©2001 by WILDBEARIES

DREAMTIME

by wildbearies

Night somewhere in a large city. The simple yet luxurious suite in a discreet hotel is bathed in darkness save for one small lamp outside the master bedroom. All the doors are shut, the sitting room with its overstuffed chairs and wide screen TV is dark, the bar empty of sound except for the drip-drip-drip of ice melting in the sink. There are flowers in interesting vases, a stack of books carelessly awry on a table, and a script propped open with a weighted leather bookmark on the nightstand. The occupant of the bed sleeps the quiet sleep of a person tired from hours of pleasurable work.

If one believed the stuff of tabloid fantasy and gossip, one would expect this man to be accompanied by a beautiful woman, or at least to be surrounded by more of the trappings of celebrity or the wages of sin. But, truth is quite often much more ordinary than one would like to believe, and truth was that this man - focus of desire for millions of women all over the world - usually slept alone.

Just before dawn, before the sun warmed the eastern horizon with its pink glow, the solitary sleeper began to dream. Sprawled on his stomach, hands flung out in total relaxation, one foot tucked under the tangled sheet, the other hanging off the side of the bed; at first the only sign of his dreaming was a slight quickening of breath. As he went deeper into the dream, if you were standing very near the bed and listening for it, you could have heard a low mumble now and then, or perhaps a protesting growl or exclamation. But no one was standing near, so the sleeper slept on, and the dream grew until he was encompassed in it, and it became real . . .

He was practically blinded by the glaring sun, squinting across the sand to where a maelstrom of activity involved several dozen men. Sweat ran in one eye and he wiped it away impatiently. Blast it, if the ancient Romans were so advanced, why hadn’t they invented sunglasses? He shut his eyes briefly, shook his head in resignation, and shifted his weight off his bruised right foot. He was lucky, he supposed, that he hadn’t broken it again given that a 300+ pound bloke from Germany had trod on it the day before in the turmoil of shooting a fight scene. They already had a good take of it in the can, but one last attempt never hurt, except this one had. And it had caused him to utter some short but to the point words in very plain English, effectively ruining the take. So much for one last try, he thought now. He squinted across the arena again, would they never get on with it?

A rumbling noise behind him caught him off guard and he whipped his head around. If that damned declawed tiger came roaring out of the trapdoor early again, he’d be off like a shot. Claws or no claws, getting swatted by a massive beast like that one would be no picnic. And it did still have teeth. The platform rose until it was level with the sand and the beast that rode on it took a ponderous step towards him. It wasn’t the tiger.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. It was a rhinoceros. He instinctively raised the heavy sword - the real one with the sharp edge, thank God - and braced himself. He supposed that the film crew, no doubt laughing their asses off behind him, had arranged some kind of practical joke with a tame rhino. “Ridley!” he shouted, not wasting time by looking over his shoulder to see them all cracking up, “Ridley, get this overgrown piggybank off me!”

There was no answer, and the rhino had heard him. It shook its massive head with that ridiculous double horn at him and pawed the ground.

“Ridley!” he tried one last time, then the rhino took a few steps in his direction and he forgot about strangling the director or at least returning the favor of the joke in spades. The ground shook under his feet and the rhino was coming at a trot. He had no idea what to do. Did one run from a rhinoceros or did one whack it across the nose with a rolled up newspaper? Not that he was going to get that close to the damned thing. “Run,” he decided, and turned to take his own advice.

The world tilted and he almost fell flat, thinking he really should have run a lot sooner, then he was up and everything was somehow different. He blinked, his ears assaulted by the roar of a huge crowd and, panting, held up from running long enough to see that the Coliseum seats were filled with people and they were waving and laughing. Good Christ, was everyone in Malta in on the joke?

He was shoved from behind and shot a quick look over one shoulder to see which of the jokesters pushed him. A sweaty stranger in dented but finely chased breastplate and greaves stared at him and mouthed something in what his brain recognized as Latin. The schoolroom being years in the past, and Latin never being his strong suit anyway, Russell answered him curtly, “Push me again, mate, and you can pick your teeth up off the ground.”

The other man laughed harshly, nodding and gesturing at something over Russell’s shoulder. He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The very large, very much closer matter at hand. “Oh, bugger it!” he said, and took a step toward the damned thing. He hoped Ridley had the cameras rolling, this was one out take that was going to be a classic.

He moved slowly toward the rhino, which had stopped trotting towards him and now stood peering at him, turning its head this way and that to see out of its piggy little eyes. Might as well make it look good, he thought, and jumped right into the beast’s face, shouting and waving the sword. Whack! He hit it on the snout with the flat of the blade and jumped back a pace or two, hoping his moves looked halfway competent.

The roars from the crowd of extras got even louder and they began flinging things into the arena - everything from orange rinds to bits of crumpled paper to rose petals. He made out that they were shouting encouragement, and in Latin at that! The dialogue coaches must have been working over time on this one, he thought. Only this morning the extras had been shouting at him in Spanish, French and Italian. Since it was going to be dubbed over it didn’t matter anyway. He gave the rhino his full attention after that brief recollection. It was moving again, and a lot faster this time. It did not look happy.

