Befitting A Consul
Title: Befitting A Consul
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13, for gore
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters
Caesar sat in a chair waiting for the call from Octavian to come out onto the balcony. Below him, he could hear the clatter of arms and horses as preparations for his Triumph filled the streets of Rome. His Triumph. This was his finest hour, the one thing he had spent his life fighting for, and now it was here. In less than two hours, he would ride through the streets of Rome, hailed as her savior and deliverer, to witness the execution of a man whose only crime had been to take up arms against him. The life of one for the good of many- it was a hard lesson, but one he'd learned well. One he had yet to teach Octavian, but he must, if the boy was ever to rule Rome the way Caesar hoped he would. He thought back to that morning in Alexandria when the lesson had truly sunk in for him.
Pompey's death had come as a shock. Instead of dying honorably on the battlefield, as a Roman should, he had been hacked to pieces, butchered by assassins hired by the Egyptian boy-king. And beheaded, like a common criminal! Then, to add insult to injury, the child had talked of making him into a puppet, turning the great Pompey Magnus into a plaything for his entertainment. And since he was revered as a god, this spoiled, impudent child got his way. Indeed, he and his eunuch advisors had seemed surprised at Caesar's rage- no doubt they had expected to be thanked, just like the grovelling toadies they surrounded themselves with! Well, he would see that they paid for it- Egypt would soon find out the price for harming a Roman citizen, and Caesar would take great joy in making sure it was a lesson they did not soon forget.
Caesar picked up his goblet and drained it, then set it down and walked over to the platter they had carried out of the audience chamber. Carefully, he drew back the cloth and looked down upon the face of his enemy, his fellow consul, his former son-in-law, and friend. He gave silent thanks that the eyes were closed and he was spared having to look into them. He wasn't sure he could have stood seeing the glazed look of death in them. The mottled look of the flesh told a story of death some time before Caesar had arrived, and he stared at it for a moment, before saying, “Pompey, my old friend, how has it come to this?”
There was no answer, of course, and Caesar carefully covered him back up with a sigh. He hadn't wanted it to end this way. He had hoped to bring their conflict to a peaceful resolution, had wanted to spare the citizens of Rome the grief that this kind of bloodshed would bring, but now he saw that that plan had failed the instant Pompey and his allies fled Rome. Caesar's noble dreams had been nothing but a fool's paradise, and he knew now that this had been the predestined result from the start. Nothing he could have done would have changed this- he had to accept that, and trust in the gods that had shaped his path from birth. Turning away, he went to wash and dress for Pompey's funeral rites. He had promised that he would carry them out, and he meant to see that Pompey was sent to the underworld with the grandest funeral possible, given the circumstances.
Posca waited outside the tent, and Caesar nodded to him, watching as the slave hurried inside to retrieve the gruesome remains of the great general and senator. When he returned, Caesar drew the pristine white priest's cloth over his head and led the way to the funeral pyre. They had set it up a small ways from camp, and they moved towards it, a somber procession that was not nearly the state funeral that Pompey had deserved. Caesar took the platter from Posca when they arrived at the small, hastily erected stand, and laid it on top of the sticks. He turned to take a torch from one of the other slaves, then held one hand up and began the prayers that would see Pompey on his way to the underworld. He touched the torch to the sticks, then stepped back, tears streaking down his cheeks as he watched fire begin to consume what was left of his former mentor and friend.
A hand upon his shoulder pulled him back to reality from the memories that he had found himself lost in. Caesar looked up to see Octavian standing before him, an acolyte by his side. “Uncle, we're ready,” the boy said.
Caesar nodded and followed Octavian out onto the balcony, where the priests and his nephew began the ceremonial blessing. Octavian dipped his hand into the bowl the acolyte held, coating it in the warm, freshly-spilled blood, then began to paint his uncle's face, turning him into the embodiment of the god Mars. The crowd roared when they saw his face painted red, their shouts rising as Caesar proceeded down to the waiting chariot.
He stepped inside and held his head high, so that the golden crown above seemed to almost rest directly on the top of his head. “Memento mori,” the slave behind him whispered, and Caesar drew a sharp breath as the words sent a cold shiver down his spine. Was he, too, destined to end his days like Pompey, a despised figure, the people that cheered him so loudly now clamoring for his blood? Or would he be able to rise above such things, to find immortality in the hearts and minds of his people, his legacy secured forever? He could do it, he knew he could. He just needed the time to teach Octavian, to ensure that his nephew and heir was ready when the time came for him to assume his rightful place as ruler of Rome.
