Disclaimer: The character Maximus belongs to Dreamworks SKG, how I wish it were otherwise.

Rating: R, for violence.

Near the small town of Melrose, on the banks of the river Tweed in southern Scotland lie the remains of a Roman fort. It sits in the lee of three hills, a landmark for miles. A milestone found further north gives the distance to this place which the Romans called Trimontium or Three Hills.

It was raining again. Cold, heavy rain that, flung from the scudding grey sky by a biting wind, obscured the outlines of the surrounding hills, darkly forested and peat ridden. In the valley a tributary river flowed southwards, swollen and thundering, the water a foam flecked brown. For some miles, its course was marked by a road, its large, flat cobbles preventing it deteriorating into a morass of mud under the relentless hammering of the rain. This tributary joined a larger river downstream from a bridge, where the road crossed the larger river. It was only a wooden bridge, necessary because regular flooding often made fording the river impossible. Now, with the water level risen high, the brown water was swirling, seemingly perilously close to swamping it.

Along the road, a cavalry turma slowly trotted, horses mud spattered and bedraggled, riders huddled into their dark red cloaks, darker than usual because of the wet. As they approached the bridge, the road swung round and they rode straight into the driving rain. Tired and drenched though they were, the horses sensed the nearness of their stables and without urging speeded up until just before the bridge, one of the riders signalled the others to stop. He walked his horse forwards and looked at the bridge. A second rider had come up behind the leader and said, "What do you think, sir, is the bridge still safe?"

It was a test. How well did he know what he was about.

"Only one way to find out, isn't there, Marcius?" responded the leader.

Marcius stretched his face in a smile, "Right, sir."

The commander signalled two men to cross. They did so cautiously, taking care the horses’ hooves didn’t slide on the greasy surface. As they went, Marcius and the commander watched the bridge for any sign of movement. It seemed stable and the commander signalled for the next two to cross. As he waited for them to do so, he shifted uncomfortably, leaning back against the rear saddle horns, as rain trickled down his neck, dripping off his helmet. By the time most of them had crossed, the rain had trickled right down his back and he was shivering, the heat generated by movement long dissipated.

There were only two troopers left in front of them when Marcius suddenly said, "Prefect Maximus, sir! The bridge moved!"

"I didn’t see anything," responded the commander. "You’re imagining things, Decurion, the horses would have sensed something." However he turned to the next pair of riders and said "Once you’re across, go and get the engineer. Tell him he might need a new bridge."

The trooper wasn’t sure if the commander was joking or not. "Er, yes, sir."

It seemed that perhaps after all the decurion hadn’t been imagining things as the remaining horses weren’t keen to cross now. Eventually the troopers had to dismount and lead them across.

The prefect turned to Marcius and said. "Now us."

Marcius made a face, but dismounted.

The bridge felt sturdy enough underfoot as they crossed, and Marcius began to wonder if he had imagined seeing it move.

Then their luck ran out. The guard at the guard post on the other side suddenly shouted, "Look out," pointing upstream. The two men looked. Somewhere further up, a tree had fallen into the river and the volume of water had been enough to carry it downstream. It was going to crash into the bridge.

It was like one of those dreams where you’re running through mud trying to get away from something, Maximus thought as time itself seemed to slow down. They were only half way across. Each step seemed to take an eternity that brought the tree impossibly nearer. He wasn’t sure if they were going to make it. But he concentrated on urging his horse onwards.

It seemed with only seconds to spare they were over, and with a great creaking of breaking timbers the tree crashed into the bridge, tearing away the central section.

Maximus glanced over at Marcius and said, a smile leaping into his blue eyes, "Gods that was close!"

Marcius nodded, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Come on, let’s see if we can get dry." And Maximus mounted up again.

As they climbed the hill to where the fort stood overlooking the steep river valley, a man came running down towards them.

"One of your troopers said something about the bridge, Prefect." He said.

Maximus grunted. "The one that used to be there, you mean?"

"But it should be all right, there’s not enough water to wash it away." Responded the engineer aghast.

"Tree hit it." Marcius told him and they left him, running down the hill towards the ruin of his bridge.

