“Es Frater Meus, Et Es Inimicus Meus” (“You Are My Brother, And You Are My Enemy”)

[TheGuitarist]

Hello all. I'm a newcomer to the forums and I thought I'd try my hand at writing a story. It's my first one - so be kind please.

Here goes-

“Es Frater Meus, Et Es Inimicus Meus”
(“You Are My Brother, And You Are My Enemy”)


ROME, 14 June in the Year of Our Lord 1377 – It is a joyous day in our fair kingdom. Our Gracious Lord has blessed his Majesty Julius Caesar IV with a second son, Octavian Caesar. “It is truly a miracle that such joy can be brought to a family in the midst of such terrible bloodshed as our current war with the treacherous Egyptians,” said Royal Domestic Advisor Antonius Laurentius.

However, this wonderful news is marred by the tragic death of Her Majesty Lucia during the birth. The late Queen was only 39 years of age at the time of her death. The king has announced a day of mourning throughout the kingdom for the late Lucia, scheduled for tomorrow.

The late Queen gave birth to Julius Caesar V on April 21, 1376. The young Julius is deeply saddened by the loss of his mother but his nurse reported his hopeful good cheer at the arrival of Octavian.

The king promises that he will continue his efforts to lead our forces in combat against the Egyptians despite his recent loss. The war is progressing on the northern front; our legionaries have proved more than a match for the weak “war chariots” of our foes.

Our cities are working to produce more of the new horsemen for deployment to the western front, as our armies there need reinforcement. Our forces in that region consist mainly of (rather antiquated) archers and spearmen but are holding their own against Egypt.

Palace strategists declined to comment on their future plans for the war.

--Cornelius Philippus, Hodie in Roma (Today in Rome)

-----

Royal Palace, Rome
15 June 1378

Prince Julius V was angry.

The two-year-old had just completed his afternoon snack when, having been declined additional cookies, he became irate and demanded to receive them in a loud and obnoxious tone.

When the attendant present in the nursery steadfastly refused, an absurdly loud and shrill scream ripped out of the toddler’s mouth. He stood there in the middle of the nursery, mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, face red, screaming like a banshee.

The attendant, becoming flustered, called for Julius’ personal nurse.

“Portia! Julius is throwing a tantrum!”

A portly middle-aged woman came through the doorway. Assessing the situation, she remarked, “Quite a voice for such a small child! He’s throwing these fits more and more often these days.”

The nurse bent down beside the screaming child and picked up his favorite toy, a wooden cart pulled by a wooden horse. The elaborate plaything had been hand-crafted by the palace’s best carpenter, with working wheels and little shoes on the horse’s hooves.

Julius finally stopped screaming and took the toy from Portia, scrutinizing it with a critical eye. He decided that cookies were more important, and subsequently dropped the forgotten horse and cart on the floor, announcing his refusal with a stubborn “No. Want cookies.”

“Oh, you silly boy,” said Portia. “You’ve already had your snack today. Don’t you want to play something else now?”

Julius answered with his stubborn “No,” and was preparing to scream when he looked up to see his father in the doorway.

Forgetting the cookies, Julius ran to his father and clasped him around his toga-clad legs, grinning widely.

“Greetings, Portia, Flora,” the king said to the attendants. “Just come to check on my boy.” The king knelt and hugged his son, the boundless love of a father in his eyes.

“Hello, Your Majesty. Prince Julius was just having another tantrum,” Portia explained.

“What is it now?”

“He wants more cookies, but he’s just had his snack and I don’t want to spoil his supper.”

“Oh, nonsense. He’s simply upset about his mother’s passing, I’ll venture. Give the boy his cookies.”

-----

Royal Palace, Rome
April 21, 1379

It was Julius V’s 3rd birthday, and the halls of the palace were filled with the citizenry of Rome, come to the palace more for the grand banquet than for the birthday of the prince.

The prince sat at the head of the long center table, beside his father and the nurse who held his infant brother. Proudly, he sat regally as the admirers passed, offering their sincere wishes for a happy birthday and their compliments to the king for his recent victory over the Egyptians.

A peace treaty had been signed after Egypt had been pushed nearly off the continent by the king’s armies. Rome now shared the landmass only with the remnants of Egypt, Greece (to the south), and Babylon (to the east).

The prince’s mind was full of joy at the cornucopia of gifts spread over the table beside him. However, there was something in the back of his mind that tugged at him, detracting from his enjoyment of the occasion.

Last year at this time… his mother had been with them.

He could still see her beautiful face, her kind hands. He could feel her loving arms around him, her voice singing soft songs to him at night, and the smile she always smiled when she saw him.

He missed her.

He missed her so terribly badly.

He cried that night, after all the food was eaten, all the well-wishers long gone. Nothing the servants could do would console him. Nothing would ever fill the missing place in his heart.

-----

Palace courtyard, Rome
June 17, 1381

The brothers Julius and Octavian were having their first archery lesson in the courtyard of the palace. Their instructor showed them how to draw the bowstring on their child-size bows, to align the shaft with the dot in the center of the target, and to release the arrow on its arcing flight to the bale of hay ten paces away.

First it was Julius’ turn to try out the bow.

Stepping up to the firing line, Julius drew his bowstring back to his chin, squinting his five-year-old eyes and tugging with all his strength. He let the string go, and the arrow shot forward in an arc, digging its point into the hay bale a few feet off the mark.

The instructor was satisfied with his effort, but Julius was not pleased with himself.

Four-year-old Octavian stepped up to the line, placing his arrow carefully on the string and raising the apparatus up to his torso. He placed his fingers on the string and drew it back to his chin as he was taught, lining up the shot meticulously. When he was precisely in line with the bull’s-eye, he drew in his breath and straightened his fingers.

The arrow flew in a tan blur to the target, striking the hay solidly in the ring surrounding the center, a full two feet closer to the bull’s-eye than his brother’s shot. He lowered his bow and smiled broadly, soaking in the praise from the instructor.

Realizing that he had beaten his brother for the first time, Octavian turned and smiled at his brother. Julius narrowed his eyes, his brow forming a V of anger as he felt hot envy course through him. Octavian wasn’t supposed to win! Julius was the older boy, the firstborn, the one who was better at everything.

