Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Icmancin
WSNR Pte
I've been gone all week-end and what do I come home to see? Mia beginning to organize the angry workers. Things are heating up.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Walking out of the Marconi Foundry and Factory Works, Cincinnatus shook his head in dismay. He had been requested to attend talks between the management of the factory and the appointed leaders of the striking workers. It had started out amicably enough but quickly deteriorated after only a few minutes of conversation. There was a considerable amount of animosity and bad blood between the two parties, and no amount of promises, cajoling, or deal wrangling on the part of the heir apparent was able to sway both sides together.
The talks ended with Guglielmus himself, the now sole owner and president of the sprawling conglomerate and corporation, rising from the table and stating quite clearly how every “soot-stained sludge-sucking dreg that ever swung a pick for me should get a burning case of the red fever on their nuts and spend the rest of the month holding their peckers or risk having them fall off!”
It didn’t go over well.
When the yelling finally ended and the chairs had been uprighted, Cincinnatus had gathered his notes and papers and unread contracts and exhaustedly walked to and out the side door of the plant’s office. He heard the howling from the main street as the demonstrators once again returned to their picketing of the factory, the latest round of talks resulting in no change and no resolution.
“How’d it go, my Prince?”
Cincinnatus sighed, head shaking. “Not good at all, Centurion,” he replied to his guard. “I had hoped we could reach some sort of uneasy peace, but even that…” his voice trailed off as he grew pensive and thoughtful.
“It’s alright, my Prince. You did what you could.” Giving the surrounding side road a quick once over, the Centurion added, “Come, my Prince. Let’s get us away from here.” He grabbed Cincinnatus’ elbow, guiding him westward toward the distantly waiting carriage. The other six guards took their positions; two in the front, two behind, and one on each side flanking him.
The Caesar to be was deep in thought, replaying the entire meeting again in his mind, trying to see if there was any other way it could have ended. His guards were alert yet at the same time concerned for their charge who was visibly troubled over how poorly the proceedings had gone. An echoing creak sounded down the road as some wooden doorway or shutter moved under its seemingly own accord. The Centurion’s attention returned with a snap to the surroundings; the errant noise making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
A heavy doorway burst open, disgorging a passel of grim faced men and women dressing in darkly dyed homespun and sporting a variety of bludgeoning weapons. One of the first ones pointed his cudgel at Cincinnatus and said simply, “Get him.”
“Down, my Prince!” Cincinnatus was shoved from behind, sent sprawling to the cobblestones as his flanking guards straddled his prone body. A pistol rang out sharply in the narrow street and one of the charging assailants fell with a blood-curdling scream.
From the building to their left, a set of loading dock doors flew open and another dozen angry Romans emerged; boards and bricks and pipes held aloft. One of the guards began firing, his rifle spitting lead with methodical precision as he worked the bolt action back and forth. His shield mate drew his pistol cross-armed, adding his own gunfire to the fray. Two more Roman workers went down.
“Get him out of here,” the Centurion ordered, ducking left to better aim at a leaping assailant. The two flanking guards drew their own pistols and lifted the frightened Prince off the ground, dragging him forward in a determined run. More gunshots rang out as the attempting kidnappers tried to rush forward in time to stop their target from escaping.
Someone hurled a lead pipe, the heavy weapon striking Cincinnatus’ right guard on the back of the thigh. The man grunted and slipped but steeled himself with a lurching pull, his gait rolling but still unstopped. The meaty sound of struck flesh sounded as the remaining attackers finally closed to melee distance. One of the guards fell, leg shattered, collarbone pulverized. He was dragged backwards and stomped to death with unabashed fury.
Outnumbered now at almost three to one, the remaining four guards squared off shoulder to shoulder; using their bodies as a barrier to block the road and give their Prince enough time to escape. Weapons rose and fell. More shots were fired. There, a woman collapsed gurgling in panic, the side of her neck blown open. Two men struggled to wrest a pistol away from one of the guards, the weapon discharging twice into the air before an errant round tore the top of the skull off one of the kidnappers.
Cincinnatus was finally at the carriage, the door yanked open and his body hurled inside. “Look out!” came the call down the street as a trio of the assailants were able to overrun another guard and break away to continue their pursuit. Reaching under the buckboard, the flanking guard with the wounded leg withdrew a concealed rifle and whirled around, bringing the weapon to bear. “Go,” he said to the remaining guardian, glancing back to see only two of his fellow guardsmen still standing. “I’ll slow them down.”
Nodding grimly, the final guard climbed atop the wagon as the other man began firing. A bullet tore through one of the charging attacker’s chest, ripping the back of his flesh apart. The carriage began racing away as the horses were whipped from behind. Horrified, Cincinnatus watched as another dozen men came tearing around the corner; this group armed with rifles of their own.
They fired. The last of the still resisting guards collapsed, their bodies riddled with blossoming bullet wounds. Once cleared of any local threat, they trained their weapons at the charging wagon and fired. Hot lead whizzed through the air, a pair of rounds striking the wooden back of the carriage and drilling through, just missing the terrified Prince. One round cracked against the iron-shod wheel, splintering at least two of the spokes but failing to disable the wheel.
More shots followed; three more hitting the carriage, one connecting with the hunched over guardsman/driver elicting a groan of pain from the injured man. “Are you alright, my Prince?” he asked painfully from above. Cincinnatus croaked in reply, to scared to reply intelligently.
Another shot luckily was able to strike the rearmost horse on the flank. The animal whinnied, staggering but still able to keep its feet as it was pulled along by the other five steeds. The gunfire was becoming more erratic as the distance grew wider between the Prince and the howling attackers. Finally the wagon turned left down Market Way towards the palace and the direct line of sight between the parties was spoiled.
When Cincinnatus was safely at the palace grounds again and the tale was heard it sent the entire royal household into an apoplectic fit. The Praetorian Guard was sent into the industrial district and dozens of arrests and skirmishes took place. Men were tried with swift justice and nailed to crosses before day’s end. But to the people of Rome it was obvious that their prince was no longer safe in the streets of the eternal city.
Two days later the broadsheets had announced that Prince Cincinnatus had been removed from the city for his own safety and the assured continuance of the royal line to an undisclosed location. To the royalists it was a prudent and justifiable action.
To the dissenters, it was a further example of the ineffectiveness of the current government and proof that their actions were having the desired effect.
The talks ended with Guglielmus himself, the now sole owner and president of the sprawling conglomerate and corporation, rising from the table and stating quite clearly how every “soot-stained sludge-sucking dreg that ever swung a pick for me should get a burning case of the red fever on their nuts and spend the rest of the month holding their peckers or risk having them fall off!”
It didn’t go over well.
When the yelling finally ended and the chairs had been uprighted, Cincinnatus had gathered his notes and papers and unread contracts and exhaustedly walked to and out the side door of the plant’s office. He heard the howling from the main street as the demonstrators once again returned to their picketing of the factory, the latest round of talks resulting in no change and no resolution.
“How’d it go, my Prince?”
Cincinnatus sighed, head shaking. “Not good at all, Centurion,” he replied to his guard. “I had hoped we could reach some sort of uneasy peace, but even that…” his voice trailed off as he grew pensive and thoughtful.
“It’s alright, my Prince. You did what you could.” Giving the surrounding side road a quick once over, the Centurion added, “Come, my Prince. Let’s get us away from here.” He grabbed Cincinnatus’ elbow, guiding him westward toward the distantly waiting carriage. The other six guards took their positions; two in the front, two behind, and one on each side flanking him.
The Caesar to be was deep in thought, replaying the entire meeting again in his mind, trying to see if there was any other way it could have ended. His guards were alert yet at the same time concerned for their charge who was visibly troubled over how poorly the proceedings had gone. An echoing creak sounded down the road as some wooden doorway or shutter moved under its seemingly own accord. The Centurion’s attention returned with a snap to the surroundings; the errant noise making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
A heavy doorway burst open, disgorging a passel of grim faced men and women dressing in darkly dyed homespun and sporting a variety of bludgeoning weapons. One of the first ones pointed his cudgel at Cincinnatus and said simply, “Get him.”
“Down, my Prince!” Cincinnatus was shoved from behind, sent sprawling to the cobblestones as his flanking guards straddled his prone body. A pistol rang out sharply in the narrow street and one of the charging assailants fell with a blood-curdling scream.
From the building to their left, a set of loading dock doors flew open and another dozen angry Romans emerged; boards and bricks and pipes held aloft. One of the guards began firing, his rifle spitting lead with methodical precision as he worked the bolt action back and forth. His shield mate drew his pistol cross-armed, adding his own gunfire to the fray. Two more Roman workers went down.
“Get him out of here,” the Centurion ordered, ducking left to better aim at a leaping assailant. The two flanking guards drew their own pistols and lifted the frightened Prince off the ground, dragging him forward in a determined run. More gunshots rang out as the attempting kidnappers tried to rush forward in time to stop their target from escaping.
Someone hurled a lead pipe, the heavy weapon striking Cincinnatus’ right guard on the back of the thigh. The man grunted and slipped but steeled himself with a lurching pull, his gait rolling but still unstopped. The meaty sound of struck flesh sounded as the remaining attackers finally closed to melee distance. One of the guards fell, leg shattered, collarbone pulverized. He was dragged backwards and stomped to death with unabashed fury.
Outnumbered now at almost three to one, the remaining four guards squared off shoulder to shoulder; using their bodies as a barrier to block the road and give their Prince enough time to escape. Weapons rose and fell. More shots were fired. There, a woman collapsed gurgling in panic, the side of her neck blown open. Two men struggled to wrest a pistol away from one of the guards, the weapon discharging twice into the air before an errant round tore the top of the skull off one of the kidnappers.