Once up at the fort they quickly lead their horses into the shelter of the stables, where Maximus handed his horse over to his groom, staying long enough to ensure that the man was not going to skimp on his work.

Leaving the decurion, he walked out into the rain again. Leaves, blown prematurely from their branches by the force of the wind whirled by as he walked past the workshops and the granaries to his quarters where the warm glow told him Rufus, his servant had lit a brazier. He stripped off his armour, relieved at being able to hand it over, unlike his men who would have to spend time cleaning and oiling theirs if it was going to remain rust free. At last he flopped down on a couch, rubbing his closely cropped, dark hair dry with a towel.

Dear Gods, he thought, it was supposed to be summer! Did it always rain like this, here at the arse end of the empire? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the colours and smells of home, but all he could see were the drab greys, greens and browns of the local countryside, with its soft, damp light, and all he could smell was mildew and wet grass. He knew somewhere in his memory he would find the harsh, heat-hazed blue of his native sky, with its black earth and the smell of sun-warmed thyme and jasmine, but was unable to conjure it. Summer was obviously a relative term.

No, five days after arriving at Trimontium, to take command of the Ala Vocontii, Twenty two year old Maximus Decimus Meridas was not a happy man.

The main section of the fort was commanded by another prefect, Arrius Domitianus who commanded the two legionary cohorts also stationed at the fort. Domitianus had made it very clear what he had thought of him when he arrived. "Just another one of these political types doing his military bit before sodding off back to where he came from to get fat and rich on olive oil scams." he had sneered to his cornicularius, or head clerk, within earshot.

Maximus had considered responding, but of course, the man was just trying to provoke him, to get him to make a fool of himself in front of his new command, so he had said nothing.

Domitianus was at the opposite end of his career from Maximus. He was a large man of around forty, nearing his discharge date, with grizzled hair, getting a bit of a belly on him - he probably hadn't been in a proper fight for years, although with his record, no one ever doubted his courage. It was unfortunate for his men that he was also a bully. He had pulled himself up out of the gutter and all the way through the ranks. He had utter contempt for those who had not managed to do so or, who, like Maximus had never been there in the first place. He didn't bother to hide it either.

He had contemptuously given the newcomer bits and pieces of advice. "The local tribes are the Selgovae and the Votadini. Here, we’re bang on the border between their territory. They don't like each other much, but they've mostly given up fighting among themselves, now that we're here." The prefect wasn't finished. "The Selgovae are trouble, but the Votadini are all right with us – they do like their wine after all." He had said cynically. "But remember, when you go and visit them, keep your hands off their women - they'll have your balls if you don't. If you want a woman there's plenty of whores living in the vicus." and he had waved in the direction of the small village huddled in the lee of the fort.

Maximus finished towelling his hair dry and warmed his hands by the brazier as he thought about Domitianus. The man clearly didn’t like him, and it seemed to go beyond the traditional antagonism there was between the legions and their auxiliaries. He’d already had to sit in judgement over one of his troopers who’d got in a fight with one of the legionaries over a gambling debt. Well, the feeling was mutual. He didn’t really think he cared much for the man himself.

************

The next morning it had finally stopped raining and it was warmer. Maximus thought as he wandered outside that it might even stay dry long enough for the mud to dry out and for the hay to get cut. Patches of blue showed between the clouds and every now and then the sun came out. It was a cool, northern sun, without the fierce heat of the south, but still, the sun.

In the distance, down at the barracks Maximus could see it was time for a punishment parade and he watched from where he stood as the decurion of one of the turmae marched the offending troopers down onto the parade ground.

The decurion, Valerius Nigrinus was fed up. Yet another punishment parade for the same old reprobates. They stood grinning at him, the six of them, not even ashamed of what they had done. He sighed, theatrically. "I suppose, Veturius Gemellus," he said, "that you have the usual excuse for your neglect?"

The man addressed, short and squat for a cavalryman, shrugged in response. "Well you know how it is, sir. There was always something better, er, more important to do, like."

Nigrinus sniffed. How in the name of Mars was he going to make centurion if he was responsible for this shower of bears’ turds he wondered. "So that makes it all right then, does it?" he sighed again, more audibly this time. "And I suppose if I give you the usual punishment detail, this will never happen again?" he asked with heavy irony.

