Nemesis

By J.A. Muller

Being immortal from the outside sounds like a positive thing. But when you're the one that has to live an everlasting life with no end, watching everyone you have grown to love die, time after time, then, it becomes your curse.

Throughout history, men have risen up to be heroes and villains. Somehow, there has always been a balance. At times evil seems to prevail. Like a swarm of locusts, it can be anywhere and everywhere, taking over all that is good. But somehow, good makes a comeback and evens the score. Being evil may be easy, but being good and righteous takes a lot of work and sacrifice.

This story tells the tale of two men, Michael and Nathan, who are cursed with the burden of being the gatekeepers of good and evil. They pass away from the mortal realm, only to be resurrected as gods. The men are cursed by the gods, who watch them struggle through life as they persuade kings, queens, and warriors to fight for their cause, helping tilt the scale of history in their favor. Follow their trials and tribulations as they tell their side of the story throughout history. Witness their journey as they navigate famous historic battles all over modern-day Europe. Unbeknownst to them, their actions have laid the foundation of what the world is today.

Nemesis explores the consequences of seeing the world in parallels of 'good versus evil' and being subjected to paths in life that may not be of one's choosing. Will Michael and Nathan be able to break free from the bonds placed on them by their gods? Or will their demise be their own making? Will it be heaven or hell on earth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890610935

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

A Note from the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1: Men of Gods

Chapter 2: Gods of Men

Chapter 3: The Return of the Gods

Chapter 4: Rise and Fall

Chapter 5: The Fall of Rome

Chapter 6: Charles The Hammer Martel

Chapter 7: The Banishment

Chapter 8: Love and War

Chapter 9: A Journey to the Depths of Hell

Chapter 10: The First Crusade

Chapter 11: The Battle for the Holy City

Chapter 12: The Final Face-Off

Epilogue

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Nemesis

J.A. Muller

Copyright © 2023 J.A. Muller

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-89061-092-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89061-093-5 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

Eve ry time you leave me, part of my heart leaves with you.

When you come back to me, my heart is full again. I may not be the best, but you will always be my world.

I love you, Alexia and Averie.

To friends and family, I may not show it well enough, but I love you all.

Mom and Dad, thank you for everything. You truly are my guardian angels. I will always love and never forget you. Mom, I lost you very young and I know you were always with me. Dad, I wish we had more time together. I'm sorry I wasn't a better son. One day, I hope you will be proud of me.

Joe H., I'll go to battle with you any day.

Let's end animal testing and abusing nature.

If there is a higher being studying humankind, they would not have a good impression on the way we treat our planet and each other.

If we do not know how to treat defenseless animals, we will never learn to treat each other. We are better than this.

A Note from the Author

Remember history for what it is—the story of time. For this book, I followed history, along with some myths, to develop characters and events. In some cases, exactly as they were in the past and in other cases, I followed the myths to add depth to the story.

Allow your minds to let go and enter the realm of a story from over two millennia ago, a blend of factual events and characters along with fictional events.

I hope you will open your mind, allow yourself to relax, and become a part of the story. The first-person and narrator rendition of the story will immerse you into the minds of the main characters.

Traditional book writing always bored me, and I could never find a book to keep me interested—so I wrote this.

This is my first book, so I hope you'll enjoy it, or it'll at least keep your mind away from the drama of real life even just for a little bit.

I want to hear your thoughts on my book, so please reach out anytime at [e-mail].

Prologue

Since the dawn of time, man has looked for something more powerful than he. Man has sought out and believed in deities and gods. Throughout history, there have been men born, once in a century, who have been blessed with great power, seemingly above and beyond the laws of man and nature—those men are often labeled as gods.

There is a sense of awe and envy surrounding these godly men. They are marveled at by the masses who either want to be them or wish to have or share their powers. Those beneath the men in power tend to strive to be more than they are, hoping to be someone other than a slave to society.

