I'm a soft touch for old soldiers.  I have been all my life.  I visited my grandfather's grave and wrote to all the old soldiers I knew; to Dino and Terry, to Jack and my brother, Scott.  Honoring those who have served always brings me to tears when I think of the great sacrifices each has made, but I found my letter to Maximus hardest to write.  I suppose as far as soldiers go, they really don't get much older than that.

 

 

I was surprised to see a reply from him the following morning.  His words engendered both joy and a sense of sadness as well, as they always somehow seem to do.

 

 

His letter moved me.  I knew he was dearly loved by good women, and yet he always seemed.... adrift somehow.  Not sad or unhappy, exactly.  More like resigned.  Certainly not as at peace as he once was with the wheat under his palm.  It seemed especially true now, in this time of transition.  No home.  No woman.  New job.  New challenges.  But as always, still the same simple man at heart. 

How I missed him.

 

 

December 2003

HEATHER

It was early December before I saw him again.  We had a visit scheduled for the end of the month.  A 'real' one, not one of those ones we snuck in where we could to share a few hours together reading or talking.  Those brief hours were hardly the stuff of clandestine meetings.  We had planned to spend a few days together after Christmas before flying to the Temple for the New Year's celebrations.  Seeing Maximus at Terry's 40th birthday bash (orchestrated by the Red Haired Devil himself!) was a wonderful surprise. 

He looked good.  Healthy and lit from within with that fire than burns in men who enjoy living on the edge, challenging themselves in service to others.  He seemed to walk taller.  Not with pride, but with the satisfaction that comes from the knowledge that the work you do makes a difference in the lives of others.  Dangerous work.  Men like Max and Terry and Dino needed that challenge.  Not so much the rush of combat or the thrill of beating the odds.  It was deeper than that.  And more simple.  It wasn't an opponent they wanted to best.  It was themselves.

Max acknowledged me with a small nod.  There was a harder edge to him and he was reserved, as ever he is in a public setting.  He was a world away from the mischievous boy who teased me by putting flower petals in my hair while I was reading, or from the gentle man who spoke sweetly to me of an innocent summer love.

In truth, it was just that contrast I found so compelling.  I wouldn't want only the soft boy any more than I would want only the hardened man.  He was a man as capable of intense violence as he was of the most exquisite tenderness, and I enjoyed coming to know all his many facets.  Although, I still had the urge to sneak up next to him at the party and whisper into his ear not to be so serious- just to watch the sparkle of amusement in his eyes as he gave me his stern, disapproving stare.

We spent little time together at the party but there was a note on my bed that night when I returned to my room.  It was simple, written in his clear bold hand.

 

 

I hugged his letter to my breast and spun around laughing.  Beside my pillow were two pomegranates and another note, written on the hotel stationary in a hasty scrawl.

 

 

I laughed harder.  He is such a tease- and so clever.  His note was simple, but as always, had a rich subtext.  There was this teasing feeling of 'Oh, so you think to convert me, hey?... or maybe tempt me as Eve tempted Adam.... or maybe you just want to fill a hungry boy's belly.....'  Heh.  I could almost hear him say it.  He can be so funny.  I adored his dry wit and he was so very sharp. 

We spent the following afternoon together, camped out on the floor of his hotel room.  Rain beat at the windows.  We shared a plate of fruit and cheese and drank wine from the same old cup.  It was Max's latest present and the newest addition to our 'everything bag'.  The cup was made of hammered silver and was over three hundred years old.

"Hardly an antique," he'd said, his eyes glinting with humor when I gasped at how old it was.  He told me he'd go back through his portal and bring me a real 'antique' when I could read to him a book of his choosing in flawless Latin.  I swatted his arm.  I had only the most basic comprehension.  Perhaps on par with a three year old.  'Ambitious' I'd said.  'Incentive' he'd fired back before settling down to read to me from a book of poems. 

He stopped after about fifteen minutes, a slice of apple forgotten in his fingers.  He cocked his head at me.  "This would be more fun if you blushed when I read the naughty words."  A devilish light glinted in his eyes.

"Max!  What are you reading to me?!"  He'd seemed far too smug, but it is impossible to figure out what he's up to before he's ready to spring it on you.  He's much too clever.  I sure hadn't expected naughty words, however.

He tapped the book.  "Thoroughly inappropriate material, to be sure."  

"You are shameless!"  His tongue peeped out and he smiled- but he didn't laugh.  He was still holding on to some of his stoic reserve.  I nudged his foot with mine, as a girl might.  "Don't be so serious!"  He tapped the book again, as if to say:  'How can you accuse me of that when I'm reading you suggestive literature?'  I poked him again.  "You know what I mean."

He 'tsked' quietly, but chuckled.  

My next words were half teasing, half serious.  "Remember the plan?"  My voice got softer.  "I wish you would embrace the experience fully.  Let yourself be that boy with me, however silly it might make you feel."

