From
the Desk of the Editor;
Hello and welcome to
another exciting issue of Larks Fiction Magazine! In this issue we
life, honor, and suffering. This is life through dark days and darker
nights. This is Larks.
In
news we are proud to offer a link to Jerry Guarino's new book 40
Slices of Pizza. It is presented as fiction for people too busy to
read a novel. Coming from Jerry it should be an enlightening and
fantastical literary romp. Check it out on his website at Cafe
Stories: http://cafestories.net/Cafe_Stories/home.html
Also
coming out November 30th from Eric Dulin is Deus Ex Machina:
Condemned. Eric was the mind behind Segmentus Invictus from October
2011 and is now releasing his full science fiction novel about a
hardened killing machine. Check it out here:
http://deusexcondemned.weebly.com/
Thank you and make sure
to see our library of indie literature right here on Larks!
Yours,
Daniel
J. Pool
LFM
Editor
Dark
Days
By
Charles Bernard
Echoes,
darkness, screams and loud noise
Put
on the demonic allured poise
Ear
drum cracking
Heart
beats clacking.
Evil
has unleashed it rage on human race
A
plague has been cast in thousands we perish
Another
day of bloody existence we deeply cherish
Moments
before death passing through a furnace
Great
anarchy has risen to prominence
Perfected
arson bestowed on the populace
From
dark clouds agony befell the world
Silence
followed as ghosts pass to the great beyond
Now
put off the black garments
Roast
your flesh, sear by the night sun
It
is the dark days; thrill the torments
Jaws
bones on the floor, too late to run!
Hasten
and listen to soulless songs
Forget
the light, the clock clicks backward
Eat
your rotten mind, and remember the mark
Dance
to the entrance of evil's throng.
Aroma
of rotten flesh and fresh blood arouses
Dews
of blown brain settling on roses
Sudden
darkness has befallen the minds of men
Threading
on hot thorns to Hell’s Gate
Yeah,
receive on your fore-head
Open
your heart with pleasure, the code!!
Hack
it not, flee with it to the next episode
For
the sun is never coming out again
Spilt
blood on the rail tracks
Stained
walls, soaked in deep black
Step
upon skulls, float on mortals' blood
Scold
the light from your eyes in the cold
You
hack it and you die
Said
the voice "it is dark days!"
The
sand you stood upon shall fly
Fright
is a fight, stab and slay.
Thunder,
red lighting and black hailstones
Fire
like wild fire, hell fire
You
shall live and die so frail
It
is a sweet nightmare, indulge the fire
Walk
bloody like the roaming cloud
Burn
to ash, beat the satanic gongs
And
the weak souls be strong
This
time the ugly voice is loud.
The
night shall come to past
Evil
shall be lead to rest
A
new dawn shall erupt
Scares
would litter men’s thoughts
For more about Charles follow him @chalzz619 and see his blog at http://greendiarynotes.wordpress.com/
Hand painted folk art
By Unknown
Photo by Jessica Rowse
Sextus Pompeius Filius
Neptuni
By Eric Rexroat
My earliest memories are
of my father. He was often away when I was a boy, but when he was
around I was always ecstatic. All of Rome would cheer his
return—Gnaeus Pomepeius Magnus, the greatest general the Romans
have ever known. My brothers and I would work so hard to impress him,
to appear worthy of the name Pompeius. His countless military
victories and his control of all the seas were just some of the
exploits for which he was respected. My father was the man I tried to
be, the man I knew I would someday become.
When my stepmother
Cornelia and I arrived in Cyprus, my father was a broken man. His
dreams had been shattered, his detailed plans had become worthless,
and his fleet, once the largest ever assembled by the Roman people,
was scattered and missing somewhere in the Mediterranean. All that
remained were a handful of ships swaying just off the shore. Though
the civil war was not yet over, one look in his eyes said that it
was. He no longer walked with such dignity and pride.
