I'm Jess Halliwell - no relation to the Spice Girl of the same surname, nope - not even a distant cousin. I don't look anything like her either - I'm sort of a non-descript, fair-skinned woman with reddish brown hair and brown eyes, nothing special. Well, to hear my mother tell it, I'm attractive verging on beautiful if - and that's the key word here, IF - I take the time to get my hair styled, wear more makeup than a token swipe of lip gloss and actually take the time to coordinate my wardrobe. I have told her over and over, when you wear medical scrubs as a daily uniform, you just don't want to get adventurous in your other wardrobe. For one thing, nothing approaches a nicely worn set of scrub top and pants for comfort. For another, who has time to keep up with fashions when working 12-hour shifts four days a week and catching up on lost sleep the other three?

Nobody.

So - it was no surprise to me that when I made my announcement of my plans on Thanksgiving Day, it was greeted with astounded silence from everyone at the dinner table except my younger brother Dale, who said excitedly, "Finally! Jessie's bustin' loose!"

Exactly.

I left for England a week later. I had to find a flat to rent near Pinewood Studios, make sure my nursing license was all legally in compliance with British regulations, and learn to find my way around London and surrounding environs. I was going to be based there for a few months, then go on to Morocco, Malta and other exotic locales before returning to England for the final days of filming on a big-screen epic being produced by one of the most prestigious teams in Hollywood. In other words, I was about to become the on-set nurse on Ridley Scott's next project, a swords-and-sandals epic such as Hollywood hadn't produced in decades. A little film entitled, "Gladiator".

It could have been a drawing room comedy called "Bringing up Buffy" for all I cared - I just needed a total break with my boring-up-to-then life, and when a friend who worked in production at one of the big studios in California happened to mention that Dreamworks was looking to replace one of their long-term nurses (she had married and was reluctant to travel to the exotic locales being discussed because of being three months pregnant), and did I know anyone who might be interested in such an exciting job opportunity. When I'd told Carole I sure did - me - she'd almost fallen through the phone in shock. After I convinced her I was serious, she got me an interview there in New York with an agency employed by Dreamworks, and a week later I was informed I should pack my bag, be sure my shots were up to date for the more exotic locales, and get my passport if I didn't already have one.

I was so pleased to be going that I arrived several weeks early just to have time to get settled and acclimated. I didn't even see a film set most of that time until I went out to Pinewood to meet with the production team that was assembling there for the beginning of the filming. From there, I was taken out to the site for the first part of the shoot: a huge forest in an outlying district that was going to stand in for early Germany. The forestry service needed to clear large portions of the trees for reasons of their own, and the film called for a huge, fiery battle to take place that would effectively remove said trees from the site quite nicely. A happy coincidence. It was rugged, hilly, cold and damp. The wind whipped through the trees with cutting force. I couldn't have been happier except maybe lying on a sun-drenched beach someplace drinking Margaritas.

The first day of actual filming, I was on the set at six in the morning, clothed in thermal underwear, comfortable hiking boots over thick socks, jeans, a Shetland sweater and a down vest over that for warmth. I had a baseball cap with the "Gladiator" logo on the front, leather gloves and an armband with a red cross on it to identify me as the main production medical person aside from several doctors who were on call and not actually on the scene.

It was surreal there in the forest at dawn. I had a small staff of aides who would help run the little medical tent - I thought of it as a Roman MASH unit - and we were surrounded by other contemporarily-dressed people, and then the first person dressed in the uniform of a Roman soldier walked by in a squeak of leather and a clink of body armor and my mouth dropped open in awe. It was like gazing into the past and having it come alive right in front of me.

I was hooked from that instant. It was MY movie, my new career, and I was going to have the time of my life. Those thoughts turned out to be much more prophetic than I could have guessed.

I met dozens of people those first days - the director, who was bearded, soft-spoken, grizzle-haired and sharp as ten of the swords being wielded by the actors portraying the soldiers and the German tribesmen. Ridley Scott impressed me as a man of strong temperament, strong conviction that what he envisioned was how things were going to be, and a willingness to listen to another opinion despite that. This, I learned, was a good thing when one was helming a diverse group of actors such as this one. I met Richard Harris - last seen by me as King Arthur in Camelot years before. He was puckish and twinkling of eye, his long silver hair flowing down into an equally impressive set of silvery whiskers, and he told the funniest jokes - most having to do with pubs and Ireland and actors he had known and worked with - and he made a point of introducing himself first thing. "So you'll know who I am, dear, if they bring in the Emperor of Rome with some ghastly hangnail or something."