The feeling in that moment reminded me of that night in the hottub where he'd cut short his story, promising to share it with me another night.  It seemed the perfect time for it.  He had introduced an element of sexuality into our discussion with his choice of reading material.  He was smart enough to know I would pick up on it- and he also must have known my irreverent nature would prompt me to comment.  I think he would have been disappointed if I had not.

He took the cup of wine from my fingers, refilled it, and then drank deeply.  His eyes twinkled at me from over the rim, almost daring me to say something.  I couldn't disappoint, now could I?

"So.... there you were.... a young boy in a house of female slaves.... but you didn't use them?"  He choked on his wine at my opening gambit.  Holding back the giggle nearly killed me.  "Didn't any of them catch your eye?" I teased.

For a single moment, he was that shy boy again, stumbling over his words.  Making excuses, even as he admitted a grudging 'yes'.  "I was young...."  His cheeks colored slightly.  "....shy... my mother disapproved....."

It was simply too much fun.  I just couldn't stop myself.  "So, how did you learn then?"  I thought I might catch him out.  Maybe get to see that rare blush again- but that's what you get for underestimating such a formidable opponent.  He turned it on me with a simple handful of words.

"I learned the same way as most men...."  he looked pointedly at his right hand.  I felt a wave of heat travel through me as his words sunk in.  We often spoke intimately, but rarely sexually.  Maximus openly admitting to masturbation without so much as a hint of embarrassment was unexpected, especially considering the attitude Roman men held about such an act- better to relieve yourself with a slave than your own hand. 

For all that had passed before us in recent months, I was surprised he would share such a vulnerability with me.  I blushed.  He gave me no quarter.  After all, I had provoked him. 

"Embrace the experience fully?"  He quoted my words back at me, eyes bright with wine and a different fire, too.  He called my bluff.  "Are you trying to suggest I behave as a young and priapic lad before you?"

For a moment, I was unsure how to answer.  I didn't know whether to say 'yes!' or to die of embarrassment.  He is so astute, picking up on the most subtle cues.  And in truth, some part of me had imagined that.  Maximus masturbating.  I knew the Roman attitudes towards it, but he had hinted at it in the conversation we'd shared in the hottub that night.  Intimated that Flavia's innocent touch had driven him to it on those hot restless nights when he was alone in the dark.

My comment had mostly been the expression of my desire that he not hold himself back with me as Flavia's bellus had not with her, but by the same token, it also implied he not hold back with himself.  Maximus eyed me up.  He had put me on the spot and he knew it.  I wasn't at all sure how to answer his question but when our eyes met, the truth simply poured out.

"Act the priapic lad before me now?  No."  I felt a blush rise but returned his steady gaze.  "Just at home in your private moments, bellus.  Be the boy there too, if only for a little while," I whispered. 

The silence seemed very loud though neither of us shied away from the intimacy of the moment.  I could see the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat and feel its echo rushing in my ears.  Finally, he gave me a small nod.  "I will consider it."

The tension evaporated as suddenly as it had arisen.  "You're too serious, you know that?"  I stuck my tongue out at him to show him I was teasing.  I loved the boy dearly, but only because he was a part of the man.  I would never want him to be any other way than he was.  I only desired for him to trust me enough to let me all the way inside.  To see both the boy and the man.

He chuckled at my teasing and reopened the book.  "Now.... behave, papilio."  He gave me his stern look.  I giggled.  How very Maximus.  Ordering me to behave while he read wholly inappropriate literature.  I didn't understand most of it but we had a grand afternoon filled with much laughter as he read and I asked him the meaning of various words.  Hey, a girl's got to learn somehow, right?

 

 

December 2003

MAXIMUS

Our reinsertion into Croatia proved difficult.  The aftermath was harder still.  It ate at me that Karolina had been injured.  I understand that we are all responsible for our own actions, but she had been my lover for a time and I felt a responsibility to protect her in a way this modern world cannot comprehend.

Warring with that was the sense that I had found some lost part of myself.  A freedom in using a part of my nature I now understood had been buried too long.  It gave me much to think about on my long journey home.

Heather had woken the boy within me.  What I'd experienced in Croatia had woken the soldier who had remained dormant since he felt the sand of the Arena under his back.  It seemed a lifetime ago.  I felt there was a balance in that.  I heard Caesar's words in my ears.  The politician?  The tyrant?  The man who gave Rome back her true self?  I am not so prideful to imagine myself as anything so grand, but I saw similarities.  Maximus the boy.  The farmer.  The soldier.  I think, as Marcus Aurelius was, I must be some blend of each.

It was a good lesson, though challenging.  I am a man.  I told Heather I hoped the boy still lived inside of me.  He does.  So does the soldier who can kill with impressive efficiency.  My life was quieter, easier when the boy and the soldier had remained buried.  Now, things are more complex, and yet strangely, more fulfilling.  What is the lesson in that, I wonder?