“So Caesar has won
then?” I asked Cornelia, the woman who had cared for me for nearly
five years, my mother having died when I was very young. Because of
my youth, I could not help my father prosecute this war—I was stuck
in Italy while he and my brothers were fighting for the freedom of
our country, for the rights of the Senate and the people.
“Hush my child,” she
whispered softly as she approached my father. As she began to embrace
him, he threw her away and approached me.
“Sextus,” he began,
“Caesar’s men…they are animals. For weeks they sustained
themselves on wild roots, plants not fit even for horses; I could not
starve them out. Somehow that drunkard Antonius evaded my fleet in
the Adriatic and brought fresh reinforcements. And then, by the will
of Mars and at the whim of Fortune, all was lost at Pharsalus.” He
began to weep, something I had thought my father incapable of. “Many
good men have fallen, among them Marcus Cato.” This was a shock;
while I had no love for that staunch traditionalist, he and his
family were staples of the republic. Cato the Younger, slain by
Caesar’s men? “We sail for Egypt tomorrow, and Ptolemy will
be awaiting us at Pelusium.” Nothing more was said as we dined, and
after a short sleep, we set sail.
I had always been nervous
on the sea as a boy. Tales of monsters and the wicked fury of Neptune
left me paralyzed every time I boarded a ship. This trip was no
exception, but the port city of Pelusium appeared sooner than I had
expected. It was a magnificent city in a wealthy country, and it
seemed to be the perfect base from which to prepare our
counter-attacks against the Caesarians.
“Cornelia,” my father
said as he embraced her, “I shall return briefly. And Sextus,” he
turned to me, “straighten up. Walk with pride. Your name is still
Pompeius, and that means something, even in these terrible times.”
It was almost as if he knew what was about to happen, though we had
no warning.
“I shall come with you
father. I have waited long enough to serve my country.”
He looked at the horizon,
where the sun was beginning to set, and spoke, “Remain with my
wife. I wish to speak with the king alone.” His voice was low and
coarse; he was a man unaccustomed to defeat.
A small boat was detached
from our ship, and he and one of his remaining loyal soldiers, a man
called Varrus, slowly rowed to the shore. I couldn’t see much, but
there was an extravagant procession of men, led by a boy younger than
me adorned in so much gold that the sun blinded me with its
reflection. He waved and began yelling something in Greek, and my
father shouted back. Two of Ptolemy’s armed escorts sat in a boat
and began rowing toward my father—when they met just off the shore,
my father stepped into their boat.
“Stay here until we
have finished negotiating,” my father called to Varrus. As the men
began to drift away, just out of Varrus’s reach, the blade struck.
Cornelia screamed, “What
have you done? Varrus!” There was nothing he could have done
anyway.
I was too stunned to say
or do anything. The other Egyptian struck next, and this blow severed
my father’s head completely. Now I was yelling, using every bit of
Greek I knew, “Animals! You don’t know what you have done. The
full fury of the Roman Republic will tear your kingdom to the
ground.”
These villains had just
murdered the greatest Roman alive while he was unarmed and seeking
refuge. Varrus now began rowing quickly toward our ship; Cornelia was
hysterical, and the rest of the men on the ship who had been awaiting
Ptolemy’s decision to allow us refuge began to shout at the oarsmen
under deck.
“Make haste, make
haste!” they screamed. I fell to my knees, still confused but
mostly angry. Disbelief flooded my mind, and I quickly realized that
this was no temporary setback—my father was never coming back. I
considered jumping into the ocean to my death but quickly regained my
senses. Our ship turned westward and our destination was Africa,
where there were still loyal forces fighting Caesar, including my
eldest brother. It was time for me to prove my worth on the
battlefield; I wanted to avenge my father.
However, Caesar would
take that away from me too. He arrived two months later in Egypt;
when the Egyptians presented him with my father’s head, he fell
into a rage and deposed the young king, eventually having him
executed in Rome. The message was clear: only a Roman has the right
to kill a Roman.