Julius was jealous.

-----

It was a feeling he would not feel very often for the next ten years, as Julius showed his prowess at everything from board games to swordfighting to schoolwork. Julius was physically strong, mentally sharp, and fiercely competitive. His brother was not a bad specimen of a boy, but Julius was always showing Octavian up in everything they did together.

Everything, that is, but archery.

The boys grew up together, sharing friends, family, experiences, and relationships with others. They had a deep friendship and loyalty to one another, but there was rivalry between them also, which grew beyond the bounds of simple competition. The two grew farther and farther apart as time went on, to the point where they competed constantly and ardently about anything and everything.

To an outsider, it would have seemed as though they hated each other, but from Octavian’s perspective, there was no hate present at all; the brothers loved each other beyond measure and simply competed as brothers did (albeit continually).

It was in the year of Our Lord 1391, when Octavian was 14 and Julius was 15, that noted scientist and philosopher Democratus of the Roman Monarchy postulated to the kingdom a radical new concept: democracy.

This new form of government was based on the idea that government should be run by the people that are governed, and that the common people have the right to take part in the governing process by expressing their opinions and beliefs. In addition, the people of a nation are entitled to certain rights and freedoms that cannot be taken away by any man, least of all a king or an emperor.

Democratus was bold and, indeed, audacious to suggest his new discovery to the people, since most of the freedoms he believed were ineffaceable were in fact not enjoyed by most of the populace of Rome, and thus he was jeopardizing his reputation, his career, and his standing in society with his insinuation that perhaps the current government was not entirely acceptable.

It was popular opinion that while the king was not as generous as he could have been, he was nonetheless a benign and considerate ruler. On the other hand, radicals in the kingdom known as the Liberators had been urging the people to overthrow His Majesty Julius IV for many years. Democratus offered them a viable alternative to the current government, and their arguments began to carry more weight with the citizenry.

It was the opinion of Princes Julius and Octavian that their father was the best leader that the Romans had ever known, but a chance encounter with the Liberators would soon alert Octavian to the true state of affairs in their nation…

[Metaliturtle]

I like how this one is starting out, although some may say that it needs more dialogue, I say it's good by itself.

((TINY NOTE: It'd be cool if archery between the brothers came into play later))

[TheGuitarist]

Thanks, Metaliturtle.
Yes, I had envisioned the archery element taking part in the action later on.

Hope to post more soon; working on second part.

[Verto]

Keep it up.

[TheGuitarist]

Roman Forum, Rome
December 10, 1391 (Ten Years Later)

It was the day before the Saturnalia, greatest of all festivals in Roman culture. Held every winter in honor of Saturn, god of seed and sowing, it meant days of celebration, music, dancing, and feasting on the fruits of the people’s labor.

Today, King Julius IV was to ride out to the Forum and announce the beginning of the feast, as was the king’s custom. As teenagers (and young men in Roman culture), the king’s sons were to accompany him for the first time.

The princes mounted their horses and rode out to the palace gates. There they met their father, riding his huge white horse, along with several members of the King’s Guard. The Guard was the elite detachment of pikemen that guarded the palace and the king himself. They were said to be deadly, trained in swordfighting, archery, hand-to-hand combat, and the Babylonian discipline Pashurat (that is, fighting with a staff).

The procession made its way down the cobbled road, past the palace courtyards and out into the city of Rome itself. Thousands of citizens, clad in their togas, were hurrying to the Forum in preparation for the great feast. The scent of home-cooked food, bread, chicken, beans, and piping-hot beef, wafted from the open windows of houses along the street.

Finally, the king’s party arrived at the Forum and mounted the steps to the speaking platform at the center of the huge square. Surrounding the area were the elaborate homes of the rich, the famed Roman bathhouses, the Council building (where the King’s advisors met), and the great Templum Iuppiteri (Temple of Jupiter), central house of Roman worship.

A great cheer went up from the crowd as the King approached the podium. He acknowledged their glee with a wave and a smile, and then began speaking in Latin.

“Venio hic hodie nuntiare initium Saturnaliae!”
(I come here today to announce the beginning of the Saturnalia!)

“Dat mihi gaudium magnum incipere id temporem laetitiae in patria nostra.”
(It gives me great joy to begin this time of happiness in our country.)

“Rogo te––”

Before the king could continue, a loud and pervasive boo erupted from a crowd of spectators close to the speaking platform. Clad in gray togas, they wore expressions of anger and disdain. Their emotions confused Octavian. Why weren’t they happy like everyone else? It was the Saturnalia, the great Celebration!

Interrupting his thoughts, a Guardsman stepped up to the princes and indicated that they should move to the other side of the platform. “You aren’t safe near the Liberators,” he explained.

As the princes were moving, the crowd of Liberators started swarming up the steps towards the King’s party. Octavian saw the glint of iron as one of them drew a dagger out of the folds of his gray toga.

The King’s Guard stepped forward, forming a line seven soldiers wide. They blocked the entrance to the platform and pulled staffs from their belts. Holding them horizontally, they pushed the crowd back off the platform. Octavian could hear their shouts:

“Freedom for our people! Democracy is the only true path! The King is a tyrant and a dictator! Destroy the repressors and free the people!”

A blur of motion drew Octavian’s eye to the platform in front of the podium. The radical with the dagger had made his way over to the other side of the platform, stepping onto the dais and waving his weapon in a zealous fervor.

He charged the King, murder in his eyes. A gasp erupted from the crowd as they watched helplessly.

A Guardsman stepped out from behind the princes and drew his staff, assuming a defensive posture in front of the King. The radical swore and thrust his weapon at the Guardsman’s left flank in a desperate move.

The soldier parried the blow with his staff, pushing the attacker’s arm to one side. He disarmed the radical with a sharp blow, sending the dagger flying into the air. Shortly afterward, he snapped the right side of his staff into the Liberator’s jaw with a crack!, snapping his head around from the force of the blow.

The radical fell back, knees drawn up in front of him, cradling his bleeding and broken face. The Guardsman stepped around him and brought his staff sharply down onto the radical’s temple, knocking him unconscious.

The display of force subdued the remaining Liberators, who were apprehended by the Guardsmen and deported from the Forum.

