12. OLYMPIUS

OLYMPIUS

The Past

O LYMPIUS gazed down upon the fierce battle with pure joy from atop a hill no grander than the next but away from the blood and gore. Antium was burning; the intense flames danced from the lowest structure to the tallest tower, illuminating the night sky. This was just the beginning of his campaign of revenge.

While he took stock of the brutality below him, weighing the pros and cons of the attack’s efficiency, the god had no desire to participate in the conflict actively. He would only involve himself should his power be needed, though that seemed unlikely. His forces were mighty.

And amid a warzone or not, Olympius preferred his garments to remain as clean as possible.

The god wore a Grecian-made tunic of silk damask, its colour black as pitch. Like his Maker before him, Olympius highly favoured the Greeks, especially their culture and language; unlike Coriolanus, he never used Roman nomenclature for his fellow immortals.

Olympius’ heavy wool cloak, also of Grecian design, was dyed a radiant blue and trimmed in gold and leopard skin; it was attached to the tunic by a polished silver brooch in the moon’s shape. The blue hue honoured the goddess who had aided him in his quest for freedom, while the brooch was originally a gift to Coeus from his twin, Phoebe, which Olympius appropriated and wore boldly.

Was he not Lord of the Night, after all? He was certain Coeus’ dust, long now upon the wind, did not need such exquisite embellishments.

Though Olympius wore well-made leather sandals, their use for protection from the rigours of travelling hard roads and irritants like pebbles and rocks was inconsequential. He was of Titan blood and haughty, hovering above the ground under his godly power; his feet seldom touched the soil and stone tread by mortals and beasts. Fine marble was the exception, as he appreciated its cold, smooth flatness.

Upon the emergence of night, Olympius had watched proudly as his warrior-god led their assembled army to war. The aggressive men, all hungry for blood, were gathered from near and far. All the corners of Italia, from Ostia to Syracuse, had been scoured for soldiers; even Greece was a source for recruitment.

During the past year, the group’s leader, a man they called Gaius , had forged them into an effective fighting force. None knew he was actually a supposed dead and infamous Roman General using shadow and speed to obscure his facial features.

Since being reborn a god, Coriolanus had abandoned his mortal identity, though he still called himself by that earned name, but only in the presence of Olympius, never in front of his men.

Not that Olympius showed any interest in interacting with mortals anymore. No prayer, caught by godly hearing or through mind-touch, had been answered since Veturia’s last plea, a visit Coriolanus knew nothing about.

Their encampment moved frequently to avoid Rome’s watchful eye. During this time, Coriolanus kept his men happy with more than coin, using several methods, including food, wine, and what Olympius called “mortal debauchery.”

From the start of the siege, a surprise attack, Olympius watched gleefully as his soldiers hurled countless sharp javelins and launched hundreds of whistling arrows at the guards upon Antium’s defensive wall. He grinned wide when the brutal Calvary men finally overwhelmed the central gates and charged into the city upon strong, well-trained steeds to destroy their enemy, hands gripping steel, whip or torch.

Coriolanus, at the forefront of the assault, led with a spirited determination, ensuring Gaius’ bravery shone like a beacon. He had no desire to remain at Olympius’ side, safe from the battle, overseeing the conflict from a secure vantage point. Fearless, he charged headlong into the brutal melee, knowing he was immune to death at the hands of mortals. Also, the warrior-god was eager to confront the pompous Aufidius for his betrayal.

Coriolanus had beseeched his Maker to allow him to begin their war at Aufidius’ doorstep; Antium was the betrayer’s home.

Although the city was of little importance to Olympius, as it was part of the sovereign state of Volsci and not under Roman rule, he agreed it would be an excellent place to begin before moving against the traitorous Republic to the north. It would be a chance to test their forces’ mettle, fortitude, and how well they took direction.

To Coriolanus, the Volsci deserved his spite nearly as much as Rome did.

Upon Aufidius’ death, Olympius planned to have his great army move from town to town, carving a bloody path toward Rome. And if more souls dissatisfied and outraged by Rome’s arrogance and cruel, oppressive rule wished to enlist, all the better.

As he marvelled at the fire and smoke billowing out from the city, painting the starry sky in a mosaic of red, orange, and gray-black hues, Olympius felt a sudden whoosh of air around him. The air swept his cloak, causing it to dance in the moonlight before eventually settling.

Coriolanus was suddenly—and unexpectedly—at his side.

With a look of confusion, Olympius silently questioned his paramour’s return so quickly from the still ongoing battle. It would be some time before Antium fell utterly, and did Coriolanus not wish to lead the onslaught?

From sheer curiosity, Olympius looked over Coriolanus’ crimson-dyed paludamentum. He noted at first glance that the heavy cloak, while dusted with cinders and the expected grime caused by battle, had very few blood stains.

Upon a more thorough examination, he saw nothing Coriolanus wore, from his linen body armour to his bronze chest plate to his leather baldric, which carried his steel, sported much mortal blood.

Olympius was about to enter his warrior-god’s thoughts to determine the issue but quickly remembered Coriolanus had insisted he never do so without permission.

“If you feel any guilt around claiming your revenge, my love, do not,” Olympius calmly stated, choosing words over thought to express his concern. “Guilt is a useless emotion to a god. Death is no less than what that traitorous bastard deserved, though you should have lengthened his suffering before killing him. This return feels premature.

