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I met a man, once, and his mother had died the day before. And he told me that he accepted his mother’s death—that he didn’t feel sad, or angry—because he had done all that he could while she’d lived.
"Then," I asked him, "do you want to die yourself?"
“No,” he said, “but I would like to live so that I will have done all that I want to do before I die.”
“Even if you suddenly collapse and die right now?” I asked, out of a morbid curiosity.
(Luckily, the man was of the same sort as myself.)
“Especially if I suddenly collapse and die right now,” he replied. “I would wish my last thought to be that my life had been worth living. That if I had retained my memories of my life after death, and had been given the opportunity to live it again, I would choose to. Live it again, I mean.”
And then he tilted his head.
“Too many people,” he told me, “want to accomplish something. Achieve something, gain something—because then, they say, their life will be worth something…and perhaps it may be so, only in the eyes of the world. I am not saying they are wrong, but I am saying that there are too many people who believe so.
“But I believe that what you have done and how you have lived are two very different things. Perhaps, just perhaps, one is demonstrative of the other, but only in a very narrow scope. I would not want the total sum of my character to be measured by a yardstick of what I have achieved and what games I have won. I do not exist to just to ‘do.’”
“Then?” I asked him. “Why do you continue to exist?”
He laughed.
“Because I want to live. Is it not the same for you?”
- THE PERSONAL DIARIES OF VALACIA AQUILA, WRITTEN BY THE RENOWNED PHILOSOPHER, ANALYST, AND HERO
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Three Days Before the Last Battle
BELLUM, ROMA
“You know,” I confessed to my brother with my mouth full, “I didn’t think I’d ever not welcome nepotism, but are we really supposed to be getting a whole goat?” I waved offhandedly towards the city. “You know, given that there are starving citizens and all that?”
Roasting mountain goats in the middle of a Republica city, I thought, hadn’t been very high on my to-do list these past few Dayhepts—you know, given that there was a continental war going on and all—but the Fates seemed to delight in surprising me.
On any other day, I’d have thought that the decision had been made more for its dramatic flair than its utility, but we were out here in enemy territory, surrounded by somewhat-hostile soldiers and citizens, and given the fact that Arathis was now unconcernedly humming a Tychean folk song by the fire, today likely wasn’t any other day.
“You guys hunted down thirty, didn’t you?” Ara sunk his teeth in a piece of hind that had been speared through by a stick. “There’s a lot to go around. I only asked them to roast five.”
True enough, I’d counted five pits dug into the ground, with Galani and Cadmi soldiers forced to share and bicker over pieces of meat, and I—along with Xandros and Mercy—were eyeing the potential arguments in case they turned into physical brawls.
I raised my eyebrows, pointedly glancing at the considering faces of the Bellumite citizens that were spectating our roasting party.
“You know what I mean, Ara,” I chided, contemplatively eyeing a piece of shoulder that looked copiously spiced. “Are we trying to lure them or not?”
“It depends,” he replied with a grin, firelight making his eyes gleam like jewels, “on whether they’ll bite the bait or not.”
As expected.
I smiled, and then picked up the piece of shoulder. My teeth sunk into it, and I was right: the flavors were heavy, filling, more like Republica cuisine than Imperial, with the meat rough and sinewy and stringy. It was seasoned well, at least.
Smoke clung to my clothes, the bonfires’ warmth flickering, and I heard the tune of a ballad, high and light, start up from a few paces away. There was no alcohol, but the soldiers took to the meat as if it was, the tension broken by a person who’d brought a revellazo, of all things, to the festivities.
“There was a lady named Glory,” a deep voice started to sing, as familiar chords rang out, “who lurked in children’s bedtime stories—”
And the Cadmi crowd chanted back, “And lurked in the depths of soldiers’ dreams—”
“She promised generals the inheritance of kings,” I mouthed along.
One Cadmi soldier stood up and continued, “There was an Emperor who looked at the pale moon—” And there was a collective breath, as all the heads of the audience turned to us, probably because it might’ve been considered blasphemy.