After the speech was made, the King drew aside one of the Guardsmen and they exchanged whispers. Octavian could barely hear their words, but he thought he heard his father say, “They’re a danger to… authority. Kill them quietly, but… one of the heads… their leader.”

Octavian was unsure of his feelings. He knew the radicals were not to be trusted, having employed terrorism and double-crossing in the past. But his father… he had told the Guard to kill them all. Their zealous cries echoed in his mind, echoing along with his father’s words, echoing with Octavian’s guilty thoughts about exactly what kind of man his father was.

[Metaliturtle]

I'm glad you didn't write all of the dialogue in Latin, it was somewhat annoying.

[TheGuitarist]

The next installment...

ROME, 11 December in the Year of Our Lord 1391 – Tuesday’s opening speech of the Saturnalia was interrupted by Liberators when several of the radicals stormed the King’s platform and attempted to assassinate His Majesty Julius IV. Fortunately, a King’s Guardsman was able to disarm the potential assassin and apprehend him.

The group of Liberators was taken into custody and is currently being held in the palace dungeon. However, the radicals refuse to give interrogators any information concerning their organization, its leader(s), or its future plans.

The royal Family is safe, and is enjoying the Saturnalia, along with the rest of the people of our Kingdom. Reached for comment, the King remarked, “These Liberators are among the least patriotic or loyal citizens in our Kingdom. I promise to bring them to justice.”

--Philippus Cornelius, Hodie in Roma (Today in Rome)

-----

Prince Octavian’s Chambers, Royal Palace, Rome
11:35 p.m., December 19, 1391

It was a little more than a week after the disturbance at the Forum. Octavian was trying to go to sleep in his large bedchamber, but was having little success owing to the fact that the Saturnalia was still in full swing and the people were celebrating long into the night. Sounds of music, talk, and laughter could be heard from Rome as Octavian lay in his huge four-post bed.

Suddenly – a new sound, much closer!

Octavian heard a muffled scratching at his open window. Carefully, he sat up and peered into the darkness, squinting against the glow of firelight in the city below. He could see nothing, so he quietly lay back but kept his eyes open.

Scratch, scratch, thump!

“Who’s there?” Octavian cried fearfully. No answer.

More scratching sounds, closer. Octavian considered calling the Guardsman from outside his door, and had decided to do so when a hand clamped over his mouth from behind.

Octavian tried to call for his guards, but his cries were muffled by the iron grip of the hand on his face. Violently, he struggled, twisting around to confront his attacker, but another hand trapped his arms against the pallet. He craned his neck and caught a glimpse of gray toga beside his bed.

Frantic, he struggled even more, but the Liberator had had enough. “Quiet!” he whispered harshly. “Stop your thrashing around! Do you want the Guard in here!?”

Yes, I most certainly do, thought Octavian.

“Listen, I’m not here to kill you or your family. I just want you to know the truth.”

Taken aback, Octavian stopped struggling and listened. Cautiously, the Liberator released him, ready to clamp down on his face again if he made a noise.

“The truth about what?” Octavian said.

“Shhh! Not so loud! …The truth about your father and the way he treats his citizens.”

Octavian felt he should defend his father, but his curiosity overcame family loyalty and he was silent.

“King Julius is not exactly fair to the people. To be frank, he abuses his power. He demands excessive taxation, he forces the laborers to work hour after hour in the broiling hot sun, he requires every Roman citizen to worship HIS gods… and he hungers for war. Violence of any kind. He executed my compatriots shortly after they were taken into custody.”

“The papers said they were being interrogated!”

“Propaganda. He controls the media and all the input the people get from the outside world. And he’s especially careful with you two princes.”

“So maybe my father isn’t the best ruler Rome’s ever had. You think you can do better?”

“No. Not just one person by himself – but all of the people together. Democratus thought it up – it’s a far superior system. Democracy: all the people control the government together. Each citizen has a voice in the way things are run, and all the people are guaranteed certain freedoms, such as speech, religion, and press. As one group of people, the populace controls its own government. The citizens back us up, most of them. They don’t want to show their support in public – Julius wants us all dead. Most of the people understand the situation far better than you or me. They know what has to be done. But we can’t make Julius understand.”

“You tried?”

“Over and over. Sent petitions, proposals, suggestions, pleas. He can’t give up his power to a mass of lowly peasants. The warmonger thinks only he can run a government properly, so he won’t give anyone else a chance.”

Octavian thought about this for a moment. He considered the Liberator’s statements and weighed their logic against the way his father had explained Rome’s government. He couldn’t believe that his father had told him untruths, but he knew the Liberator was right.

“I believe you. But I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re really serious about this democracy thing, how are you planning to change our government with Julius so dead-set against it?”

“We’re planning a revolution.”

-----

Octavian knew that he had to do the right thing. His father was a tyrant, an oppressor. He didn’t understand how to treat the people. Democracy was the answer, but Octavian didn’t know what might happen during a revolution. All of Rome, in rebellion! Mass chaos would be the only order in the Kingdom!

Besides, he had a nagging question in the back of his mind… what would happen to his father?

-----

Royal Palace Courtyard, Rome
1:16 a.m., January 12, 1392

Octavian silently scaled the wall surrounding the Palace, throwing his legs over the top and dropping to the ground. He crouched and looked around for the Guard he knew was out in force. Seeing no one, he crossed the lawn in a low run.

He reached the tower that held his second-story bedroom. He stepped onto the base of the Doric column, reaching up for a handhold. He climbed slowly but quietly, finding tiny toeholds in the weathered stone wall.

Octavian reached for the small ledge dividing first floor from second floor. He grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled. A loose brick suddenly gave way, leaving him hanging precariously on the ledge with his right hand. He gave an involuntary cry of alarm and fear, then instantly realized his mistake and mentally kicked himself.

“You there! Stop!” A Guardsman was running along the lawn to the wall of the Palace.

A spike of fear shot through Octavian. He was caught.

More Guardsmen were arriving, one of whom carried a rope. He threw it up to a Guardsman in Octavian’s window, who then secured it to the windowledge. Octavian swung his body over to it and seized it in both hands, sliding down the rope at painful speed.