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13, for gore
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters
Caesar sat in a chair waiting for the call from Octavian to come out onto the balcony. Below him, he could hear the clatter of arms and horses as preparations for his Triumph filled the streets of Rome. His Triumph. This was his finest hour, the one thing he had spent his life fighting for, and now it was here. In less than two hours, he would ride through the streets of Rome, hailed as her savior and deliverer, to witness the execution of a man whose only crime had been to take up arms against him. The life of one for the good of many- it was a hard lesson, but one he'd learned well. One he had yet to teach Octavian, but he must, if the boy was ever to rule Rome the way Caesar hoped he would. He thought back to that morning in Alexandria when the lesson had truly sunk in for him.
Pompey's death had come as a shock. Instead of dying honorably on the battlefield, as a Roman should, he had been hacked to pieces, butchered by assassins hired by the Egyptian boy-king. And beheaded, like a common criminal! Then, to add insult to injury, the child had talked of making him into a puppet, turning the great Pompey Magnus into a plaything for his entertainment. And since he was revered as a god, this spoiled, impudent child got his way. Indeed, he and his eunuch advisors had seemed surprised at Caesar's rage- no doubt they had expected to be thanked, just like the grovelling toadies they surrounded themselves with! Well, he would see that they paid for it- Egypt would soon find out the price for harming a Roman citizen, and Caesar would take great joy in making sure it was a lesson they did not soon forget.
Caesar picked up his goblet and drained it, then set it down and walked over to the platter they had carried out of the audience chamber. Carefully, he drew back the cloth and looked down upon the face of his enemy, his fellow consul, his former son-in-law, and friend. He gave silent thanks that the eyes were closed and he was spared having to look into them. He wasn't sure he could have stood seeing the glazed look of death in them. The mottled look of the flesh told a story of death some time before Caesar had arrived, and he stared at it for a moment, before saying, “Pompey, my old friend, how has it come to this?”
There was no answer, of course, and Caesar carefully covered him back up with a sigh. He hadn't wanted it to end this way. He had hoped to bring their conflict to a peaceful resolution, had wanted to spare the citizens of Rome the grief that this kind of bloodshed would bring, but now he saw that that plan had failed the instant Pompey and his allies fled Rome. Caesar's noble dreams had been nothing but a fool's paradise, and he knew now that this had been the predestined result from the start. Nothing he could have done would have changed this- he had to accept that, and trust in the gods that had shaped his path from birth. Turning away, he went to wash and dress for Pompey's funeral rites. He had promised that he would carry them out, and he meant to see that Pompey was sent to the underworld with the grandest funeral possible, given the circumstances.
Posca waited outside the tent, and Caesar nodded to him, watching as the slave hurried inside to retrieve the gruesome remains of the great general and senator. When he returned, Caesar drew the pristine white priest's cloth over his head and led the way to the funeral pyre. They had set it up a small ways from camp, and they moved towards it, a somber procession that was not nearly the state funeral that Pompey had deserved. Caesar took the platter from Posca when they arrived at the small, hastily erected stand, and laid it on top of the sticks. He turned to take a torch from one of the other slaves, then held one hand up and began the prayers that would see Pompey on his way to the underworld. He touched the torch to the sticks, then stepped back, tears streaking down his cheeks as he watched fire begin to consume what was left of his former mentor and friend.
A hand upon his shoulder pulled him back to reality from the memories that he had found himself lost in. Caesar looked up to see Octavian standing before him, an acolyte by his side. “Uncle, we're ready,” the boy said.
Caesar nodded and followed Octavian out onto the balcony, where the priests and his nephew began the ceremonial blessing. Octavian dipped his hand into the bowl the acolyte held, coating it in the warm, freshly-spilled blood, then began to paint his uncle's face, turning him into the embodiment of the god Mars. The crowd roared when they saw his face painted red, their shouts rising as Caesar proceeded down to the waiting chariot.
He stepped inside and held his head high, so that the golden crown above seemed to almost rest directly on the top of his head. “Memento mori,” the slave behind him whispered, and Caesar drew a sharp breath as the words sent a cold shiver down his spine. Was he, too, destined to end his days like Pompey, a despised figure, the people that cheered him so loudly now clamoring for his blood? Or would he be able to rise above such things, to find immortality in the hearts and minds of his people, his legacy secured forever? He could do it, he knew he could. He just needed the time to teach Octavian, to ensure that his nephew and heir was ready when the time came for him to assume his rightful place as ruler of Rome.