20. CORIOLANUS

CORIOLANUS

The Past

A FTER the victory at Antium, the gods continued marching their mortal army toward Rome, attacking anyone loyal to the Roman autocracy. Volscians seeking revenge for Antium’s fall were also swiftly dealt with.

Weeks turned into months, and the army’s numbers swelled as more and more rebellious and disenfranchised individuals joined their campaign. With each successive victory, the gods’ unrelenting military force proved too powerful for even the most fortified and well-prepared towns, villas, and smaller Roman- held cities; all eventually succumbed to their might, including the retaken Volcian city Corioli.

Olympius did not care where the human fodder came from for his brigade as long as they hated Rome or liked gold enough to fight his enemy, regardless of political interest. As the war had yet to require his godly power to achieve victory, Olympius remained absent from the battlefield. He was content to leave the fighting to his very capable warrior-god.

Though Coriolanus was still honing his godly abilities, such as the subtle art of mind-walking, Olympius often heard the far-away chattering of other gods, both bitter condemnations and excited interest around Antium’s fall and what Rome’s inevitable response would be.

Despite the looming danger, the Roman Senate had yet to dispatch their main forces to confront this imminent threat. Instead, they repeatedly sent smaller battalions, each of which met with disastrous defeat.

Olympius and Coriolanus had yet to encounter any immortal interference.

However, what Coriolanus easily gleaned without the need for extraordinary talents was Olympius’ increasing zealotry: he hungered for victory and craved Roman blood. The fanaticism even worried him, a trained soldier and seasoned General designed for war.

Coriolanus had forgiven Olympius for what he believed to be the elder god’s transgression involving his mother and Aufidius. However, he could not shake the feeling that the older gods, though he had yet to meet any, probably often acted with arrogance or apathy without considering their actions’ practical and emotional consequences. He did not care for the idea of older immortals operating as if they inherently knew better.

Coriolanus firmly believed that if Olympius persisted in this behaviour, it would inevitably damage their relationship.

The warrior-god’s love for Olympius remained strong, but he was now guarded, concealing specific thoughts and emotions even during their frequent love-making. Olympius seemed oblivious to this change, which deeply wounded the young god.

At the same time as Coriolanus observed Olympius’ shift towards zealotry, he noticed a corresponding change in his lover’s demeanour. The older god had always been proud, though often aloof, even pompous, but what was once a magnetic deportment had grown colder, more demanding.

Although he could always feel his Maker’s deep love for him, their distinct personalities often clashed and caused issues.

For Olympius’ sake, Coriolanus continued to try to see honour in what they were doing, but he was becoming increasingly disillusioned. The incessant pursuit of vengeance was hollowing him out from within.

Coriolanus saw that this bloody campaign followed the same pattern for him as his hatred toward Aufidius: he felt wholly disconnected from their pursuit of revenge. Harbouring a grudge from his mortal life felt impractical. Carrying over resentment from mortality was a burden he believed held back a god’s true potential to embrace what immortality offered.

Coriolanus understood that what had happened to Olympius in his final mortal days was terrible, but these were events from centuries back. No one except Olympius was alive to remember or care about them.

And now they were nearly at Rome’s doorstep, ready to engage in a bloody war that the world had not seen since the days of ancient Troy. Coriolanus envisioned finally encountering the bulk of the well-trained Roman Legion at any time. But they were ready. The night would soon come, and it was their ally.

While Olympius waited out the day in a villa near Rome’s gates, Coriolanus, on horseback, drove their army forth, his battle armour shining in the sunlight. While he embraced his affinity for darkness and had learned to manipulate it, being in the sunlight did not bother him. His powers were weaker, naturally, but that had yet to be a detriment.

So, while their battles had to be fought at night so Olympius could be present, nothing stopped Coriolanus, as Gaius, from moving him and his men about day or night.

For their night raids, the Roman Senate unceremoniously named them “The Bloody Marching Darkness.”

Coriolanus understood that Olympius believed the reckoning he had waited hundreds of years for was before him and that nothing, including the entire Roman Legion, could stand in their way. Nothing would dare .

As the warrior-god gazed out upon the quiet valley before him, he noticed his horse sweating in the blazing sun, which was odd as dusk was soon upon them.