The Guardsmen roughly shackled his hands behind him, then pulled his head up and took off the gray hood on his toga. When they recognized the intruder, they drew back in shock.

“Prince Octavian? It can’t be!”

“None other.”

Octavian was escorted to the King’s throne room, where Julius IV had been summoned after a rude awakening. Stunned, the King rose to his full height of nearly seven feet.

“My son!? In the gray toga of a traitor? A dark day this is for our Kingdom!”

Octavian stood, stolid as a statue.

“You have been consorting with traitors, my son! Radicals! They want nothing more than violence and bloodshed!”

“They have said the same about you, O King. And as for their aims, know this: The only desire of theirs is to set things right in our Kingdom, to rid it of tyranny and dictatorship forever.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “They have indoctrinated you, Octavian! Their words are false! Traitors, all of them, and so are you. But nonetheless, you are my son. I will spare your life – but I disown you from my family forever.”

A sharp gasp from those present in the throne room.

Octavian rocked back as though struck, his impassive exterior fallen. He had known that his father was not all he seemed to be, and, granted, Octavian was betraying him in a way, but Octavian had always been sure of his own loyalty to his flesh and blood!

But he had to accept his fate. No longer could he think of himself as royalty, as a part of the ruling party. He was a fugitive, an outlaw. He would stay with the Liberators until that day came when he wouldn’t have to run anymore.

To be continued...

[TheGuitarist]

Last part is on the way...
Almost finished!

[trevor]

Great story so far! Keep it up!

[SKILORD]

i love it!

[TheGuitarist]

Alleys on the Outskirts of Rome
3:23 a.m., January 12, 1392 (Two Hours Later)

A sharp thunderclap echoed through sleeping Rome as a light rain began its patter on the cobblestone streets.

Octavian hurried quickly along the dark alleys of the outskirts of Rome, huddled in his gray toga against the rain. He kept a hand tightly clamped on the small dagger concealed in his robes, constantly watching for any patrolling soldiers.

Octavian turned a corner cautiously, peering down the dark and narrow street. Seeing no one, he stepped furtively along the road, crouched and keeping a lookout.

Suddenly there came quick footsteps behind him, the heavy, measured strides of a soldier. Fighting down the panic, Octavian looked frantically for a hiding place.

The Guardsman walked down the seemingly empty street, seeing no one. He passed a narrow, pitch-black doorway without a thought and continued on his rounds, until he turned the corner at the end of the alley onto a more heavily traveled avenue.

With a mental sigh of relief, Octavian stepped silently out of the doorway and continued down the wet alley.

Shortly, he arrived at the domus of one of the more respected Roman citizens, Marcus Gregorius. It was a typical domus owned by a seemingly typical rich citizen. However, Gregorius was anything but a typical, greedy rich man. He was the leader of the Liberator movement, not only in Rome, but in all the other parts of the Kingdom.

Octavian hurried through the vestibulum, or foyer, and knocked softly four times on the door. A hoarse whisper came from beyond.

“Negotium tuum?”
(“Your business?”)

Recognizing the prearranged code phrase, Octavian answered in kind:

“Sum sed civis parva, sed habeo spe pro Romam.”
(“I am but a small citizen, but I have hope for Rome.”)

Satisfied, the servant opened the door. Octavian stepped in and removed his gray hood, grateful for the shelter. He and the servant stepped around the atrium and passed through to the peristylium, an open court with plants and a small garden, surrounded by columns.

A middle-aged man with dark hair and a beard, of medium height and a rather burly build, hurried out of his bedchamber, pulling on his toga. “Octavian? Why have you returned so soon? Our meeting was concluded two hours ago.”

Octavian moved beside him and the two began walking to the library, which served as a meeting room for the Liberators. “I fear that I must report the worst, my friend. My father the King has discovered my association with this organization. In anger, he disowned me and banished me from his household. I have come here because… I have nowhere else to go.”

Gregorius nodded thoughtfully. “Come, let us talk in the Library.”

-----

Octavian explained his recent discovery by his father for the next two hours. A lengthy discussion about his plans for the future ensued. Although he was a rather prominent member of the Liberators, he was still only a teenage boy, and thus he was assured that Gregorius would keep him safe in his own house until such time as Octavian could return to the Palace.

The recent mishap aside, that night’s meeting and Octavian’s discussion with Gregorius included serious progress in the details of the plan for the overthrow of the King. The basic sequence of events was planned as follows.

The overthrow would occur in two weeks, on January 26, at midnight. It would begin with the sabotage of the Palace defenses. The stealthiest of Liberator assassins, known as Christophorus, would infiltrate the Palace and kill the Captain of the Guard. Then he would proceed to the bell tower, located on the south wall of the Palace, and produce five slow rings, followed by three quick rings. This signal would alert the various Liberator operatives to begin the assault on the Palace.

Weapons had been stockpiled in secret armories throughout Rome for several months. At this point, there were enough swords, daggers, and pikes to arm roughly five hundred angry townspeople. The sympathetic citizens had been divided into groups numbering a few dozen supporters each. The groups had each been assigned a few Liberators as their leaders, resulting in ten or so “platoons” of roughly fifty citizens apiece. The individual platoons had been assigned an armory as well, and when Christophorus sounded the signal, the groups would proceed with their leaders to the armories and receive enough weapons to arm the force.

A few platoons would be responsible for the city itself, taking out any soldiers loyal to the King and securing the outer walls against any attack from surrounding forces. The remaining platoons would make their way to the Palace, where they would assault the gates and walls and kill anyone who opposed them. The plan was based on the belief that the citizens’ superior numbers would counter the advantage in skill and training that the soldiers and the King’s Guard held.

Octavian could only hope that it would be enough.

-----

ROME, January 13 in the Year of Our Lord 1392 – King Julius IV’s son, Prince Octavian, was killed early this morning in a brutal murder committed by a member of the radical organization known as the Liberators. The Prince was asleep in his chamber at the Palace when an assassin slipped into the room and slit his throat.

Prince Octavian was only 14 years old at the time of his murder. He is survived by his brother, Prince Julius V (15 years old), and his father, King Julius IV.

The King has increased his offer of reward to 200 gold pieces for any information leading to the capture of a Liberator or any sympathetic citizen.