These gods that walk amongst us are also known as kings. Those with crueler dispositions tend to feast in grand castles and look down upon the peasants that work for them. All the people under their rule can do is starve, working their way into their graves with nothing to be remembered by except for their suffering.

Men enlisted into the army are simply soldiers who serve as a prompt example of mere peasants forced to do their god's bidding by spilling blood in the soil. While the power to decide who lives and who dies rests with the gods, unfortunately, there have been too many battles where men die, not knowing why as their life begins to sliver away slowly.

There have been countless battlefields throughout history that have been scattered with the dead. Above the fields of fallen soldiers, seagulls and crows are seen. Many believe the gulls and crows are nothing more than the escorts of the dead to their afterlife—for the dead never leave us unless they know exactly where to go.

Seagulls are heaven's escorts gently guiding souls to their eternal resting place, whereas crows are hell's captors and steal souls, usually against their will, and banish them to hell forever.

Archaeologists have found ancient texts near the cities of Rome and Jerusalem, which were a form of a diary of two men who, according to ancient texts, fought many godlike battles and were known to be great leaders of their time. Below are the passages about who these men were and what their thoughts were as they walked through time. The men fought an everlasting battle among themselves as well as one another.

Michael

Those who have no voice have no life. Those who have no life can never impose their meaning on this world. There are powers out there that gods can hone. All have them, though none of them are the same, nor do they bear any likeness. We are all born poor. Some have rich parents, while others may not be so blessed. But we are all alike—we breathe the same air and bleed the same blood. For every desert, there is a stream, and for every act of kindness, there will be evil right around the corner.

My life may not be worth living, as I have the weight of the world on my shoulders. On my shoulders lay the burden of the salvation of a dark, desolate world. I have watched my friends all live and die, knowing I would never be so blessed to shut my eyes forever—I must never die. The world is as horrible as it is forgiving. If he takes over, this will all be for naught, and what little happiness we have will all be gone.

Who is the person in my dreams? He is always there, living his sad, dark life. He had always been there for as long as I can remember. When I was a young boy, I was afraid to go to sleep because I was petrified of having visions of that dark silhouette. I get glimpses of him, although never too long. I don't know why. He seems to know I'm watching over him, looking over his shoulder. Is he real? At times, I feel sorry for him because he seems so sad and worn down. Life has not been easy for him. No mother or a father figure who cared for him. I remember wanting to find him, to help him ever since I was a young boy. He needed the church in his life, the same way I had needed it when I was left isolated in this world. I just didn't know where to start looking for him. Little did I know our fates were entwined.

Nathan

I see him every time I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep. He seems lost, always looking over his shoulder as I get closer to him. Is he real? I see what he looks like now. Rome, a boy who grew into a man around the same age as I. When we were kids, I wanted to find him so we could play by the riverside together. We were both the same age, I was sure, and we were both alone, that much I was certain of. I often wondered if I would meet him. Would I recognize him if I saw him in real life? He looked so peaceful, but his peace agitated me as I grew older. I don't know why. Do I envy him?

Demons crawl all around me, waiting for me to falter, which I have many times. I have let many people down in my life. Many died because of my cowardice, my arrogance. Every day I search for the light only to find the darkness that the gods have left me in to crawl out of alone. The closer I get to the light, the more the gods drag me down into the depths of darkness once more. These monsters have been a part of my life longer than anyone else. I have nobody. They stand there waiting for me to fall into a deep sleep, only to force my mind into a nightmare I can't forget. Why can't I just be normal? Am I not worthy of love? No one has ever helped me, and I have always been beaten, made fun of. One day, their fun will end, and I will be the cause of their nightmares. I loathe everyone. People repulse me. This person in my dreams is my direct opposite, spoiled by life and its pleasures. I must find him and kill him, let him know misery as I know it.

Chapter 1

Men of Gods

When the people of the old ages look back at how the lands they call home were shaped by the tides they call history, they write of vast happiness and vast death. Some tell of demons invading the ranks of mankind, while others tell of extreme and utter beauty in their short lives, although times of happiness are often short and forgotten once evil overtakes the world.