I grinned, elbowed Arathis, and cupped my hands around my mouth: “And asked, ‘Glory, have you forgotten me so soon?”
Laughs, all laced with incredulity, but no one missed the refrain except the confused-looking Galani.
“I remember, when I was a child, I dreamed of you—
and when I got older, my pursuit of you ensued—
But once I returned from war, and there you were waiting,
I smiled at the prize of your favor, illuminating—”
And there another soldier mimicked a high reedy voice:
“But Glory—” he clutched his hands to his chest like a forsworn lover “—I long for you, I miss you, I love you—”
Good-natured laughs, as more goats were torn apart and invisible cups were clinked together.
“I have aged, but come back home, the girl I knew—”
On Can spurn me, hate me, avoid me, destroy me, I saw a Republica child slink into the corner of the square, eyeing the goat. Rather than make a scene and beckon for them to join us, I glanced meaningfully at Xandros—Mercy wasn’t socially inept, per se, but Xandros was more smiling—and he followed the words left unsaid.
He gingerly cut a sizable piece of goat, found a piece of fabric and folded the meat into it, folding it in like a package for standing up.
“But I beg of you, my love to never leave me—”
Xandros walked discreetly to the corner, some sharp-eyed soldiers watching him—
“Come home again, this time I’ll uphold—I swear to Zeus—
Uphold the promises made in my naive youth—
—You know, Glory, youth is the only thing I lack—
Glory, my only love please come back—”
The meat was given to the child, who unhesitatingly dug in, sharing the meat with his friends before retreating to his anxious parents—
“I miss you, I love you, I long for you—”
I tapped my brother’s shoulder and winked.
“I will always remember you.”
The bait was taken.
______________________________________________________________________________
It was only a matter of time before the citizens had “warmed” to us, I thought, but giving them food certainly sped matters along quite a bit.
Mountain goats were distributed by neighborhood, and even though it probably wouldn’t feed a city, it was an attempt . I’d set up more hunting parties that would set out this morning and later in the afternoon that would be another (the initial hunting parties had been lead by one very suspicious, grouchy mountain guide); but, worries of hunting the limited population to extinction had arisen from the locals. In order to not risk further antagonizing them after taking over their city, I did not eloquently state, Fuck the goats—I did, however, gently point out that we were expecting to be attacked in the next coming days and in order to minimize civilian casualties, there needed to be civilians in the first place.
Diplomacy.
I saw more of Anaxeres of Tyche’s beautiful handwriting, a scrawl and a flourish and everything in between, on the paper that fluttered between my brother’s fingers.
“They’re coming,” was all Arathis of the Eternal City said, and then we both laughed.
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Two Days Before the Last Battle
HONOS, ROMA
Anaxeres of Tyche was almost offended at how easy it was to get the Senate to attack Bellum. The Duke had at least expected something after that entire read-aloud fiasco, where he’d been forced to relocate to a safer location—bribery, blackmail, something. Maybe he’d have to orchestrate a kidnapping. Maybe he’d have to burn another government building down. He didn’t know what he’d been prepared to do, but he knew it’d have been fun.
This…
The Duke walked past the nearest fountain twirling a coin between his fingers, pretending to inspect the clear water when really he was checking his surroundings for tails, and then glanced at the denarius in his hand.
Voi ch’intrate, the face said. Ye who enter here.
Anaxeres smiled and then launched it from his gloved fingertips into the water, where it darted to the bottom of the concrete flower like a fish in water, a shimmering scale among many.
He knew more than he should’ve about the affairs in the Senate—the poor, poor Consuls who were younger than they should’ve been, and older than they wanted to be. The Patricians would rally with their pitchforks and bonfires, and the Roma scions would have no choice but to relent. Of their fathers, one was dead and the other useless—the situation with their mothers was similar, except one of them was alive, healthy, and perfectly able to be threatened.
And then.
The star of hope, the dashing general, the Minotaur Slayer—the Hero—would charge his people into a slaughter, and then what would the people say?
The current Consuls are just figureheads.
