Ali_Gin

Every civilization in embryo aspires to be Rome while the one on deathbed laments it. Inspired by Rome, Gods’ Gaze is an epic historical fantasy of multiple POVs relying on authentic stratagems of twists and turns. No one gets to Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo out of trouble. 


"All warfare is based on deception, like the theater."


Evoking his late father’s words, Cato Duilius Claudius assumes the alias, Moon Xeator, and he vows to have his vengeance. In the upcoming years, he plots to restore the dual consulship, his father’s legacy, by bringing down the Praetor Magnum and the Triumvirate that slaughtered his family when he was a child. Aware that nothing would crush a man as much as the chink in his own armor, he sows suspicions among his foes and lures them into overreaching. He games the power structure in which all participants are corruptible. Those he keeps around, he taps into their fears, hates, and wants as grist for his mill. He turns his friends into pawns, as does his life a board of chess.


But the game he plays cuts both ways. His vengeance also brings home the bitterest misery, which is to know so much and still have control over so little. And there is no return for him now. He can’t look back as there is nothing behind; nor does he dare look forward, knowing the road ahead. All he has is the time at hand, and it all slips through him into ruins like quicksand. When he trades in what he holds dear only to arrive at his destination, what will he find there when nothing can ease the pain of his losses? 


Fleshed out by his flaws, Xeator never meant to choose good over evil. His journey rings true that every important idea is only valid as in a paradox with an opposing idea, and the power to rise obliterates, too.

Gods' Gaze

The last drops dripped from the wineskin.

Wolves howled from a distance between the sullen crags outlined with jagged pine trees. Eagles squeaked, swooping down on their prey somewhere over the steppe. Against the bluff overlooking the Dam of Uruk and before a rock-cut sepulcher stood a monument ten feet tall circled by six cairns.

Sitting on crossed legs in their grim shadows, he pressed a hand on the cold stone and traced along the epitaph in bas-relief:

HERE LIES GENERAL JULIUS PEMPIOUS GAIUS,

COMMANDER OF THE NORTHERN LEGION.

Acting as if having Lorenzo's best interest, Xeator had convinced him to bury Julius properly after the battle. If Lorenzo could pay his tribute, he would emerge a magnanimous winner before the Renannian people. Not to mention the sine qua non to pacify the men-at-arms of the northern legion, staunch still to their deceased general, and on whom their borders would still depend.

A smile passed those large green eyes as Lorenzo consented with a nod, rendering him almost agreeable.

Xeator felt sickened to the stomach.

Every step he took was to redeem what he had lost, and to make any advancement, he lost more in the process. To get where he wanted, he had traded in his eye, his pride, his brother, his everything, and when he finally got there, what would he possibly find when nothing could ease the pain of his losses?

He poured at the heel of the stone slate. A sniffle turned to a snort that turned to a manic laugh, rending the raw mist in the dead of night. He shuddered, hiding his face behind a hand. His hands wiped down his cheeks. Wine gurgled through the spout slanting above his lips.

I can't kill Ulpius for now, he bit his lip. But I will. Soon. I promise. He ripped the gauze off his hand. The wound from clutching Julius' sword had barely scabbed. He slashed it again on his dagger and squeezed, dribbling blood where the wine had been poured. The soil darkened.

It'll have to take a little longer to dispose of Lorenzo, though. But I will. I promise.

As for me, I'll let your wife decide whether it should be her or your child to put a stop to my heart in whichever way they deem fit.

Wind wailed. Hoofbeats sounded from a distance and drew close. He turned his gaze to the west. An equine glimmer grew large. Sling Silver clopped to his side. He clambered to his feet, his hand reaching for the stallion. His fingers coiled with a numbing pain.

If I touch you now, will my hand turn to dust?

Bitterness seeped through his bones, poisoning his marrow. He withdrew his hand. Careful not to touch the stallion, he slashed the straps to the bridle and pulled the blanket off the horse's back.

"You're free now," he muttered, keeping his head low as he dared not to look the stallion in the eye. "If you ever miss him, you know where to find him." He folded the bridle upon the blanket and laid them before the sepulcher. "Now go."

Sling Silver snorted, his muzzle stroking Xeator's shoulder, warm breath steaming his cheek.

"Go," he crooned, his voice hitched.

The stallion lingered, clopping about. Then, hooves clacked the frosted earth and fastened into the wild.

Xeator picked up the wineskin. His head droned like a hive. Laying a hand upon the stone slate, he choked on the last gulp, his eye glaring at the south.

I will restore the Consulship!

I will not lose everything for nothing!

He wrung his hands, nails delving into palms.

Marcus Cornelius Uranus, I'll bring you to justice!

24. Monument