The Isle of the Fell

IV - The Second Ides of March

IV - The Second Ides of March

2295 - The Battle of Florentia

Alea iacta est. - Julius Caesar, 49 BCE

Mere hours later, Caesar had gathered an assorted array of eight legions, four from the great cities of Sicily, one his own, one from Naples, one which had failed to penetrate the walls of Rome during the Fellic Insurgence, and one protecting the Italian countryside.

He knew not, in great detail, of the conquests that Lucius had managed, the great sacrifices of men he had thrust upon, for Caesar's governors had already caused him great pain. His successor would learn that.

Caesar decided to remember, and detach himself for a while. He was at the center of attention now, in the plains with his legions. He remembered meeting the man known as Quintus in his early years in the new world, one which was scarred with technological and unfamiliar wreckage, and seeing such a man, took him as his greatest adviser. Alas, because of his similar age to Caesar, he would do no good as an heir. It became widely known in Second Rome that Quintus had fathered many of the administrative policies of the empire, and in his absence acted as his steed.

Felix Lucius stood opposed to him. From his perspective, he had freed the Iberian Peninsula, and the former state of France, Germany, and much of mainland Europe. In only a few months, he had created an insurrection, one of terror, but that was a tool that was a necessary evil. And he knew what separated him from a tyrant. What drove him was not power, but virtue, and that virtue was freedom, was justice, in a world stayed from the forces of tyranny, greed, and despotism. Censorship was disallowed, the small groups could have their violence; they would only be shunned by the collective being of society, which would, could or could not degrade and adapt to the new norms.

From his conquest lay the deaths of thousands of men, men unyielding to his beliefs. But he had done what he had to do. From words and essays written he convinced who he could, and he deported those willing of loyalist cause to the island of Hrossey, near Great Britain.

But these peaceful activities were nothing in scale to the men he had slain, those who fought for the legates and generals that commanded them, that believed in the glory of Caesar. These men fought with the honor of the men that opposed Genghis Khan in Kazakhstan, or were with the coalition against Napoleon; men who fought with honor, and with that honor they were led to death. It troubled him.

Battles won at the cost of men; at the beginning there was a great mutiny, a surge of loyalists who still believed in the glory of Caesar, and that the sacrifices put forth were necessary. He, through commanding a legate, led them to a camp at the foot of the Alps, surrounded by mountains, and by the feet of his Aquilas the legate commanded thus to open fire with his artillery, and so, surrounded, the dozens of thousands were slain. It was known as the Massacre of Zumatt, and nigh none survived.

Save the legionnaire Severus Meier of a second cohort, who held the rank of a decanus. The fire did not stop for what amounted to three hours, and the survivors were burdened with injury, and the lack of sustenance for the guarded position consisting of several miles. For six days he laid like this, and at last, he managed.

And so he crossed the mountains, the Alps, in the hope of crossing and reporting to Rome. But alas, his purpose failed once the Insurgency began, and the crossing of the Rubicon occurred, and there, at the river, he against the eleven or so initial legions commanded by Lucius as well as a great host of orc-goblins, and there, surrounded by spear and shield, with the weary traveler, hardened by the snow, covered by fur and holding the bone-sword of an ibex, a hero who had traversed across mountains and had gathered supplies against the strength of the hidden Fellic cults of the Alps, and there, anticlimactically, he fell.

Thus word never reached Quintus, and only suspicion. Felix Lucius then fought his battles, blockaded food supplies, encouraged revolts, wrote essays, and signed treaties, in a period consisting of only a few months, as many of the legionnaires and townspeople supported him. The specifics were not known to Caesar, but would fall to Nepos.

And in the field near the city of Florentia, previously known as Florence, Caesar, outnumbered, commanding nine legions, including one that was near Florentia stood opposite against Lucius, the champion of the old world, aided by the Fell not as the champion of Tharizdun, but as an extension of him, for once he, the pragmatic, decided to conquer and revert the empire to the former European states of Man, man would unite with his creator, and so redemption would be achieved. With him there were his eleven initial legions, followed by six of auxiliary, and sixteen thousand orc-goblins commanded by the warlord Concortamus.

In the open field, filled with grass, dust and sand, did both armies face each other. It was a battle that would decide history, as Caesar faced Pompey nearly two and a half millennia ago. Lucius's support would fall, as would Caesar's if he were to lose against his ultimate enemy. With Lucius there were the new techniques discovered, and with Caesar the mastery of what was older. How strange it was, that the old man was the stayer of the new era, and the newer one was the conservative anti-revolutionary.