The patricians have the real power.
The Consuls were the reason why we lost.
And then in would come Greta, and (assuming Anaxeres’ assumptions were correct) replace half of the hereditary Branch seats with elected ones, effectively allowing the common people a chance at governing the Republic. And if they drove it into the ground, Anaxeres thought, then the Empire would come and pick it back up. The two nations’ fate would become one, because one would be codependent on the other.
It was the perfect stage.
The perfect game.
How the Empress would handle the nitty-gritty details, like Anothen-Kato religious politics, or establishing trade routes so that ‘tribute’ (if collected) could be transferred without other things in the way, or even the Zephyrean fallout, the state of the Armistice and its Grand Duchy, and the recovery of the East…
It would be interesting.
From what Anaxeres had heard, the forces had already been mobilized and were planning to march to Bellum soon.
The Imperial Family had until next dusk to decide the fate of the continent.
And so the Duke hummed by the place where he’d been disguised as a beggar, leaving a shimmering coin in his wake.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Lasciate ogne speranza, the surface grinned back at him.
Abandon all hope.
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Cecilia watched her little brother—the label fit in more ways than it should—put his armor on like a man about to die.
He did it slowly, his nose straight like his father’s and eyes devoid of the usual pride it glinted with. His tanned face was like stone, but instead of being set with statuesque determination it was grim and almost listless; his dark hair was matted and barely washed with residue grime from the past days gathering on his arms.
(It wasn’t that Cecilia judged him for it—she barely had enough time to bathe these days, too—but the way she had seen him to the elbows with soot and dirt in the trenches…there had never been a time he had stood as defeated as he did now.)
No, Cecilia decided. Defeated was the wrong word.
If you looked carefully, there was consideration in his eyes.
Contemplation.
“Marius,” Cecilia called out.
He was still lost in his reverie, and the Consul reached out to touch his arm.
“Mari,” she said, again.
Julian’s head rose slowly, and he blinked in question.
“They threatened your mother, didn’t they,” said Cecilia.
It was less of a guess than a confirmed statement, and Julian nodded.
“Listen, Marius—frater—I’ll do it.” Cecilia put her hands on his shoulders. “They can’t threaten me with anyone—Father’s dead, I don’t have a mother, and I couldn’t care less whether anyone around me died—I’ll go to Bellum. You can stay here and take care of the city, you bastard—I’ll go.”
Julian shook his head. “You can’t. I have no choice—”
“You always have a choice,” Cecilia felt herself say. “Don’t let them take it away from you—”
“Then this is my choice,” the boy said evenly. “I’m making it, and I won’t ask for permission.”
I won’t ask for permission. I refuse.
How long had he been waiting to say those words?
“I need to go,” Julian continued, looking her in the eye. “Even if I’m not there, they’ll still attack—they have enough troops to. If I can communicate with the Empire before then, minimize the casualties, negotiate—”
“That’s a betrayal,” Cecilia interrupted, trying to stamp down the feelings of anger as she peeled away. “I’m not telling you to win, but I’m telling you to not lose. You’re going to the battlefield, Marius, you’re going home. They call you the King of the Battlefield, so prove it. Win. Last this country another day so we can fix it.”
The boy was silent, before he spoke, hesitatingly.
“If I die—”
“Then die with honor,” Cecilia Romus ordered. “For our country.”
"No," Julian Marius Romanus said. "I will die for our people."
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A Day Before the Last Battle
HONOS, ROMA
I was sparring when they came from the horizon.
Daggers were strange against spears, I thought. Worse against guns, but still.
I should learn how to fire a gun.
The thrill of the thought made me giddy as I dodged a vicious swipe of Akila’s spear.
I would’ve called out a taunt if it was a better day, but I silently moved towards her exposed stomach and jabbed, forcing her to shield as I slipped inside her guard. She drew her spear close and leaped away—I followed her and sank low, aiming for a blow to her legs, but she didn’t stumble, bringing the point down on my folded back in a killing blow. Then I brought my other knife upwards, smiling as the tip clanged—metal against metal—as Akila, daughter of Ur, grinned at me.