Reached for comment, the King remarked, “I knew the Liberators were evil, but I never thought they’d go this far. I don’t want to make any less of their previous acts, but this savage murder is by far the worst thing they ever could have done.”

--Cornelius Philippus, Hodie in Roma (Today in Rome)

-----

Palace Walls, Rome
11:37 p.m., January 25, 1392

The assassin Christophorus slipped silently along the Palace wall, on a mission of death for the Captain of the Guard.

He pulled a farmer’s hay wagon next to the wall, to be used during his escape, and noted the positions of Guardsmen keeping watch along the twenty-foot edifice protecting the Palace. He reached a portion along which there were relatively few, and tossed a tiny grapple over. It caught on the walkway with a barely audible tink!, and Christophorus took hold of the rope and lithely began his walk up the wall.

At the top, the assassin swung his legs over and dropped to the walkway, landing in a crouch. He coiled his rope once more and crept along the planks to the watchtower at the main gate.

Peering around the doorframe, Christophorus noted two occupants inside the room. There was a Guardsman watching through the window facing outward to the gate, and behind him sat the Captain of the Guard on a wooden stool. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and judging from his slow breathing rate, was sleeping.

Christophorus stepped silently up behind him, watching the soldier at the window the whole way. He removed from his toga a tiny wooden box. Enclosed was a Babylonian assassin’s blowdart, tipped with deadly hemlock poison.

Christophorus carefully moved the dart close to the Captain’s neck, on edge and prepared to flee at any moment. In one swift movement, Christophorus jabbed the razor-sharp tip of the dart into the Captain’s carotid and drew back his hand at once. The Captain slumped lower on his stool and breathed his last. Christophorus carefully laid his dead body against the wall, propping him up securely.

When the deed was done, Christophorus retreated quickly and crept along the wall once more. Two Guardsmen stood between him and the bell tower. He needed a distraction.

Creeping up behind the first Guardsman, he picked up a stone and tossed it into one of the many reflecting pools that dotted the King’s courtyard. The resulting splash made the soldier spin to face the pool, not noticing Christophorus. The assassin gave him a healthy shove and quickly dropped over the outside of the wall, hanging onto the edge with his fingertips.

The second soldier, closer to the bell tower, came quickly to investigate the scream and large splash resulting from Christophorus’ Guardsman’s fall. He peered down into the inner courtyard, his back to Christophorus, and kept searching for anything strange while Christophorus pulled himself onto the walkway once more. He drew his dagger and stabbed the soldier in the temple, ceasing his brain function instantly. He fell into the pool along with the other Guardsman, there to stay for eternity.

Christophorus hurried along the walkway, reaching the bell tower quickly. Thankfully, there were no Guardsmen inside it, but he had to act quickly before the dead Captain and Guardsmen were missed. He gave the bell five slow rings, followed by three quick ones, as was the arranged signal. His job was finished.

He could hear loud shouting outside, and a myriad of footsteps coming toward him. He ran out of the tower, ducking as an arrow flew over his head and embedded itself in the wooden doorframe. Christophorus dove over the Palace wall and landed in the hay wagon, tumbling off and running across the street to a nearby domus. As he dodged arrows and columns, he could hear a roar building in the streets of Rome. The streets were alive with the glow of fire, the smell of soot, and the clank of iron on iron.

The revolution had begun.

To be continued...

[TheGuitarist]

I had to separate the last installment into two parts - it was too long to write all at once.

But I promise the next post will end it, unless the masses clamor for a sequel.

[Metaliturtle]

You'd think they'd pull the guards out of the pools, instead of just leaving them there "for eternity" but otherwise, really good

[civman2000]

very good

[Metaliturtle]

c'mon Civman, is that all you can say?

[TheGuitarist]

You'd think they'd pull the guards out of the pools, instead of just leaving them there "for eternity"

LOL

[TheGuitarist]

Wondering if I should nominate myself for Round 12...

[DarkCloud]

If you like, do so
Like as not someone will second you

[cbraund]

Excellent story, very well written. I can't think of any flaws!

Chris

[TheGuitarist]

Streets of Rome, Near the Palace
12:04 a.m., January 26, 1392

At the clanging of the bell, Octavian started to sprint down the street, trying to reach his assigned armory before the Guardsmen got organized. Beside him ran a fellow Liberator, Marcus Portius, with whom Octavian would be leading a group of forty-six sympathetic citizens into the Palace.

The streets were throbbing with chaos. Citizens, Liberators, and Guardsmen dashed back and forth, most with no particular destination in mind. The glow of torches and vandal fires lit up the city around them like a huge candle flame. From all around, Octavian could hear the clanking of weapons and the shouts of the Guard and the citizens alike.

Octavian saw a glint of metal as a nameless citizen drew his dagger; he passed the man in a rush, and then heard a scream of agony from behind him as a Guardsman sliced off weapon and hand with his sword.

He didn’t look back.

Finally, Octavian and Portius turned a corner and found themselves outside a small storage building, ostensibly used for grain, but in reality housing a stockpile of swords, daggers, shields, pikes, and other weapons. This was their armory.

Octavian approached the doorway and suddenly ran smack into an exiting Guardsman. With a shout, the Guardsman recognized the radical and called for help.

The two fell backward onto the hard cobblestones, scrambling for purchase on the slick dew-covered surface. The Guardsman regained his footing first, and unsheathed a short sword from a scabbard on his belt. He aimed a thrust at Octavian’s head, but the Liberator rolled nimbly out of the way.

Octavian clasped his hands into a fist and knocked the Guardsman’s sword from his hand. With a howl, the Guardsman jumped back and pulled a staff from his toga. Meanwhile, Octavian rolled to his feet and grabbed the sword from the ground where the Guardsman had dropped it.

The Guardsman approached and landed a sharp blow on Octavian’s abdomen. He struck the Liberator’s side with the other end of the staff and reversed his grip, spinning the staff around to knock the sword from Octavian’s grasp. The soldier snapped the staff back to vertical position and rammed the lower end into Octavian’s groin.

Octavian doubled over and cringed in preparation for the killing blow. The Guardsman approached with dagger drawn, but suddenly collapsed, his knees giving out. The soldier slumped to the ground with a perplexed groan, and Portius pulled his short sword from the Guardsman’s back.

