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for sure that she
would awaken, she did know for sure that she was fed up with this
life, and wanted to live it no more. Tears slid down her cheeks as
she tried to not think about her daughters, and the connection she
hadn’t been allowed to develop with them. She began to breath more
slowly, then very shallowly, and then stopped breathing
altogether.

Chapter
6
     
    Session 3
     
     
    The following day the reporter rejoined his
host for breakfast as he had the previous morning. Again it was a
lavish meal, and today the reporter ate the exotic, fresh fruit,
fresh baked bread and tender meats because he had to eat, not
because he enjoyed it. This game was macabre, and he was getting
more and more nervous about it all. Who kidnaps someone to tell
them a ridiculous story after all?
    And who burglarizes an apartment to bring
a captive his own clothing to wear? That filled him with
indignation again, for it was yet another violation. He would
remember that, along with the kidnapping and the assaults of his
captivity. He assured himself there would be an accounting for his
misuse.
    His host however, was warming to his daily
monologues. “Today we shall learn of a great warrior, a giant of a
man, who will amaze you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his
captive guest. His slightly wrinkled forehead and something about
his eyes gave a strange look of age to this youthful, vigorous man.
One could almost believe his crazy claims.
    “You sound as though you admire him.
Friends?”
    “No, just acquaintances, and of late, on very
different sides of some business ventures. He and his partner are
not friends. But they do deserve some attention. This man of whom I
speak, Maximus, is a grand warrior of several eras, and I’m forced
to admit that his prowess extends to this day and time as well. I
do admire him in a way, and I’m not one to admire many. He’s more
of a respected adversary.” Again he flashed that grim smile that
displayed no humor at all.

Chapter
7
     
    Maximus,
    Rome and Beyond…
     
     
    Highly prized by his own Centurion and
appreciated by his fellow soldiers, Maximus was the finest of
warriors. When Maximus fought with you, the victory was almost
assured. None could recall him losing a battle. He was old for a
swordsman, but he was the best. He was what some would label,
“stolid.” He was solid but not fat, hard muscle without a swimmer’s
slenderness, and really didn’t have much of a neck. He was a
wrestler, and was built well for it. His black hair was cut close,
and his very Italian roots showed in his features. His aquiline
nose wasn’t overdone, but was noticeable. There was strength in
every part of him; no matter the task at hand, he exuded power.
    He had been slashed, stabbed, nearly gutted
once, but he always healed. Even the scars, which would have been
marks of prestige in his sub-culture of soldiers, healed and
disappeared.
    Sometimes he loved showing off his sword that
conquered the world. His Roman short sword, his own creation, could
both sweep and slash, and with its sharpened tip, it could stab
like a javelin. Its length could let it get inside the wide sweeps
of scimitars and other less precise blades, making it the deadliest
weapon on the planet.
    Other times he regretted that he had designed
such a blade, for he’d taken serious wounds from it on the
battlefield, as other armies copied it for their own use. Once,
when he’d been skewered on one, and then immediately slashed on his
shoulder, he was sure death was close. Though he was right handed,
he used his uninjured left hand to grasp his sword and he fought
on. He became a legend to his legion that day. For the next week he
was sure he would die as he fought high fevers and screamed from
the poultices put inside his grievous wounds. But he lived. His
strength returned and he went back to march with his legion, second
in command only to Sergius Paulus, a fine commander.
    He realized, with his years and his
reputation, that he had