Cincinnatus was finally at the carriage, the door yanked open and his body hurled inside. “Look out!” came the call down the street as a trio of the assailants were able to overrun another guard and break away to continue their pursuit. Reaching under the buckboard, the flanking guard with the wounded leg withdrew a concealed rifle and whirled around, bringing the weapon to bear. “Go,” he said to the remaining guardian, glancing back to see only two of his fellow guardsmen still standing. “I’ll slow them down.”
Nodding grimly, the final guard climbed atop the wagon as the other man began firing. A bullet tore through one of the charging attacker’s chest, ripping the back of his flesh apart. The carriage began racing away as the horses were whipped from behind. Horrified, Cincinnatus watched as another dozen men came tearing around the corner; this group armed with rifles of their own.
They fired. The last of the still resisting guards collapsed, their bodies riddled with blossoming bullet wounds. Once cleared of any local threat, they trained their weapons at the charging wagon and fired. Hot lead whizzed through the air, a pair of rounds striking the wooden back of the carriage and drilling through, just missing the terrified Prince. One round cracked against the iron-shod wheel, splintering at least two of the spokes but failing to disable the wheel.
More shots followed; three more hitting the carriage, one connecting with the hunched over guardsman/driver elicting a groan of pain from the injured man. “Are you alright, my Prince?” he asked painfully from above. Cincinnatus croaked in reply, to scared to reply intelligently.
Another shot luckily was able to strike the rearmost horse on the flank. The animal whinnied, staggering but still able to keep its feet as it was pulled along by the other five steeds. The gunfire was becoming more erratic as the distance grew wider between the Prince and the howling attackers. Finally the wagon turned left down Market Way towards the palace and the direct line of sight between the parties was spoiled.
When Cincinnatus was safely at the palace grounds again and the tale was heard it sent the entire royal household into an apoplectic fit. The Praetorian Guard was sent into the industrial district and dozens of arrests and skirmishes took place. Men were tried with swift justice and nailed to crosses before day’s end. But to the people of Rome it was obvious that their prince was no longer safe in the streets of the eternal city.
Two days later the broadsheets had announced that Prince Cincinnatus had been removed from the city for his own safety and the assured continuance of the royal line to an undisclosed location. To the royalists it was a prudent and justifiable action.
To the dissenters, it was a further example of the ineffectiveness of the current government and proof that their actions were having the desired effect.
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WillowBrook
Lurker
Great job, as always, Vanadorn.
In the first paragraph, I think you want, "...deal wrangling on the part of the heir apparent..."
In the first paragraph, I think you want, "...deal wrangling on the part of the heir apparent..."
Icmancin
WSNR Pte
Interesting. Could you tell me where Romes armies are? Have they revolted to the peasents or are they scattered around in separate parts of the Empire skirmishing with rebels?
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Agrippa, General of Rome’s armies and member of Caesar’s high council bowed low to his Queen as she emerged red faced and upset from the throne room, her ladies in waiting falling in behind her. He didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass Andromeda any further that she already felt and unsure of what he could say considering the situation. Instead he allowed her to pass with the shards of her dignity in place, pretending he hadn’t heard either his lord or lady arguing just moments earlier.
When she was safely out of earshot, Agrippa composed his features once again and entered Caesar’s throne room. The chamber was different from the way it used to be. The windows were drawn and shuttered, allowing only slitted sunlight to dapple the white marble floor. Where before there would be hundreds of courtiers and messenger and applicants vying for the king’s time and attention, now only a few well trusted functionaries shuffled about under the watchful eye of Captain Mewtarthius and the Praetorian Guard. No musician whimsically played in the corners, no entertainers wandered about to delight the non existent audience, no joy was felt anywhere in the cold and stoic chamber.
As Agrippa crossed the room he tried to ignore the itch he felt between his shoulder blades as unseen snipers in the rafters above trained their weapons unerringly on him. After all the riots and cries and complaints and screams and threats no one was taking any chances and as much as it galled him on some level, the aging General understood the reasoning behind it.
He stopped three meters from the throne and bowed low. “Lord Caesar.”
Octavian looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale and sickly looking. Agrippa was older than his liege by almost ten years, the General pushing past sixty, but the broken man on the throne before him looked positively ancient. Worry lines and deep crags were etched in the corners and pathways of his face. His hair, already going grey earlier, had lost all its color seemingly a ghostly white as if the life had been leeched out of it. His eyes, watery and tired, lifted slowly, focusing with some difficulty on Agrippa’s. “General,” he said in a hoarse croak, coughing once to clear his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“I have come with news and promise, my lord.”
“Really?” he chuckled, head shaking. “News and promise? It has been some time since any promise has come to my attention.”
“I have been in touch with our armies, my lord. Our commanders and captains and centurions are still loyal to you and the empire. They await your orders and commands to help quell the rebellion that has gripped the kingdom.”
“Are they?” Caesar asked pensively. “Do they? And how will they do this?”
Agrippa kept his face stony. “They will march under your banner and into any situation my lord requires of them?”
“I…don’t know if I understand you, General.”
“I believe you do, my lord. The army is loyal to you; their oaths of fealty and service bind them to king and country. At your behest they will march where you will them and do what tasks you set before them.”
Octavian coughed, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you mad? You want me to send my armies INTO our cities to help quell the resistance?”
“It has been done before, my lord.”
“That was in a different time, before either of us were more than young pukes at our father’s knee.” Caesar shook his head. “Martial law only works when there is a social framework to base it on.”
“I have sixty thousand fine Roman soldiers who would say differently, my lord.”
“Sixty-thousand? Pulled from the field to patrol the streets of a city of a million? We have a deteriorated situation now and you think this will ameliorate it? I tell you it would instead galvanize the plebeian against us! Never has any army of Rome entered this city under a banner of war and I’ll be damned if it was to happen while I sit on the throne.”
Agrippa felt his jaw tighten. “My lord, the situation already out of hand. We have to perform something drastic before there is no chance of salvaging the kingdom.”
“I won’t do it.” Caesar balled his fist. “And besides, what of our commitment to the Mayan Commonwealth? Do you think Shadowed Puma would be so swift to not notice us moving our entire mobile forces out and away from the borders when we have just spent months convincing them that our intentions were honorable and forthcoming?”
“My lord, sending our men into the United Arabic League under the pennant of war is foolishness and suicide. This is not the time for us to be entertaining such a fight; not when our domestic integrity is in such dire straits.”
“I KNOW!!” Octavian exploded, rising from his throne. His voice carried across the chamber, attracting everyone’s attention. “I know!” He sat back down slowly. “I can’t send them to war, I can’t bring them home, I have to leave them on the borders in some bizarre waiting game while my kingdom continues to reel under the crippling stroke of the angered populace.”
Agrippa sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, my lord. I am a simple fighting man and to me the course of action would seem to be the most prudent.”
“It might, under a different sun, my friend.” Caesar had calmed down once more, sighing weakly as the adrenaline faded from his outburst. “But there is nothing I can do, at least not with the solutions you have laid before me.”
“Lord Caesar?”
Octavian looked up, seeing a page timidly standing by the front door. Waving his hand forward, he said, “Come in, boy. Give your message to my man there.” The room was silent as the proffered envelope was taken from the youth, checked swiftly for any poisons or blades, and then the young man was sent on his way while the missive was brought to Caesar. Opening it, he withdrew a single sheet of paper and read the small block of text.
“Well?” Agrippa asked curiously. “What’s it say?”
Wordlessly, Caesar handed the page over for his General to read.
To Lord Octavian Caesar,
In light of the recent state of unrest that has gripped the kingdom, we the Senate have unanimously voted to not convene again in Rome this month until such a time when the management and safety of the kingdom is no longer a concern. We regret to inform of this, our decision at such a time when you are undoubtedly looking for aid in these trying days; but the current government’s inability to address the gravity of the situations plaguing our land has forced our hand in this matter. As long as the power of the nobility remains an unchecked obstacle halting the beneficence of the populace at large, there can be no equality and ergo no peace and security in our land. The will of the people cannot be second to the desires of the nobility.
Senator Dionys,
Leader, Senatus Populesque Romanus
Octavian slumped further back in his throne, eyes staring absently into space. “The Senate has broken away. Sweet Zeus above, not even Commodus had to suffer through this.” He chewed at his bottom lip in nervous little nibbles.
“What did I do wrong?” he whispered. “What have I done?”
When she was safely out of earshot, Agrippa composed his features once again and entered Caesar’s throne room. The chamber was different from the way it used to be. The windows were drawn and shuttered, allowing only slitted sunlight to dapple the white marble floor. Where before there would be hundreds of courtiers and messenger and applicants vying for the king’s time and attention, now only a few well trusted functionaries shuffled about under the watchful eye of Captain Mewtarthius and the Praetorian Guard. No musician whimsically played in the corners, no entertainers wandered about to delight the non existent audience, no joy was felt anywhere in the cold and stoic chamber.
As Agrippa crossed the room he tried to ignore the itch he felt between his shoulder blades as unseen snipers in the rafters above trained their weapons unerringly on him. After all the riots and cries and complaints and screams and threats no one was taking any chances and as much as it galled him on some level, the aging General understood the reasoning behind it.
He stopped three meters from the throne and bowed low. “Lord Caesar.”
Octavian looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale and sickly looking. Agrippa was older than his liege by almost ten years, the General pushing past sixty, but the broken man on the throne before him looked positively ancient. Worry lines and deep crags were etched in the corners and pathways of his face. His hair, already going grey earlier, had lost all its color seemingly a ghostly white as if the life had been leeched out of it. His eyes, watery and tired, lifted slowly, focusing with some difficulty on Agrippa’s. “General,” he said in a hoarse croak, coughing once to clear his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“I have come with news and promise, my lord.”