Straightening, Octavian passed through the doorway unscathed.

“Thanks, Portius,” he acknowledged.

“Any time,” the fellow radical answered.

The two pulled open a secret panel in the wall of the building to reveal rack after rack of weapons. Portius started gathering them up as Octavian strode to the rear and opened the back door.

Twenty-odd citizens huddled there, trying to remain unseen in the back alley. Octavian motioned them in with a wave. He escorted them to the front of the building, where Portius started handing out swords and daggers. Each citizen received at least two weapons of various types, and more and more supporters were arriving by the minute.

The operation was going smoothly until a Guard detachment showed up at the front door. Six of the highly trained soldiers quickly located the secret panel and, screaming battle cries, began close-quarters combat with the Liberators and their supporters.

A few citizens with swords moved to the front lines, swinging their weapons clumsily but gaining efficiency quickly. A Guard was more than a match for two or three citizens apiece, but the sheer number of Liberators was turning the tide. The battle moved into the front of the building as the Liberators gained the upper hand. Two guards had fallen, one missing his head.

“Octavian!” Portius cried over the din of battle. “Help!”

Rushing to his aid, Octavian saw that three members of the Guard had hemmed him into a corner. He was frantically blocking their strikes, but he was losing ground and bleeding from a head wound.

Octavian drew his short sword and stabbed one Guardsman through the chest. He slumped to the floor, bright red blood forming a rapid puddle around his body.

One of the remaining Guardsmen swung his sword in a wide arc, coming down at Octavian’s neck. The Prince threw up his sword, deflecting the blow down and to his left. He brought his sword under the Guardsman’s and, in a quick, forceful motion, sliced the Guardsman’s sword arm clean off from beneath.

With a scream, the soldier collapsed on the floor. Octavian brought his sword around and stabbed down into the Guardsman’s chest. The man died instantly, leaving only one Guardsman to deal with.

That last Guardsman was currently locked in combat with Portius, and presently gained the upper hand by sending Portius' weapon skittering across the floor. Octavian brought out his longbow, reached into his quiver, nocked and aimed carefully…

Twang!

The arrow shot swiftly across the ten feet of space and buried itself with a thwack! in the Guardsman’s neck. The soldier emitted a gurgling noise and tried feebly to remove the object, unsuccessfully. He slumped onto the floor, blood flowing from his nasty wound.

The citizens had dispatched the last Guardsman with minimal casualties, defeating the King’s forces for now. The group retreated back into the weapons cache, posting a sentry at the front door to keep a lookout.

The next citizen to arrive at the armory was not looking for weapons, however. Marcus Gregorius hastened inside, a bloody bandage pressed to his left arm. “Are you quite all right?” Octavian inquired.

“Oh, this? Nothing, it’s nothing,” Gregorius replied. “Octavian… there’s been a change of plans.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not going to lead this platoon after all. I’ll take your place. Our assassin, Christophorus, was killed in the streets just a scant few minutes ago. Guardsmen everywhere, very dangerous. He wasn’t heavily armed, just carried a dagger – they made short work of him. So he didn’t get a chance to get back in the Palace and kill the King.”

Octavian’s mind had already worked out the next step. He didn’t want to accept it – but it was unquestionable. “And?” he inquired, hoping against hope…

“I’m sending you in his place. You’ll head in behind the platoons and make your way onto the throne room balcony. From there, shoot the King.”

Octavian stepped back, closed his eyes, tried to accept it. He would have to do it, have to show no remorse, be stolid, stoic, a blank stone wall.

Sure, he thought, such a grand soldier you are, crusading for liberty, when it’s just a change in government – but how about when it’s your own father you have to kill?

-----

Palace Gates, Rome
12:44 a.m., January 26, 1392

They stampeded down the road, waving their weapons and screaming their fury at the edifice before them. They were citizens of all races, all ethnic backgrounds, united in a seething throng of will and purpose, a hundred strong, moving toward their goal. The Guardsmen in their path were mowed down and slashed to pieces in rage, the collective will of the group overpowering skill and training.

Octavian jogged within the back part of the mob, hand on his dagger, hood up to ward off recognition. The people around him were oblivious, their consciousness focused on the job at hand. They were only interested in destroying the tyrants that had enslaved them for far, far too long.

The mob passed through the gates, men falling on both sides, screams and sparks flying through the air constantly. Metal met metal in clang after clang, echoing through the midnight courtyard and dashing the silence to bits. The mob reached the keep and entered it, pressing onward even as men of their own slumped down onto the marble and bled out their life onto the floor.

The throng of men went through the keep and into the throne room, bashing down the door with dozens of kicks at once, through it and meeting a wall of Guard – not hesitating, but roaring out their power and charging into unyielding iron and flesh.

The line of Guardsmen mercilessly cut down man after man, their numbers giving them power to coordinate and eliminate, watching their collective back and deftly striking where their opponents were weakest.

Octavian slipped quietly out of the room, along the wall, and up the side staircase. He passed a stunned Guardsman, turned and ducked under the iron blade, struck with a vicious kick to the armored chest – the Guardsman rolled down, bump, bump, onto the stone and didn’t rise again.

The Prince turned a corner and crouched, slunk under the short wall and came up in the center, pulled his bow from his back and reached for an arrow. The King sat, confident, between two Guardsmen, watching the slaughter at the front of the room. The Crown sat arrogantly on the head of the tyrant, giving him power to enslave those who never should be bound to any man.

Setting his mouth in a hard line, Octavian nocked his arrow on the string, pulled it back to his chin, straightened his left arm, squinted and held his breath –

I’m sorry, Dad.

The distinctive twang!, a low whistle – the arrow flew straight and true.

With a sickening thwack! the arrow buried itself in Julius IV’s neck. The King made a repulsive gurgling sound (the same repulsive gurgle as the Guardsmen who had met Octavian’s arrows before) and keeled over, out of his throne, onto the carpet.

The Crown rolled off his head and away to a corner.

Now simply a man, like any other man, a mortal one, the King died in a pool of bright-colored blood.

Octavian screwed up his face against the tears, cringing in horror at his sin, his heart in knots of torment.