The six men looked shocked at the suggestion. "Of course not, sir." They dutifully chorused. Suddenly they stood to attention, looking over the decurion’s shoulder.

A voice said, very mildly under the circumstances, "Having any problems, Nigrinus?"

The decurion immediately stood to attention. Gods, he thought, that’s all I need! "Er, no sir." He said out loud.

Maximus raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you could explain what the position is, I could always offer my advice."

While he thought that unlikely, new boy and all, the decurion started to sweat. The position was far more serious than the casual attitude of the cavalrymen would lead any commander to believe. "Sir, these six men have admitted neglecting their horses to the extent that the animals have developed sores on their backs."

The prefect frowned. "I take it this is not the first time that this has happened?"

The decurion obviously felt it was a personal affront to his leadership skills that he had failed to reform his men. He swallowed. "It’s a regular occurance, sir."

Maximus walked along the row of men. There was something about the way they stood that suggested insolence and contempt. Like most of the Ala Vocontii, they belonged to tribes from the south of Brittannia - Trinovantes, Coritannii, Belgae. There hadn’t been any Vocontii in the ala for a generation. Maximus made eye contact with each of them, and then glanced at Nigrinus who told him each trooper's name.

"I think they need to understand something of what it means for a horse to be ridden with sores, Nigrinius. They can start by scything the hay meadow, then when they’re finished that, there's plenty of hoeing to be done. Then they can finish by cleaning out the latrines."

As he turned away, the six troopers made faces of disgust, thinking of the blisters they were going to get on their hands, but thinking it could have been worse.

Maximus turned back a slight smile creasing his face. "And then tomorrow we'll have javelin practice. All day." The troopers' faces fell ludicrously and it was all he could do not to laugh.

Then Maximus went to see the medicus vetinarius, concerned that so many of the men in a single turma were neglectful. He knew there were already problems with the horses, and if more were to be put out of action due to sickness and neglect it was more serious than he had thought.

He found Placidus Terentinus in one of the stable blocks supervising the fitting of hipposandals onto a horse with cracked hooves. The man looked up as he came in, an experienced veteran in his forties from Gallia Narbonensis originally, he had said, but living in Britannia for so long he might as well have been a native. From the way he spoke, he wasn't one to suffer fools, or people who tried to impress him, but it was clear he knew his stuff.

"Nigrinus tells me his troop are having problems with saddle sores." Maximus began without preamble.

Terentinus made a face of disgust. "Oh not again! Stupid bastards. Especially in this climate. They never learn."

"When will the horses be fit to ride?"

"I haven’t looked at them yet, gimme a chance!" Terentinus looked exasperated then seeing the serious expression on the young prefect’s face asked. "Is it getting serious, the remount situation?"

"We need every horse we’ve got fit to ride." Maximus responded and left.

He had left the stable block, and had walked through the gateway in the partition wall separating the legionaries from the cavalry, on his way to the Principia, the stone built headquarters building in the centre of the fort, when he ran into Marcius. As they walked up the road between the Principia and the granaries, horses clattered through the western gate. They could see that it was a party of Votadini from a nearby dun. The men rode along the Via Principalis, the main road that linked the eastern and western gates, and stopped in front of the Principia, laughing and joking among themselves.

"Where Domitianus?" one of them asked the sentry in atrocious Latin.

Maximus stopped and watched from where he was standing. "Who are they?" he asked Marcius.

The decurion spat on the ground. "Huh, some of Domitianus’ Votadini cronies. A real group of thugs always hanging around here. They play dice with him, go whoring in the vicus, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t play dice with them if I were you though."

"Play with low loaders do they?" Maximus laughed. "I’m not that stupid. Bit early for playing dice though isn’t it?" he added curiously.

"Ah, they’ve been hunting for him, looks like they got their prey too, poor bastard." One of the tribesmen had a squirming body slung over his pony in front of him. As the Cohort Commander and one of his clerks came out of the building he flung it on the ground.

The body resolved into a skinny, scared looking boy of about sixteen or seventeen, hands tied in front of him, the big tribesman who had asked for Domitianus held on to the end of the rope.