“Really?” he chuckled, head shaking. “News and promise? It has been some time since any promise has come to my attention.”
“I have been in touch with our armies, my lord. Our commanders and captains and centurions are still loyal to you and the empire. They await your orders and commands to help quell the rebellion that has gripped the kingdom.”
“Are they?” Caesar asked pensively. “Do they? And how will they do this?”
Agrippa kept his face stony. “They will march under your banner and into any situation my lord requires of them?”
“I…don’t know if I understand you, General.”
“I believe you do, my lord. The army is loyal to you; their oaths of fealty and service bind them to king and country. At your behest they will march where you will them and do what tasks you set before them.”
Octavian coughed, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you mad? You want me to send my armies INTO our cities to help quell the resistance?”
“It has been done before, my lord.”
“That was in a different time, before either of us were more than young pukes at our father’s knee.” Caesar shook his head. “Martial law only works when there is a social framework to base it on.”
“I have sixty thousand fine Roman soldiers who would say differently, my lord.”
“Sixty-thousand? Pulled from the field to patrol the streets of a city of a million? We have a deteriorated situation now and you think this will ameliorate it? I tell you it would instead galvanize the plebeian against us! Never has any army of Rome entered this city under a banner of war and I’ll be damned if it was to happen while I sit on the throne.”
Agrippa felt his jaw tighten. “My lord, the situation already out of hand. We have to perform something drastic before there is no chance of salvaging the kingdom.”
“I won’t do it.” Caesar balled his fist. “And besides, what of our commitment to the Mayan Commonwealth? Do you think Shadowed Puma would be so swift to not notice us moving our entire mobile forces out and away from the borders when we have just spent months convincing them that our intentions were honorable and forthcoming?”
“My lord, sending our men into the United Arabic League under the pennant of war is foolishness and suicide. This is not the time for us to be entertaining such a fight; not when our domestic integrity is in such dire straits.”
“I KNOW!!” Octavian exploded, rising from his throne. His voice carried across the chamber, attracting everyone’s attention. “I know!” He sat back down slowly. “I can’t send them to war, I can’t bring them home, I have to leave them on the borders in some bizarre waiting game while my kingdom continues to reel under the crippling stroke of the angered populace.”
Agrippa sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, my lord. I am a simple fighting man and to me the course of action would seem to be the most prudent.”
“It might, under a different sun, my friend.” Caesar had calmed down once more, sighing weakly as the adrenaline faded from his outburst. “But there is nothing I can do, at least not with the solutions you have laid before me.”
“Lord Caesar?”
Octavian looked up, seeing a page timidly standing by the front door. Waving his hand forward, he said, “Come in, boy. Give your message to my man there.” The room was silent as the proffered envelope was taken from the youth, checked swiftly for any poisons or blades, and then the young man was sent on his way while the missive was brought to Caesar. Opening it, he withdrew a single sheet of paper and read the small block of text.
“Well?” Agrippa asked curiously. “What’s it say?”
Wordlessly, Caesar handed the page over for his General to read.
To Lord Octavian Caesar,
In light of the recent state of unrest that has gripped the kingdom, we the Senate have unanimously voted to not convene again in Rome this month until such a time when the management and safety of the kingdom is no longer a concern. We regret to inform of this, our decision at such a time when you are undoubtedly looking for aid in these trying days; but the current government’s inability to address the gravity of the situations plaguing our land has forced our hand in this matter. As long as the power of the nobility remains an unchecked obstacle halting the beneficence of the populace at large, there can be no equality and ergo no peace and security in our land. The will of the people cannot be second to the desires of the nobility.
Senator Dionys,
Leader, Senatus Populesque Romanus
Octavian slumped further back in his throne, eyes staring absently into space. “The Senate has broken away. Sweet Zeus above, not even Commodus had to suffer through this.” He chewed at his bottom lip in nervous little nibbles.
“What did I do wrong?” he whispered. “What have I done?”
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Duke Medici slammed his hand hard against the doorjamb. “NO!” he roared, his body blazing with fury. “I want those filthy dirt farmers repelled! You hear me, you gut-less low-born scumbags?!?”
His personal retinue of men and soldiers grimly nodded, checking the actions of their rifles as they prepared themselves to hold off and repulse the rioters. The demonstration had been winding around Antium for the better part of the day; the crowd hoisting signs and placards and pitchforks as they walked the city. When they had ended their trail convening outside Medici’s estate, the sight of the thousands and thousands of dirtied peasants and serfs amassed outside his ancestral lands had infuriated the proud nobleman.
He had given orders that the mob had to be dispersed and sent on their way. Dutifully, his guards had attempted to fulfill his commands but were swift to realize that they were having no effect on the volatile crowd. The longer they tried, the worse the situation became. Words and threats were replaced with shaking fists and brandished weapons. Clods of dirt and rotting vegetables passed over the walls and through the barred gates, soiling the bombastic soldiery bellowing the same commands to, “Disperse, disperse, disperse!”
It was until that time that the situation might have been eased on some level, however the violence escalated in a heartbeat. From somewhere in the crowd, an oil lamp was sent hurling over the wall where it smashed against one of the shouting Centurions. The Roman soldier, drenched in the flaming liquid, tried to extinguish the fires by rolling in the damp grass; shrieking in terror as the stench of burning meat filled the air. One of his men on the gate tower exacted revenge with a pointed rifle and a discharged bullet. The lamp hurling miscreant collapsed with a groan; his chest cavity filling with blood.
The crowd surged forward, roused to boiling anger and filled with fury. The gates groaned, bowing under the weighted onslaught of the wild mob. Those pressed firmly upon the bars were shrieking in agony as their companions crushed them to death, their bodies bruised and faces lacerated, but still the tide of humanity beat upon the walls. Medici’s guards lined up, took aim, and fired at four meters into the veritable sea of flesh. Those struck fell without a sound and were replaced by others just as swiftly.
Return fire, hodgepodge and erratic, answered Medici’s men as pistol and rifle toting demonstrators came to the forefront in an effort to drive the Duke’s men back. Flying lead tore through both sides as desperate rioters clambered up the walls and tried to enter the compound. Guards on the gate towers shot those men down with almost laughing glee, offering quips and taunts along with their pistol and rifle shot. Armed citizens on the ground turned their weapons upward, catching the surprised men with over a half dozen rounds and dropping at least two of the elevated soldiers.
The gates were rattling now as more and more men and women struggled to tear it free with their bare hands and body weight. A nearby light pole was wrenched from the earth and carried bodily to the stubbornly closed portals. Using it like a battering ram, the animalistic citizenry attacked the gates until the already strained and tortured metal gave way with a snap and a groan. Cheering roars of victory resounded through the crowd as they pushed their way into the estate’s grounds and quickly overran the surprised contingent of gate guardians.
Medici had watched the entire episode, appalled and amazed that it had not only happened but happened to him and his home. There was no stopping it; the looting, the killing, the destruction. However, he would do everything in his power to make sure the heathen defilers would pay dearly.
“I want the front doors braced. Put every piece of furniture we have in front of them,” his eyes shone as he planned ahead. “Oil. I want the entire thing soaked through and through. If they break in, torch it. I want as many of those peasant filth burning as possible. I want five men on the roof now; rifles and a double box of ammo. Snipe every piece of crap that’s sporting a pistol or firearm.”
He whirled around, addressing the next group. “I want a fall back position here, and another one at the 2nd floor landing. Boxes, couches, whatever we have at hand; make a barrier to slow them down and give us cover. You and you, get my wife and kids out of here now. Take them down the sewers and out near the stables and then ride. Don’t stop, don’t look back, and don’t let them be taken. Shoot them first.”
Gunfire began sounding near the entrance as Medici’s men already in position were shooting the approaching rioters through busted windows and old style arrow slits. The wails and screams of falling men echoed back to the determined Duke. Confident his orders were being carried out, he ran back to the stair and raced up to his office on the second floor. Through the opened windows he could hear the sounds of the spreading violence as the mob ransacked his grounds. Ignoring it, he went to his wall and started taking down some of his displayed weapons and firearms.
A short curved scimitar plundered from an ancient Arabian officer was buckled to his belt while a Zulu designed blunderbuss was slung across his shoulder. A pair of Mayan designed pistols with jewel cut rotating barrels were equipped as well while a late model long barrel rifle from a gunsmith friend in Virconium was gripped tightly under his arm. Ready as he was going to be, Medici filled a hip bag with boxes of ammunition, sweeping the prepared bullets into the bag with a wave of his forearm. Laden now, he ran back down the stairs and rejoined his men.
He raced passed the men at the landing and the group set up halfway down the great hall. At the front door he took up position to the left of the double wide portal and began loading his blunderbuss with a handful of rounded beads. Checking the powder pan he cocked back the hammer, thrust the muzzle out past the shattered glass and squeezed the trigger.
The deafening roar filled the foyer drowned out moments later by the anguished cries from the rioters outside. Medici’s men continued their own barrage while their Duke prepared another round. Moving to a different window, he took aim once more and unloaded another blaze of speeding shot.
The fight at the front door lasted almost ten minutes with the rioters paying a horrendous cost in casualties and wounded men and women numbering well over three hundred. Only two of the Duke’s men had fallen to lucky shots from the crowd; their position too well fortified and protected. To Medici, they were well defended and unshakable as they continued to hold off the rioters. Or so he thought.
