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Lucilla's Diary by C. Palmer ©2001 all rights reserved
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Part 6
Despite Maximus' barb that I am comfortable with lying, that has never been so. But I do what I must.
Today, for the first time in our lives, I told Commodus a lie. And then another. Despite what he has done, it still grieves me to know they will not be the last.
He asked if I saw that he had done with Maximus what he had to do, that the Empire would have been torn apart otherwise.
My "Yes" was my first lie. I do not believe he had to order Maximus' execution. I believe Maximus would have taken counsel of the Senate, and if he made public accusation of regicide, the action then taken would have been political, not military. He is a soldier, not a politician, but in this, he would have bowed to the will of the Senate.
Commodus then asked what I felt when I saw Maximus. I lied again, saying, "Nothing."
How could I admit the feelings I had so long ago and thought dead stir to life again? That the sight of him warms my blood? That the thought of his death freezes it? I could - dared - not.
"He wounded you deeply, didn't he?" I answered with the truth when I said, "No more than I wounded him."
I have always known I wounded him much more. The words Maximus spoke to me in leaving were daggers to my heart; my lies to him to make him leave were swords to his. I have wondered - if I had told him the truth then, would his great sense of duty have made my words less painful? I shall never know.
I must try to help him - and selfishly, for he has lost and suffered so much, I pray he will help me. There is but one other man I trust as I do him to put Rome above all else. I must speak to Gracchus and get his aid and counsel.
How am I to arrange that he speak with Maximus, not as Senator to slave, but Senator to General? For I have come to believe that Rome will not survive if Commodus is not checked.
I must do this.
For Rome.
And for Lucius.
Part 7
The last time Maximus stood before me, it was as nearly my equal, and he was robed as such in fine fabric and fur as befitted the Commander of the Armies of the North.
Tonight, he stood before me in rough tunic of coarse cloth, in shackles and chains... a slave.
My attempt to spare him further humiliation was met with derision and suspicion -- he called me assassin.
My sympathy, he answered with rage.
His family was burned and crucified alive. (Gods! I did not know their death was so terribly cruel!) He did not believe that I had wept for them. I had to use my own terror for Lucius to harden my heart to his anger and grief. And to ask for his help against Commodus; for him to meet, if I can arrange it, with Gracchus. He asked if I did not understand that he could die in his cell tonight or in the arena tomorrow.
"I am a slave. What possible difference can I make?" His words, so raw with disbelief and pain, were a dagger only my own need, for Lucius and for Rome, could turn aside, though I felt its cut.
I appealed to his sense of duty, the greatest part of him, except perhaps for his loyalty. I reminded him of the noble man of principle I knew him as; the man who had served Rome well. It was only when he replied, his voice dead, saying, "That man is gone. Your brother did his work well," that I truly understood the utter depth of his anguish and despair.
I could do nothing then but ask him to let me help him. His voice was soft. I could help him, he said, by forgetting I ever knew him... and never coming again.
He meant to be kind.
It was then I knew I love him still...
...for I felt my heart break.
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