In the old ages, the world lacks a sense of direction; nothing seems to be in line. People of all ages, backgrounds, and creeds are suffering from a lack of balance in the world. The gods have unjustly sentenced the mortals to a life of hardship and demise. They will do this from time to time well because they have nothing better to do but to make us their puppets until they decide to enlist a sinner and a saint to be the gatekeepers of good and evil in order to stabilize the young world. This will be an experiment that will test the gods' patience and will to give the mortals a better life.

Perfect harmony is a balance between good and evil. If forces of good weaken, evil will run rampant in an attempt to take over the world. It is easier to be evil and create suffering, and the gods know this. The mortals are in a constant state of suffering, and peace is a rarity in this world. If the forces of good can thwart the resistance of evil, we can truly shine, and all the world will know peace.

*****

Man fears that which he cannot understand, which is why since the dawn of mankind, humans have attempted to explain away things that did not make sense to them. The world simply could not be in their perspective. There had to be a higher power that brought it into existence.

If a higher power exists, it is bound to watch over us now. And no creator would invent, birth, and create only to lean back and observe the havoc his creations can wreak. So this creator must send signals, symbols, and omens. This creator must give us some indication as to his existence, and so we look for deeper meaning in simpler things.

Omens were once thought to be harbingers of the future—hints at what was otherwise unknowable and unpredictable. Over time, mankind came up with endless correlations between events and the objects or animals blessed with celestial powers, acting as messengers from divine origins.

Divinity took on several forms across time, and those in power, with authority over other men, were then labeled as gods. They were always marveled upon by the masses of people wanting to be them or to have their powers, never for any gain in their own lives, just only to dream of being them, sharing their abilities, and being someone other than a slave to society.

These gods or kings feasted while the masses worked for them, living in their high castles while the workers starved and worked their way into their graves, leaving nothing but their suffering to be remembered.

Soldiers were yet another example of peasants forced to do their gods' bidding by spilling blood in the soil while they decided who lived and who died. There were too many battles where men died, not knowing why as their life began to wither away slowly.

Countless battlefields had been flooded with seagulls upon the end of the bloodshed—a rare sight to see them so far inland from the sea. It caused the survivors to believe that the birds would guide the dead to the afterlife, carrying the gentle souls that served loyally up to heaven, where no unjust king resided.

In a land that knew no resistance to the old way of life, which is to kneel to the more powerful force, the gods gave mortals a chance to achieve greatness and choose what side they would rather reside. The balance of power starts with a pact that the gods would will all that makes them into human life. One good, one evil, and they would not have a choice. They both are damned into existence in their sick game. The two poor souls could not be born yet, as they must not be corrupted by mankind, and souls must be pure. The gods needed the gatekeepers to see the ways of life from birth. They needed them to know what it was like to be human. They could not know what awaited them and how their lives would echo throughout history for us to read about and cherish forever.

*****

When Mary heard a knock on their door past sunset, she knew something was wrong. She had waited for her Maximus all day, and he usually returned from his duties just after sundown. Something had felt off since he left for work that morning, and Mary hadn't been able to shake off the sense of dread.

She had just lulled her five-month-old, Michael, to sleep when the knocking began. At first, it was a hesitant knock, but by the time she reached the door, it had turned urgent and wild.

What's the matter? she whispered as she swung the door open, Michael still clutched to her chest.

In front of her stood her husband's best friend, Lucius, his expression one of mangled grief.

What's wrong? Mary asked again. Her mouth had run dry at the sight of Lucius's face.

Mary. His voice shook, his eyes teary. It's Max.

What about him? Mary had stepped aside, ushering him inside. She still stood by the door, uncertain about where she was to sit if Lucius had come bearing bad news.

They found him by the Tiber River. His voice shook, tears streaming down his face now. Dead.