Apparently frustrated by the toll they were paying, the mob had somehow gotten into the armory and were frantically wheeling an ancient home guard, three-kilogram cannon by the carriageway; the business end of it pointed at the entrance of Medici’s home. “Son of a…” he swore. “TAKE THEM DOWN!” he roared, switching weapons from the blunderbuss to the rifle. Sliding a round into the chamber, he worked the bolt action, preparing the shot and fired. Sparks flew from the mouth of the cannon as his bullet missed its mark.
Other men tried to drop the impromptu cannoneers, whizzing flashes of bullets and lead tearing into and around the massed rioters. There a woman fell, her bag of powder spilling from nerveless fingers. There one of the men bracing the wheel in place was struck twice, once in the leg and again in the gut; collapsing with shrill screams of agony as his blood leaked free. Renewed energy flowed through the crowd as the determined mob launched a fresh assault on Medici’s men forcing the defenders to address the closer and more immediate threat, giving the distant cannon crew the chance they needed to finish preparing the weapon.
Peeking through the tattered curtains, Medici was horrified to see the wick of the match cord lit and the ominous black maw of the weapon pointed in his direction. The crowd began running aside, giving the cannon a clear and unobstructed path to the front door. Turning aside, he cried out, “Run!” struggling to race back down the hallway and away from the foyer.
From outside he heard the dull report of the weapon’s discharge and then something crumpled into the main entrance, shaking the entire manor house from the impact. The reverberations were followed a moment later by the sudden whoosh of flame as the oil prepared barricade was inadvertently ignited and fire blossomed out in a ball of superheated smoke and cinders.
Picking himself up from the floor, unsure of when he actually fell, Medici limped his way to the second barricade, joining his men there without a word or complaint. He gave his rifle a once over and prepared a fresh round in expectation of the villainous mob. The fight at the entranceway lasted a bit longer than he expected as his determined men and the roaring fires kept the crowd at bay. However the growing fires, the crumbling defenses, and another two rounds from the damned cannon forced the remaining number of Medici’s stalwart men back from their tenuous position before being overrun.
Flying lead tore down the hall, chasing the retreating soldiers as they tried to reach the second position, dropping two and then three more; only half of those that had escaped alive able to reach the security of the barricade. Return fire echoed away as the Duke and his men grimly took aim and fired shoulder to shoulder in the wide hallway.
Rioters fell, collapsing with grunts and shrieks as they were struck by round after round of well aimed bullets. The hall was becoming choked with smoke from the constant barrage of rifle and pistol as well as the darker cloud from the still smoldering furniture set ablaze earlier. The mob tried to charge forward twice, hoping to overrun the Duke’s men with sheer numbers alone but the confines of the hallway and the staccato hail of fired rounds stopped them each time.
They attempted to wheel the cannon inside but the weapon was unable to clear the smoking rubble and every attempt to lift it past resulted in the porters being picked off by well placed shots from the snipers above. Giving up on using the superior fire power denied to them, the mob them began using barriers of their own. Over turned tables and other large pieces of furniture were braced and slid forward as the rioters slowly closed the gap between them.
Concentrated gunfire was trained on those closest to the defending men, having some effect in halting the advance, but the seemingly chaotic maze of barriers and cover gave the crowd the chance they needed to get close enough to return the gunplay they had been suffering against. Musket and rifle rounds smacked against the defense works, sometimes tearing through to the Duke’s men behind, other times being stopped. One of Medici’s men to his left fell over dead, his brains blown out from a lucky round. Another man went down, his guts torn open, entrails spilling across the floor.
Attrition began to eat at the defenders. Reduced to twenty five now, they could ill afford to lose a single man while the mob seemed content to let five, ten, even twenty howling rioters fall in return without complaint. The situation had reached hopeless and the second defenses were not going to last. “Damn it! Let’s go!” Medici ordered, crab walking away, head low to avoid being shot. “Back to the great stairs! Let’s go, go, go!”
He turned running, hurling his now empty and useless rifle aside. Besides the sheer number of people they were facing, the Duke hadn’t counted on a more serious problem his men were beginning to face: the dwindling supply of ammunition. His men followed, swiftly taking position around the opened area. The twin stairs flanked a huge fountain that dominated the base of the landing, a statue of Atlas sporting the world on his shoulders crafted in bronze the centerpiece of the garish display. Stone backed benches and other wide pieces of statuary filled the landing, offering adequate cover to Medici’s men as they prepared to face the bloodthirsty mob.
Medici climbed the right most stairs until he was at the elevated landing, both pistols drawn and ready. He didn’t have long to wait as the first of the crowd poured into the clearing, looking around wildly for some target to vent their hatred on. They fell as bullets tore into their massed bodies, jerking them like puppet dolls on a string. Others came into the room with more care but after only a few shots of their own also fell over dead. The stand off continued for a few harrowing minutes as the two sides traded rounds with one another, but one by one, Medici’s men were sussed out and dispatched.
“You animals!” Medici’s howled from above, firing down into the swelling mass of humanity. “You pigs! You filthy misbegotten maggots!” Each expletive was punctuated by a snarling squeeze on the trigger of his pistols. Answering fire strayed towards him as a few grim faced rioters attempted to storm the stairs. A double blast from his guns and the closest assailant pitched backward unmoving.
Something slapped wetly into his shoulder, burning fire across his skin. Looking down at the spreading crimson stain he spat viciously over the railing. “DIE!!” A four count of bullets snarled out, blowing through the offending shooter like a fist through wet tissue paper. He turned, training his guns on another attacker, killing him in turn. “DIE!!”
Something pressed against the back of his head. Something cold and round. Something unyielding. Something deadly.
It roared close behind him, filling his ears and eyes and nose and mouth and skin with searing white hot painful spears of agony.
The light faded to dark…
and then to nothing…
and Duke Medici was then no more.
His personal retinue of men and soldiers grimly nodded, checking the actions of their rifles as they prepared themselves to hold off and repulse the rioters. The demonstration had been winding around Antium for the better part of the day; the crowd hoisting signs and placards and pitchforks as they walked the city. When they had ended their trail convening outside Medici’s estate, the sight of the thousands and thousands of dirtied peasants and serfs amassed outside his ancestral lands had infuriated the proud nobleman.
He had given orders that the mob had to be dispersed and sent on their way. Dutifully, his guards had attempted to fulfill his commands but were swift to realize that they were having no effect on the volatile crowd. The longer they tried, the worse the situation became. Words and threats were replaced with shaking fists and brandished weapons. Clods of dirt and rotting vegetables passed over the walls and through the barred gates, soiling the bombastic soldiery bellowing the same commands to, “Disperse, disperse, disperse!”
It was until that time that the situation might have been eased on some level, however the violence escalated in a heartbeat. From somewhere in the crowd, an oil lamp was sent hurling over the wall where it smashed against one of the shouting Centurions. The Roman soldier, drenched in the flaming liquid, tried to extinguish the fires by rolling in the damp grass; shrieking in terror as the stench of burning meat filled the air. One of his men on the gate tower exacted revenge with a pointed rifle and a discharged bullet. The lamp hurling miscreant collapsed with a groan; his chest cavity filling with blood.
The crowd surged forward, roused to boiling anger and filled with fury. The gates groaned, bowing under the weighted onslaught of the wild mob. Those pressed firmly upon the bars were shrieking in agony as their companions crushed them to death, their bodies bruised and faces lacerated, but still the tide of humanity beat upon the walls. Medici’s guards lined up, took aim, and fired at four meters into the veritable sea of flesh. Those struck fell without a sound and were replaced by others just as swiftly.
Return fire, hodgepodge and erratic, answered Medici’s men as pistol and rifle toting demonstrators came to the forefront in an effort to drive the Duke’s men back. Flying lead tore through both sides as desperate rioters clambered up the walls and tried to enter the compound. Guards on the gate towers shot those men down with almost laughing glee, offering quips and taunts along with their pistol and rifle shot. Armed citizens on the ground turned their weapons upward, catching the surprised men with over a half dozen rounds and dropping at least two of the elevated soldiers.
The gates were rattling now as more and more men and women struggled to tear it free with their bare hands and body weight. A nearby light pole was wrenched from the earth and carried bodily to the stubbornly closed portals. Using it like a battering ram, the animalistic citizenry attacked the gates until the already strained and tortured metal gave way with a snap and a groan. Cheering roars of victory resounded through the crowd as they pushed their way into the estate’s grounds and quickly overran the surprised contingent of gate guardians.
Medici had watched the entire episode, appalled and amazed that it had not only happened but happened to him and his home. There was no stopping it; the looting, the killing, the destruction. However, he would do everything in his power to make sure the heathen defilers would pay dearly.
“I want the front doors braced. Put every piece of furniture we have in front of them,” his eyes shone as he planned ahead. “Oil. I want the entire thing soaked through and through. If they break in, torch it. I want as many of those peasant filth burning as possible. I want five men on the roof now; rifles and a double box of ammo. Snipe every piece of crap that’s sporting a pistol or firearm.”
He whirled around, addressing the next group. “I want a fall back position here, and another one at the 2nd floor landing. Boxes, couches, whatever we have at hand; make a barrier to slow them down and give us cover. You and you, get my wife and kids out of here now. Take them down the sewers and out near the stables and then ride. Don’t stop, don’t look back, and don’t let them be taken. Shoot them first.”
Gunfire began sounding near the entrance as Medici’s men already in position were shooting the approaching rioters through busted windows and old style arrow slits. The wails and screams of falling men echoed back to the determined Duke. Confident his orders were being carried out, he ran back to the stair and raced up to his office on the second floor. Through the opened windows he could hear the sounds of the spreading violence as the mob ransacked his grounds. Ignoring it, he went to his wall and started taking down some of his displayed weapons and firearms.