And so Lucius seized the initiative, and advanced, as did Caesar with half of his legions. It could be seen as a costly mistake, as the fire of Lucius opened, conventionally.

Fire and hell rained down upon the thinly formed files, forcing Caesar to adopt a scattered position. Then a great charge of ogres and ogre gunslingers came the flesh of trained men trampled. The large brutes came spearheaded, their great axes fell down, crushing the skulls of Caesar's ranks. With the scattered position came the dissolvement of the wall of spears, but the sudden deployment of the host of orc-goblins had a similar effect.

In the raining desperation, with the assembly of his veterans dissolving, Caesar yelled for a flank cavalry charge directed at the auxiliary and hobgoblins(snipers). With the glory of the defunct Roman Kingdom, he declared "All equites of this vanguard, charge!"

Thus manifested twelve hundred horse-men of Second Rome, who came through the traditional holes of the Roman ranks once used for velites and hastati. Into the hiatus of spear and sword they charged.

The leader at the forefront knew it was a death sentence. He and his cavalry surged forward, and the cannons, thick of unfeeling metal, opposed them. But then the sudden arrival of the vortex warp of the wizards came forth; Caesar's adaptable will defied the norms of tradition.

The cavalryman on his mount galloped, he saw the rocks and grass blur past him, and the crude, sharp, standstill march of the enemy that awaited him. The tip of the spears and the edge of blade would meet him. And has he rushed forward, aided by the arcane strength summoned, fought mercilessly, as a man who knows he will die will.

Tis but the technique of all autocrats. And so the bloody pack hacked away, killed the flesh of the auxiliary carrying the pre-Great War weapons and the Psionics, ripped and tore until it was done.

And so they continued, drenching their mounted swords into the bodies fallen to their bloody wake, for nothing would stop their wrath, until they were outnumbered fully by the infantry surrounding them, and there, surrounded, they were slain.

Why did they do so? Why cut their lifespan, waste so many years, so many decades, that could have been spent living, enjoying life, tending prosperity? It was because they were taught to do so. They were taught to fight against pain, against all suffering, because they were ordered to. But when they were ordered not to, they accepted that duty gladly, and fought with no thought of the world that lay ahead. For as Caesar himself said those countless millennium ago, "It is easier to find men who are willing to die than to find men who are willing to endure pain with patience.", and Lucius wondered for a moment if there was ever true honor in death, for how could legacy and memory recreate the power of the once-present?

Nonetheless, to boost the morale of his men, Caesar had ordered the last two hundred equites to break free, and so they rained down arrows in retreat, as the gap closed, and the lines of Lucius reformed. This brief attack of retreat was but a small spasm, and the arrows were easily caught, yet it proved useful, for although a small number of hobgoblin snipers were not slain, they were still unable to reach Caesar due to range.

And Lucius, undeterred, pushed harder, his armies solidifying, and attempted to destroy, to pummel the vanguard. As more reinforcements of Caesar came, flame, magic, and Psionic ability came as streaks of destruction across the scorched earth, and the lines separated themselves, for the threat of artillery lay imminent, allowing gaps to form.

From these gaps there was a charge of surplus infantry of both forces. Once again, brother turned against brother in this hasty war, two of them recognized each other, they looked at each other, their ears turned away and eyes facing, against the sharp, quickly moving metal and brute muscle around them. And then...

The fellic legionnaire was impaled by a Veteran's longsword, for in times like these, as there had been for countless centuries in history, there was to be nothing but war. And his brother fought continually, for the enemy was the enemy, and he was the vengeful blade that oppressed them; to the soldier, it was light against darkness, good against evil, and always they were on the side they favored, for men seldom believe what they do not wish for.

And it was in this that the commander knew the truth, the truth of the cause that he so earnestly believed in fighting for, and to do so he had to accept that it was not perfection, and it came with cost, the deaths and destruction of community for the many, but in the end, by their own calculation, it was worth it. It was worth the death, the bloodshed, the tears that fell from the child's eyes as their family starved, it was worth the tearing from the nobility, once dainty families being subject to distance and impoverishment, for war was an ideological concept; the end was always clear. Yet always the superior questioned it, for they knew, they could relate to, they knew so well the image of the mob that painted them as evil, that burned their memory down and drew them as a tyrant. And so, in this battle of autocracy and democracy, law against nature, one thing became clear.

