My apologies, I keep getting distracted and forgetting to post. I did bring back the proper header this time because a date was helpfully provided. `
The watershed events that shape human history always seem inevitable in retrospect. As historians, we can look back and see how and why they transpired, all the little pebbles that contributed to the landslide. But what we can't see are all the other pebbles, even boulders, that distracted the minds of the great and powerful in the moment. Had they not ignored the warning signs, they could have stemmed off disaster. But how many averted disasters does our understanding of history fail to document? And in how many averted crises were the seeds of future ones sown? So it was that the solution to the Sertorian tyranny led to its own crisis.
Excerpt from
Epitome de O'Reillibus, by Appius
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Imperial Palace
Nova Roma, Gaul Continent
Alphard IV, Latium District
Marian Hegemony
17 November 3055
Corvus shuffled along the halls towards the throne room. As he had done many times in the past, he did so as slowly as possible. His eyes swept over every functionary, every, servant, every guard looking for a familiar face so that politeness could give him the excuse to catch up with an old acquaintance and delay a little longer.
But every face he passed was new, and every face cast down at the marble floor as if terrified to speak to him. While he appreciated that none looked down on him as they had in the old days, this was somehow even worse.
They passed a pair of Algenibi warriors, stumbling around with a half-empty bottle of liquor. One of them stumbled and nearly collapsed on top of Corvus, but Gnasher lashed out and tossed the woman aside.
Gnasher hopped ahead and began to speak with his hands. They'd used the long tour of the Circinus Federation as a chance to learn sign language together. Gnasher took to it even faster than his chalk and slate. Corvus could harder get the man to shut up in private.
Nightmarus Mons wouldn't tolerate this sort of discipline. I would have thought Metellus even stricter. Something is very wrong here.
This place has been wrong since I was a child. Corvus signed back.
Be on your guard.
Corvus nodded, although it would be impossible to be more on guard that he already was. Nothing good came of an audience with the Imperator. He took a deep breath and kept moving. Delaying the inevitable would only anger the Imperator.
The room was a mess. Algenibi "bodyguards" cavorting with slaves and courtiers throughout the room, although from how many were passed out in various states of undress on the floor, he assumed these were the remnants of yesterday's revelry. A handful of bodyguards remained alert and on guard on the dais where Sean surveyed the chaos. Saying the Imperator was sitting on throne was generous. He was contorted into a posture that no man of Corvus' age was brave enough to attempt. Two serving girls were with him, one feeding him chocolates by hand, while another ground herself into his lap.
Sean pushed them both off as he spied Corvus. "Uncle! Welcome back!" He clapped he hands and a brace of servants pulled a chair from a side room and sat it on the dais below his own. "Sit! I want to hear all about the barbarians of Valerius."
Corvus sat and told the tale of his journey. He knew to skip the details of the politics and relief effort. Sean would want something juicier. "The world is, as I said, covered in the brown fungus that feeds on radiation. One tribe takes the moss and rubs it onto their bodies, everywhere, so that they can venture into the old cities safely-"
"Really? In nothing but the moss?"
"Well, no, I m-mean they c-c-cover their clothes too, in the moss."
Sean made a show of yawning. "And their warriors? What of them? I could use a match for my Flaming Circus!"
"N-n-no, nothing like them, Imperator. The people have hand-held weapons and bows, a few ancient rifles. Most of the tribes are peaceful people, although I'm sure the wilder ones who live on the edge of the wastelands would be perfect scouts for the Legions."
"Two years there and this is all you can bring me?"
"I d-d-did bring you the world, Imperator, as you asked. I c-can only tell you what I saw, I would never think to lie to my Imperator."
Sean seemed mollified with that, as he nodded and turned his attention elsewhere. He pointed to one of the revelers below them. "You! Bring me my dancing bear." A huge grin crept onto Sean's face. "You'll absolutely love this uncle."
The bear was no bear at all, but an older man dressed in a suit made from a skinned bear. His hands and legs were bound with manacles, while a man pushed him forward with a long wooden pole attached to a leather stock around his neck. The "bear" growled, sang, and did tricks as the assembled
Corvus narrowed his eyes at the man. He seemed familiar, but he couldn't quite place him.