A short curved scimitar plundered from an ancient Arabian officer was buckled to his belt while a Zulu designed blunderbuss was slung across his shoulder. A pair of Mayan designed pistols with jewel cut rotating barrels were equipped as well while a late model long barrel rifle from a gunsmith friend in Virconium was gripped tightly under his arm. Ready as he was going to be, Medici filled a hip bag with boxes of ammunition, sweeping the prepared bullets into the bag with a wave of his forearm. Laden now, he ran back down the stairs and rejoined his men.
He raced passed the men at the landing and the group set up halfway down the great hall. At the front door he took up position to the left of the double wide portal and began loading his blunderbuss with a handful of rounded beads. Checking the powder pan he cocked back the hammer, thrust the muzzle out past the shattered glass and squeezed the trigger.
The deafening roar filled the foyer drowned out moments later by the anguished cries from the rioters outside. Medici’s men continued their own barrage while their Duke prepared another round. Moving to a different window, he took aim once more and unloaded another blaze of speeding shot.
The fight at the front door lasted almost ten minutes with the rioters paying a horrendous cost in casualties and wounded men and women numbering well over three hundred. Only two of the Duke’s men had fallen to lucky shots from the crowd; their position too well fortified and protected. To Medici, they were well defended and unshakable as they continued to hold off the rioters. Or so he thought.
Apparently frustrated by the toll they were paying, the mob had somehow gotten into the armory and were frantically wheeling an ancient home guard, three-kilogram cannon by the carriageway; the business end of it pointed at the entrance of Medici’s home. “Son of a…” he swore. “TAKE THEM DOWN!” he roared, switching weapons from the blunderbuss to the rifle. Sliding a round into the chamber, he worked the bolt action, preparing the shot and fired. Sparks flew from the mouth of the cannon as his bullet missed its mark.
Other men tried to drop the impromptu cannoneers, whizzing flashes of bullets and lead tearing into and around the massed rioters. There a woman fell, her bag of powder spilling from nerveless fingers. There one of the men bracing the wheel in place was struck twice, once in the leg and again in the gut; collapsing with shrill screams of agony as his blood leaked free. Renewed energy flowed through the crowd as the determined mob launched a fresh assault on Medici’s men forcing the defenders to address the closer and more immediate threat, giving the distant cannon crew the chance they needed to finish preparing the weapon.
Peeking through the tattered curtains, Medici was horrified to see the wick of the match cord lit and the ominous black maw of the weapon pointed in his direction. The crowd began running aside, giving the cannon a clear and unobstructed path to the front door. Turning aside, he cried out, “Run!” struggling to race back down the hallway and away from the foyer.
From outside he heard the dull report of the weapon’s discharge and then something crumpled into the main entrance, shaking the entire manor house from the impact. The reverberations were followed a moment later by the sudden whoosh of flame as the oil prepared barricade was inadvertently ignited and fire blossomed out in a ball of superheated smoke and cinders.
Picking himself up from the floor, unsure of when he actually fell, Medici limped his way to the second barricade, joining his men there without a word or complaint. He gave his rifle a once over and prepared a fresh round in expectation of the villainous mob. The fight at the entranceway lasted a bit longer than he expected as his determined men and the roaring fires kept the crowd at bay. However the growing fires, the crumbling defenses, and another two rounds from the damned cannon forced the remaining number of Medici’s stalwart men back from their tenuous position before being overrun.
Flying lead tore down the hall, chasing the retreating soldiers as they tried to reach the second position, dropping two and then three more; only half of those that had escaped alive able to reach the security of the barricade. Return fire echoed away as the Duke and his men grimly took aim and fired shoulder to shoulder in the wide hallway.
Rioters fell, collapsing with grunts and shrieks as they were struck by round after round of well aimed bullets. The hall was becoming choked with smoke from the constant barrage of rifle and pistol as well as the darker cloud from the still smoldering furniture set ablaze earlier. The mob tried to charge forward twice, hoping to overrun the Duke’s men with sheer numbers alone but the confines of the hallway and the staccato hail of fired rounds stopped them each time.
They attempted to wheel the cannon inside but the weapon was unable to clear the smoking rubble and every attempt to lift it past resulted in the porters being picked off by well placed shots from the snipers above. Giving up on using the superior fire power denied to them, the mob them began using barriers of their own. Over turned tables and other large pieces of furniture were braced and slid forward as the rioters slowly closed the gap between them.
Concentrated gunfire was trained on those closest to the defending men, having some effect in halting the advance, but the seemingly chaotic maze of barriers and cover gave the crowd the chance they needed to get close enough to return the gunplay they had been suffering against. Musket and rifle rounds smacked against the defense works, sometimes tearing through to the Duke’s men behind, other times being stopped. One of Medici’s men to his left fell over dead, his brains blown out from a lucky round. Another man went down, his guts torn open, entrails spilling across the floor.
Attrition began to eat at the defenders. Reduced to twenty five now, they could ill afford to lose a single man while the mob seemed content to let five, ten, even twenty howling rioters fall in return without complaint. The situation had reached hopeless and the second defenses were not going to last. “Damn it! Let’s go!” Medici ordered, crab walking away, head low to avoid being shot. “Back to the great stairs! Let’s go, go, go!”
He turned running, hurling his now empty and useless rifle aside. Besides the sheer number of people they were facing, the Duke hadn’t counted on a more serious problem his men were beginning to face: the dwindling supply of ammunition. His men followed, swiftly taking position around the opened area. The twin stairs flanked a huge fountain that dominated the base of the landing, a statue of Atlas sporting the world on his shoulders crafted in bronze the centerpiece of the garish display. Stone backed benches and other wide pieces of statuary filled the landing, offering adequate cover to Medici’s men as they prepared to face the bloodthirsty mob.
Medici climbed the right most stairs until he was at the elevated landing, both pistols drawn and ready. He didn’t have long to wait as the first of the crowd poured into the clearing, looking around wildly for some target to vent their hatred on. They fell as bullets tore into their massed bodies, jerking them like puppet dolls on a string. Others came into the room with more care but after only a few shots of their own also fell over dead. The stand off continued for a few harrowing minutes as the two sides traded rounds with one another, but one by one, Medici’s men were sussed out and dispatched.
“You animals!” Medici’s howled from above, firing down into the swelling mass of humanity. “You pigs! You filthy misbegotten maggots!” Each expletive was punctuated by a snarling squeeze on the trigger of his pistols. Answering fire strayed towards him as a few grim faced rioters attempted to storm the stairs. A double blast from his guns and the closest assailant pitched backward unmoving.
Something slapped wetly into his shoulder, burning fire across his skin. Looking down at the spreading crimson stain he spat viciously over the railing. “DIE!!” A four count of bullets snarled out, blowing through the offending shooter like a fist through wet tissue paper. He turned, training his guns on another attacker, killing him in turn. “DIE!!”
Something pressed against the back of his head. Something cold and round. Something unyielding. Something deadly.
It roared close behind him, filling his ears and eyes and nose and mouth and skin with searing white hot painful spears of agony.
The light faded to dark…
and then to nothing…
and Duke Medici was then no more.
Last edited:
Mistfit
Deity
Still Here...still
'ing your work
'ing your work
Icmancin
WSNR Pte
Thanks for the in-story answer to my question. 
The destruction of the Nobles has begun.
and 
.
The destruction of the Nobles has begun.
and .
barbslinger
Gun blast'n shot drinker
I'm hoping that was Dionys with a gun at the top of the stairs.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The wagon crunched over the roadbed as it wound its way across the Roman countryside. Far away from the bustle and congestion and turmoil of the city, one could almost forget the strife and angst that had captivated the empire. There were no flames in the distance, no smoke on the horizon. The air was filled with birdsong and the whistling wind and not the cries of the radically incensed and burdened populace. It could be imagined the world was at peace.
Although non-descript, the wagon was well made and in good repair but absent of markings or livery to identify its origin, cargo or destination. A driver and three other men rode atop, shrouded in leather cloaks, their features and belongings obscured by their wrappings and the misting rain that was falling today. A ten count of riders rode ahead and a matching count of riders rode behind; their presence the only indicator that there was any interest to the conveyance and its occupants.
From the mud splattered sides and the sense of weariness surrounding the men and women, it was obvious they had been traveling for some days now. The horses continued on their path, heads down and plodding as they picked their way along puddles and rain slicked earth. The road graded upwards, eventually cresting a small rise overlooking a shallow valley home to a large, yet simply designed edifice.
The house sat on a wide stone foundation, an adjoining stable, well house, and small windmill completing the picture. It was in good repair but had an abandoned look to it as if it had not been used for many a season. Set back from the road a bit, it was at once pastoral and protected, the type of home anyone would be comfortable to come back to.
Just outside the front door the wagon came to a stop with a rattle and squeak, the sound of it summoning Cincinnatus from within. In the two months since his removal from the capital he had traded in his velvets and finery for cotton and linen. His face was tanned from the sun and he had a confident mien to his stance that seemed to have been absent when he was under his father’s roof. Cleaning his hands on a rag of cloth, he tucked the grimy garment into his waistband and strode out with a ready smile.
“Captain,” he said with a grin to Mewtarthius as the Praetorian Guard clambered down from the wagon’s perch.
“My Prince,” he replied, awkwardly bowing as his stiffened muscles restricted his movement from the long and jostling ride.
“Ah, ah, ahh,” the young man answered with a wagging finger. “Not here you don’t. Cincinnatus’ll do.” He shrugged. “What brings you out this far? I hadn’t expected to see anyone from the palace for at least another three weeks?” His eyes lit over the Captain’s shoulder to the still covered wagon. His smile blew away leaving only cold eyes and a grim look in its place. “And who has come with you? Is it father?”