"The kid’s one of the Selgovae." explained Marcius making a face. "Brynmor and his crew grabbed him off the hills a day or so before you arrived. Then they let him go and Frumentius there," he jerked his head at the clerk, "ran a slate on how long it would take to catch him again." and he spat on the ground once more.

"What had the boy done?" Maximus asked.

Marcius snorted. "Nothing apart from allowing himself to get caught." the decurion could see the new prefect didn’t understand. "Well, there’s bugger all to do around here, we’re over a hundred miles from the nearest arena. Got to do something for entertainment."

"But you don’t approve?"

"I don’t remember being asked for my opinion." the decurion responded sourly. "Nah. ‘snot right. Kid’s not a slave."

Meanwhile, Domitianus had folded his arms and was looking up at the man on the horse. The man was grinning, displaying rotten teeth, the wind doing its best to whip the rats tails of his mousy hair in front of his face. He shook it back and said, "Twenty silver, like we say." he threw the rope he was holding over to the Prefect.

"Sure, Brynmor. I'm impressed. I thought he was gone for good." and he pulled on the rope attached to the boy’s wrists, dragging the prisoner towards him. He grabbed the boy’s hair, forcing his head up, so he had to look up at him. Domitianus smiled. "He’s scared." he said to Brynmor but looking at the boy. "He should be." then he added, "If you boys want to hang around for some entertainment…"

From where he was standing, Maximus grunted in distaste.

But the man called Brynmor grinned again, shaking his head. "Watch you kill him? Nah. We had our fun."

The others grinned as well. "Good chase." one of them said. "Now you pay."

Domitianus signalled to Frumentius to pay the tribesmen.

Brynmor reached out a hand and caught the small, leather bag of coins the clerk flung up to him. He made a point of emptying it and counting them out. Then he grinned again. Just as he turned his horse away, he said to Domitianus, "We see you soon about…."

The prefect frowned and narrowed his eyes. "Make sure you do." was all he said noticing Maximus for the first time.

**************

As Maximus entered his office, Tertullus, his beneficiarius or assistant looked up from where he was toiling over a pile of note tablets. "A lot of noise out front there, sir" he commented.

"Mmmm," Maximus agreed. "Domitianus’ hounds came back."

"The boy?" Maximus nodded. "Shit." at the prefect’s raised eyebrows he added. "I had a bet with Senecio that they wouldn’t bring him back for another three days, er, sir." he added.

Maximus frowned in disapproval, then before the man could say anything more he asked, "What is the situation with remounts? Is it as bad as I think it is?"

Tertullus made a face. "Well sir, we should have five hundred and twenty horses fit for riding and fully trained, including officers’ horses."

"How many do we actually have?"

"Four hundred and eighty seven."

"Gods. That’s impossible. What was his name, Corvinus never said there was much of a problem when he handed over the other day."

The clerk looked at one of the tablets. "Oh we actually have five hundred and eighteen horses, but of the difference half are unfit to ride at the moment and the others are remounts that we got last month."

Maximus sat down at his desk. "But if they’re the horses I’m thinking of, they were the most pathetic bunch of animals I’ve seen in my life."

"Well you’d know about that, sir."

Maximus ran his hands through his hair. "Well, we need to get more horses. Put in a requisition or whatever it is you have to do."

"Yes sir." responded the clerk. He looked back down at his work and carried on with what he had been doing for a few minutes.

Then Maximus asked, "Where do the horses come from, anyway?"

"There’s a depot in the south of the province where they train them, sir." responded Tertullus looking up.

"No, I mean originally, who supplies the army in this province?"

"Oh the Silures and the Ordovices in the south west provide many of them and most of the rest come from round here." said the clerk.

"Here?" demanded Maximus in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

"The Selgovae and the Votadini pay their tribute in horses."

"So why do we have to ask some jumped up bureaucrat three hundred miles away if we can please have some remounts? No," he sighed again, holding up a hand, "don’t tell me, it’s because that’s how it’s done."

"Yes, sir. The provision of remounts is a civilian responsibility."

Maximus felt like screaming in frustration. It had been so much simpler dealing with an infantry cohort. With cavalry it seemed as if there was twice as much administration to do. It was hardly fighting keeping the Empire safe. He stood up. "How long does it take once the request goes in? he asked.

