S P Q R.

non-canon portrayal of the roman empire.

[martiialis-blog]

miocortieni‌: 

     The small child is standing by a tree, palms flat against its trunk with fingers digging into the cracks in its bark. Face turned sunwards, golden eyes bright as he peers into the treetop above. He’d seen one of them flutter and hop between the branches, and he wanted so badly to see it again. 

        A voice, warm and deep like so many of the old salt miners back home, slipped through the twittering bird song, and Felix turned to look at him. A moment passed, conflict clear on his face    —-     then he pushed off the tree and ran easily to babbo. Clambering onto the seat next to the great man, the boy curled his legs and propped up one knee, adjusting his toga and finally settling down.    “    They sing really sweet,    ”     he marvelled, unnecessarily pointing to where a bird leapt and sailed from the treetop.     “     In the lagoon all they do is cry,    ”     puffing out a breath he clasped his cheeks, the heels of his hands digging into them as a frown formed,  “     —-    and they’re big, too.   ”

Marius gently took his son’s hand to hold him steady. He smiled at him softly as he complained about the seagulls- in a childishly innocent way, that even adults were prone to do. He couldn’t hold back a gentle laugh.

“They’re probably bigger than you are. Don’t make them mad or they might try and eat you!” 

His fingers went to Felix’s tummy, tickling him- to emphasize the potential threat. “But don’t try and hurt them, Felix. They have babies to feed too.” He scoops up the youngster, holding him snuggly with one arm while the other brushes off some dirt from Felix’s toga. 

[martiialis-blog]

fury-of-argos‌:

The king of Patrae stood, singing praises of these Roman warriors and the young nation-state before him. It was a long and windy affair, only exacerbated by the whistle and wheeze in the old man’s voice.

Beside him Maia’s eyes, wide with a calculating sort of curiosity, lazily taveled across the boy’s face, examining every fold of that brilliantly colored toga, glancing over the contours of his cheek, glittering at the sight of his rings, until finally they came to rest on his eyes. Perhaps she was a bit too far to read his eyes properly. Even she wasn’t sure if it was a smile or boredom that rested in her lips. She held his gaze for some time without acknowledging the proceedings, and when she was referenced, her eyes lingered, sweeping slowly to the good King’s face. As beckoned, she stood, slouching slightly. and slunk to his side. When asked what she thought of the guest, the corner of her mouth twitched up into a smile, and she shrugged.

“I’d have to get a good look at him.”

Maia paced up to Marius, toes peaking from the hem of her peplos as she stalked around him. “He’s sweet faced,” she said behind him, “and a strong youth.” As she returned to the king’s side, she found that she couldn’t suppress the quirk in her mouth. “I hope that his charm extends to his tongue; Perhaps he would grace us with stories over supper?”

Marius’ lips curled into a scowl at her. He wasn’t very impressed by the inspection of himself. He curled his arm tighter around the toga, praying that it didn’t slip or fall. A real Roman man never let his toga slip off his shoulder, especially not when making a first impression. He watched her with intense eyes; one green and one brown. A small scar graced his eyelid above the green eye, hinting as to the origin.

His own eyes wandered over her as she walked around him. He found himself drawn to looking at her face, rather than at her body or the curves underneath the peplos she wore. He rolled his eyes as she commented about the youth of his face. He had barely started to grow a beard- evident by the scruffy sideburns along his cheeks.

“I’m not a philosopher and I doubt that talking about reality would be of interest to you.” He lifted his chin up. His voice was raspy, but deep enough to show that he was at least a man by definition. 

[lll--lll--lll]

[lll--lll--lll]

πέλαγος

[aph-grandpa]

APH Rome and Caesar.

[martiialis-blog]

carthago delenda est.

@italitude

He looks angry. Beyond angry. He looks like he’s out for blood- Carthage’s blood. He wants the man dead or worse. He doesn’t see her for the moments as he seethes, bringing deeply through his clenched teeth. Blood covers his knuckles, dirt is smeared onto his face, and his once gallant cape hangs threadbare across his shoulders. 

He must look like a terrifying sight to a child. But he himself is a child- no more than sixteen years old, despite the bloodshed evident on his skin. He glances around in a hurried manner before he spots her. As soon as his eyes land on her, he’s immediately hurrying over to her. Without a second thought, he scoops her up into his arms, and he begins marching towards another group of men.

[martiialis-blog]

@miocortieni

Marius watches him in the garden. The garden was full of light, flowers, and all sorts of birds chirping away at the warm summer day. It was calm and peaceful, almost blissful. Marius relaxes along the bench, in a simple tunic. For this moment, he’s not a soldier or an Empire. He can’t help but smile at his son. There’s something more than pride when he sees him, when he sees any of them. 

“Felix-- come here.” He gestures at him, patting the side of the bench. 

[martiialis-blog]

do i still taste of war?