I also met others in the cast - Joaquin Phoenix, who was playing the son of the Emperor, a dissolute, altogether unpleasant youth named Commodus. I met the blonde from Europe, Connie Nielson and realized I'd just seen her in "The Devil's Advocate" with Al Pacino, only with curly scarlet hair. "Nope, I'm naturally blonde," she told me with a friendly smile, "but I think they're going to do something with my hair for this film - I've not been formally told yet just what, though." The next day she came to the set with her hair darkened slightly and reddish tones added. It looked as natural on her as the red locks had in the Pacino film. She just had one of those fair complexions that looked good in most hair colors. Well, I'm not sure she could carry off dark hair, but who knows?

Joaquin was a little shy, quiet and diffident, but had gorgeous navy blue eyes fringed with thick, black lashes. "Have I seen your movies?" I asked, hoping he didn't think I was hopelessly rude.

He chuckled, "Probably not. I used to go by 'Leaf Phoenix' until I got bored with being avant-garde and decided to us my real first name."

"Space Camp!" I exclaimed and he mimed extreme shock. "No, seriously - I love films - I've seen that one a couple of times. That little kid was you?"

"Unfortunately," he moaned, obviously glad to have left mischievous young boys' roles behind. He glanced around as the director walked past, deep in conversation with some of his assistants. "He's coming on set today for the first time, y'know."

"He?" I asked, "Who?" He made it sound like the Messiah, or at least, a highly important personage, was arriving that day in our somewhat muddy village in the woods.

"The star, Jess," he informed me with a grin, "the star - hadn't you heard?"

"Oh, Russell Crowe? I saw him in 'L.A. Confidential', he was pretty good in that." I could not, however, picture him as a Roman general. Too light-haired, blue-eyed, although he was muscular and husky. I also recalled him in "The Quick and the Dead" and "Virtuosity", and then nothing until the Curtis Hanson film. How would he do as a Second Century A.D. Roman general? I was about to find out.

The first battle scenes were to be shot that morning, and there was an air of suppressed excitement throughout the gathered members of the crew. Actors and extras milled around in their costumes as either Romans or German tribal types, mainly distinguished by the amount of hair and whiskers, although the Romans had nicer armor. I passed a tent where several harassed-looking women were overseeing the muddying and bloodying up of some extras under a sign that read, "Don't whine, just stand in the mud". Here, the "soldiers" were climbing one by one into a huge vat of muddy slop and getting themselves thoroughly caked in it before stepping out and letting another guy step in. No wonder they whined - I would have, too.

I had my portable medical kit - a large, fully-stocked tool box type affair - with me. I had my own folding chair to sit in that read "Nurse" on the back in fancy script, and I had two assistants with me in case a firepot went off and hurt someone, or somebody got in the way of one of the prop swords and accidentally got cut or scraped - you supply the injury, we were prepared for it. I had a flask of medicinal brandy in case it was needed to restore someone, a large thermos of coffee - we each had one of those, and one of hot tea as well - and once we had our space set up to our liking, complete with a small tent and cots, we settled in to watch the filming.

Into this gray, gloomy scene walked a vision from two thousand years earlier - a Roman general in full battle armor except for the helmet, his dark red cloak reaching to his boot heels but fluttering majestically as he walked, silvered brass armor with studded leather, and over his shoulders, two magnificent white wolf pelts that draped almost to his knees in back. I think my mouth dropped open. I know my two assistants' did - I saw them. We all just stood there gaping like rubes as the general strolled up to us.

As he reached Ridley, who was staring almost as raptly as we were, the general suddenly reached into some hidden pocket and pulled out a red and white pack of Marlboro cigarettes. "So, Ridley," he said in unmistakable Australian phrasing, "what's yer idea for this, then?"

I heard Mr. Scott curse under his breath and then utter a short laugh at his victimization by the wardrobe and makeup people's transformation of a modern man into a Roman general, then the star uttered the most amazing laugh - more of a high-pitched chuckle or giggle - and said, "Gotcha!" to the smiling director. "Good on 'em, eh, mate?" the star commented, apparently referring to the success of the aforesaid makeup and wardrobe staff's work, then they were walking up and down, talking, gesturing and looking at the assembled masses of the two armies facing one another across the hilly ground.