“Relax, my Prince,” Mewtarthius said, ignoring the narrowed gaze he was given for continuing to use the honorific. “Caesar’d like to visit you but with the state of things, it’s in the best interest that he doesn’t.”
“You are mistaken if you think I would want him to visit.”
“My Prince, please,” the Captain said, hand on his temple. “Don’t do this, not now. I’m not your father, your quarrel, if there is one, is with him and him alone.”
“My apologies,” the young Roman said with a sigh. “Forgive me. Besides my skin and my clothes, apparently my manners have gotten soiled out here as well.” He forced a smile back. “Well, who has made the trip then?”
The carriage door opened and Andromeda, Queen of Rome, looking drawn and wan but weakly grinning as she blinked into the sunlight stepped out to the muddy ground. “Hello, my son.”
“Mom?!?” Cincinnatus stepped forward, sweeping her off the ground and swinging her around in a fierce and gratifying hug. “What the…what are you DOING here?!?”
“Relax! Relax! Put me down.” She pushed her way back giggling. “You know, I remember when I used to swing you around.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about it. How I was small and now I’ve grown and all that.” He rolled his eyes with great exaggeration, wiggling his fingers for further effect. “But save it, mom. What are you doing out here? Don’t you know the roads aren’t safe?”
“I was fine enough with Captain Mewtarthius here,” she said indicating him with a demur smile and a nod. “As for why I’m here, well, you have hit the heart of the matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“The roads aren’t safe. And neither are the cities. Father was finding it increasingly difficult to do his job while worrying constantly about me. We have been like prisoners in our own home, unable to go out without the daily threat of violence or abduction from the plebeian.”
“You’ve been sent to exile as well?”
“It’s not exile and you know it,” she said scowling. “It’s for our own safety.”
Cincinnatus scoffed, “Yeah. Right.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” Andromeda snapped. Her expression softened. “When the threat is over, we will be summoned home; isn’t that correct, Captain?”
Mewtarthius bowed his head, “It is, my lady.”
“So,” Cincinnatus began, drawing the word out, “I guess this means we’re going to be here for a long time, huh?”
“For a while, my son. Things’ll get better, you’ll see.” Cincinnatus said nothing, a fact that his mother opted to leave alone. She looked around the stead with a practiced eye. “So, it looks like someone’s been tending the verge since he’s been here?”
Happy to get off the other subject, Cincinnatus brightened up, guiding his mother to the west side of the house. “Yes I have. There’s a number of cuttings and shoots I’ve been nurturing over here in hopes of getting a fall showing of flowers.”
Captain Mewtarthius proceeded to unload Andromeda’s bags from the wagon’s interior, watching mother and son as they talked animatedly with one another. He was happy they were happy and safe, knowing then when he and his hand picked men returned to the road tomorrow morning, it would be to go back to a place where such security and comfort had been an alien thing for some time. He was at least consoled that he had successfully done his duty and ensured the future concern of the royal line.
If only the rest of his responsibilities awaiting him could be so easily resolved.
Although non-descript, the wagon was well made and in good repair but absent of markings or livery to identify its origin, cargo or destination. A driver and three other men rode atop, shrouded in leather cloaks, their features and belongings obscured by their wrappings and the misting rain that was falling today. A ten count of riders rode ahead and a matching count of riders rode behind; their presence the only indicator that there was any interest to the conveyance and its occupants.
From the mud splattered sides and the sense of weariness surrounding the men and women, it was obvious they had been traveling for some days now. The horses continued on their path, heads down and plodding as they picked their way along puddles and rain slicked earth. The road graded upwards, eventually cresting a small rise overlooking a shallow valley home to a large, yet simply designed edifice.
The house sat on a wide stone foundation, an adjoining stable, well house, and small windmill completing the picture. It was in good repair but had an abandoned look to it as if it had not been used for many a season. Set back from the road a bit, it was at once pastoral and protected, the type of home anyone would be comfortable to come back to.
Just outside the front door the wagon came to a stop with a rattle and squeak, the sound of it summoning Cincinnatus from within. In the two months since his removal from the capital he had traded in his velvets and finery for cotton and linen. His face was tanned from the sun and he had a confident mien to his stance that seemed to have been absent when he was under his father’s roof. Cleaning his hands on a rag of cloth, he tucked the grimy garment into his waistband and strode out with a ready smile.
“Captain,” he said with a grin to Mewtarthius as the Praetorian Guard clambered down from the wagon’s perch.
“My Prince,” he replied, awkwardly bowing as his stiffened muscles restricted his movement from the long and jostling ride.
“Ah, ah, ahh,” the young man answered with a wagging finger. “Not here you don’t. Cincinnatus’ll do.” He shrugged. “What brings you out this far? I hadn’t expected to see anyone from the palace for at least another three weeks?” His eyes lit over the Captain’s shoulder to the still covered wagon. His smile blew away leaving only cold eyes and a grim look in its place. “And who has come with you? Is it father?”
“Relax, my Prince,” Mewtarthius said, ignoring the narrowed gaze he was given for continuing to use the honorific. “Caesar’d like to visit you but with the state of things, it’s in the best interest that he doesn’t.”
“You are mistaken if you think I would want him to visit.”
“My Prince, please,” the Captain said, hand on his temple. “Don’t do this, not now. I’m not your father, your quarrel, if there is one, is with him and him alone.”
“My apologies,” the young Roman said with a sigh. “Forgive me. Besides my skin and my clothes, apparently my manners have gotten soiled out here as well.” He forced a smile back. “Well, who has made the trip then?”
The carriage door opened and Andromeda, Queen of Rome, looking drawn and wan but weakly grinning as she blinked into the sunlight stepped out to the muddy ground. “Hello, my son.”
“Mom?!?” Cincinnatus stepped forward, sweeping her off the ground and swinging her around in a fierce and gratifying hug. “What the…what are you DOING here?!?”
“Relax! Relax! Put me down.” She pushed her way back giggling. “You know, I remember when I used to swing you around.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about it. How I was small and now I’ve grown and all that.” He rolled his eyes with great exaggeration, wiggling his fingers for further effect. “But save it, mom. What are you doing out here? Don’t you know the roads aren’t safe?”
“I was fine enough with Captain Mewtarthius here,” she said indicating him with a demur smile and a nod. “As for why I’m here, well, you have hit the heart of the matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“The roads aren’t safe. And neither are the cities. Father was finding it increasingly difficult to do his job while worrying constantly about me. We have been like prisoners in our own home, unable to go out without the daily threat of violence or abduction from the plebeian.”
“You’ve been sent to exile as well?”
“It’s not exile and you know it,” she said scowling. “It’s for our own safety.”
Cincinnatus scoffed, “Yeah. Right.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” Andromeda snapped. Her expression softened. “When the threat is over, we will be summoned home; isn’t that correct, Captain?”
Mewtarthius bowed his head, “It is, my lady.”
“So,” Cincinnatus began, drawing the word out, “I guess this means we’re going to be here for a long time, huh?”
“For a while, my son. Things’ll get better, you’ll see.” Cincinnatus said nothing, a fact that his mother opted to leave alone. She looked around the stead with a practiced eye. “So, it looks like someone’s been tending the verge since he’s been here?”
Happy to get off the other subject, Cincinnatus brightened up, guiding his mother to the west side of the house. “Yes I have. There’s a number of cuttings and shoots I’ve been nurturing over here in hopes of getting a fall showing of flowers.”
Captain Mewtarthius proceeded to unload Andromeda’s bags from the wagon’s interior, watching mother and son as they talked animatedly with one another. He was happy they were happy and safe, knowing then when he and his hand picked men returned to the road tomorrow morning, it would be to go back to a place where such security and comfort had been an alien thing for some time. He was at least consoled that he had successfully done his duty and ensured the future concern of the royal line.
If only the rest of his responsibilities awaiting him could be so easily resolved.
Last edited:
stuckatwork
Chieftain
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2004
- Messages
- 6
I just wanted to tell you that I am still reading your story and still enjoying it alot. I hope to see more of your tale as you come to the end. Also, when you finally publish this, are you going to call it Pax Romana or is there another title in mind?
Also, also, will you tell us your name so we can find your book by author? I'd love to scan amazon or Barnes & Noble and pick this up (or both of them or the trilogy becasue this story is so long and still getting longer).
I am like always,
Stuck at Work.
PS - I play EQ2 also. Don't let it take up too much of your writing time!
Also, also, will you tell us your name so we can find your book by author? I'd love to scan amazon or Barnes & Noble and pick this up (or both of them or the trilogy becasue this story is so long and still getting longer).
I am like always,
Stuck at Work.
PS - I play EQ2 also. Don't let it take up too much of your writing time!
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Vitellius ducked behind the meager cover the collapsed side of the building offered, hugging his scabbed knees with his thin and scratched up arms. Another blast of gunfire erupted nearby, scaring the young Roman enough that he choked out a scream between clenched teeth. The home guard had been sweeping regularly through the Narrows, the poorer section of Lugdunum, trying to root out insurgents and rioters. To the fourteen-year-old son of slain parents, they were nothing more than oppressors and murderers; intent on killing and looting anyone they found wandering the streets.
From somewhere nearby, a woman howled in agony; most likely shot and wounded by the rifle fire he just heard. Her screaming grew more frantic, almost pleading as she was found by the roustabouts who proceeded to giggle amongst themselves. Vitellius felt weak and almost sick as he realized with sickening dread what it was degenerate Roman guardsmen were beginning to do to the injured woman. He was horrified to think that his own countrymen could be so cruel, so callous and uncaring to the suffering they were spreading.