“Lay down your sword,”
Cornelia told me after my brother was killed in vicious fighting. She
was departing to return to Rome, “Caesar has offered clemency to
all of your father’s veterans of Pharsalus. He will do the same for
you, in spite of your name.”
I replied, “Have you no
respect for your husband or the virtues he fought for?”
“You lose no honor by
clinging to life. Come with me, and take your place in Rome as a
patrician and a Senator. Will you fight Caesar forever? Look what
became of your brother.”
I snapped at her rudely,
“Leave my sight woman; you disgrace my father’s memory.” She
sighed and boarded a ship bound for Cumae. I never spoke to her
again.
Her idea was laughable;
my father would never have bowed to such a snaky man as Caesar. He
riled up the plebeians as if they constituted the Roman people, and
his army was little more than a band of vicious thugs with no respect
for tradition, honor, or Roman virtue.
After briefly continuing
resistance in Spain, I returned to the seas, where I no longer felt
uncomfortable. I now felt at home on the ocean, and the rocking of
the waves and the stench of salt were my only escapes from the
reality of my situation. I could never return to Rome—that much was
certain. Caesar was named perpetual dictator, and his puppet
Antonius, a drunkard who excelled at military command but little
else, was his fellow consul.
Together, they completed
the painful murder of liberty and began our country’s slow descent
into despotism. I found haven in Sicily, and I remained there for
some time. Letters arrived almost weekly to express condolences for
my father, promises that his former allies and clients would seek my
re-enfranchisement; all of father’s property had been confiscated,
and the rumor was that Antonius was actually living at my father’s
villa in Rome. I yearned for the day I would regain my family’s
dignity, but I doubted it would ever come.
Everything changed one
bright spring morning. A letter arrived for me, carried by a wealthy
trader who had been a client of my father’s, Titus.
“Sextus,” he shouted
as he approached me, “I bring news from Rome.” He could barely
contain his excitement.
“I care little for the
gossip of my former country,” I said with contempt. Too often the
letters that reached me contained just that.
He sat on ground beside
to catch his breath, “No, you don’t understand. The tyrant is
dead, slain in the Senate house. Liberty is once again to grace our
lands.”
“What sort of jest is
this?” I asked, not allowing myself to believe this could be
possible.
He explained that a group
of men, led by Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius, had carried out a
plot to dispose of the dictator, though it was unfortunate that they
had stopped with Caesar. Antonius deserved a similar fate.
“But the conspirators
had only wanted to act legally—tyrannicide is quite legal, indeed
just, while the simple murder of a presiding consul is heinous. Don’t
you see? They’ve saved our state,” he said.
I was exalted, happy for
the first time in nearly four years. Free men can only tolerate a
tyrant for so long before they must rise up, as our ancestors did
against Tarquinius, the last king of Rome, so many centuries ago.
“Antonius and the
Senate have ordered your immediate recall to Rome. You may return
with me tomorrow if you desire, or I can take with me word of your
intentions. Apparently a commission for your services has been
requested.”
I was puzzled, “What
sort of commission?”
He smiled and said, “As
commander of the entire Roman fleet, just as your father was. The
pirates of Silicia and Illyria have returned during the confusion of
our civil wars, and they prey once again on our shipping.”
Tears fell from my eyes,
and I immediately began packing up my things and making the necessary
arrangements to return to Rome.
No longer fearing the
seas, my short crossing of the Tyrrhenian was quite relaxing. Neptune
was especially quiet this day, an omen of good fortunes. When I
arrived in Rome there were certainly men exalted at the prospect of
my return, though the atmosphere was different than I had hoped. No
statutes of Marcus Brutus or Gaius Cassius were being built to stand
proudly in the forum.
I asked some citizens
about the fate of the liberators, “Where are they? Surely they
shall receive their gratitude from all of Rome?” Nearly all of the
people I spoke to seemed to think I was joking.
“I’ll be grateful
when they’re floating in the Tiber,” one woman told me.