Mary's brow furrowed in confusion. She gripped her son tighter. How?

He got into a fight with two other men. Thieves, by the look of it. They took whatever he had on him. Left him bleeding out in an alleyway.

Mary wanted to fall to her knees, scream, cry, and yell at Lucius for bringing her such horrible news. But she stayed still, clutching her son so tight he whimpered in his sleep, her husband's easy smile and deep blue eyes fresh before her. He had left her this morning, promising to return with flowers and fruits.

Lucius reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a thin silver band.

They left this on him. I thought you might want to have it.

Mary opened her hand, waiting for him to drop the wedding ring into her outstretched palm. A sad smile crossed her face as a tear finally spilled onto her palm. Lucius wore a silent apology on his face. He caressed Michael's cheek, clicking his tongue with what could only be a pity for a fatherless child.

The door closed, and Mary put her sleeping child down on her bed. She sat down on the floor, gripping the ring tightly. A laugh bubbled up in her throat.

As the grief of losing her companion consumed her, Mary recalled the time she had been carrying her son. She was a young thing, and Maximus was a soldier stationed in Rome, where she lived. The two had become friends, both too shy to admit they were fond of each other.

When Mary got pregnant, she rushed to Maximus first, telling him she had no one else to turn to. Her family would shame her, and only the two of them knew that Mary was a virgin.

Rumors had spread about Mary's pregnancy, and there was much confusion about how a virgin girl could carry a child. She was shamed, as she had feared, but Max had stepped up. He had given Mary his name, and the couple moved into a small home outside the city.

The rumors and whispers about Mary's character had persisted, but they had faded after Michael's birth. After all, she was living with her husband now, and they looked like a happy, normal family.

Mary knew what was happening to her was not normal, but Max had encouraged her, reminding her that she was special. Surely, she was chosen by God to give birth to a very special child.

Mary recalled the day her son was born. The skies were clear and bright blue. The sun had been high in the sky, its rays beaming through their small window at the baby, whose face seemed to gleam in the sunlight.

Maximus had been so happy.

After his passing, Mary knew she had to look after her son herself. It meant venturing back into the city she had been exiled from, but she glanced at her little boy and knew that she would brave any storm for him.

Mary wound up with every odd, demanding job the city had. She was desperate and dedicated to supporting and raising her son. She had trusted Maximus for so long, but the odds of finding a man as compassionate as him were rare. She knew she was alone, the way she had always felt.

Michael was ten when Mary got sick with influenza. He remembered glimpses of her later on, visions of her in bed, coughing so much it made her back ache. He remembered her pale face and her weary smile. She was not even thirty summers old when she passed, but she looked much older to Michael whenever he thought of her.

A day before her passing, Mary had mustered up the last bit of her strength and told her son to follow her into the church. Michael had followed his mother into the towering structure, eyes following the tall beams, head tilting upward as he tried to follow every beam and arch. The stained-glass windows were beautiful, the light shimmering through them, painting the pews in so many different colors.

He had broken away from his mother's feeble grip to stand in a circle of blue light shimmering from the window. She had only looked at the pastor helplessly. I don't have long…

*****

Michael grew up very loyal to the church. His mother had left him at the steps of the grand chapel, and he had no choice but to wander the vast chambers alone. He had so many questions that only the kind-faced pastor could answer. Michael had no one to turn to except him, so he lived there as an orphan, an eager student of religion, and helped those around him.

The boy suffered from recurring nightmares his entire life. The pastor had blessed him with holy water time and again, but the visions wouldn't stop. Young Michael often dreamed of a dark shadow chasing him, its eyes red and tunic black. He would wake up screaming, uncertain why the shadow was after him, and yet he knew deep down he had to face this shadow, fight it off, and emerge victorious.

The only recurring dream he had was the memory of his mother's passing. Mary had died a day after she had taken him to the church. The pastor had taken him to the quiet little house where he had grown up, and they buried his mother there. His dream was a repetition of the vision of the day she passed.