To drive an old king's essence to the ends of the world, and to establish the dominion of the new ruler, or to crush the insurgency, the radicals who believed in terror, in destruction, in the anarchy that would topple a state, and to defend the land that rightfully belonged, both were applicable. But, although Caesar was the better tactician, Lucius was the better logistician, and as his army of troops amassed itself, they charged, number above strategy.

Caesar reformed the testudo of the reinforcements which had just come, and recreated the phoulkon of the engaged forces. But the tidal mass of forces overwhelmed him, and following battering after battering, was forced to retreat as Lucius's forces advanced.

Caesar then fled. The legions dispersed in different directions, and as scattered they were, they were bombed, one by one, until none could be seen. Then, Caesar, reminiscent of the persistent strength of Rome against her enemies, turned, and headed course. Perhaps Lucius was thinking of the Mongols and so believed that Caesar had a greater amount of reinforcements, and so did not attack. But Caesar, master of the world that was far before. The legions came forth, and in their transports, there was rapid deployment.

And from there, a cavalry charge was declared, one led by the tip of the veteran equites, charging through, yelling, for they knew their purpose and ultimate goal, not to die honorably, but to kill as many as they could.

And so Lucius adopted a square formation, one specifically against cavalry. And he remembered what Pompey the Great had done before him.

Pompey's lines had faltered, they lost the will of the Roman cause, and fled and refused to reform. And so Lucius shouted, "Hold still, for we fight for our liberty! Let us break the chains of our oppression!"

It was not beautiful. It was not elegant, nor was it literately significant. But it reminded his men of what they fought for, and there they looked at the opposition with hate.

And Caesar, who nearly always won, who had brought goodness and marble to a stoned, apocalyptic landscape, with his presence his forces formed equivalently. Flanks against separation and firepower... the stalemate remained inevitable.

Knowing that the morale of his men would deteriorate without progress, Caesar unleashed the full strength of his remaining reinforcements, and led a vanguard of his veterans legion to the center, and whilst the squares remained distracted by cavalry, they were shattered by the strength of a concentrated legion.

Alas, effects may have occurred, had it not been for the decimation of the legion by the power of Lucius's polybolos. Yet suddenly, once significant casualties had fallen, was there the dispatch of such machines by the presence of a swarm of mechanical gargoyles.

Black, gray, hideous automatons of cursed magic from Lucius's perspective; angels from others, Caesar never had a taboo against the orthodox. And then came the artillery charge of the God Engines and the coming of transport, and suddenly the attack gained strength.

It was a strong one, led by a large majority of Caesar's forces, consisting of perhaps fifteen thousand, those of Psionics and holy flame, standard bearing Aquillas and transport vans, it was an unyielding advance, and nothing would stay its wrath.

But to Lucius, it was too late, and from here he refused. He refused to lose, for he knew his cause as perfect, his enemy the deserver of all damnation, the despot who had destroyed cultures and stripped communities. And so, he summoned the great Portal of orc-goblins, the supreme manifestation of will and supremacy, and they dost all the stones of the sky be shattered. Yet it was not enough.

The cadre moved deeper, cutting through the endless lines as a knife cuts through butter, for they were the veterans of dozens of battles, and they were unphased by all that crossed their path. And it was there that Caesar met Lucius, and the general met the general.

Lucius could not flee from battle, as with the singular loss, Caesar would reconquer his newfound republic, and all would have been lost. And so he stood there, accepting his fate. Caesar and his remaining cohort, for the rest of his force and fallen did not turn to the remaining forty thousand soldiers around them, and so, accepting their fate as a part of history, moved forward.

And when they saw each other, they saw the other, unconvinced, fully believing that he was right, and that the world was burning against them. For Nepos lay in hiding, and Gnaeus as well. Who would then govern Second Rome, that could defend it from the multitudes of pain it would receive? And as Caesar was dragged down by the masses of orcs that surrounded him, so too was Lucius, who was tackled and knocked out with a shield.

At this time, Concortamus begged for the parley and withdrawal of both generals. "Both men, lay down your armies and weapons! Tis not how this battle should end, both of its leaders at the forefront, both of them slain. Yet I.."

And the veteran legionnaire near Caesar rose, and pulled out a pistol. It was a rare one, one made sometime during the early twenty first century, and was fully automatic, unrestricted by the corroding of nearly all firearms that forced them to fire at most every six seconds. And there, seeing the possibility of prisoners, shot him.