Antonius had riled up the
mob (just as Caesar would have done) into a riotous state. The late
dictator was now deified, and a cult of his worship was rapidly
spreading throughout Italy. Even so, I was no longer outlawed and
could resume my life as a patrician in Rome, something which had
stolen from me in my teenage years.
I took my place as
admiral of the fleet and began to make preparations to prosecute my
war against the pirates. I felt deeply honored to carry out the same
task as my father—he would have been proud of his youngest son. I
was never given the opportunity, as the political climate of Rome
changed abruptly the following year.
Titus arrived one day
while my fleet was docked in the city of Brundisium, on the eastern
coast of Italy. He informed me of my recall, and warned me not to
return to Rome.
He looked disturbed as he
spoke, “Antonius and Caesar’s son, Octavius, have seized control
of the state through force. The people have proclaimed them to be the
legitimate rulers of the republic, and they have drafted a
proscription list of hundreds, perhaps thousands. Any man on the list
has forfeited his life and his property.”
“How could this have
happened?” I asked, though I knew the answer. I had already seen
Caesar seize the state years earlier. He chose to slaughter his
opponents on the battlefield however, not through a legal decree.
“You mean to say that I am on this list, do you not?”
He looked at the ground.
“As am I.”
We stood silent for
awhile before I spoke. “Join me my friend, and together we shall
avoid the certain death that awaits us in Italy,” I said to him.
“We shall take to the seas and resist this tyranny until our last
breaths. Control of this fleet is still mine, whether Antonius or the
young Caesar will it or not.”
For my part, I took the
fleet, still legally under my command until I agreed to relinquish
it, and began to recruit men that would stand with me against the
Caesarians. Making no distinction between criminals and outlaws, free
men and slaves, or the rich and the poor, our numbers quickly
swelled. Plenty of highly-esteemed Romans from ancient families had
been proscribed by the Caesarians, and they were eager to escape
death and to fight back against this second wave of tyranny. Instead
of hunting down the pirates, I welcomed them into my service with
promises of pay and glory. Many of them accepted, and the rest were
free to carry on their business so long as they wreaked havoc on
Antonius and Octavius.
During a brief visit to
the Greek islands, I met a group of men who were vocally opposed to
my fleet. After rejecting my offer to join us against Antonius, one
of these men beat his slave mercilessly for something trivial, right
in our presence. My men, many of whom had been slaves themselves,
intervened, and two Greeks were killed in the struggle. I offered the
man, called Menas, a place on my ship. He eagerly accepted, and we
quickly became acquainted with one another. He had been a slave since
his childhood but was educated before that. We would play games of
strategy, and he quickly showed himself to be a brilliant tactician.
He also understood the ocean and was familiar with ships and sailing
after living on the island for over two decades.
“Menas,” I said to
him one evening while enjoying some expensive wine we had seized from
a merchant ship. We were now in complete control of the western seas,
and few ships escaped our clutches. “Shall we give thanks to
Neptune for bestowing his favor upon us?”
He laughed at my
suggestion and poured some wine on the floor of my cabin, which was
hot and cramped. “Indeed, your patron god loves us much. We have
been very fortunate these last months.” We both wore lavish
clothing confiscated from one of Octavius’s convoys; I had given
Menas three shares of gold from this take, and he no longer had the
air of a freedman. He was now my friend and my second-in-command.
“You are certainly blessed, Sextus Pompeius, Son of Neptune.
Fortune has a way of finding the truly deserving, though sometimes
she gets lost and takes her time.”
We had been looking for a
title the men could call me. I needed something simple that still
reflected my growing power and privileged lineage. “Excellent!
Sextus Pomepeius, Son of Neptune? That is a title I can feel
comfortable with.” The name soon appeared on all of my coins.
We had both been through
unthinkable years and seen terrible things, but now Menas and I lived
like rulers of the world. Sicily was again my base of support,
especially the city of Messana, and we controlled the seas for seven
long years. No grain left the island without my command, and little
trade reached Italian shores without being intercepted by my ships.
Neptune and I became even closer, and Sicily flourished under my
rule. Meanwhile, Rome began to wither without such a vital source of
grain.