@prcphvcies

The man before her is not like the others who have ever approached her. His hands are more scarred. His eyes betray his age. For a man who looks like he could be in his early twenties, his eyes look like he’s seen far past his years. There is no poise or delicacy in the way he holds himself. He no longer considers the mortality of the humans around him- he does not bother himself with the opinions of those who will die within a blink of his eyes.

He glances at her, watching her face steadily. His eyes betray him over and over again. He looks afraid; but not like a child afraid of a scolding or an animal afraid of the slaughterhouse. He looks afraid for the judgment upon his soul. He does not fear for the condemnation of his soul, but rather-- that his soul reflects a lost boy, fleeing through a valley, chased by the nightmares of drowning in a river. 

He built himself up from the ground of the river bank. 

He reaches out now, just a simple gesture of address to her. “I heard you could tell the future.”

[martiialis-blog]

@fury-of-argos

Marius’ face contorted into a grimace when he saw her. Not at her-- but rather, directed towards himself. It was with great disdain that he found his stomach jostled into butterflies when he saw her face. And he hated it. He wanted to rip the butterflies out and free himself from this eternal torment.

He fought against his instincts and he stood up straighter. He wasn’t the largest man in the world but he held a presence. He wore an intricately designed red toga embroidered with gold thread, neatly folded over a golden chest plate. On his fingers were expensive rings, some of the finest that the Republic had to offer.

He clutched his fingers into a fist as he looked at her. If his posturing worked, he looked down on her. He had the power here; or at least, he wanted to be fully convinced of that.

[martiialis-blog]

@amantebravo

It’s a beautiful day outside. Marius brought the children along with him on a trip- not a military based one, but one of diplomacy. It was always a struggle to be away from the children for so long. It was quite lonely in the Roman camps, without the boisterous laughter of his children, or them hanging onto the over flow of his toga...

He reaches for Antonius- and merely scoops him up with no effort. He settles him on his hip. “Have you been out of trouble? No fighting with Flavius?” 

[martiialis-blog]

tag drop

[martiialis-blog]

LIKE for a starter! 

The starters will be set in Ancient Rome but in a variety of places!

[martiialis-blog]

sacred troy will perish.

[martiialis-blog]

qarthadasht:

Eyes closed and hands trembling, Anysus sat perched on a wide windowsill on the ground floor. He banged his head against the hard sandstone wall ever so often. Nobody had cleaned the glass in months, so the view outside was a fractured, milky nightmare.

Noticing Romulus’ presence in his city had much less emotional impact on him than one might expect. The Romans’ two heavy feet on the earth might have well been stamping, pressing down on Anysus’ chest, but he had accepted death long ago, maybe even before the birth of Hannibal. That was the reason Ayzebel had cut her hair and left, was it not? He doubted he would see his sister ever again.

A door slammed open somewhere, the sound distant, being heard by someone that wasn’t Anysus Barca. When a knife was presented at his throat, Anysus examined it with a merchant’s impartial eyes as if he was considering buying it. When the soldier began screaming at him in Latin, Anysus pulled a face, miming someone speaking with his hand. What had Romulus expected? He always forgot Anysus didn’t know Latin. The mockery got him shoved from the windowsill and onto the ground.  

Hitting his head on his own floor made Anysus forget the entire trip—most likely a blessing. He heard no screams, only his own ears ringing. Anysus remembered landing next to a fish on his mosaic floor, observing the worn paths between his feet, counting every cobblestone below him as he was lead to his death like cattle. He always messed up the counting.

When he was presented to Romulus, his one eye was glued shut by dry blood. Anysus gave him a disinterested one-over. “You got fat.”

As he saw his foe come into view, a cruel grin settled onto Romulus’ face. Sharp teeth and a wolf like predation greeted Anysus now. The Roman’s hand grabbed onto Anysus’ hair, yanking his head up as he knelt down. “You could have surrendered. This could have been over. No one would have had to die,” he spoke, in a false sense of softness.

Romulus had never expected to be so close to ending the life of someone he had deemed so important. He never could admit it to Anysus- he never would admit it to anyone, but Anysus was someone he aimed to imitate. All of his rage, all of his out-right anger came from the unfavorable comparisons between them. Romulus was too haughty, violent, too backwater. Anysus was the opposite.

With an angry growl, motivated by only his own mind, he threw a punch right across Anysus’ jaw. “Who is without now?”

[jilkos]

Akeem Osborne by Dennis Branko

[narkik]

i’m not crying for myself.

dolores abernathy, westworld

[martiialis-blog]

sacred troy will perish.

@qarthadasht

The walls of the city were finally breached. Two years of siege, two years of waiting for surrender. Now, what was destined couldn’t be stopped. Everything was spiraling out of Romulus’ control; the gods had a plan and he believed in that strongly.

As he stepped through the walls, he glanced around the city. He had rarely seen the inside of Carthage- maybe once or twice. It was a shame, that it had to be gone in just a few weeks. He barked an order- get him. Get Anysus Barca. They had to have a meeting; the hero and the labor.

[rpmemefairy]

send me 😰 if your muse thinks my muse is scary/intimidating

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