The bullet came through the air, cutting it, and went into his chest. He repeated the process to Caesar and Lucius. Whether Caesar died before Lucius is unknown, but they dropped, dying, and Lucius laughed, choking on blood, and said: "Thank you, Gaius, for the true meaning of life. And for it I have achieved nothing."

Caesar died moments later, and in his final seconds, saw the world flash by. His head hit the ground before his heart plunged from Earth, and he saw Albon there, stripped of his oblivion, his carelessness, his innocence, and saw the corruption or guidance of the world. And he said, "And you, Albon?" for he knew then, although he did not laugh, that the incorruptible had been moved. But then, what is the difference between corruption and enlightenment?

Both men had once been seized by similar passion. And as their slayer put on his hood and rode away, on a horse, whilst the two armies, still thirty thousand and fifty five thousand strong, stayed. And they saw each other. Whether they readied for war or departed for peace is unknown, for by Albon's wishes, his folly, his madness, he took the second item of his metal, a scroll inside the barrel, and when it manifested, the forces were no more.

2296 - 2305: The Later Isle of the Fell

But the completion of succession was not yet over. For although Quintus, Caesar, Cato, Lucius, and Kaylashee were dead, and Albon fled somewhere, seen by none of the public eye ever again, Gnaeus and Nepos remained, hiding.

Yet even in the absence of commanders, the war was not yet over, for subordinates remained, themselves truly loyal, and the battle between the northern and southern provinces had just begun.

Nepos eventually learned the specifics of Lucius's brutal wars. Firstly, after the massacring of his loyalist elements, a demonic incursion formed at the universities of Hispania. Thus the scientific elements were in control, and so the politicians and financial ministers were bribed by their inability to do research. At once, Caesar began his wayward journey back to Rome, but was ruthlessly deterred by the populations of Germania. Lucius made sure to destroy all of his opponents in the north, not only militarily but politically, and each news of a victory, however decisive, gave great strength in morale. And so, once he had mustered the requisite forces, he returned to Rome.

Nepos, having been locked inside a deep, underground cell, stayed in there for a time, for originally, he, being ashamed of his punishment, despite being given a key by Quintus, sentenced himself to an eternity of suffering. And so, for the days between his arrest and the Insurgency, he sulked, ate, and slept on cold stone.

It was until he heard the bangings outside, and the sharp snarls and groans of the fallen, that he awoke from an uneasy and uncomfortable sleep, that he questioned his actions slightly.

Perhaps he was merely tired of waiting, tired of being so bare, but he decided that somehow, he would restore his former valor.

Deciding blunderously that this was the best time for his departure, he grabbed the key and unlocked his door.

Outside there was a small bag, which was to many unnoticeable, containing three aurei, along with a note from Quintus. It read, I know that by this time, you must feel uneasy and insecure. Do not worry, if you are reading this right now, then most likely disaster has already struck Rome, for I know your nature well. The money will allow you to live comfortably for a week, and after that you will have to make your own living in exile, until you can find a way to return.

In here is a map of the prison. In a gateway marked is an entrance to the sewers, which will be unaffected by whatever surfaced chaos Rome will be in. The dungeons and caverns you are in may or may not be infiltrated. I do not know what threats may be there.

There were a few rats in the corners, Nepos noticed. He heard demonic cries faraway and above him. That was a lot of help.

Once you are free of the dangers of the immediate situation, go south to Pompei. The town had been devastated by another eruption, but because of the Great War, as with all places, population is as sparse as ever. There will be a man there, named Joffrey Ricci, who runs a small business selling volcanic rocks. Because there are many other rock-sellers, say you are a man searching for matchsticks, which are two and a half inches long, and you want exactly three of them. He shall supply you with a legal document of me pardoning you, which will be accepted unlike now because at this point, the Empire will lack a leader loyal to our cause. I fear very well that this will be the last I will ever write, as I do to Caesar.

That was the end of the manuscript. There was no 'good luck' or 'may Fortuna be with you', nothing secular or religious suggesting any encouragement save the bare intention.

He continued walking, and stayed out of the light of the torches. Taking one, he continued to the passageway to the sewers.