Michael had emerged from their home and stepped into the sunlight, and hundreds of seagulls flooded the area. They were perched upon trees, flying in circles around the house. Some soared above, while others settled upon the rickety roof. One gull in particular perched on Michael's shoulder, nuzzling against his neck as if to comfort him.

The pastor had smiled at him. He had seen how animals responded to Michael's presence in a single day. From an alley cat to a wild rabbit, every creature crowded Michael as if he were their companion. He nodded, placing his hand on Michael's shoulder, certain that the boy would never be alone.

*****

Outside the city of Clusium, Nathan loomed over his uncle's corpse, the blade still dripping blood onto the off-white tunic that stretched over his skin. The boy smirked, satisfied. The older man lay dead on the forest floor, his eyes still wide with horror, his mouth still open in an unfinished scream.

Blood now dribbled down his cheek and stained the grass below. His tunic bloomed with red marks, pools of dark blood blooming as the bleeding continued. The fourteen-year-old straightened up, spitting at the body before he stepped away from it.

That's for what you did to me all those years, Nathan seethed. His voice had only just begun to crack, his height a newfound advantage over the man who had tortured him since the day he was born.

Nathan knew nothing of his mother other than the fact that she was a woman of questionable character. The whole village had shamed Sandy for having a child out of wedlock, and she had died during childbirth. She had screamed at everyone who questioned her that she was pure and a virgin, but nobody seemed to care. Eventually, Nathan stopped too.

Sandy's brother, David, had no choice but to deal with the child his sister had left behind. David had adored his sister, even when the whole village had questioned her, but after her passing, the man looked at the final reminder of his sister and felt nothing but hatred.

His hatred manifested in different ways—sometimes, it was screaming at Nathan whenever he cried, and other times he would deny his nephew food. When Nathan turned six, David's abuse turned physical. Nathan grew up without an ounce of tenderness in his life.

David had taken him hunting. Nathan remembered the last time he had done that two years ago. His uncle had abandoned him in the forest, and the boy had cried, screamed, and begged for forgiveness. By the time David returned to get him, Nathan had gone mute.

Nathan had just turned fourteen, and David had decided to take him hunting again. Nathan had tucked a knife into his trousers before they left, uncertain why he felt the need to arm himself, but he felt stronger with it.

The blade was a comfort to him. All David had to do was look at him wrong. His uncle's demeanor had suddenly shifted in the forest, speaking to Nathan gently, idly touching him. David's hand would graze his shoulder, bare arm, and face almost lovingly. Nathan fought off the bile that rose in his throat.

David had gotten too close. Nathan could smell his breath. He felt his hand on his thigh. That was enough.

The next thing he knew, David was sprawled on the forest floor, eyes vacant.

Nathan left his corpse there to rot. No one in the village asked any questions, and he continued living out his life in the small cottage that was his home. He would visit the city frequently, steal, and barter for supplies. People knew him as a troublemaker, but his charm was unmatched even then. Girls would shamelessly flirt back, and boys would welcome him into their groups.

The summer Nathan turned sixteen, he was chopping wood in the forest near his house. He had wandered closer to the city and the castle of King Lars but paid no mind to it.

The castle was beyond the walls, the lives within it foreign to him. Nathan was no stranger to wandering, and the sounds of the forest were his only definition of home. A little after noon, Nathan had heard shouts and yells coming from up ahead. Curious, the young man chased the sounds, hearing a creature's growl among the screaming.

Nathan peered from around a tree and spotted two men, father and son from the resemblance, crouching behind a large boulder, swords gripped in their shaking hands.

He smiled, amused. He cast his gaze around for the threat in question and spotted a wild boar thrashing through the trees, its head tucked as it charged forward blindly. Nathan stepped into the clearing, inviting the boar with his presence.

The creature froze and looked at him, stopping in its tracks. Nathan motioned at it, challenging the boar to come at him. The boar charged again, and Nathan stepped aside in time for it to collide with the massive tree trunk behind him. The creature slumped, dazed by the impact.