I couldn't take my eyes off Russell Crowe. Here was no Bud White or Cort or Sid 6.7 - he looked nothing like those fictional creations. He was as muscular as Officer White, but his hair was almost black, he had a neatly trimmed black beard, and he wore the cuirass, leather, cloak and boots of Maximus Decimus Meridius as if he were born to wear them. The wolf pelts only served to announce further that here was an alpha male, and look out, world!

I saw him from time to time that first day as the first and second units were busy setting up the opening shots of the monumental battle in the forest of "Germania", and each time I was struck yet again by how convincing he was as Maximus. Every time he walked past, my assistants and I would look at one another and mutter, "Jesus!" in awed tones. The third or fourth time this happened, he heard our exclamations, and stopped dead. Turning on his heel, he walked back, and, with a wide grin, said, "No, just Maximus, but you can call me Russell."

The three of us were as tongue-tied as school girls - well, school boy, in Rob's case - but you get the idea. Since Robbie is gay, I guess either term would do, he was salivating as much as Deedee and I were. Close up, the effect of the dark hair was just as full of impact. In the somewhat overcast daylight, the star's eyes glinted almost silver as he turned that grin on me. "Russell - and you are?" He eyed me up and down so quickly I almost missed the flick of his glance. Ah, I thought, one of those.

"Jess Halliwell, set nurse," I answered in crisp but friendly tones. I introduced Deedee and Rob, and he nodded to each of them before turning his gaze back to me.

"Any relation to…?" and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, laughing at my vehement head-shake. "Okay, that would be a 'no', so, moving right along - you're American, aren't you? I heard they had a new nurse for this shoot - so that would be you?"

He heard about a new nurse? Like, that was important to him? I would find out as filming progressed that it was, indeed, very important, but at that early stage nobody had been cut or scraped or bruised by flailing weapons, much less the star of the movie. "Yes," I answered somewhat belatedly, "New York - well, I worked in New York City last, I'm from north of there by birth."

"New Zealand by birth," he introduced himself further, "Australian by the Grace of God, and now - magically - Roman."

Just then, he was called to the set, so he gave us a friendly wave of farewell and left us standing with wobbly knees and big silly grins on our faces.

"So-o-o-o-o," Robbie said in his "well, doesn't that beat all" tone, "that's Russell Crowe."

"Cripes," echoed Deedee with her usually succinct phrasing. She was from London and used to seeing celebrities, had worked on several other films in the past. Obviously, the man had impressed her anyway.

"Yes," I echoed her, "cripes is right."

They began filming at that point and we were shortly busy tending to some minor cuts and scrapes, and one dislocated elbow gotten when one of the Roman "officers" got knocked off his horse when the beast ran him into a tree in the excitement of fire pots going off and trumpets blaring. By the time we broke for lunch, we were all cold, happy in our appointed tasks, and hungry as bears. We all trooped over to the lunch wagons and got in line for hot food. I got separated from Rob and Deedee somehow or other, and ended up in line behind the assistant director and, in front of him, Ridley Scott. Yikes, I thought, I probably shouldn't be in this particular queue. I started to back up to go in search of another relatively short line, when I was stopped from behind by two very large hands wrapped in strips of gray leather. "Hold on, Nurse Halliwell," came the unmistakable tones of Mr. Crowe, "don't tread on me fancy boots - and keep moving, I'm so hungry I could eat my funny helmet with the toilet brush on top."

I glanced around into the amused aqua gaze of the star of the movie, and let him push me forward, willy-nilly. Who was I, after all, to argue with the lead actor? Nobody. Besides, we had reached the serving area and I was almost hungry enough to chow down on his helmet myself. I quickly picked up a plate and filled it from the steaming chafing dishes, taking some of everything until the plate was almost overflowing with my unladylike pile of food, and grabbed a cup of hot tea before turning to search out a place to sit. There were long tables set up with chairs along both sides, plus some dozen or so smaller, round tables - all looked to be filled. "Damn," I cursed under my breath, balancing my food and drink as I tried not to trip on the frozen mud ruts.

A gentle nudge in my left side, and Mr. Crowe walked past me. "Over here, luv," he said in friendly tones, walking towards the very end round table where nobody seemed to be sitting. We headed in that direction, shortly joined by some other members of the crew and Richard Harris, who immediately began a hilarious story about filming in this same area on "Camelot" years earlier. "And the weather was just as shitty then, Rusty," he said, laughing happily.

"I expect it'll stay this way the whole time we're here," Russell answered, "then miraculously clear up once we're done."

