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

[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]

The Conclusion

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]

Conclusion Part II

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]

Follow-Up

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.