Nathan reached for the blade tucked at his side and drove it into the boar's skull.

There, he snorted, dusting off his hands.

When he turned around, the father and son had come out of their hiding spot. What's your name, boy? the older man asked.

What's it to you?

You cannot speak to the king like that, the younger boy snapped.

King? Nathan's brows shot up. Where are all your men? Surely no king wanders the forest alone.

A king does as he pleases. Sometimes, he requires a respite. The older man smiled. I am King Lars Porsena of the Etruscans.

Your Majesty. Nathan nodded. The prince looked baffled by his lack of decorum.

Where are you from, son?

I have no home, Nathan replied, turning around so he could be on his way.

Come with us, the king called out behind him, making him freeze in his tracks. You would make a fine warrior.

And that he did. Nathan took the king up on his offer and accepted training from the best Etruscan warriors the kingdom had to offer. Nathan's hot temper was nothing compared to his skills as a fighter, and by the time the boy turned eighteen, he had earned himself a place as an officer in the Etruscan army. He was popular among the men for his sharp wit and quick temper, and the entire kingdom knew of Lars's soft spot for him.

Nathan resided in the castle instead of the barracks, which was a good thing, he thought upon reflection. No roommate or soldier would want to put up with his night terrors. Nathan would have nightmares often, and he would wake up screaming, sweating, and in tears.

The young man would wash himself at the basin in the corner of his room and perch in the wide window of his room. He would let the nighttime breeze cool him down while his thoughts wandered. Nothing could cure him of the sadness he was cursed with. Nothing could erase the sixteen years of suffering, not even the respect of an officer or a place in the castle.

Nothing would rid him of his agony. Nathan knew his sadness would follow him like a curse. He had tried time and again to extricate himself from the inherent rage and madness within him, but his penchant for chaos persisted. The Etruscan warrior knew he was destined to only know suffering, whether by inflicting pain or having it inflicted upon him.

*****

When Michael reached adulthood, he felt a powerful pull toward the military. He was already an orphan with no familial attachments, so it only made sense for him to enlist after his time at the church. He wanted to serve his people in more ways than one, and what could be better than protecting them?

Michael was loyal to the men around him, and although he had only one battle under his belt at nineteen, he had still shown his impeccable bravery and mettle in it. As an infantryman, he had stepped up and done more than was required of him. He had stood out even to his legionary commander, a busy man who was far too senior to look after new recruits. But Michael's dedication and fervor brought him into the focus of many.

Michael and Nathan lived lives that both brought them together yet set them apart. While one thrived after a life of loss and grief, the other was haunted by it. Both men wound up in the military, outmatching their peers in both skills and intelligence.

But Michael and Nathan fought battles no one else knew of, fighting shadows in their sleep, haunted by grief and the unsettling feeling of being watched. Michael's waking hours were spent in an exhaustive search for crimson eyes. Nathan tossed and turned in his sleep with visions of hellfire and the mysterious silhouette of an unknown warrior.

Chapter 2

Gods of Men

There had been rumors that the prosperous city of Janiculum stood at the cusp of war, teetering at the edge of chaos, moments from falling and drowning in utter mayhem. These rumors had been birthed by the young soldiers that guarded the city's gates, their gazes spanning across the Tiber River and its shore on the other end. The horizon was a dark-green blur, the forest beyond stretching outward infinitely.

The young men were paranoid as the elders argued. Fresh recruits were always eager for action but never prepared. The soldiers were probably spreading distress and unease because they had the power to shape the narrative. Still, some chose to believe that the boys had seen a plume of smoke rising from the dense foliage—a military encampment.

As the sun reflected off the Tiber River, the Pons Sublicius stood in all its glory upon it. Its wooden beams were lined with metal, the bridge itself a testament to the craftsmanship of the Romans who built it. It had been a simple structure at first, but over time, as the worshippers of Janus thrived and grew in number, the bridge required reinforcements.

