Chapter 660: Shoot Your Emperor
""S’il en est un parmi vous qui veuille tuer son empereur, le voilà!"
- Napolean Bonaparte, to his soldiers, after returning from Elba during the War of the Seventh Coalition
"Uncle!" Elassona’s nephew had no choice but to shake his uncle violently in the head. "What are you scared of! Look! We are already here! Today is the day, we have no choice for now! Can’t you see, it is either us, or the emperor, if the emperor do not die today, then we will be the one who will be killed! Either here, or in the court room!"
Elassona met his nephew’s gaze, the reality of their predicament etching deeper into his consciousness. The nephew’s words echoed the grim truth that hung over them like a dark cloud, yet Elassona’s fear stemmed from a deeper, more personal knowledge. He understood the man they were about to confront; the emperor was not just any opponent. Over a decade of unbroken victories lay in his wake, a testament to his unmatched strategic mind and indomitable will. The emperor’s reputation as the restorer of the Roman Empire, his calculated yet passionate leadership, had left an indelible mark on Elassona, overshadowing his own ambitions with the weight of history.
Years of separation from the emperor’s direct influence had lulled Elassona into a false sense of security, blinding him to the magnitude of the challenge he now faced.
Meanwhile, Emperor Antonius advanced across the plain, a solitary figure whose presence seemed to command legions. With each step, the air around him thrummed with the power of his legacy, the echo of his past victories resonating like the march of invisible armies. The aura emanating from this single man, forged in the crucible of countless battles and the relentless pursuit of empire, was palpable, enveloping the field in an intangible yet oppressive force.
The message radiated by Antonius’s unwavering advance was unmistakable and resolute: the sovereign of the land, the architect of its rebirth, stood among them. His lone figure on the battlefield was a declaration of his resolve, a silent testament to the years spent sculpting the fate of an empire with the force of his vision and the strength of his arm.
Emperor Antonius, a solitary figure of resolve, continued his march across the no-man’s land that lay between the two armies. Time seemed to stretch and bend around him, each second heavy with anticipation. Neither friend nor foe dared to intercept his path, as if the very ground he tread upon was sacred.
Around him, a sea of archers, crossbowmen, and gunners—veterans of many battles under his command—stood frozen, their weapons unready, their spirits conflicted. The air was thick with the weight of their hesitation, a testament to the emperor’s enduring influence over the hearts of those who had once served beside him. Commanders, coerced or bribed into rebellion by Elassona, found themselves caught in a moment of stark realisation, their previous convictions crumbling under the gravity of the moment. Regret and fear mingled in their eyes as they gazed upon the advancing emperor, whose presence illuminated the battlefield with an intangible radiance, eclipsing the sun itself in their perception.
In stark contrast to the veterans’ reverence, Elassona’s nephew was consumed by desperation and a reckless desire for survival. Unburdened by loyalty to the emperor or an understanding of the deep-rooted respect that stayed the veterans’ hands, he saw only the path of assassination as his means of escape from the ignominy of rebellion.
His voice, tinged with hysteria, cut through the tense silence. "My archers! To me!" he commanded, his blade raised high as a beacon of his resolve. The archers under Elassona’s banner, their morale eroded by doubt, reluctantly nocked their arrows, caught in the tumult of their own conflicted emotions.
"Prepare to fire on my mark!" The nephew’s voice was a raw edge of panic and determination, his eyes wild with the gamble of his life and legacy. The moment teetered on the brink of irreversible tragedy, as the reluctant archers drew their bows, their actions mechanically aligning with the command despite the turmoil within.
But before the order could be executed, before the battlefield could be irrevocably stained with the blood of an emperor or the shame of failed mutiny, Alexios and his cavalry burst into action. Like a storm unleashed, they surged forward, their mounts thundering across the terrain with a force and velocity that tore through the static air. They cut a swath through the lines of soldiers, a blur of motion and resolve aimed directly at the heart of the rebellion—Elassona’s position.