Arathis clapped and hooted. Soldiers shifted uneasily.
The spar itself was for more showmanship than anything else, but it was fun. Exhilarating.
Xandros seemed uneasy, but Mercy elbowed him and whispered probably a dry assurance that I wasn’t getting myself killed.
Cute.
It was then that a messenger scrambled into the camp.
“They have arrived! Her Imperial Majesty, Dionysus’ Chosen, Greta the Great has arrived in Bellum! Please—” And then he was choking, probably because he’d run quite a while, and I immediately turned.
Sure enough, at the walls was a distant carriage that looked grandiose enough to be called a chariot that grew closer the more I squinted. My Ability pricked, and I knew enough to side-step without looking back as Akila used the opportunity to jab at me—or rather, the air where I’d once been—lightly.
The grand display wasn’t met by oohs and ahhs, as most people were too busy getting ready for the Empress and—
I squinted at the dark mass behind the carriage as I side-stepped another blow (really, Akila, I chided mentally, hitting people when their back was turned is unsportsmanship-like).
She’d brought soldiers.
Uncharacteristic relief bloomed in my chest, because even though fighting (even the remnants of) a nation’s army with two cities’ worth would be, to say the least, very very difficult, especially on unknown terrain.
Even after we’d sent out the goats, and asked some Bellumite guides and captured legionaries to help map the area out, there was only so much we could “ask” them to do without threatening them (and there was always the chance that they were withholding/tampering with the information). And even if we did, dealing with a rebellion on top of holding the city and defending it would be also very, very difficult.
Even thinking from a non-tactical standpoint, having my sister here would make things much, much easier.
And when the carriage came near, the horses neighing as the driver—noticeably not Deimos, but I doubted Greta would’ve brought him, even if it would’ve been a lot of fun trying to see the grouchy aide suffer—pulled the reins back to a halt. The golden veil-like curtains were swept aside, and a familiar face—Uncle Leon?—got off his horse and opened the door.
She wasn’t in traditional attire, instead in ivory robes that were thin and met her feet, with her flaxen hair pinned up as always and flat armor over her chest and arms. It was uncharacteristically bare of anything ornamental—even though she’d worn military uniform practically everywhere back at home, the twinkling badges were still there—but Greta the Great stood, regal, and walked across the expanse slowly as everyone around her bowed.
I dropped my daggers and immediately ran towards her.
Of course, the Guards around her had their guards up, but I watched Greta put up an impassive hand as I threw my arms around my sister, smiling brilliantly as I returned to the half-Act. She smelled like dust, I thought. She’d never seemed like the type to frequent the perfumes and incense that were provided to us in the Palace, but now I felt a thin layer of sweat through her robes. It made her feel less like a corpse, I amended, as the Empress wordlessly brought her hands up to my hair and swept it once, tidying the unruly strands.
She wasn’t smiling, I could tell, but I could feel a vague amusement—I could never Read her, not really, so when I felt her lips twitch it was that she was letting me know.
Ara came bounding over like an overeager fawn to its mother, cheerily pecking Greta on the cheek while murmuring thinly-veiled metaphorical observations.
“It is time to Win again,” I said aloud, and as Ara cackled, Greta deigned to respond.
Not a smile, but a glance at the soldiers was all it took for them to stand up straight.
“When,” said the Empress of the Empire Eternal, “ever is it not?”
______________________________________________________________________________
Our war council consisted of seven: two Eurusan generals from my dear maternal grandmother—Leon, my maternal uncle, and Elexis’ second, Alax—two from the Galani, Arathis and me, and our revered Empress. Of course, there were a handful of important-but-not-really seconds to the firsts, but we were all slumped over a map.
“Her Imperial Majesty has also brought some explosives, sent by the Fo—Second Imperial Princess from the Armistice,” began General Leon, reminding me that we really needed to start legitimizing titles, “but some of them were damaged due to the climate. The ballistae would’ve slowed the trip, but we still have some we can mount on the walls if it comes to a siege.”