"It's Rex! You know, Vercingwhatever the fuck from Son Hoa."
"I think it was Stantsiya, Imperator,"
"Whatever. Point is, he's my pet bear, and isn't he great! If it weren't for the Arcadians, I'm have the Bolanese Princess here too. I'm really disappointed we couldn't get a single Umayr. Well, I mean, we did have one, but she was a 2nd cousin or something and she bit off her tongue before she got here. So, you know, when we hit Arcadia in a couple of years, I'm going to have a lot of fun with my new dancing bears. But in the meantime uncle, I need you to help me. Circinus is your responsibility now. Have your old friend President Sato find me a McIntyre to add. Someone needs to pay for the shit their troops did to my capital."
Corvus opened his mouth to speak, to say something of the fact the McIntyres hadn't been in charge for the last ten years, but thought better of it. Knowing Sean, he'd demand Josephina as his next trophy instead. He kept his mouth shut and pretended to enjoy the farce in front of him.
His eyes met those of the dancing bear. A single moment was enough for him to see the fire in the eyes of Rex Vercingetorovski. In a room full of killers, that single look from a man in chains scared him more than another he'd seen from his nephew and his barbarian guard.
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No one knows where or how it started. We only know that it did. In the aftermath, none could say for sure whether the attempt had been planned, or who had planned it. A hundred years later, it is no more clear to us. If there were conspirators, then they died that day, or took their secret to the grave.
Excerpt from
Devastatio Alpharditana, by Drusillina
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Mons Meatstack stood on the bar of the Irish-Latin fusion pub in the heart of the Alphard's Esquillae district, his shoulders hunched to keep his head from scraping the ceiling. With the damage done to the hipper districts by the two recent battles of Alphard still not repaired, what had once been a district in decline had before the new center of the capital's nightlife. The bars and clubs were packed past capacity, with doors and windows all flung open and the crowds spilling out down the street. But they all made way for the Imperator's personal guard. Thirty of his companions had occupied the bar to listen to their new hero speak.
"Metellus was a great warrior. Brave. Strong. Fierce. When death came, he screamed in its face. To Metellus Atlas-slayer!" He raised a glass and his people joined him. He finished the glass in seconds, though his awkward position led half of it to end up on the people below him.
"Metellus was a great leader. I was his man. Nightmarus Mons was a great leader. I was his brother. I am strong as Nightmarus, brave as Metellus. Our people are weak here. They grow fat. They grow lazy. They grow to be cowards. I will lead our people to glory, to make Terra itself shake with fear! Fight for me, and I will make us great again!"
His people laughed and cheered along with him. Then he spied them. Across the room a half-century of Praetorians elbowed their way through the door. The people rippled away from the elite soldiers, but the Algenibi held their ground. The perfect opportunity. Mons stared down at them and bellowed. "Praetorians! This is a Circus bar now! Leave, or we do to you what we did the first time!" He jumped off of the bar and walked up to the largest Praetorian he could find. The man was big, but the mutating winds of Algenib made a man bigger than nature. Mons had at least a hundred pounds of muscle on the unfortunate Centurion.
But the man showed his courage. The Centurion's first blow connected with Mon's face, and the second his groin. Brave, smart, but futile. A single blow from Mons sent the man to the ground. The Praetorians launched themselves at the Circus, and the Circus responded in kind. Mons laughed at the chaos around him as he waded through the Marians. A Principes waded in to try to break them up, but a blow to the base of the neck sent her to the floor. Mons laughed, but when the laughing stopped, he realized the bar was silent. The Praetorians stood in shock. One bent over the Principes, tears in his eyes, repeating her name over and over.
She couldn't hear it, of course. Her neck was bent at a hideous angle, her eyes had already lost the spark of life. The man in the ground drew his pistol. For a split second, Mons pondered how he had missed the fact the Praetorians were armed. Then the gyrojet round carved a hole in his chest six inches wide. The last thing he saw was the other Praetorians drawing their weapons, and the last sounds he heard the desperate screams of his people.