Starving my own people
was not enjoyable for me, but it was the only way I could strike back
at Octavius. In the spirit of deference, I agreed to meet him and
Antonius off the shore of Misenum to discuss our grievances. Menas
and I boarded a small platform and were greeted by the two men and
one of their partners.
“Antonius. Octavius.
Lepidus,” I said as we exchanged polite greetings. I sat at the
only table in the small room beside Menas and across from my enemies.
“Where do we begin?”
Characteristically
drinking, Antonius murmured, “The young Octavius would like to open
this discussion.”
Octavius no longer kept
the facade of civility. “Pirate,” he said in a bitter voice,
clearly trying to infuriate me, “you have kept up your brigandage
for far too long; the people do not support you, and your army of
slaves and criminals does not intimidate us.” I wanted to dispute
that claim, but I bit my tongue. “Now, what would you like in
exchange for renewed trade and grain shipments?” The man was
seething.
“Several things,” I
said while glancing at Menas who sat silently, studying the faces of
our adversaries. “The proscribed men in my company are to be
reinstated; likewise, all the slaves in my army are to be freed, and
I want my position as governor of Sicily and Sardinia legalized. I
shall also be named consul within five years as I would have been
without your proscriptions.” Nothing I asked for was unreasonable,
but Octavius would surely not concede so easily. “And I want my
father’s property returned to me—with interest.”
Antonius smiled at the
last remark before he began, “These are all reasonable demands.
Surely we can agree on this and end the hostilities. We are all
Romans here, after all.” It was a shot at Menas, who was visibly
not a Roman.
“It would serve you for
me to concede all his demands in my half of the republic, would it
not Antonius?” Octavius asked. “That cannot be done. You can have
Sicily and your other demands, but in place of Sardinia you will be
granted something from Antonius’s provinces.” The two men began
to argue before Lepidus intervened. They asked for privacy, and Menas
and I stepped outside.
Gentle waves rocked the
large wooden platform, erected hastily for this meeting. It was
connected to the shore by a series of cables, and hundreds of
soldiers were watching us from the land. My ships completely
surrounded the platform, and it was an awe-inspiring sight: nearly a
thousand men on shore staring down a hundred ships anchored only a
few hundred feet away
“Would you like me to
cut the cables and make you master of the whole world, not simply one
third of it?” Menas asked. I was astonished.
“It would have been a
great idea if you hadn’t mentioned it to me. Now, honor will allow
no such thing.” I said proudly. It sounded like a vile act of
murder that Octavius would have had no problem committing. A plot
like that was too similar to the way my father was murdered for me to
participate in it.
“Surely you are not
serious Sextus,” he said looking puzzled. He was putting on a show;
he must have known that I had more pride than that.
“We shall reach an
agreement like civilized men. Barbarians stab one another in the
back.” I didn’t know it then, but he may have taken that remark
as an attack on him.
It was less than a year
before Octavius and Antonius violated our agreement. All of the
slaves and proscribed men who tried to return home that day were
captured en route, and many were slaughtered; some were even
crucified. Furthermore, they never intended to make me consul or
grant me any eastern provinces—we went back to war and began to
starve out the peninsula. Menas and I were successful for about six
months until Octavius launched a massive attack from three directions
involving hundreds of newly constructed ships he was able to build in
an inland harbor.
Titus, still faithful to
me after all this time, was ordered to defend the southern waters,
where an invasion fleet was attempting to land on the island. “Fight
with spirit men,” he had yelled while departing, “tonight we
complete this endless conflict.” I had faith in him, but there were
tens of thousands of men heading towards Sicily, and only a few
thousand could overrun the few land troops I possessed.
“We must repel this
invasion, or all is lost. We cannot afford defeat here, and there are
more men depending on us than those in fleet,” I said to Menas,
referring to the inhabitant of Sicily, just minuted before we boarded
our ships. “Octavius will react ruthlessly to the cities that have
supported us, especially Messana. He will crush it completely.”