No, no! he thought, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to end up like this, it was only a change in government, a switch, a progression for the better! I only wanted the people to be happy, I wanted my father to rule fairly, I just wanted justice… I never wanted to kill my own father. Not my father, no, no, no, no! Not my daddy, the man who used to hug me close and give me anything I wanted, the man who loved me as his own flesh and blood…

I killed him. I killed my father.

A single tear rolled down Octavian’s stolid face.

The Guardsmen on the flanks of the throne took nervous, confused, infuriated steps in random directions, their heads swiveling, searching for the attacker who had defeated their protection. One found the Prince, yelled, pointed, and raised a bow of his own.

Octavian dove, rolled, down to the landing, hearing the sound of arrows striking the wall where he had been seconds before. He knew he didn’t have much time – they were coming for him. He took the steps three at a time, bounding down to the ground floor and to the side of the throne room door.

Sure enough, a Guardsman came out and turned toward him. Octavian dove through his legs, came up with dagger in hand, and struck at the armor’s weak point at the base of the spine. The Guardsman arched his back in pain and reached back in desperation. Octavian took a quick step back, in revulsion as much as avoidance, as the soldier's life ebbed. Not wanting to witness the end, the Prince made his way back into the throne room.

There he saw the floor littered with Liberator and Guardsman bodies. Although the main battle had moved into the courtyard of the Palace, five Guardsmen remained in defense of their dead King. They were trying desperately to defeat the remaining dozen or so Liberators, most of whom were not citizens, but the expert guerrilla fighters themselves.

As Octavian watched, he saw another Guardsman fall, but taking a Liberator with him, their daggers buried in one another’s bodies. The Prince shook himself out of his daze and pulled an arrow from the quiver, fitting it to the string, and loosing a rapid shot at a nearby Guardsman. The arrow bounced off his thick chest armor, falling to the floor.

The battle raged on, Octavian on the outskirts, firing random shots at anyone in range. Finally, a Guardsman defeated his opponent and approached Octavian, shield in hand. Replacing his bow on his back, Octavian drew his sword.

The soldiers met, iron biting at iron, and their weapons flew in a blur of motion. The Guardsman struck at Octavian’s side, then when his blow was parried, he reversed his grip and flipped his weapon around, aiming a deft thrust at Octavian’s exposed flank. The Prince dodged desperately, but the sword grazed his side in a thunderbolt of pain like a searing hot rod pressed to his skin.

With a cry, Octavian aimed a blow at his opponent in hope of revenge, but the soldier parried him easily and let loose a hard kick into the Prince’s solar plexus. It connected and sent Octavian to the ground. His weapon skittered away across the floor.

The Guardsman, confident of his victory, crossed the floor rapidly. But Octavian had landed to face the only remaining battle in the throne room, between a fellow Liberator and another Guardsman.

The other battle was ending quickly – the other Guardsman struck off his opponent’s sword arm cleanly and flipped his weapon, stabbing the Liberator in the chest for the killing blow. The radical sank to the floor, collapsing backwards, his face turning into Octavian’s field of vision. To his horror, the Prince recognized the dead Liberator as Marcus Gregorius.

“Noooooooo!”

Octavian screamed, his grief overpowering him. He rolled, hopped to his feet, disarmed his opponent with a sharp kick and came around again in a roundhouse to the jaw. The Guardsman fell back with a cry, the Prince on him again, dagger in hand, stabbing through the faceplate of his helmet. Prince and dead soldier collapsed on the ground, blood everywhere.

Octavian rolled off the body and looked at his hands, red with stains he could never wash off. He dropped his dagger and backed away.

He turned and saw the last living man in the room, the Guardsman who had killed Gregorius. Approaching fast.

Octavian picked up a fallen sword and struck at his opponent’s side. A deft parry from the soldier’s weapon, and Octavian’s blade was pushed aside into air. The soldier struck at Octavian’s head, the Prince pulling his weapon up horizontally to block. The Guardsman came back around to Octavian’s abdomen, but the Prince was faster, keeping his opponent's blade away from his body.

The soldier retreated, stepping back carefully, and Octavian seized the opening with a fierce swing at the opponent’s weapon, cleaving it in half.

The soldier dropped the useless blade and aimed an impossibly fast kick at Octavian’s sword hand. Nearly breaking it, the tough leather boot managed to push the Prince’s blade out of Octavian's hand and into the air. The soldier pulled a staff quickly from his back and, before Octavian could move at all, had landed three quick blows to Octavian’s sides.

The prince dropped and rolled backwards, yielding to the Guardsman’s superior skills. He came up in a martial arts defensive posture and caught the staff on the next swing, but the soldier was too fast. He brought his knee up impossibly high and caught the Prince in the chin, while twisting his torso in such a way to wrench his staff back into his own possession.

He pressed his advantage, landing a sharp thrust in Octavian’s gut and bringing the other end of his staff up into the Prince's chin. The Prince doubled over, and the Guard sidestepped and snapped the staff sharply down onto Octavian’s neck. The Liberator fell, but rolled out of the way of the next blow, kept rolling over Gregorius’ body, and retrieved his fallen comrade’s bow.

Octavian drew an arrow from his own quiver, fit it rapidly on the string, and loosed it at the stunned Guardsman in an absurdly fast shot. The projectile pierced the Guard’s side, where the armor was weak, and Octavian snatched up a sword and ran the man through, ending the battle.

At that moment, his brother Julius entered the throne room.

[TheGuitarist]

Julius instantly assessed the situation, his father dead, and Octavian the only living man in the room. Julius grabbed his father’s crown and ran for the door, crying, “Traitor! I will carry on my father’s legacy myself!”

Octavian seized Gregorius’ sword and sprinted after his brother, dropping the bow and pressing a hand to his bloody side.

He passed through the door and heard the roar of battle continuing outside, in the courtyard, and in the streets of Rome. His brother avoided an onrushing Liberator and mounted the steps to the roof of the keep.

Octavian knew he was trying to make the bridge across the river to Veii, and he knew what he had to do.

He ran after Julius, his boots pounding loudly against the steps, his heart pounding loudly in his head. His brother reached the door, ran through, and turned. Octavian was perplexed, but he followed and brought his sword to the ready. Julius drew his own weapon and narrowed his eyes.

“The papers said you were dead.”