In a blur of motion and a clash of wills, Alexios drew his blade, its steel gleaming with the promise of an end to the rebellion. With his mount galloping at breakneck speed, he sliced through the ranks of Elassona’s poorly defended guards with unparalleled ease, his presence on the battlefield like a storm tearing through an unsuspecting shore. Alexios, eyes wide with determination and fury, raised his Kilij high, its arc aimed with deadly precision. Yet, in the heat of the moment, his judgment faltered; the blade carved a vicious path through the air, narrowly missing Elassona’s neck by the barest margin. The momentum nearly unseated him from the mount, a testament to the force of his charge, had it not been for the lieutenant’s timely intervention. Anticipating the potential misstep, the lieutenant had his weapon at the ready, and with a swift, decisive motion, he struck, sending a spray of blood into the air—a crimson testament to the rebellion’s demise.
The aftermath was chaos, as Elassona’s guards scrambled to respond to the sudden turn of events. But Alexios, ever the tactician, seized the moment of disarray, hoisting Elassona’s head aloft for all to see. His voice boomed across the battlefield, a clarion call to end the hostilities. "The conspiracy of your rebellion lies defeated! Lay down your arms and surrender! You will be spared, by my honour as the lord treasurer, the third highest authority in the empire!"
Amidst the ranks of Elassona’s forces, uncertainty took hold. Commanders and soldiers alike hesitated, torn between loyalty to their fallen leader and the promise of clemency. Yet, for those still clinging to their defiance, their resolve was quickly dismantled by the relentless advance of Alexios’s cavalry. The battlefield, once a tableau of allegiance to Elassona, transformed into a scene of capitulation.
With a final act of symbolic defiance against the rebellion, Alexios flung Elassona’s head into the sky, letting it fall to the earth with a dull thud that echoed the finality of their cause. His proclamation resonated with the force of inevitability. "Elassona led you astray, into rebellion against your emperor! Now, with his fall, lay down your arms, and embrace mercy!"
In a symbolic act of defiance against the crumbling rebellion, the lieutenant decisively severed Elassona’s commanding flag, its two halves drifting to the ground like leaves in autumn. This gesture marked not just the physical, but the ideological severance from Elassona’s failed insurrection.
At the forefront, Elassona’s nephew stood, a figure consumed by anxiety and desperation. Surrounded by his archers, he watched, breath held, as Emperor Antonius advanced. Each step Antonius took was a testament to his unwavering courage, his presence on the battlefield an embodiment of regal defiance. As the distance closed, the emperor’s openness to the imminent threat was stark; he welcomed it, arms wide, his grin a challenge to those who dared defy him.
"Come! Soldiers!" Antonius’s voice boomed across the field, a clarion call of loyalty over rebellion. "If any of you will shoot his emperor! Here I am!"
None of the soldiers responded. The nephew trembled a bit when he heard this from the emperor, which agitated him even more, as he raised his blade, and roared again in a desperate tone. "He is a tyrant! A tyrant who will lead the country into blasphemy! On my order! Release your bolts!"
Unfazed, Antonius continued his approach, embodying the gravitas of his office with every step.
Cerberus and Khalid had their heart raised to their throat, as they too quickly followed behind, with a line of riders, only to be roared back by Antonius. "What do you want to do! Cerberus! Khalid! Are you planning to stop me from meeting my own soldiers!"
Khalid is shaken a bit, but Cerberus bit his teeth hard, and continued to follow on.
"What are you waiting for! Shoot!" The nephew roared left and right, with his tone filled with depression.
As the nephew’s commands dissolved into the tension of the standoff, Antonius, with a keen eye, recognised a few familiar faces among the soldiers—one of them a veteran of past campaigns. Addressing him directly, Antonius invoked a personal connection, a reminder of the life beyond the battlefield, of promises made and futures hoped for. "You, Andrianos, I remember you, you said to me before the war of Epirus, that you are going to get married after that war, do you have kids already?"