"Oh I dunno, it can take months." Tertullus shrugged. "And in any case like I said, we've just had some."

But most of those were pretty damn near useless, Maximus felt like yelling but it wasn’t the clerk’s fault. He sighed and asked, "Tertullus, you’ve been here a good while, have we always had these problems with remounts?"

The clerk laughed. "Oh, everybody always moans about remounts, it’s traditional. But, when I think about it, I suppose things have got worse in the last three or four years."

"In what way?" Maximus asked.

Tertullus screwed up his face in thought. "Harder to get them maybe, and when we do, they’re not up to much. But that could be for a lot of reasons. The good ones are probably being sent to Germania." He shrugged. It wasn’t his problem.

Maximus sat down again and waved the clerk away, he needed peace to think. There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that said it couldn’t be that simple. The reports he had read hadn’t indicated that the war in Germania against the barbarians was going badly, just grinding on as it had done for years. There was nothing to show that more horses were needed on the front than in the past. He knew that if the situation didn't improve soon he would be reduced to buying horses from the tribes himself, even if the provincial government was supposed to be responsible for that.

Later that afternoon, he was on his way down to the training ground, walking past the block where the baggage animals were stabled when he heard the sound of someone snivelling. It was a curious noise to be coming from one of the stables so he went in to see what was going on.

The boy the Votadini had brought in, was sitting, crouched on the floor, chained to one of the roof supports. When he heard Maximus come in he turned, an expression of such fear on his face that it made Maximus’ heart lurch at the thought that he might induce such terror. When the boy saw that it was someone he hadn’t seen before he recovered slightly but still looked at him warily. His knees and elbows were grazed from where he had landed on the cobbles that morning, and he had a large bruise on the side of his face from where he must have been hit. The silvery trail of tears down his cheeks explained the snivelling noise.

Before he could say anything, the boy’s eyes flicked behind him and widened in fear again as a shadow darkened the door. Someone said. "The Commander’s keeping him down here until he’s ready to deal with him. Gives him something to look forward to."

Maximus turned round. It was one of the legionary centurions, a big man, another thug like Domitianus.

"Deal with him? What do you mean? I didn’t think he was a slave."

The centurion laughed. "Huh, he is now." then he added in response to the prefect’s puzzled expression. "That’s the deal Brynmor gives him, he gets away, fine: he’s caught, we sell him south. Of course, he needs broke in first."

Maximus was disgusted, but all he could think of to say was, "So why here? These stables are in my section of the fort."

"Oh, Corvinus always liked to watch."

Maximus made a face. "Well I don’t. Find somewhere else to do your dirty work."

The centurion laughed. "Nothing to do with me, Prefect. You’d better speak to Domitianus." He spoke the word prefect as if it were an insult.

Maximus turned on his heel and left. He wasn’t sure if it was the sort of thing he wanted to make an issue over and he didn’t think there was anything he could do for the boy anyway. He stood outside the stable block for a few moments and stared up towards the Principia, then turned and walked down to the training ground where Marcius was supervising three of his men working horses on lunge reins.

The training ground was down by the river and the ground was muddy from all the rain, so they had had to throw sand and gravel onto the earth to stop it turning into a quagmire. Maximus didn't think it would last long. Marcius, who was the senior decurion of the ala, was leaning against the fence shaking his head in disgust. He was a small, dark haired man, one of the Silures from the west he had said.

Maximus leaned against the fence beside him and asked, "Something wrong, Decurion?"

The decurion looked at him, still uncertain what to make of the new prefect, yet sure he wasn't the political type Domitianus had so dismissively classified him as. "Well, look at them!" he waved at the ring. "You’d never think they had over thirty years in the army between them would you."

"The horses?"

"No-o! The idiots at the other ends of the reins!"

Maximus laughed. Then he asked "You’ve been in the army a while yourself, haven’t you, Aelius Marcius?"

The small man snorted. "Long enough."

Maximus glanced at him, well a good ten or fifteen years he thought, the man was that sort of age. The odd fleck of grey was starting to appear in his hair, and his skin was leathery from exposure to the elements.