The passageway grew damp and smelly, and the vulgar brown blobs only became more manifest. Yet he continued on his path, his torch his savior against darkness, until he heard, with swift, quiet whispers;

"Thig, a abstol, ar palus maille ris dhar."*

He stopped moving and crouched down. The dull beating of drums followed. The singular oration continued, followed by the echoed chanting.

"Arbu guar chiad akhamshy'y, barach guar guwu dheidh. "**

"Arbu guar chiad akhamshy'y, barach guar guwu dheidh."

"Bheir an treas fhear em zqhui braithre dochre."***

"Bheir an treas fhear em zqhui braithre dochre."

"Gleadaich gimbat sur guwu leth ash ul dhorch."****

There was particular emphasis on the word gimbat.

"Gleadaich gimbat sur guwu leth ash ul dhorch."

"Ai baah, ann guwu dhar aks, na oidhche tha rultan durbatul soille."

"Ai baah, ann guwu dhar aks, na oidhche tha rultan durbatul soille."

The rumbling of drums repeated line between line. Nepos saw a small tunnel and looked through it. He saw a group of masked figures with dark robes and scimitars, waving their hands in their oration.

He felt his hands for a dagger, shortsword, or any other kind of weapon. Instead he found only his torch, the key, and the coins, bag, and paper he had.

He turned back.

*We came, apostle, our candles with the darkness.
**One to the first slayer, more to the successor.
***The third shall bring my dark glory.
****[The] World shall wrestle for the lord in his dark realm.
*****For in the darkness of the night stars shine the brightest.

Nepos went and stumbled back, making an attempt to cover the splash of his puddles. How powerless he was, unarmed, against a group of cultists. He could not discern their purpose, but assumed it was related to the insurgency on the surface. In the past, he would have called at least a decurion of legionnaires to dispatch any such annoyances. But now, armed with only a torch, a piece of metal, and his wits, he was powerless against them. He felt humiliated somewhat, but he was too preoccupied to feel shame. What was left therefore, as he could not traverse the sewers, was one of the entrances directly to above ground.

He began to traverse the prisons, and the thumping above him began to grow louder, the yelling became more ebullient, and in his powerlessness, could do nothing. He straightened himself and rested uncrouching against a wall. That was when he was no longer unnoticed.

Formerly, he was a skulker in the darkness, carrying a torch, the small bastion of light, which he hid underneath the ragged cloak that he wore. He was once powerful enough to be considered heir to Caesar, and now he was a crouching figure, indistinguishable from a beggar, save by his defiance and his refusal to back down. The absence of a dagger in his supplies he felt was strange. Most likely it was for the greater ability of concealment, as the security, unlike the first and ancient times, had not regressed much.

His observer watched from the oil lamps of his cell, and finally called out, "You! Over there!"

Nepos turned. The man continued. "Yes! I am talking to you! You there, free me!"

Nepos only stepped forward and said. "If I were to free you, you would have to satisfy me."

He walked forward before the man could speak. He was a wretched man, probably a murderer or some other scum, whom Nepos had respect for. "You would have to show me honor, duty, and courage. You would value our cause before your own life, and surrender your ultimate authority to me, for I am the bringer of that cause."

The man did not say "And what is your cause?" as Nepos had hoped. He went closer to the bars in the door, and grabbed them. He said, seemingly rashly, doggedly, "Yes! Whatever you need!"

The other inmates had arisen by this time.

Nepos was slightly dismayed, yet he said, "You, and then I. I am Nepos Caesar, born Nepos Daae Marino, the adopted son and heir to Gaius Julius Caesar, Emperor and protector of all."

Someone yelled, "I was imprisoned by that bastard!"

Nepos said only, "Here I see the souls that are lost and damned. What I desire is a new cabal of those who aspire to restore the security of Rome, for the great protector has been violated, and chaos wakes on the surface. The senseless, savage radicals up there, they would not hesitate to kill every one of us now. If they seek to restore the times before the war, then they shall restore the penalty of death, will they not?"

Another, or perhaps the same man, boomed, "Fools! This man cannot be Nepos Caesar. Of what verification does this man have, that makes him different from the rest of us?"

Nepos was silent for a moment. He then said, "And as you wish, you will not be freed."

He began to walk away.

Then a nervous clamor began. "Wait! Come back!"

Nepos refused to turn. He walked perhaps twenty more meters, then receded to the center of the long hallway of cells. It was the ultimate power. The prisoners were the beggars, and he held the monopoly with the key, the water of freedom.