“Or is that the problem? Have you spoiled your fun by acting impulsively, allowing rage to get the better of you? A quick kill is merciful and rarely satisfying.”

Coriolanus stared intently down at the battle but said nothing to his Maker.

“What is with this ridiculous silence?”

“I did not kill him. ”

Furrowing his brows, Olympius frowned. “What! Did your lion not betray you, envious of how the people loved you?! Did he not condemn you to death?! I was there, Coriolanus, watching from the shadows as your oh-so-noble General stood on top of your corpse in triumph. Oh, how I wanted to send the darkness to rip him apart. I held back, knowing you would desire that pleasure as an immortal. I do not understand any of this. Beloved, this was why we came here!”

Olympius threw his arm out with a grand flourish, moving it and his cloak in a sweeping motion to encompass the vista of Antium’s collapse before them.

“I hurt him, yes, as he deserved,” the warrior-god admitted through clenched teeth. “I effortlessly picked up Aufidius as if he weighed no more than a piece of parchment. His fierce struggle meant nothing to me as I hurled him at a thick stone wall. He broke an arm and a leg upon impact, and part of his face was crushed. As he sat there with shattered limbs and torn flesh oozing fluids, he looked nothing like my lion . He was nothing but a terrified, mewling baby, a coward hunched against cold stone and marble.

“Towering over him, I claimed ownership of the ongoing destruction of his city. I cursed the bastard, reminding him of his betrayal of me. I said I would end his miserable, mortal existence, for that I, now a god of vengeance and darkness personified, was a bringer of death.”

“What stopped you?” Olympius questioned harshly. “Make me understand this moment of weakness.” He was sure he had destroyed all frailty in Coriolanus the night of his Becoming, all traces of mortal man’s imperfection.

“After all this time away from Aufidius, time spent with you, my love, I have changed. I felt something wholly unexpected in that moment of revenge against my former lover. Not indifference, certainly not forgiveness, but something other than the expected abject scorn. Anger was there, as was disdain, and though I spoke harsh words of condemnation, as betrayal is unforgivable, the fire to empower them was absent from my inner forge.

“I wondered, in taking the bloody path to revenge, was I reacting the way I thought I should upon seeing him again? Was I simply going through the motions of blood-soaked retribution to honour you, who snatched me from Mors’ grasp and made me immortal? As I gazed upon Aufidius, seeing his broken mortal body and those frightened eyes that held no godly spark, I believed it was true.

“This realization was— unnerving. I was so certain of my feelings just hours earlier, but the hatred was not there upon seeing my betrayer.

“And he was not alone, Olympius. My mother was there. As I wavered on killing him, she appeared in the antechamber, crying at the sight of her son, now removed from death. She had travelled to Antium to tell Aufidius that she beseeched a dark god of vengeance and wrath to save her child, and this god did indeed bring her son back from mortal death. It was abundantly clear that she was speaking about you. ”

Olympius looked on in pure shock. However, before he could explain the situation, Coriolanus raised his hand, commanding his Maker to remain silent as he had more to say.

“My mother had finally left the safety of Rome to come put fear into the arrogant, mighty Aufidius for his betrayal of her son but found a broken man instead. She discovered an unexpected kinship with him, as they both felt deep regret, sorrow, and a desire to rewrite time to have never betrayed me.”

“Lies and deceit, all to save their worthless hides!”

“No, Olympius. I entered their minds and saw the truth of their words, their suffering, and the genuine affection in their hearts. I no longer feel anything remotely like love for either of them, not even a sliver of tenderness or empathy. But the intense hatred I once felt toward them is also absent. I despise their transgressions against me, but I am no longer interested in wasting my time on them. The fuel for my rage has vanished.

“With this new clarity, I see how truly beneath me they both are, how inconsequential, how—” Coriolanus abruptly stopped his oration. “How mortal ,” he snickered, finishing his statement. “I chose to let them live with their human misery.”

Olympius stood stunned, lost for words. All he had known for two hundred years was hatred and a desire for vengeance. The Fates had served Coriolanus the opportunity for his revenge on a gold platter, and to have dismissed it was unfathomable to the god.

“This makes no sense. To leave your enemies with even the slimmest chance for happiness, to forgive themselves and move on, is madness. They deserve a slow, painful death, not compassion. Madness.”

Turning away from Coriolanus, Olympius again focused his penetrating gaze upon the burning city. He wrapped his arms around himself and retreated to his troubled thoughts.

Coriolanus expected this reaction from his Maker toward his choice to spare Aufidius’ life. He wondered—did Olympius only return him to life and make him immortal so he could build the god an army and lead those soldiers against his enemies? Rome was still their joint adversary, and he would stand with Olympius against them, but was that his only purpose?

Was he a pawn and not a partner? Would he be discarded or, worse, destroyed once Rome fell? As mighty as he was, Coriolanus knew he was no match for Olympius.

There was one question the warrior-god had kept inside since first laying eyes on his Maker and truly understanding his godly transformation. It was the most personal and difficult to ask because he truly feared the answer. But there was no other choice; Coriolanus had to know the truth.

“Why me, Olympius? Why did you pick me?”