I felt more alive than I had since I pushed my blade into Commodus' traitorous body.  It was no one thing.  No one person.  It was not this world or my job or Uma or Heather or Anna who had affected the change.  It was something from within.  My own desire to engage life without reservation. 

It was not easy.  I am not so proud to admit I struggled.  That I am still struggling.  But by the time I lay in a hotel room, anticipating my coming visit with Heather, it was with a new peace, both of body and of mind.

I had vivid dreams that night.  Blood and death twined with birth and life.  The battle to survive became the surrender to desire.  One body inside the other, straining until I thought I would die... and then I did, touching Elysium with the one I loved for a brief moment before returning to find myself in my own body once again, in the arms of my lover as we lay in the corn.

I woke with my hand between my legs, touching myself.  Even more overwhelming than the urgent sensation of desire was a lingering feeling of youthful innocence, carried over from my dreams.  Normally, I would have steeled myself and willed my mind to sleep, but tonight, I thought of Heather's words.  Her wish for me to allow myself to embrace the boy as much as I embraced the man.  I realized then it was also my wish for myself.

Instead of willing sleep to come, I stroked myself from base to tip and smiled.  Perhaps there was something of the curious boy left in me after all.  Every man has seen to his own needs upon occasion, but this was different.  Not a perfunctory bodily function, but a rediscovery.  I was again that boy, awed by the earth-shattering discovery that my penis was good for more than the ability to urinate standing up. 

I remembered back to when I first discovered the connection between my penis and the mind-numbing pleasure touching it could bring.  How my hand trembled and I could hardly breathe as the pleasure grew and grew with each stroke.  Now I had a man's knowledge of his body, but allowed myself to revel in the pleasure it could bring, as the boy had done so long ago.  Scared and awed, driven by an instinct he didn't fully understand and by curiosity and desire.... hiding in the dark, hunched over my fist, shaking and sweating as my body was wracked by spasms of unknown pleasure.

This night, I threw back the covers and hid nothing.  Watched my fist slide up and down.  Felt the blood throb, igniting the desire to drive deep.  My hips left the bed.  My thumb unerringly found the spot and rubbed with practiced ease.  Blood roared in my ears.  I tasted the fluid weeping from my tip.  It was the flavor of life, fecund and earthy.

I imagined Flavia watching me, seeing this base act.  Proof I was a man.  I could ejaculate.  I could give life.  Her face became Heather's, sensitizing me to an inner desire I had been unwilling to entertain until now.  It made me harder.  I pumped roughly, unconcerned with how it might appear.  I knew what my body was capable of, and still, the final moments awed me as ever they do.

I made only the softest sound, watching as my hips lifted one final time and I shed my seed onto my chest and stomach.  I felt humility.  And pride.  I lay in the moonlight afterwards.  Felt the trickle of fluid on my chest.  The water of life.  I chuckled quietly.  The boy would have tried to hide the mess.  The man simply wiped it away with the corner of the sheet, turned over and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

~ * ~

 

Two nights later, I exchanged Christmas gifts with Heather, as is her custom.  I gave her a palla, a Roman style shawl made from the softest wool.  When I'd bought it, I'd imagined her wrapped up warmly while I read to her outside on some frosty winter afternoon.  Now I imagined it under us both as we lay together, kissing in the tall summer grass.

There was a soft blush on her cheeks as she handed me my gift.  I opened it slowly, savoring the experience.  I like presents and receive few, fewer still that carry such anima.  I held the small leather pouch in my hand, opened the drawstring and saw gold inside.  I poured the treasure into my palm.  A handful of yellow seed corn.  I counted them as I put them back.  Twenty-seven in all.  Frost outside and the promise of a summer harvest in my hand.

I smiled and spoke softly.  "One for every time I read to you."  It was a statement not a question.  And an acknowledgement that I had also been counting.  She nodded and her blush deepened.  "A priceless gift, papilio.  Thank you."

"You're welcome, bellus.  Merry Christmas."

I felt like that boy again as I looked into her smiling face, so soft and open.  I felt a rush of emotion too strong to control and simply gave into it, pulling her to me.  I kissed her.  My head spun.  I felt all of fifteen again as her mouth opened to mine and we shared our first real kiss.

I have known many women and have done many wild things in the name of passion, but like Flavia's kiss so long ago, Heather's kiss left me breathless and shaky, for all its softness.  A far cry from the most sexually explicit moments I'd ever shared with a woman, and yet strangely, one of the most profound.

I broke the kiss.  Flavia had giggled and spun in giddy circles before running home.  But Heather was no green girl.  Instead, she only blushed and smiled.  We shared a bottle of red wine and talked late into the night, curled up together before the fire crackling warmly in the hearth.  She fell asleep in my arms and for the first time, I did not carry her to her bed.  This time, I simply lay down next to her, covered us both with her palla, closed my eyes... and dreamed of innocence shared and lost among the summer corn.       

  

To Part Three

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