Menas was commanding the western waters as I sailed around the
straits of Naulochus.
“Perhaps you and I
should consider an alternative in case we are unsuccessful. I will
not be enslaved again.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that
Octavius would never be satisfied with simply enslaving him. He was
out for blood and vengeance since we had humiliated him for years. “A
retreat plan, perhaps?”
“No,” I countered,
“we win or lose here today. Pray Neptune grants us his favor once
more.” I should have noticed his disapproval as he walked away, but
I was preoccupied with the preparations for war.
The sun was just rising
when the battle began. Cold winds were blowing as the winter
approached. My ships were aging, while Octavius’s were newer and
faster, but I held far more experience on the ocean; being the Son of
Neptune didn’t hamper my chances either. Trying to draw his ships
out into the open waters where they might become separated was
unsuccessful; his captains were too clever for that. They held
tightly together in formation for nearly an hour as mine banged
together by the wind. I lost sight of Menas’s and his ships as
they sailed into the thick morning fog. Panicked commands were being
leveled from ship to ship, and flags were raised and lowered
frantically.
Finally, a handful of
ships approached and were set upon by my men—two were captured and
one was sunk. The other three retreated, and I gave the order not to
follow. Neptune would take care of me if only I was patient.
Occasionally, I could hear the agonizing shouts of the oarsmen
beneath the deck. When the time felt right and the winds had shifted,
I screamed at my men to move onward as we raced toward the enemy.
Thunderous crashes began
and the painful screams of drowning men were clearly audible. Falling
to my feet, I turned to see one of my ships smashing violently into
mine, but luckily the damage to my vessel was minimal. Water splashed
onto deck as wood splinters flew through the air. The other ship
began to collapse.
“Pull back and defend
Messana,” I screamed; the advantage was nearly lost.
Several of Octavius’s
ships were falling into the abyss, but there were still dozens
afloat. Neptune still supported me, and I began to regain my
composure as I suddenly noticed something very peculiar. I could not
initially comprehend it, but once the denial faded rage set in and
then despair. Several distant ships had fallen into place behind the
enemy’s; they weren’t attacking, but they bore my banner.
Menas, what have you
done?
I never did understand
why Menas had betrayed me, but I assume he was afraid of defeat and
sought the easy way out. Or perhaps it was my unwillingness to
ruthlessly slaughter my opponents at Misenum. Either way, seeing
those ships was the most painful thing that could have happened. He
had been my comrade, my second in command, and, most of all, my dear
friend.
“Let us sail away with
you,” pleaded one of the prominent men of Messana who had long been
my ally. “The Caesarians have already begun their atrocities, and
Messana will be razed, burned to the ground. We have children; we
have families—please.”
There was nothing I could
do. “I’m sorry—all is lost. The battles are over, and I lack
the ability to defend the island. I scarcely have room for myself and
my men on this ship, and we may yet be sunk on the voyage east. Even
when we arrive there, Antonius will not offer us safe passage. I
shall perish within a year,” I said prophetically.
I loaded the last of my
things onto the only ship remaining—some spoils, written records,
and food for a week or so. A crowd of men and women were surrounding
the harbor, desperately seeking a place on the boat. Pushing and
shouting began.
“Keep them off the
ship,” I yelled. “Push them back.” Ten of my men began heaving
people backward. One man was trampled and did not stand up as the
oarsmen began to row. “Surrender at once to Octavius and beg for
forgiveness. I captured these cities through force. No one
collaborated with me!” I screamed advice as long as I could, until
the harbor of my favorite city was only a memory.
Sailing away was one of
the most difficult things I had ever done in my life, knowing many of
these men would be enslaved or worse.
Looking back at Sicily
while sailing away, I realized that Roman Republic was dead; in its
place was a military state where one was more likely to be stabbed in
the back than treated fairly as a citizen of his country.
The End
About the Author;
Eric Rexroat is a student
of creative writing in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. He enjoys novels,
short fiction, and poultry.
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