He was shoved again, but before he could turn and deck the idiot, the rhino was on them and he and his unknown partner in this fiasco were suddenly very busy. He called on everything he had learned from the sword master and a few things he had learned in the bars of Sydney, and in the heat of the moment he forgot all about Ridley and the jokesters and how he wished for his Ray-Bans, and he fought the blasted rhinoceros.

The other fellow, who stank of some kind of rancid oil, moved off to the other side of the beast and waved a huge mallet at it. He wouldn’t actually hit it, Russell thought in amazement, knowing this animal must’ve cost somebody a fortune to rent; but the idiot did hit it, and the rhino swung its head at him and flung him through the air. Russell’s jaw dropped. Was that prop blood? If so, it looked a lot more realistic than he remembered. And the bloke was screaming. That sounded real enough! This was beginning to not be very funny.

Then the rhino, its horn bloodied, turned its gaze on him and he stood temporarily rooted to the ground. “R-Ridley?” All that came out was a dry whisper, and before he could clear the sand from his throat to tell the crew exactly what he thought of this entire exercise in misplaced humor, the rhino charged him.

“Y’can’t run,” he said to himself, “and it’s bigger than you,” he danced out of its path, waving the sword at it as it trotted past, turning to keep an eye on it as it wheeled to come back at him, “and nobody is going to stop this - whatever it is,” he picked up a shield that was lying on the sand nearby, “so y’may as well stick it a few times and see if it’ll quit.” After all, a tame rhino wouldn’t take much “sticking” before it stopped and wanted a scratch behind the ears, would it?

Apparently it would. Russell stuck it sort of tentatively a few times, but each time the beast turned and ran at him again. Finally, panting and feeling just a little desperate, he shoved the blade into the thick muscle of the rhino's neck when it tried to knock him flat again. The sword was definitely dripping real blood. Russell cursed every member of the film crew, looked around for help, and, finding none, decided on a strategy that might work. When the rhino, blood running in a stream down its neck, began trotting towards him again, he tucked the sword under his left arm out of the way and, using the round shield as a kind of metallic Frisbee, flung it hard at the critter’s head and heard a satisfying “CLANG!” as it struck between the rhino’s ears. The beast’s bellow of pain and rage caught him a little by surprise, and its fall to the sand surprised him further. Then the rhino kicked once, farted, gave a great rattling breath and expired.

The crowd went berserk, showering him with flowers, debris, fruit, lord knows what all. The fools! Didn’t they realize he’d really just killed this wonderful animal? He was furious. “God dammit,” he shouted to anyone who would listen, “the damn thing is DEAD!” He reached for more to say to make them understand, "I am NOT entertained!" he finally yelled, so angry he was seeing red. He thought about throwing the sword into the stands, but decided he might need it, things being what they were.

And where the hell was Ridley? Come to think of it, where the hell was ANYONE in the crew? And the cameras, booms, mikes, etc? He must be having sunstroke. That had to be it. He was obviously unhinged. And the Coliseum set didn’t look right. The blue screens atop the second level were gone, and in their places were, well, real tiers of seats. Filled with real people. And they were all shouting, “Maximus! Maximus! Maximus!” at the top of their lungs.

Russell stuck the point of the sword into the sand and stared around the huge arena. This had progressed way beyond funny. And that rhino was definitely dead, and he had killed it. He had never killed an animal in his life, yet he had done this one in like the most bloodthirsty of ancient Romans would have.

“The animal rights people are gonna be after me now,” he muttered to himself, and then he was swept up in the grip of several large and very sweaty men who seemed to be cheering him. They lifted him to their shoulders and carried him around the arena so the crowd could see him better. In danger of sliding off this sweaty perch, he nevertheless grabbed hold of them. At least surrounded by this lot he would have a barrier of sorts between himself and any other large snorting critter with horns (or without) that wanted to trample him into a tiny blood spot on the sand.

The crowd was so enthusiastic, Russell almost found himself waving back, before realizing how ridiculous the whole thing was. “Lemme down!” he commanded one of the burly fellows carting him around. No response. He swung his legs, pushed off with both arms, and managed to land on his feet in the soft sand. The group stopped, obviously peeved with his poor showmanship, and Russell stood his ground, hands on his hips. “Enough!” he barked, “The joke is over. I want my sunglasses. I want something cold to drink, and I want whoever is responsible for this bullshit to knock it the hell off!”

The leader of the cheerful group of gladiators scowled and shook his head at him. “We have no soonglasses, there is wine aplenty below, and the Emperor wants to speak to you,” he informed Russell.

“The who?” Russell exclaimed, suddenly realizing who might actually be behind this debacle. He whirled and looked up at the people standing in the purple-garlanded Imperial box. “Joaquin, you fool, I’ve killed this damned rhino! The joke is over.”

“Who,” queried a petulant, cultured voice, “is Joaquin? No doubt some other savage Spaniard.” The young “emperor” moved to the front of the box and looked over the edge at Russell. “Well, Maximus, you’ve killed my rhinoceros, haven’t you? I am most terribly vexed.”