He carefully held the torch as well as the key. The reflection gleamed off the stone walls.

He said loudly, "You recognize this, do you not? Make no mistake, your freedom depends on my will."

He did a survey of the faces presented to him. He saw a middle-aged face, nearing fifty, and pointed at him. "You!"

The man inside the cell stood up. Nepos unlocked his door. He moved outside.

Nepos recognized the man as Vito Castellano, a bodyguard of one of the mafia organizations destroyed by Caesar. The man wore a plain tunic, and would have been far more comfortable in the jumpsuits of the prisons pre-Great War. He looked at Nepos with a cold hatred. No doubt he did not try to kill him solely because he believed Nepos would pardon him after his escapade.

Nepos confirmed this, and said, "Despite my situation, I order you to be officially under all circumstances pardoned of your crimes, after you have fulfilled what I will tell you to do."

Thus the man was forced to act to his orders. He hated this, for he was once an executive, and so was accustomed to threatening others. Yet he was forced to comply.

He hid a dagger in his sleeve. If Nepos endangered him, he would kill him.

He took a torch as well. The other prisoners shouted, and their shouting turned to sad sighing, and then quiet anger. But they could do nothing.

They walked near the front of the prison. Castellano did not know the purpose of Nepos's path, but followed him nonetheless. They reached the office

Nepos stepped in and looked around. Immediately he had a gun to his head.

Castellano, by instinct, drew the dagger to the assailant's throat. He watched in the slow horror of what he had done. By drawing the dagger, he had revealed his intention to kill his companion, and had also aided him. Had this man, who claimed to be Nepos Caesar, manipulated him to his own doing?

The attacker was an elderly man, in an uncleaned coat, with a grey ceramic mug of three quarters empty now-lukewarm coffee. He had balding white hair that receded to the back of his head, and his gray eyes blinked once, then twice in surprise.

His desk was filled with an assortment of long scrolls, due to the absence of modern printers, although several rudimentary printed documents existed. On the right there was a recovered early 1900's era telephone, and on the left there was a container of luxury pens of the Cross, Bentley, and Montblanc brands, which were prominent before the devastation of the Great War. To own them now was a symbol of prestige, as a knightly household once envied another's inscribed sword.

He was a short and small multitude of anachronisms, as was everything in Second Rome, whose technological level would stagnate because of the book burnings of both Lucius and Caesar, as well as the ever-constant threat of war.

Nepos said directly, "I would advise you to put your firearm down."

The little man, around five foot six, obeyed, looking at the Castellano and his dagger which was near his throat. The dagger did not retreat.

Nepos then said, "Now, give your weapon, and your life will no longer be threatened."

The man obeyed too, and put the gun in his hands. He was more hesitant this time, for he was aware now that he was at the mercy of his oppressors. And they had not even asked him for his name, yet they came in this fashion.

Nepos decided not to search for money within the room. That would only worsen his relationship with this man as a pawn. Castellano then thought, How like this man is to my former masters. Bold, ruthless, and manipulating of others. Yet, if he truly is Nepos Caesar, then there must be something that makes him tick. He looked at the short man. And we shall see that too.

Nepos said, as his third and last statement to the man, "You, you come with us."

The three figures put on the cloaks found in the room, and left the building.

2295-Nepos' View of the Insurgency

Nepos and his men journeyed out across the disturbed plane of the city. Oh, the heart of Rome! The plaza, and the forum, near Palatine Hill, his former home. Now it was disturbed by this violent mob, lead by the man in the center, whom Nepos recognized as Coriolus Gnaeus, former Primus Pilus of the VII Canis, one of the principle legions of the arch-traitor, Lucius, Lucius the heretic, who deserved to be burned and his head placed on a pike, and whose grave he would piss on. And then, in Nepos's reaching hate, capable of the murder of the man that he believed was the lowest scum of Earth, he imagined Felix Lucius, burning in hell, as he should be.

His eyes drifted and appeared to a realm of ethereal hate, and they blazed with the look of a hunter to his enemy. Here he was, admitting to himself to be openly power hungry. To some that lust for power could be considered immoral, and to others, rightful ambition. It was a time of ambiguity, of moral uncertainty, as was prominent in all of history.

He was thrust back to reality when he was shouldered by a man. He was an ordinary man, save for his face, which was fearfully determined. He marched forward. Soon he was not alone, but approached by many more men and women, and even children. They gave the three wanderers a nasty look, and so out of fear for their own safety, Nepos and his beleaguered company joined them.