As her cries continued into wordless yelps of animalistic terror, young Vitellius rocked forward, daring to move from behind his flimsy cover. He wanted to race to her aid, the same way that the knights of old would come dashing to the rescue of the fair maidens being ravished by wicked Saracen sheiks. However these were not foreign devils but his own people, he was only fourteen, frightened, and ashamed of himself that he couldn’t drum up the courage to face down the raping men. Heart thumping so loudly he was sure someone could have heard it, he lifted his head far enough to insure the coast was clear before daring to crawl away.
He ducked behind an overturned applecart, slunk towards a mound of uncollected refuse, and then took shelter beneath the overhang of a sagging brewery. So far he had not been seen and the guards were still intent on the debaucherous sport. Steeling himself, he slid around the front of the abandoned building and began making his way out of the Narrows.
Vitellius had no idea where it was he was going, there seemed to be little safety for anyone and few sanctuaries he could go to. The temple of Zeus had been the target of a violent looting three weeks ago, most of the hospices were full and were turning new visitors away. He had slept in the gutted ruins of his old home, a dumpster, the park, at least two abandoned buildings, and even in a pig house one evening. Public order was all but gone and there was less and less food to be found or scrounged up. What coins he did have earlier had been long ago spent and he had already sold his mother’s earrings at least a week earlier for a half loaf of bread and rusted gladius he purchased from some wandering rag picker. Later that same day, he had watched as the home guard had gunned that self same hobo down for running away when they had called for him to stop. Vitellius had decided right then and there to keep his distance always.
If there was to be no safety or succor in the Narrows, he would then have to leave it. North, he would start by traveling north. The gates north would lead him through the Merchant’s Quarters and then toward Beggar’s Way and then the city limits. He hoped he would be able to sneak aboard an outbound train heading toward the Narrow Sea but outside of that, Vitellius had no idea where he would ultimately end up or how he would achieve it.
He crossed Sentinel Square and turned down Drachma Lane, feeling both better and worse that he could no longer hear the guard and their sport behind him. Moving quicker, he made good time as he left the heart of the poorer district and the tattered homes behind him. However, before he could congratulate himself on his good fortune, he stopped short at the unmistakable report of gunfire ahead of him. It was quick and angry sounding, reminding him of some popping hiss a wild animal would make. A few screams echoed but were silenced by more gunshots.
Before he could run or hide or make any decision, the streets ahead of him were filled with grim faced marching people. Afraid at first that they were more of the home guard coming to aid their brethren, Vitellius was surprised to learn that these men and women were clad in peasant cloth, sporting a simple sash of red across their waist or shoulder like some sort of badge. They were armed with gleaming black rifles tipped with shortened knives of hammered iron.
He stood there stunned as they marched up to him, their leader, a blond woman of forty or so, bent slightly to address the young Roman, her weapon held casually in her off hand. “You, boy. What’s your name?”
“Vit-Vitellius, my lady.” He answered with a stammer.
Her eyes blazed. “I am not ‘my lady’. There is no such thing as ‘my lady’. That is a crap term those in power want you to refer to them by.” Her gaze softened slightly. “If you want to address another, use their name or Ma’am or Sir if you don’t know it.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled and to Vitellius it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “It’s alright.” She looked past him. “Do you live here? Or did you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” His eyes welled up with unspent tears. “I did, but there’s nothing for it left there.”
She grew angered, jaw set as she clenched her teeth. She turned, addressing a younger man that looked vaguely like her. “You see?” she asked him, pointing at Vitellius. “You see why we have to act and act now? This…this is the future of Rome if we don’t do anything.” Turning back, she gave him a hard stare. “Vitellius, I’m going to ask you an important question.”
“O…Okay,” he replied suddenly nervous.
“Do you want to live your life in fear, oppressed and in terror, for the rest of your days?”
“No.”
She flashed him that radiant smile again, sending warmth to flow across his skin. “Then how would you like to join me? To join us?”
He looked at her with awe, flush with expectation. “Join what?”
“Join with us. Join the People’s Army of Rome.” The crowd of militant citizenry behind her all thrust their arms out in a classic Roman salute, startling Vitellius. She continued, “We cannot rely on the armies to save us, we cannot rely on the guardians to save us, we cannot rely on the militia to save us. The only people that are going to be able to save Rome are the People of Rome. And those people are us. You.”
“Me?”
“You.” She unslung her rifle and handed it over to him, placing the weapon in his hand. Pulling a red scrap of cloth from her pouch, she held it over his arm, poised to tie it in place. “Well, Vitellius? Do you want to join with us to help free Rome? Do you want to join with me?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Grinning triumphantly, she tied the cloth around his forearm and stood up, giving the young man a brief kiss on both cheeks. “Then welcome, Vitellius. Welcome to the People’s Army of Rome.”
“Th-thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Mia. Please.”
“Thank you, Mia.” He looked around, feeling strangely empowered and alive. “So we are going to free Rome?”
“Yes we are. Today we are working on the Narrows. Tomorrow we might be as well. Then next day will find us elsewhere until those that seek to crush the spirit of our people learn once and for all that they cannot blot out the light of freedom and equality from gilded towers and places of recluse. We will bring change to their doorstep kicking and screaming until they have embraced it or are removed from their thrones.”
At the comment she made about kicking and screaming, Vitellius’ eyes lit up. “Ma’am, Mia, I was wondering if we could try to save someone I passed in fear a few minutes ago? Someone who I know is being…hurt by the local home guard.”
Placing both of her hands on his shoulders, Mia turned Vitellius around so he was facing the Narrows once again. “We are behind you, soldier of Rome. Lead us onward.”
Feeling ten feet tall and bursting with pride, Vitellius marched with almost god like confidence back the way he had just fled earlier slinking from shadow to shadow. The multitude of similarly determined people marched in time behind him, weapons ready and faces set. The feel of Mia’s hands on his shoulders was like liquid fire to his veins, feeding him an otherworldly vitality he never knew existed.
For the young Roman named Vitellius, this moment in time was the galvanizing and pivotal point when he ceased to be the boy he was before this day and became the man he would now be until his dying breath.
He didn’t hear Nero lean over to his mother and whisper, “If you’d give me chance, you’d might let me convert a few of the people to our cause as well.”
She leaned back, replying, “One day it will be you that runs the empire, Nero. Allow me to pave the way for a while.” Both mother and son shared a smile with one another as they followed Vitellius towards the shattered neighborhood that the boy once came from and was now returning to as a man.
From somewhere nearby, a woman howled in agony; most likely shot and wounded by the rifle fire he just heard. Her screaming grew more frantic, almost pleading as she was found by the roustabouts who proceeded to giggle amongst themselves. Vitellius felt weak and almost sick as he realized with sickening dread what it was degenerate Roman guardsmen were beginning to do to the injured woman. He was horrified to think that his own countrymen could be so cruel, so callous and uncaring to the suffering they were spreading.
As her cries continued into wordless yelps of animalistic terror, young Vitellius rocked forward, daring to move from behind his flimsy cover. He wanted to race to her aid, the same way that the knights of old would come dashing to the rescue of the fair maidens being ravished by wicked Saracen sheiks. However these were not foreign devils but his own people, he was only fourteen, frightened, and ashamed of himself that he couldn’t drum up the courage to face down the raping men. Heart thumping so loudly he was sure someone could have heard it, he lifted his head far enough to insure the coast was clear before daring to crawl away.
He ducked behind an overturned applecart, slunk towards a mound of uncollected refuse, and then took shelter beneath the overhang of a sagging brewery. So far he had not been seen and the guards were still intent on the debaucherous sport. Steeling himself, he slid around the front of the abandoned building and began making his way out of the Narrows.
Vitellius had no idea where it was he was going, there seemed to be little safety for anyone and few sanctuaries he could go to. The temple of Zeus had been the target of a violent looting three weeks ago, most of the hospices were full and were turning new visitors away. He had slept in the gutted ruins of his old home, a dumpster, the park, at least two abandoned buildings, and even in a pig house one evening. Public order was all but gone and there was less and less food to be found or scrounged up. What coins he did have earlier had been long ago spent and he had already sold his mother’s earrings at least a week earlier for a half loaf of bread and rusted gladius he purchased from some wandering rag picker. Later that same day, he had watched as the home guard had gunned that self same hobo down for running away when they had called for him to stop. Vitellius had decided right then and there to keep his distance always.
If there was to be no safety or succor in the Narrows, he would then have to leave it. North, he would start by traveling north. The gates north would lead him through the Merchant’s Quarters and then toward Beggar’s Way and then the city limits. He hoped he would be able to sneak aboard an outbound train heading toward the Narrow Sea but outside of that, Vitellius had no idea where he would ultimately end up or how he would achieve it.
He crossed Sentinel Square and turned down Drachma Lane, feeling both better and worse that he could no longer hear the guard and their sport behind him. Moving quicker, he made good time as he left the heart of the poorer district and the tattered homes behind him. However, before he could congratulate himself on his good fortune, he stopped short at the unmistakable report of gunfire ahead of him. It was quick and angry sounding, reminding him of some popping hiss a wild animal would make. A few screams echoed but were silenced by more gunshots.
Before he could run or hide or make any decision, the streets ahead of him were filled with grim faced marching people. Afraid at first that they were more of the home guard coming to aid their brethren, Vitellius was surprised to learn that these men and women were clad in peasant cloth, sporting a simple sash of red across their waist or shoulder like some sort of badge. They were armed with gleaming black rifles tipped with shortened knives of hammered iron.
He stood there stunned as they marched up to him, their leader, a blond woman of forty or so, bent slightly to address the young Roman, her weapon held casually in her off hand. “You, boy. What’s your name?”