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The Sertorian and Seanite coups were won before the first swords crossed. Both coups were well planned, well informed, and with a large number of men at arms in a state of readiness. The coup of November 17th had none of these things. I assert that the wave of disorder that spread through the city as Praetorian and Foederati fought points to a spur of the moment decision. It is a testament to the unreadiness of the Imperator's personal guard that the Algenibi warriors were so disorganized that they failed to put up a fight until the Praetorians had arrived at the Capitoline hill. —
Excerpt from
Commentarii de Bello Civili, by Massinissa
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The distant crack of lasers from the steps of the Palatine hill didn't phase Sean at first. It wasn't unusual for the Praetorians or the Flaming Circus to commandeer it on holidays to show off their skills for the adoring public. It was the raggedness of the shots that clued him in to the trouble he in. Still, the Circus could be why, and it was possible they were doing some sort of mock battle. He looked around at the sober ones around his dais. They looked to each other in confusion.
Sean leapt to his feet and waved them to follow. He rushed out of the room and down the hallways to the balcony that overlooked the Capitoline hill. There, he saw a row of his warriors dug into the market stalls and whatever other cover they could find, while armed Praetorians advanced through the square. A handful of Algenib battlewagons blared up the Viae Marianus and crashed through the Praetorian lines. Sean smirked down at the fight, knowing his chosen warriors would be victorious.
Then the first Praetorian
Firestarter landed in the square. A single volley ended the existence of one battlewagon, and another before it could bring it's guns to bear. The rest reversed towards the Viae, but the second
Firestarter cut them off. The flamers of Praetorian mechs made short work of the remaining resistance. Praetorians flooded up the steps of the Palatine hill.
He ran back to the throne room, sending his bodyguards off in different directions as he ran to rally what force he could. Whatever these traitors were doing, they wouldn't, couldn't succeed. He'd learned from Gibson's mistakes: defending the palace was foolish. The catacombs of the palace were well known, but they'd always acted as an underground logistics systems for the servants and slaves. The Vigilis has made it more than that for him. Ambrose had dug escape tunnels that led to all sorts of escapes and panic rooms. The slaves who'd dug it had been killed of course so unless Ambrose had joined the traitors, then a spirited defense of the palace for an hour or two was all he needed to escape.
He skidded around the corner into the throne room and ran full speed towards the throne. To the confusion of the room, he rubbed a piece of the leg carved like a lion's head. The reader beeped and made a clicking sound, then the dais began to move.
The whole room was abuse with confusion. He stood tall and said as matter of factly as he could. "Traitors are attacking the palace. Everyone, into the tunnels. Follow me and I will keep you safe."
The room broke down into panic immediately. He ordered the Algenibis to gather everyone and send them down the tunnels, and a few even obeyed. Others ran off to, he hoped, join the fight, while still others stared at his through a haze of alcohol and drugs. He grabbed a battle rifle from from one of them and fired in the air. "If you want to live, come with me!"
The panic turned to anarchy, but those with sense gathered around the tunnel entrance. He looked around to make sure all he cared about were among them. It was only then that he realized he cared for none of them. He couldn't even remember the names of most. He turned towards Corvus' chair, but the man was gone. "Uncle!" He called out, but no one answered. The shooting was close, in the palace itself. He swore, then led the assembled dignitaries down the tunnels.
An hour of herding the desperate mob later and he regretted it all. He'd spent too much time focusing on the performance of knowing where he was going that he'd lost track of where he actually was. The labyrinth of tunnels with number and letter designations could confuse any man, let alone one under such pressures. Then he heard the shooting again. It was close. The herd panicked and stampeded down the halls, scattering as best it could. Sean ran, desperate not to be trampled. It wasn't long until he was alone. The distant screams and gunshots rang down the corridors, but all he found were corpses.
Then he heard muffled talking, and shadows around the corner. He knelt down and took aim. Then a hand in a thick glove wrapped around his mouth and another grabbed his arm. They pulled him through a fallen door into a dark room. He struggled, but the hands let go and a voice. but a voice went "Shhhh." A voice said. Sean understood. He calmed his breathing and stood in the darkness, waiting. The party of men passed by. Sean took a breath and spat the bundle of hair that had somehow ended up in his mouth in the confusion.