Soon it became apparent that this group was part of a mob, one that was headed for Palatine Hill. It was a moment of horror for Nepos. Here he was, being forced to march alongside this blight, this cancer of heresy. Castellano noticed him, as did the little man, and both of them wondered what he was up to.

Nepos looked at the people walking around them. They were carrying torches, clubs, knives, and pitchforks. What united them together, in such a horrible cause, that sought to destroy the very heart of law which his adopted father had built upon, the heart of judgment, legislation, law, order, and justice?

At the front-center, leading the purging crusade, was Coriolus Gnaeus himself. What caused him, such a noble man, to abandon his position, his high purpose, and fall to the serpents of rebellion? It was not lust for personal power that drove him, for the dangers were too great. What caused the mob as well to commence in awful rebellion? Were they enslaved, abused, or oppressed in any form? No, but one thing remained clear, that what was taught was what was believed. And so Nepos and his company marched along, remaining at the edge to gasp for individuality, but nonetheless, the mentality of the mob was the mentality of the man leading it.

The mob marched to Palatine Hill. It stopped slightly. Then Gnaeus, in his bloody order, spoke. "Friends, the poor, the needy, but most of all the oppressed! Our cultures destroyed and tarnished, or refinement reversed and torn, look at the censorship, the destruction of religion. And now, at the heart of this tyranny, stands its symbol. And so let it be its last day, for we shall burn it to the ground."

Nepos nearly decided to reveal himself and yell at him, but was stopped by Castellano. Soon the crowd whooped into a frenzy. The first few did this to increase their position, and were followed by the rest. A vanguard of fallen legionnaires quickly formed, as did their armaments of artillery. They began their assault, and as the polybolos fired, Nepos saw the white breaks fall, and shatter to the ground. And oh! Caesar's home, which he had shared comfortably as his estate, though he lived elsewhere, was shattering.

The garrisons inside appeared and repelled the invaders. Perhaps their will weakened, or they questioned their motive, as they fought against their brethren, but the defenders did not, for they knew what had to be done. They hid, they appeared, they fought, and they retreated, as orthodox and in convention as one could muster, for the vanguard had no giants' shoulders to climb, and the garrison had all experiences with them.

Nepos remained at the edge, for he did not want to be chosen. He kept the cloak covering his face.

But soon, in a few hours, the crowd could not grow idle, and shambled tiredly forward. This shambling grew into a march, and then, into an open charge, one based on what one could see others doing. The men and women, some of them even children, stormed the building, they began to break and grab bricks from the wall with brute strength, disregarding their physical condition. And soon, they had swarmed past the wall, and had joined the vanguard in an overwhelming force. And thus Quintus appeared, realizing he could not hide lest he surrender his image to the city, and with him came the Inquisition, a thousand or so veterans, pisonics, auxilia, holy propane gunners, along with several ballistae and polybolos along with a singular God Engine. They were his hounds of fear, their faces scorched and hardened with battles of the past and of faith and determination, but even the strongest bulldogs would be trampled against a hundred men.

Yet Nepos saw the light reflect on Quintus's face and knew that even in the darkest of times, there was still possibility. And from possibility there was probability. And as the stars still showed, the battle of the night began.

Gnaeus yelled, "Death to the tyrants!"

Coriolus Gnaeus ordered a charge. A few weeks ago, it was Nepos who was lecturing him. Now he charged, his pistol in his hand, Castellano ahead of him and some men with kitchen knives running alongside. In a few instants Nepos forgot who he was, and found himself denouncing Caesar in his mind. Truly, the Orwellian form of thoughtcrime was everywhere, he noted in a fleck of remaining imperial will. But this thought fleeted and dissipated in mere seconds. He saw the bodies repelled by the flames of the Holy Propane Gunners, and his morale weakened by the Psionics. One of them then exploded, killing many in a blue-green fire. He was brought out of it once more, yet the camaraderie of the remaining drove him once more, in an endless loop of shame, ebullience, and repetition. Yet with each cycle passing he tired still, and eventually fully regained himself and hid within the crowd, still cheering loudly, yet in control. He found his party and regrouped with them, for they stayed in company with their familiarity. It became clearer, and clearer yet, that Quintus would win, and as Nepos saw Gnaeus's scowl as he eyed Quintus at the entrance, face to face, he knew the inevitable.