It was Joaquin and it wasn’t. Russell gaped up at the plump, pouting face surmounted by dark curls and a laurel wreath. “Yes, I have,” he finally answered, “and I’d do it again. In fact, why don’t you come down here and I’ll stick this damned sword up your ass.” He’d had enough. Politeness and friendship be damned, this was more than enough. Everyone else must have thought so too, because, after a collective gasp of dismay, everyone shut up.

“That’s more like it,” Russell announced into the silence, just realizing that he had a headache to rival the worst hangover he’d ever had in his life. “Would somebody give me some water?” he asked again, totally at the end of his patience.

A long, graceful arm reached over the flower decked wall, and attached to that arm was a gorgeous auburn-haired woman in gold tissue, white silk, and aquamarine ribbons. She offered him a ewer of gold frosted glass, and inside it - bless somebody! - was cold water.

“Connie?” Russell asked, then shook his head, “No, of course not, you’re not quite her are you?” This must be her stand-in, in which case, hurrah for all stand-ins! The woman was a real looker and he couldn't help looking at her while he guzzled down most of the water. He poured the rest of it over his head, licking the last drops of it off his lips as it ran down. “Thank you,” he remembered to say, just as the “emperor” reached over and yanked the ewer from his hands, his expression clearly indicating such riches were not for the likes of a sweaty "gladiator". “Sorry,” Russell muttered, stifling a laugh. Good lord, was everyone here loony today?

Apparently, yes they were. A troop of purple-garbed Praetorians surrounded him, and before he could protest, he was swept forward and up some marble steps right into the imperial box. This was not in any script rewrite he had seen, and if it was something legitimate, this was one of the longest takes he could remember ever doing. The troops stopped marching and he found himself face to face with Laurel Wreath and the Beauty. “Hello, “ he tried, wondering when the ambulance would arrive to haul him off to the local mental ward. Thinking that the dimples hadn't ever failed him in the past, he flashed the woman a smile.

The Beauty smiled back, fluttering impossibly long eyelashes at him, gold jewelry glinting in the reflected sunlight. The Laurel Wreath, however, pursed his lips and then scowled. “No proper respect, as usual,” he said to the onlookers, who nodded in agreement.

“You haven’t earned it,” Russell answered, still hoping to hear Ridley Scott holler “CUT!” and everyone to fall about in hilarity. “You murdered my family,” Russell improvised, damned if he could remember any scene such as this in his script pages for the day.

Laurel Wreath waved a hand impatiently, “I did not.” He brushed the crumbs of some kind of pastry off the front of his purple toga, shoving sticky almond candies in his mouth at the same time.

“Well, you stabbed me in the back with that bloody little stiletto,” Russell shot back. “Come to think of it, I thought Maximus died in that scene.” This was all beyond bizarre.

Joaquin, or Mister Whoever He Was, was beginning to look distinctly bored. “Of course not. Lucilla nursed you back to health. You came back to the arena weeks ago, even though you could have gone back to Hispania or wherever it is you live.”

“Outside of Sydney,” Russell mumbled, then shut up. “Lucilla?” he tried, looking at the Beauty.

“Yes, darling?” she answered, smiling at him warmly.

“Didn’t I kill this guy?” he asked her, smiling back despite his feelings of unreality.

“You killed Commodus,” she told him, the picture of patient understanding. “This is Pertinax, remember?”

“No, that part of the script seems to have gotten to everyone but me, love,” he answered honestly. He walked to the front of the box, shouldering his way past the bemused Praetorians. Looking around, he inquired in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice, “Has anyone seen Ridley Scott? I need to strangle him.”

Nobody had. It was infuriating. “Listen,” he tried, “I won a bloody Oscar for this, and I’m done with this movie, and it’s two years later, at least, and I want to know when somebody is going to let me in on the joke.”

Lucilla took him by the arm, patting him gently despite his sweaty state. “Come now, darling,” she murmured, “Let’s get you out of the sun and let you rest. Ever since you were struck in the head by that retarius from Gaul, you’ve had problems with your memory.” She began leading him to the back of the marble seating area where a gold-encrusted door gleamed under a lintel of Imperial eagles and olive branches.

Russell shook his head, but found her intriguing enough to stop digging in his heels and allow himself to be led away. If he was crazy, at least he was in good company. They went through the door, and when it shut behind them, the thud echoed like thunder.

He rolled to one side and fell off the bed, landing in a tangle of sheets on the floor. “What the bleeding hell was that?!?!” he exclaimed, struggling to get to his feet.

“What was what?” Mark, who was there to wake him and get him to the set on time, opened the bedroom door. “What are you doing on the damned floor?”

Russell didn’t dignify that question with an answer, but managed to get untangled and sat on the side of the bed for a moment, rubbing his eyes. After thinking about it for a few minutes, he began to laugh. “Marcus, “ he told his confused assistant, “you wouldn’t believe where I’ve been.” And he didn’t bother to enlighten him either.

-------------------------------
Copyright 2001 by wildbearies