“I suppose our father told you the same.”

“He was a far better man than you, you traitor.”

In rage, Octavian struck furiously at his brother’s head. He easily blocked it, responding in kind with a blow to the chest. Octavian pushed it aside, stepping around the blade, and brought his own weapon around to Julius’ abdomen, where it was deflected in a shower of sparks by Julius’ sword.

The brothers pushed, blades screeching, maneuvering for the upper hand, and Julius spoke again.

“I was always the better swordsman.”

Octavian set his jaw and kicked out his brother’s legs in a classic leg sweep. It caught Julius off guard, as he had learned it from Gregorius, and not during princely combat training, and Julius toppled.

Octavian swung his blade in a powerful arc, knocking the sword from his brother’s weakened grasp, and switched his grip, bringing the point down and into the ground where his brother had been moments before.

Julius rolled, reaching for his blade, but it dropped off a balcony and down into the din below.

He jumped to his feet, ducking under his brother’s swing, and punched Octavian in the jaw, a very un-princely move, but it caused Octavian to bring one hand to his face. Julius stepped in, trapped Octavian’s foot between his, and twisted his sword arm until his brother dropped his weapon with a cry. Julius snatched it up and kicked Octavian’s legs out from under him.

Octavian dropped, but coiled his legs and kicked up into his brother’s hand, disarming him once again, and rolled to his feet.

The brothers faced each other, fists ready.

Suddenly, Julius pulled out a dagger and swung desperately at his brother. Octavian caught his forearm and pushed him back, brothers falling to the ground. Julius rolled, wrenched his arm away, ended up on top, trapping his brother’s legs and one arm, his dagger inches from Octavian’s neck.

His face contorted with rage, Julius growled, “You killed our father! You traitor, you radical, you murderer! You fool!”

“He was a –”

“It matters not! You’ve killed my father and yours, you killed our mother, you killed everyone I care about! No one is left, no one, my only family is my worst enemy, a murderer and a terrorist! You know I speak true, you know it – you know it in your heart!”

Octavian did indeed feel it in his heart – he felt a pain and a grief beyond words, like a thousand razor-sharp knives, twisting in his flesh and never stopping, never killing him. The knowledge of his sin weighed on him like the weight of the earth.

“You will never know how much I hurt. I killed my parents, I killed everyone. And I’m trying to kill you. I don’t deserve to live, but I am the only one who can make the people free.”

“You’re having delusions, Octavian! You are insane, you think you can change the future, and all you are in reality is a pathetic little boy, lost and confused, with the blood of his own family on his hands.”

He knew it was true.

Octavian let his arm fall, his brother’s dagger moved to his throat –

And fell to the ground beside him.

Julius blinked and collapsed beside his brother, an arrow piercing his heart. The blood poured from his wound, staining Octavian’s toga in yet another place, yet another man dead at Octavian’s hands. His death weighed no heavier than the others weighed, and no less.

Octavian sat up and saw a woman at the door, dressed in white and lowering a bow.

He knew deep within him that it was his mother.

She crossed the rooftop and embraced her son. “Octavian, my boy, my only son! I love you so!”

Though confused, Octavian did not attempt to sort out the discrepancy, since his brain was not working properly after the death of his family.

“My son, my son! My husband hid me from you, in hopes that Julius would be king. Alas, I am not his mother. His mother is a woman from your father’s past, long ago, not of royal blood. Julius could be king only if I were dead, and his only parent of the royal lineage. But the King is dead, his son is dead, but I, the queen, am not, and you, my son, are the heir.”

Absorbing this, Octavian released his mother, turned to face the burning Rome, and cried, “Heir to what? Look, my mother! See the fiery ruins of Rome! Red are the streets, red with the blood of men! Their kingdom is in shambles, their children are orphans, and their King and their Prince lie dead at my hands!”

Octavian wept, his mother beside him, his clothing bloody and his heart rent asunder. With a sob, he declared,

“I do not wish to inherit such a Rome.”

Octavian knelt at the side of his brother’s corpse. He looked at his hands, dark red with the blood of men, with the blood of his father and his brother. He gave a sob, and tear after tear rolled from his eyes.

“Julius! I loved my father and I loved my mother, and I love you, my brother! Es frater meus, et es inimicus meus! O that this had never come to pass!”

Octavian rose and took his mother in his arms, the only thing remaining in Octavian’s world that was not stained with blood.

Mother and son left the roof and made their way to the throne room, gathering up the bodies and the weapons, and laying them outside. They could move the bodies, they could put away the weapons, but they could not clean the blood from the floor of their Palace.

On top of the keep, beside the corpse of Julius V, the Crown of all the past Kings of Rome rolled off the roof and plunged through the air down to the ground. It hit the stone floor and shattered.



THE END

[TheGuitarist]

So, what do you think?

I had to get this last part up, since I'll be out of town until next Friday night, and without the conclusion, this story wouldn't make it past the preliminaries. Alas, I won't be here to vote for the preliminary rounds, but I'll try to make it back in time for the finals.

I would appreciate additional feedback, now that the story's finished - and tell me whether you think I should write an epilogue, to wrap things up completely.

Be back soon.

[civman2000]

That was the best part of it!

[cbraund]

Brilliant ending.

Chris

[TheGuitarist]

Thank you all, and I am glad to report that I have returned!

I see that, at the time of my return, the Round 12 Nominations have not yet been completed. However, I will be leaving town again Sunday and will not return until Friday night, so I will probably miss the prelims if nominations are completed while I am away.

However, comments/feedback are still appreciated, and I would like to know how I could have improved the story and if I should write an epilogue.

[Verto]

Good story, good ending.

[TheGuitarist]

Well, I have returned again and there still remain three slots for Round 12 nominations. Thank you all for the feedback and I wait expectantly for the contest to begin at last.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

An excellent story,I noticed it had been 3rded in the nominations.I know how you writers like to have your stories read and commented on and had meant to post here before now.Anyway it was an enjoyable read and Ive voted for it,you should do another,soon!

Chrisius Maximus

[TheGuitarist]

Thank you very much
I'm working on another one right now, in fact, and I'm hoping it will be ready in time for the next contest.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Congratulations on winning round 12 with this excellent story.