At least, it should be.

How was it possible that the light was still so bright overhead? It perplexed Coriolanus. Had he not paid enough attention as he rode to the sun’s placement and the direction of the shadows upon the earth? No, the sun is where it ought to be. And far over yonder, the sky has dimmed. But not here. Does the light and heat follow us? Impossible!

But then, looking straight forward, Coriolanus’ keen eyesight spotted something in the distance; it was the potential reason why things appeared not as they should. He also comprehended that those who would dare to thwart Olympius’ plan for conquest had finally made their move.

There, awash in daylight, five mighty Olympians stood tall in the middle of the road that led to Rome.

Coriolanus held up his right arm, signalling his troops to cease marching. He instructed his second-in-command to keep the soldiers back while he investigated a potential problem ahead. The soldier obeyed but was perplexed by his superior’s statement; he could see nothing but the road before them.

Channeling the power in his Titan-inherited blood to project an aura of utmost confidence and strength, Coriolanus mustered his courage and prodded his steed forward with a gentle tug. Though fear had been trained out of him by the Roman military, he was not so arrogant or foolish to think caution was not warranted. Although he would fight back if required with everything he had, the warrior-god knew he stood little chance against such a formidable assembly, especially without Olympius beside him.

“Godling, go no further!” a god’s thunderous voice rang out.

Coriolanus heard the command both with his ears and in his mind, and it was painful. He stopped abruptly but held his ground as the gods moved closer to him. Their forms were cast in light so bright their faces appeared obscured.

The warrior-god understood well that it was a ploy to instill fear and awe in those they considered their inferiors, as was referring to him as a godling, but all it did was cause him to smirk. Coriolanus was unimpressed by their tricks.

“Do you not know our laws, godling?” the helmeted goddess gently asked as she moved to the front of the group, a majestic bird of prey perched upon her shoulder.

Coriolanus was uncertain how to answer. He did not know the laws, as Olympius rarely spoke about other immortals or their governance, so he remained silent.

“I see,” the goddess stated solemnly. “Mortal shall fight mortal, godling, and man shall govern over man; we gods no longer act directly in their wars or politics. From the tragedy at Troy, we gods have learned that it is best to be above, not amid. Seeking amusement, yes, we influence, manipulate, and provide gifts and insight to them from a lofty position or through our oracles. Still, except under exceptional circumstances, we do not actively involve ourselves in mortal affairs, especially large-scale undertakings.

“Your Maker, Olympius, child of the Titan Coeus, is justifiably aggrieved, but his desire for revenge for these long-past misdeeds is still not a matter worthy enough for us to grant an exception to our rules.”

“Not that he ever asked for one, the disrespectful mutt!” a different, angrier god shouted. “War is my domain!”

This god’s voice chilled Coriolanus’ skin. It was like the sound of metal against metal to him, sword against sword. The warrior-god knew who this fierce immortal was without question, as he had glorified this war deity in his mortal life.

“We shall waste no more time discussing this!” the thunderous voice boomed. “Olympus has decided. Your army will disperse, and this vendetta against Rome, of which we are its patron gods, shall proceed no further.”

“Will you obey, godling?” the soft-spoken goddess asked. Though her voice carried like a song, power and authority resonated in the tone.

Coriolanus was uncertain about what he should do. He had pledged to Olympius that he would see this through. If he were to withdraw now and disband his army, which he had spent two years building and leading, it would be an act of weakness and disrespect to his Maker in deference to another’s authority.

No, these gods would not order him around; who were they to think they had dominion over him? Coriolanus only knew them from his mortal religion. He wondered if the stories of their great power might be exaggerations told by poets and orators, puppets these narcissistic immortals likely manipulated.

Coriolanus could not abandon the mission, even if he felt it was no longer meaningful to him. It meant too much to Olympius, and his Maker meant everything to him. No, he would betray neither trust nor love, remaining loyal even in the face of potent threats and danger.

“I will not,” the warrior-god replied, his voice steady and unyielding.

The goddess whispered, “So be it.” Her words carried a weight of sadness and finality.

Then, with a grand thunderclap, Olympus went to war.