It was grander now, strong enough to support fleets of heavy carts and hordes of horses that came and went from the city. Moreover, the bridge linked the fortified city of Janiculum to Pons Aemilius. The city itself was garrisoned by a circular wall upon which soldiers stood guard, raising the gates upon the return of traders and warriors.

If the Pons Sublicius ever faced any damage from seasonal floods, the citizens of Janiculum would immediately dedicate themselves to worship and the bridge's repair. Blinded by faith, they took the damage as a sign of great ire and divine rage.

Cato had stood outside his house, looking over the city of Rome, which he had grown up in. His hair was graying at the temples now, and he was no longer needed as a commander. Instead, he spent his days teaching other young men about the history of the city. He was now considered a reliable source of information and was held in high regard as someone with great divine knowledge.

The sun had yet to rise over the forest beyond the city. Its light had not changed the color of the river yet. The sky, however, grew paler as the deep purple of the night faded and gave way to a gentler, softer peachy hue. Cato could feel the morning breeze in his hair. He took a deep breath, brows furrowing in confusion when he picked up the smell of smoke.

It was pronounced and came in with the gust that blew through the city. It came from the forest in the north. Cato stiffened. The boys had been right. Cato's grip on his staff tightened; he had to wake Michael.

When he turned away from the scenes of the city and the breeze that promised anarchy, a murder of crows burst forth from the forest, flooding the sky and piercing the ears of the citizens of Janiculum with their caws, obscuring the morning light. The thunderous beat of their wings shattered the morning silence.

Michael

I woke up to the sound of something banging against my door. Startled, I sat up in bed, vaguely aware of the sweat that drenched my body. It was normal now. My life had felt strange for the past few days. I remember standing outside my house, staring blankly until someone told me my wife had died. I walked on muscle memory alone, surviving on silence and small talk.

I was in the army, apparently. I had a platoon of recruits to train and mentor. When I was told I had to spar with them to teach them how to fight, my fists and legs moved on their own accord. Every night I would fall into a dreamless sleep, and every dawn, I would awake with a thin film of sweat coating my body. My body would remain cold, and the sweat would continue to be an inconvenience as I busied myself with work.

I grabbed the first tunic I could find, pulling it over my head as I walked to the door. I opened it and saw Cato standing before me. His shoulders were slumped with both distress and old age. The staff in his hand was poised to hit my door again. He lowered it slowly.

Cato. I looked at the flustered old man in surprise. Is everything okay?

Crows, he panted.

Had he run here? I wondered, but I was not prepared for the next word out of his mouth.

Battle.

I ushered him inside, closing the door behind us as he settled down on the stool. My house did not have much to offer. There were three stools that surrounded a table, a clay stove behind it, with a few dishes resting on the floor next to it. In another corner was a wooden crate with my belongings and my bed beside it.

I had moved Irene's things into a darker corner of the house, where I would not have to look at them and wonder about a life I could no longer recall. I had only kept her palla nearby, draped over her side of the bed. The creamy silken texture of the cloth was a comfort to reach out to at night. The only clear vision I had was of her sitting by the window as dusk fell, the candlelight bathing the shawl in a golden blaze.

I looked at Cato; his steady disposition was visibly shaken as he stared at a spot on my floor. His eyes were wide with fear. I sat down on the floor before him, trying not to startle him.

Cato, I tried to keep my tone soft, what's happened?

Michael, the boys were right. There's smoke coming from the north. It's closer this time. The scent of it is settling over the city. He finally looked at me, pleading. We must prepare for battle. The city is at risk.

I nodded, humoring him for the sake of getting more information. Who would want to attack Janiculum?

The Etruscans, he whispered. Tell Valerius and Lucretius too.

Surely the Etruscans were nothing compared to us, I thought. Our Roman influence continued to spread far and wide with every passing day and every victorious battle they won. Regions continued to progress easily after surrendering to the might of the Roman empire and immediately saw the forfeiting of their independence bear fruit in the form of their prosperity. What would one battle do to Janiculum? We were well guarded.