"The question is if it does,” Alax countered. He shot a glance sideways, towards us. “Based on word from the troops, the Prince and Princess have been dividing the Cadmi and galanos into smaller groups—would it be presumptuous of me to assume we were planning for skirmishes?”
Ara was playing with a knife, spinning it dangerously around his knuckles and between his fingers. My Ability pricked that we didn’t know whether he could use it.
“Your assumption of our initial plan is correct,” the Forsaken said agreeably. “We were unsure what time, if any—” the wording made the generals frown, but it was deliberate, I was sure “—reinforcements would arrive, and how many, so we were planning to use guerilla warfare to draw some of the Republica army out. Skirmishes, like you said, General. It seems unlikely that they would do a full frontal charge as soon as they get here.”
Hm.
Leon shook his head. “It’s likely that they would, Your Highness. They don’t know about our current numbers, so they would go for the estimate of a combination of Snakeland and Galani. The forces they have stationed at Honos are little compared to the full force of the Republica army, but still formidable.
“And if we combine the forces of the remaining patricians and their respective numbers, it might seem like they have the advantage here. An attempt at a siege wouldn’t be improbable, especially since that would be characteristic of past Republica methods: ‘fight fire with fire, summon brute force to counter brute force, and if all else fails, the only way out is through.’”
Most of us chose to diplomatically ignore the evident disdain.
Had he even fought a battle with the Republic before?
Had I? I chided myself, and tutted when the voice silenced itself. Hypocrite.
Akila tilted her head. “And would we be sure that the current Acting Consuls would be employing those past methods?” she said evenly, without phrasing it as a challenge. “From what we hear, the current ones are said to be a pair of…mavericks in the public eye.”
I refrained from snorting.
It was then that Greta spoke.
“Princess Seraphina has been spending the last Dayhept in Honos as per my orders,” the Empress said, looking at me as if saying, Go on. Contribute to the conversation. “She knows the two Consuls better than most.”
I accepted the invitation—really, it was more of a command—easily.
My Ability was cool around my face as I spoke.
“They are mavericks, yes,” I pleasantly stated, “but only compared to the patricians of their House Roma. There is a sore divide in their standings after the Curia explosion: as you all may know, the Consul Marcellus was rendered immobile and the Consul Valerius is dead. Their progeny succeeded their seats, and appointed the rest of the Senate.
“But they do not have the same connections their fathers did. The newly appointed patricians likely follow their family allegiances to the other, older patrician families, and said families follow their old divisions. The Consuls rely on them not to revolt.”
“So the patricians are the one behind this assault and not the Consuls,” remarked Leon. His face looked like my mother’s, I thought, Eurusan eyes and all. Uncanny. “Makes sense.”
“And we are sure of this information,” Alax stated, looking me in the eye, before glancing at the Empress. A gruff old man.
“Given that I had been held hostage by the Consuls for several days and not been introduced to the Senate, yes,” I replied pleasantly. “I can state that there are divisions. If the Consuls are involved in this fight, I can likely also state that there were some external pressures involved—speaking plainly, blackmail. They would not be rash enough to charge us without some Senate intervention.” Cecilia, at least, was more careful than that.
“So the patricians threatened the Consuls into reorganizing their troops,” Akila summarized. “Would this be a way in?”
I shook my head. “No. The Consuls would be dedicated to the assault once they did so. There would be no negotiating with them.” Unless they contact us first.
“‘Speaking plainly—’” Leon quoted me, looking me in the eye as if I was a stranger who had challenged his authority “—no. But, Your Highness, you mentioned being held hostage. Other than this…overview you’ve given us, have you stumbled upon anything else, perhaps?”
Anything useful, he was asking.
I was too busy preoccupied with other concerns, I would’ve said if I was in the Palace. Such as, for example, evading death.
But really, my uncle was right.
At least he didn’t ask how I got caught in the first place.