I ate and listened, laughed and answered when spoken to, and altogether, enjoyed lunch immensely once I had gotten over my tongue-tied state at being there with movie stars.

"She's shy," Russell said about me to Richard, winking at me.

I blushed, to my chagrin, but had to agree that this was all new to me. That prompted a lot of questions about what I did before this film, and when I told them I'd been a trauma nurse in New York City, they got really interested, and I soon found myself telling them some of the less gory cases I'd worked on. "God, that's so cool!" Russell exclaimed, when I finished a story about a young man who had been injured in a drive-by shooting that my team had saved after many would have given up on him.

"I suppose he's now studying to become a doctor or something?" Richard asked.

"No, probably back out on the street with his gang," I said, resignedly. "Not many miraculous conversions, I'm afraid." That was one reason I'd gotten weary of the job, exciting as trauma work was. It was the endless parade of victims that got to me finally.

Later that day, my first victim from among the leading actors came - protesting his head off at being dragged to the medical tent by a production assistant and the director himself. "It's okay, I'm telling ya," Russell was arguing with Ridley. "It's going to be just - ouch, damn it to hell, leave off shoving at me, girl!" he yelled at the hapless P.A., who had apparently tripped on a mud rut and pushed him as a result of trying to keep her feet. Seeing what had happened, I gave him a glare that told him, scraped or not, he needed to apologize to her. He smiled slightly and said, "Sorry, luv, didn't mean to snap yer head off." She nodded, pleased with that, and took off on another errand.

By then, Ridley had pushed Russell down onto the stool by my work area and told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. "Let her look at it - it's right through your face, Russell."

That got my attention and I switched on my bright examining lamp and put on gloves so I could look. "Jeeze," I muttered once I had, "it IS right through your face." He had a puncture wound, almost star-shaped, right through his right cheek. It was oozing slightly, and it had to hurt, although it didn't appear to have damaged any blood vessels or facial nerves, which was lucky. "It should have a stitch, but I couldn't hide that," I told them. "I can butterfly it if he's through for the day."

They both shook their heads, he wasn't, it seemed, finished. I shrugged, "Well, okay, let me clean it out and give you an ice pack to put on it to keep it from puffing up, you can just pretend it's a battle wound."

"Good idea," Ridley said, then was called back to the set by some emergency or other with the firepots.

"Fucking firepots are what caused this," my patient muttered. He sat still under my scrutiny, then, when I touched a swab soaked in antiseptic to the wound, he twitched once, hissed in a breath, and forced himself not to jerk away from me. When I had looked inside his mouth to see that the puncture was cleaned with peroxide on another swab, he breathed again and gave me a slight head-shake. "Torturer," he commented. He took the ice pack I proffered and held it to his cheek.

"So, what happened?" I asked, peeling off my gloves and snapping them into the trashcan. I offered him hot tea from my big thermal pot and he accepted the foam cup with a nod of thanks.

"Firepot fell over on its side and when they set it off, the flames went right up my horse's ass." He sipped at his tea, holding his head tipped to the opposite side from his wound so the drink didn't touch the raw place.

"Shit," I said, picturing that, "did you fall on a rock or something?"

"I'll have you know, I kept right on in character even though the bloody horse was running backwards down the hill, crashing me into trees and trying to turn himself inside out. He ran me right into a tree limb and that's how I got this, a small branch went straight through my face."

I shuddered appropriately while he gave me his amused chuckle. "How is the horse?" I asked.

"Oh, he's fine - although I daresay he won't be too keen on being close to any more of those firepots, upright or fallen over."

"Won't you have to keep riding him, or does he have a double?" Did horses have stunt doubles? For that matter, didn't the star of the film have a double to do that kind of scene? I asked him as much.

"Oh, I guess I could, but it's more fun doing it m'self, luv." He held the ice pack away from his cheek long enough to take a couple big gulps of the hot tea, then put it back in place.

"So you're going to go right back out there and get on him?" I thought he was being foolhardy, and my tone said so quite plainly.

"Oh, sure - it's what they pay me for, after all. Besides, why let a stuntman do it? Then, I wouldn't have any fun at all." With that, he got called back to the set. He rose, handed me the ice pack and left with a brief, but sincere thank you. "See ya around, luv," he called back over his pelted shoulder. I ran after him to hand him two packets of Tylenol, which he accepted with a grin and a nod, then he was off again.

I had no doubts I would see him in my tent again, probably sooner than later.