However, I didn't voice my opinion in so many words.

Surely, we can take them on, Cato. Why are you so afraid? I asked him again, confusion evident on my face.

Crows, Michael. Lots of them.

Nathan

I didn't exactly want to get wrapped up in all this war business, but when you climb up the ranks at the royal court of Clusium and the Etruscan king comes to you for advice, you don't exactly say no.

My journey up the ranks had been an efficient one. I started by corrupting a general's daughter, misleading a rebellious prince, and framing the king's advisor. I pulled a few strings for some happy accidents. The accidents in question, of course, were unfortunate events for everyone involved. Nevertheless, I conveniently positioned myself in the right place at the right time, and here I stand before the Etruscan king, preparing him to lay siege to Janiculum.

I remember the princess' appalled face when I confessed one of my sins to her. I had told her about how I had goaded her lover, an innocent, fresh-faced knight by the name of Cassius, into delivering a letter. It was a simple task, but the recipient was none other than Lady Eveline, who presided over the local brothel. Cassius had come back debauched, drunk, and disloyal.

She had slapped me, of course, but I had gained a friend in the form of Cassius. He was much more fun when he wasn't wound up so tight anyway. I hadn't felt guilty about breaking the princess' heart or orchestrating the untimely demise of the king's advisor. In fact, these things came to me almost naturally.

I felt no remorse. I knew most women found me despicable, but it didn't matter to me. They could be charmed back into my arms in a heartbeat. I had no regrets about it.

So I found myself beside the Etruscan king, Porsena, who, with the help of an exiled, rebellious prince, decided to reclaim Janiculum. I had been with the young prince, egging him on, dropping a helpful idea here, a seed of chaos there. I wasn't manipulating him, not exactly.

The plan was to conquer Janiculum on the path to taking over Rome. The Romans wouldn't be able to hold off an entire army emerging from the forests beyond, especially when Janiculum had not seen chaos in years.

I smiled at the preparations that unfolded at our military encampment. I would simply nudge the men in any direction they would go, regardless.

Michael

Cato's word was not to be taken lightly. When I alerted Valerius and Lucretius about the danger he had foreseen, a horn had blown throughout Janiculum. Women and children fled the city over the Pons Sublicius bridge and headed toward Rome, where they would find refuge. The news of an enemy army marching closer had spread through the city like wildfire, and the evacuation took place swiftly.

They were hoping to be as far away from the bloodshed as they could manage.

Protecting Pons Sublicius was our first priority, but in order to limit the enemy's access to Rome, we had to burn all the bridges that linked our city to the rest of the world. Pons Sublicius was too sacred to destroy, so we decided to let the bridge remain untouched. It would function as the only point of access to the city and streamline the influx of enemy soldiers.

Soldiers rushed to duty, setting fire to every link that Janiculum had to Rome. Smoke rose from both directions now, and the city disappeared behind the rising smoke. We had worried about our visibility being affected, but the gods seemed to favor us then. A gentle breeze began to blow, clearing the skies so we could face the enemy.

I worked with Lucretius to finalize our plan of attack. First, we would establish a line of battle across the river bend, preventing their access to the bridge. Then we would finish them off before they could even get to our shore. Lucretius and Valerius would command the line of battle, while I, along with other generals of noble rank, Lartius, Aquilinus, and Horatius, would oversee the entrance of the bridge. Two smaller legions would accompany us in case things began to get out of hand.

Our armories were emptied as spears, arrows, swords, and shields found their rightful owners. Mothers and wives waved tearfully from their balconies, and children rushed to hug their brothers and fathers one last time. I cast a gaze at the slowly thinning crowd, scanning each face as we began to file out of the city. Then a sudden realization surprised me. I hadn't known my eyes had been searching for Irene.

As our troops fell into formation on my