Sean crept up the doorway and looked both ways down the hall. Clear. He turned to thank his saviour, but was greeted by a fist to the face. He stumbled backwards, stunned. The gun dropped from his hands. He bend down to grab it, but his opponent was quicker. He kicked the gun away and wrapped chains and two big, furry hands around Sean's throat.
Sean fought for breath, but the man was too strong. The darkness closed in around him. The last thing he saw were Rex Vercingetorovski's eyes as they bored into his soul.
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No one knows how Sean O'Reilly died or who was responsible, although medical examiners of the time guessed he had died sometime during the first day of fighting. The condition of the body makes it difficult to be sure. The Imperator's body was so badly mutilated that by the time the bodies were removed from the labyrinth four days after the coup he wasn't identifiable until DNA testing determined his identity two weeks later.
—Excerpt from
Historia O'Reillia, by Livonius the Younger
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Prefect Xu Xiahou surveyed the chaos of the Imperial Palace. She'd been asleep when the killing started. By the time she'd gotten to the Flaming Circus encampment a half hour later, it was already a warzone. That was when she'd given the order to deploy the MechWarriors. If her people were going to rebel, then they had damn well better succeed.
The mechs had made short work of the camp. With their motor pool destroyed, the barbarians posed no threat. Within an hour she was walking through the throne room. Row upon row of prisoners were arrayed in the gardens outside, mostly servants and bureaucrats. Her people had allowed very few of the Algenibi to surrender.
The throne itself was off to the side, having made way for the tunnels beneath. Her people were all down there now. There would be no escape for the monster now.
That left her alone. She stared at the throne. Tentatively, she walked towards it. She ran her finger along the carvings. Her legs ached, so she sat, only for a moment. She sat straight, stretching her arms down the arms of the throne. She surveyed her domain. The faces of every Roman Emperor stared down at her from the vaulted ceiling. She went through the list, wondering if someday people would tell stories of Xiahou the same way they did Augustus or Marcus Aurelius.
She gave a long, loud sigh, and then rose. For every Vespasian, there was an Otho, a Vitellius, a Galba who failed. For every Diocletian, there was a laundry list of corpses of the third century It was a beautiful dream. But even success was a failure. How did Augustus' family end? What happened to Marcus Aurelius' children? Even the best case scenario was a tragedy.
She grabbed the radio from her belt. "Legatus, find me an O'Reilly."
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Gnasher yelped in pain from the entrance hall. Corvus buried his face deeper into the floorboards under his bed, hoping to drown out the sound. Such a good man, such a good friend. Yet here he was, hiding, again. How many good people would he let die so that he might live? He hoped Gnasher would be the last.
The heavy boots of the Praetorians stomped into the room. They were laughing. Laughing! It was too much to take. They tossed open his closest and rifled through it. "Nothing," One of them said.
"Women's clothes?" Another said. "You think he wears them?"
"Nah, probably Gibson's sister, remember?"
Tears rolled down Corvus face. They were presents brought back from Circinus. Local fashion he'd had tailor made for Lucia, for a reunion they would never have.
He prayed in silence.
If there really are any gods, any demons, any anything out there, I beg you to let her at least be spared.
Hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him out from under the bed. The two Legionnaires grinned down at him, then grabbed him. They shouted, and more arrived. The room was filled with them. They hoisted him over their heads and carried him out into the street.
Hundreds of Praetorians gathered around him, then kneeled. As one they said, "Ave Imperator!"
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So my story begins, not with a triumph, but with a soiled toga on the backs of men who wanted me only for the donatives they assumed I would provide. Only you, gentle reader, will know how the story ends, whether you have found these words in a shop in the forum, or half-finished amongst my effects as you seek to untangle the mess I've made. Either way, I wish you the best of luck, and hope that I have done something between now and then with my life to ease the burden of yours.
—Excerpt from
Res Gestae Divi Corvi: A Comic Memoir, by Corvus O'Reilly