After watching the men work the horses for a few minutes Maximus asked, "Are the remounts we get any good?"

Marcius shrugged. "Depends what you mean. Most of the ones we get these days," he sighed "well, someone’s rejects I’d say."

"Tertullus was saying that many of the horses will come from round here to begin with?" Maximus asked.

"Yeah. The Equisio, the Governor’s horse man, sends an agent up once a year in the autumn to collect from the tribes. It’s quite an event, you’ll enjoy it."

"Why, where do they come?"

Marcius gestured round. "Here, of course."

Maximus was surprised. "Trimontium? Well I suppose it makes sense." It would mean the agent wouldn’t have to trail round all the different chieftains. Then he asked, changing the subject abruptly "Why does Domitianus use the cavalry’s stables for holding captured tribesmen?"

Marcius made a face. "The boy, I suppose. Well, all that blood makes such a mess on the tiles." He said flippantly.

"It happen a lot?"

The Decurion shrugged "They do it every few months. Do it too often and the other tribes would start to get suspicious."

"None of them have ever managed to get away then?"

"Are you kidding?" Marcius snorted. "They never stand a chance. Not from Brynmor."

"I see." Was all Maximus said.

When he got back to the fort he carried on walking right up to the Principia. He met Domitianus crossing the courtyard, coming out of the tabularium where the clerks’ worked. "Prefect." He said, nodding a salute. He was about to walk past when he stopped as if he had remembered something. "By the way, I’d rather you didn’t use my stables for holding your, er prisoners."

Domitianus stopped and looked him up and down contemptuously. "What’s the matter, squeamish or something?"

"No, hardly." Maximus looked equally contemptuous. "I’m a soldier not a slave trader. You want to get into sidelines do it in your own part of the fort." and he turned and left the Cohort Commander staring after him.

Maximus hadn’t really expected Domitianus to move his prisoner, but when he looked in on the stables late that evening, he was unprepared for the savagery that had been meted out on the boy. He was lying on the floor, still chained to the roof support, holding himself rigid, as if any movement would be agony, crying as loudly as he dared. As the prefect walked in, the boy’s eyes widened in fear and he flinched backwards out of the way. Maximus took one look at him and went and got Marcius.

"If you could get that chain off him, we could get him over to Sergius." Maximus was saying as they came back. Marcius shook his head when he saw the boy and gave his habitual spit of disgust.

The boy was cowering back again as they approached. "Come on sunshine, we’re not gonna hurt you." said Marcius cheerfully.

"I shouldn’t think he speaks any Latin." responded Maximus.

"You’d be surprised, but I think you’re right with this one." and he said something in what Maximus presumed was the boy’s language. "Just told him he’d be all right." he explained, then said, "I lied."

"You did?"

"I don’t know what Domitianus has got in store for this one but it’s not a quick journey south. Wouldn’t have beaten him up so badly if it was. Scars’ll affect his value after all." Marcius said cynically.

Maximus hooked a hand under one of the boy’s arms and hauled him to his feet. His legs wouldn't hold him and Marcius had to hook an arm round him as well, to hold him up. Together they frog-marched him over to the small hospital block.

"Clean him up." Maximus told the surprised medic.

The next morning, Maximus was leaving his quarters when he heard a bellow of rage as Domitianus realised his victim was no longer where he had left him. He met the man coming out of the stable. He was in an ugly mood.

"What have you done with him?" he demanded.

"I left him with Sergius." responded Maximus, shrugging, the calmness of his voice a contrast to the other man’s rage. He looked him up and down, then added, "Wouldn’t want to think your new investment had up and died on you now."

Domitianus growled at him and walked away

Later, down at the training ring, Maximus could see that Marcius was unhappy. "I don’t think we helped the boy any by moving him." the decurion said.

"The only reason he was in that state was because I pulled Domitianus up about it." Maximus responded.

"Well, you’ve certainly made an enemy there."

"Oh I think that was going to happen anyway."

"No, there’s a difference between not liking someone and being their enemy. You need to watch your back."

But to Maximus’ relief, the Cohort Commander virtually ignored him after that incident, only speaking tohim when he absolutely had to.