“Vit-Vitellius, my lady.” He answered with a stammer.
Her eyes blazed. “I am not ‘my lady’. There is no such thing as ‘my lady’. That is a crap term those in power want you to refer to them by.” Her gaze softened slightly. “If you want to address another, use their name or Ma’am or Sir if you don’t know it.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled and to Vitellius it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “It’s alright.” She looked past him. “Do you live here? Or did you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” His eyes welled up with unspent tears. “I did, but there’s nothing for it left there.”
She grew angered, jaw set as she clenched her teeth. She turned, addressing a younger man that looked vaguely like her. “You see?” she asked him, pointing at Vitellius. “You see why we have to act and act now? This…this is the future of Rome if we don’t do anything.” Turning back, she gave him a hard stare. “Vitellius, I’m going to ask you an important question.”
“O…Okay,” he replied suddenly nervous.
“Do you want to live your life in fear, oppressed and in terror, for the rest of your days?”
“No.”
She flashed him that radiant smile again, sending warmth to flow across his skin. “Then how would you like to join me? To join us?”
He looked at her with awe, flush with expectation. “Join what?”
“Join with us. Join the People’s Army of Rome.” The crowd of militant citizenry behind her all thrust their arms out in a classic Roman salute, startling Vitellius. She continued, “We cannot rely on the armies to save us, we cannot rely on the guardians to save us, we cannot rely on the militia to save us. The only people that are going to be able to save Rome are the People of Rome. And those people are us. You.”
“Me?”
“You.” She unslung her rifle and handed it over to him, placing the weapon in his hand. Pulling a red scrap of cloth from her pouch, she held it over his arm, poised to tie it in place. “Well, Vitellius? Do you want to join with us to help free Rome? Do you want to join with me?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Grinning triumphantly, she tied the cloth around his forearm and stood up, giving the young man a brief kiss on both cheeks. “Then welcome, Vitellius. Welcome to the People’s Army of Rome.”
“Th-thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Mia. Please.”
“Thank you, Mia.” He looked around, feeling strangely empowered and alive. “So we are going to free Rome?”
“Yes we are. Today we are working on the Narrows. Tomorrow we might be as well. Then next day will find us elsewhere until those that seek to crush the spirit of our people learn once and for all that they cannot blot out the light of freedom and equality from gilded towers and places of recluse. We will bring change to their doorstep kicking and screaming until they have embraced it or are removed from their thrones.”
At the comment she made about kicking and screaming, Vitellius’ eyes lit up. “Ma’am, Mia, I was wondering if we could try to save someone I passed in fear a few minutes ago? Someone who I know is being…hurt by the local home guard.”
Placing both of her hands on his shoulders, Mia turned Vitellius around so he was facing the Narrows once again. “We are behind you, soldier of Rome. Lead us onward.”
Feeling ten feet tall and bursting with pride, Vitellius marched with almost god like confidence back the way he had just fled earlier slinking from shadow to shadow. The multitude of similarly determined people marched in time behind him, weapons ready and faces set. The feel of Mia’s hands on his shoulders was like liquid fire to his veins, feeding him an otherworldly vitality he never knew existed.
For the young Roman named Vitellius, this moment in time was the galvanizing and pivotal point when he ceased to be the boy he was before this day and became the man he would now be until his dying breath.
He didn’t hear Nero lean over to his mother and whisper, “If you’d give me chance, you’d might let me convert a few of the people to our cause as well.”
She leaned back, replying, “One day it will be you that runs the empire, Nero. Allow me to pave the way for a while.” Both mother and son shared a smile with one another as they followed Vitellius towards the shattered neighborhood that the boy once came from and was now returning to as a man.
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Icmancin
WSNR Pte
Full scale civil war. Peoples Army of Rome... This is going to turn into a Long March or a Maoist guerrilla campaign isn't it?
WillowBrook
Lurker
Over 50k pageviews! 
Keep up the good work, Vanadorn.
Keep up the good work, Vanadorn.
fe3333au
Deity
Actually 
to fit the ethnic flavour of the story, she should have been refered to as Mama 
to fit the ethnic flavour of the story, she should have been refered to as Mama
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Karolus, we have a problem.”
Karolus looked up, eyes tired and rimmed in red, hammer in his hand and a pair of nails on his mouth. “Pelagius, hold this,” he said to his youngest child, positioning the sixteen year old in front of the wooden beam he had been nailing into place over the busted window. Spitting the nails out into his hand, the eldest Maraxus said, “What?”
Socrates sighed, an exhausted bone wearying sort of sigh that seemed to drive upward from the pit of his stomach and out. Nodding his head to the vandalized glass he replied, “This. This is our problem.”
“We can fix it.”
“Again?” Socrates asked. “How many times are we going to fix our windows? Or our doors? Or anything that seems to break and be broken around here?”
“Things’ll get better.”
“I doubt it.” He looked out into the streets of Veii, the skyline smudged slightly with the haze of old smoke. “If things were going to ever get better, the window for them to do so has come, gone, passed, moved out of the ghetto and set up shop in some distant tenement.”
“What do you suggest we do then? Move?”
“It’ll be the same everywhere, Karolus.” The ex-professor felt his eyes tear. “The message has been lost, my friend.”
“We did what we had to do, Socrates.”
“But maybe we did it wrong.”
Karolus handed the hammer and nails to his patiently waiting son, cupping the back of the youth’s head and smiling at him. The sound of pounding nails soon followed as Karolus walked up to his oldest friend and sat down with a heavy groan. “Sit. Talk with me.” He waited for Socrates to do as requested before continuing. “The message had to be given and you know this. The people were ready to hear it and never should the people be denied hearing what they need to know.”
“But this?” Socrates asked with a shrug, indicating the wreckage and carnage the rioters had caused. “Is this what they needed to do?”
“No. But the will of the people cannot be denied. There is a storm coming, a storm to blot out all of Rome. The best we simple folk can do is batten down the hatches and huddle in the darkness with your loved ones; waiting for the squall to pass. When it does so, the land will be wet and fertile, the sun will shine all the brighter, and the world will be born anew and fresh for all to behold.”
“Sounds nice, but do you really believe it?”
Karolus tried to look past the busted glass, the broken fences, the soot stained walls and strewn garbage. Squinting just the right way, his head cocked just so, he broke into a grin. “Yes I do. If you try, you can see the rainbow at the end of all things.”
“I still think the message had been lost some way. The people should know better what it is we meant for them to realize. There is never a need for vigilism and violence.”
“I agreed,” Karolus nodded. “And the next time we are on stage together, I suggest that we preach that message to those that’ll listen.”
“We’ve been doing that for months.”
“And we’ll keep doing it until, one way or another, the message is finally out and everyone finally understands.” Maraxus smiled broadly. “You’ll see, my friend. It’ll be over soon and we’ll be better off for it.”
Socrates could say nothing, instead only able to sit there deep in thought as the last decade or two of his life replayed itself in his mind.
Karolus looked up, eyes tired and rimmed in red, hammer in his hand and a pair of nails on his mouth. “Pelagius, hold this,” he said to his youngest child, positioning the sixteen year old in front of the wooden beam he had been nailing into place over the busted window. Spitting the nails out into his hand, the eldest Maraxus said, “What?”
Socrates sighed, an exhausted bone wearying sort of sigh that seemed to drive upward from the pit of his stomach and out. Nodding his head to the vandalized glass he replied, “This. This is our problem.”
“We can fix it.”
“Again?” Socrates asked. “How many times are we going to fix our windows? Or our doors? Or anything that seems to break and be broken around here?”
“Things’ll get better.”
“I doubt it.” He looked out into the streets of Veii, the skyline smudged slightly with the haze of old smoke. “If things were going to ever get better, the window for them to do so has come, gone, passed, moved out of the ghetto and set up shop in some distant tenement.”
“What do you suggest we do then? Move?”
“It’ll be the same everywhere, Karolus.” The ex-professor felt his eyes tear. “The message has been lost, my friend.”
“We did what we had to do, Socrates.”
“But maybe we did it wrong.”
Karolus handed the hammer and nails to his patiently waiting son, cupping the back of the youth’s head and smiling at him. The sound of pounding nails soon followed as Karolus walked up to his oldest friend and sat down with a heavy groan. “Sit. Talk with me.” He waited for Socrates to do as requested before continuing. “The message had to be given and you know this. The people were ready to hear it and never should the people be denied hearing what they need to know.”
“But this?” Socrates asked with a shrug, indicating the wreckage and carnage the rioters had caused. “Is this what they needed to do?”
“No. But the will of the people cannot be denied. There is a storm coming, a storm to blot out all of Rome. The best we simple folk can do is batten down the hatches and huddle in the darkness with your loved ones; waiting for the squall to pass. When it does so, the land will be wet and fertile, the sun will shine all the brighter, and the world will be born anew and fresh for all to behold.”
“Sounds nice, but do you really believe it?”
Karolus tried to look past the busted glass, the broken fences, the soot stained walls and strewn garbage. Squinting just the right way, his head cocked just so, he broke into a grin. “Yes I do. If you try, you can see the rainbow at the end of all things.”
“I still think the message had been lost some way. The people should know better what it is we meant for them to realize. There is never a need for vigilism and violence.”
“I agreed,” Karolus nodded. “And the next time we are on stage together, I suggest that we preach that message to those that’ll listen.”
“We’ve been doing that for months.”
“And we’ll keep doing it until, one way or another, the message is finally out and everyone finally understands.” Maraxus smiled broadly. “You’ll see, my friend. It’ll be over soon and we’ll be better off for it.”
Socrates could say nothing, instead only able to sit there deep in thought as the last decade or two of his life replayed itself in his mind.
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