“They are having trouble on the Union front,” I said. “The Glorydark is expanding, and the Dark Forest, along with the border, is overrun with monsters. One of the Consuls tried to threaten me and they’re currently switching out the troops in Gloria. There’s a possibility, even though I haven’t heard it being discussed, that they might recall some of the troops to Honos in their troop gathering.”
Alax cut in, and I mentally thanked the old man. “A factor to be considered,” he said, tilting his head, “since, considering the time needed for travel, it would be a delay if they decided to make that decision. It is appreciated.”
I took that dismissal for what it was, and sat back, ignoring Greta’s eyes on me.
The talk soon turned to the logistics of the thing: some of the ballistae would be installed on the walls of Bellum as defensive siege weapons, along with ranged archers. Several ground forces would be left at Bellum, and others would be taken to several spots that were distinguished to be likely routes to encounter the Republica troops. Fleet-footed messengers were placed within each group, suggestions thrown out among the Galani and Cadmi, with Greta cutting in every so now and then with orders that proved she was in control of the situation.
Ara remained, surprisingly, silent. He casually tossed his knife at me while the grown-ups talked strategy, and I caught it, twirled it around my fingers, and sent it back. Soon enough, we were showing off grandiose knife tricks to each other to the disapproval of the spectators, but we didn’t need to care about them. It was a show, anyway, but it was entertaining to see Ara pretend to drop the knife on his foot, and then—ta-da—it would reappear in his left palm.
Meanwhile, everyone in the tent distinguished themselves. Leon was bold and brash in a way unbefitting of his age, but he had experience and wasn’t a blockhead, and was mainly in charge of the younger soldiers. I began to somewhat question his judgment because of the incident with Penny, but he didn’t seem to care for excessive violence among—or by—his soldiers as long as they followed orders, contrary to what he disdained. But, still, he was in charge of moving his troops.
Alax, on the other hand, was older and grittier, gruff and rough around the edges but equally sly and surprisingly diplomatic: he was given the duty of surveying routes around Bellum, weak points, geographical locations, etcetera. I cut in again and gave him the Bellumite guides we used for the hunting party as repayment for his intervention, which he accepted with a brusque, perfunctory nod.
Akila was in charge of her people and moving them. There was talk of combining Leon and Akila’s duties, but Akila brought up—for a while, at least—the way Arathis had curbed the fights, and while Alax looked mildly surprised, there was (obvious) resistance from Leon for beheading his soldier.
Ara hadn’t budged an inch, or even threatened anything as Leon had gotten up in his face, and there was a mild anticipation in my chest because Ara could never stay still. All Greta had said was a throwaway, one-word “Crude.”
(I felt like a spectator again, like in Inevita. A Crownpiece, as Greta volunteered me to stay with the Galani as a “capable fighter”. It was because, as I was now, I was weak. Unable to do anything.
Accept it.)
We agreed on plans, and then dispersed, and I walked with Akila as Arathis stayed behind.
“You were…surprisingly quiet,” she told me, examining me before shooting a look at Xandros and Mercy behind me.
“I wasn’t built to be a military strategist,” I returned with a wink. “Especially since I didn’t glean anything useful from my time in the Romanus Estate, I’m more of a hangers-on, don’t you think?”
Akila looked at me skeptically. "Somehow I doubt that," she told me, and I laughed, looking towards the horizon.
"Are your people alright?" I broke the silence.
"'Your people'?" Akila raised an eyebrow. "Are they not yours?"
"I don't own them," I chided. "So they aren't mine."
"That wasn't the question," retorted the Galani leader with a raised eyebrow, and then she sighed. "This war will cause gigantic losses—it has already caused gigantic losses—but you can't say whether it's worth it or not. No one can."
"'The silent war screams,'" I quoted in response. "'The bloody war shrieks.'"
"War is war," said Akila, almost in agreement.
It took away lives: soldiers and innocents alike, parents and children and people who hadn't lived yet, not truly. Even after the war 'ended', there would be years and years of repentance and conflict afterwards, so why had this all started?
"War is war," I repeated, looking out at the horizon.
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The Republic came at dusk.
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