enemyofrome

[enemyofrome]

[enemyofrome]

[enemyofrome]

love that the shark and whale emoji makes a whale shark. he baby

[enemyofrome]

[enemyofrome]

Choose your fighter

[enemyofrome]

A copper retriever with her unoxidised puppies

[enemyofrome]

““Is your novel an open work or not?” How should I know? That is your business, not mine. “With which of your characters do you identify?” For God’s sake, with whom does an author identify? With the adverbs, obviously.”

— Umberto Eco, Postscript to the Name of the Rose

[enemyofrome]

what was your favorite part to write in hostis?

definitely not the bits about scipio's benippled cuirass. absolutely not.

a more sensible response:

A scroll lay beside [Hannibal's] reading lamp, though he was not reading. Scipio picked it up. Xenophon. Their voices did not seem to belong in the stillness of the room, its soft shadows clean and unlived-in. “Did you finish it?” “I read a little at Tarentum,” said Hannibal. “But I am still in the middle of Persia.” Thalassa, thalassa. He nudged the jug of wine over to Scipio. In the dim light he might have been dressed in black like a mourner, the wool of his tunic worn thin and fraying. Shadow stubbled his jaw, from his neck to the hem of the roughspun headcloth that hid his blindness. Scipio studied the curve of his throat, mapping, as though with a lover’s hands, the swift course of his jugular. What city would he burn; what pyre, what pyre.

(chapter 15, p. 295)

[enemyofrome]

Fantasy Project

Well, it's been years and this place is a desert. No better time to post than now, I guess. I'm working on a new project, my first fantasy, about angry dead gods, imperialism, the loss of identity in a culture that demands assimilation, and lots of queer relationships. An excerpt below

***

Tjaden spent the last hour of her shift hosing a dead Ironclad pilot out of his cockpit.

She hadn’t bothered to learn his name, so she called him every foul word she could think of as she cleaned the bits of him out of the cockpit. The leather pilot’s chair had been made for quick and easy cleaning, though it always held close a stink of old sweat and unwashed uniforms. But there were pieces stuck in the floor treads, in the instrument panel, in the nooks and crannies of the gun ports. She found a part of his face pasted to the runneled floor, and dug at it savagely with her brush. That should be saved for cremation: Tjaden dumped it instead into her slop bucket.

Sodden and stinking, she squeezed herself into the space beneath the chair to scrub out the pedals. It would take hours to get him out entirely. The Ironclad, Ishierza, was already grumbling, the heat growing ever more oppressive as her displeasure increased. Ironclad were always temperamental after a battle, even more so when their pilots were killed.

Stupid boy, Tjaden thought, fraying her brush on the pedals. Barely past his first pimples and already dreaming of the devastation he’d wreak in Aesarii’s name. Drummed up in the recruiting drives, no doubt after the last batch of recruits made room for him. Likely he’d dropped too low, the youngblood’s favorite mistake, and flew nearly face-first into a barrage of Khanbakul’s dreaded sky-breakers. Or, like so many stupid young bastards before him, he’d thought to try the Rift, and no matter no one had ever passed through that wall. It had stood for five thousand years free of interlopers, guarding the flanks of Khanbakul from ground invasion and eating the troops Lishar sent into it. Maybe he’d just thought to skim the surface of it, to brag he’d touched the Rift and walked away.

Whatever the case, he had broken formation and got himself killed for it. Ishierza, veteran of a dozen conflicts, fought him all the way. She’d won control for just long enough to flare her wings and bank hard, to take the shell in her armored flank instead of her chest. The shell had missed the engine of her heart and turned her pilot to mush. Then she’d sounded distress and limped for home.

Four others died on the way back. They had fallen to the ocean, a sea of ice floes and black water so deep that bodies sank in slow decay. All that touched the sands at the bottom of the world were bones and rusted remnants of the Ironclad.

They, at least, had been too far for Tjaden to feel their deaths. But three more had never made it back across the Pit: the skeletal claws of the Pit’s great tree ripped them from the sky and dashed them all to pieces on its immense limbs. Tjaden had heard them all fall screaming into the abyss below, and they had made the shreds of her god’s soul howl.

The entire foray into Khanbakul had been an utter disaster. At this rate, she thought, mopping at her face and spitting suds, Lishar would lose half of its favored sons and daughters within the year. She couldn’t help the savage satisfaction in that thought.

Ishierza’s grumblings and shiftings pitched towards real malice. Any moment now she might slam the cockpit door shut and trap Tjaden in the dank dark.

“Don’t you dare, old bitch,” Tjaden muttered, slapping the floor in remonstration. “I want to get out of you too, but I can’t leave his bits in here to rot. Now hold still and I’ll be quicker.”

There were no other irongests who’d dare the Ironclad innards except the children, but Tjaden had already sent her little crew of day-shift urchins back to creche for dinner and a wash. The night-shift hadn’t arrived yet. And she did not fear the Ironclad as the rest of the mechanists did. It fell to her to worm her way inside and clean their cockpits, though she was too big and broad-shouldered by far for such nonsense.

[enemyofrome]

favorite scipio besides africanus (and maybe least favorite too if you’re in the mood)

next favourite: cornelia africana, mother of the gracchi. what an icon

least favourite: scipio aemilianus, for burning down carthage. We Don't Do That Here.

[enemyofrome]

Writing historical fiction is always like I think I hauve to read several more 700 page nonfiction books before I can write this paragraph

[enemyofrome]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[enemyofrome]

11 for fic rec game👁️👁️

11. Recommend a fic you think is a hidden gem/deserves more reads.

Down in the Boneyard by @enemyofrome [archive-locked]

we have always lived in the castle is not something i thought i would ever read a fic for, but this came up on a rec list a while ago and the idea of werewolf merricat was immediately and deeply compelling.

at <400 hits, this is definitely a hidden gem.

[enemyofrome]

PENGUINS. all of them!

(not precisely to scale, but close)

[enemyofrome]

The 12th-century werewolf, his (ex)wife and his boyfriend the King

I knew Marie de France’s “Bisclavret” (late 12th century) was one of the earliest recorded proper “werewolf romances”, but I presumed it was a tragedy. I did not know it involves what I will stubbornly insist is a happy mlm ending! If you’ll allow me:

After a short lesson in werewolf terminology, the poem introduces the hero, a nobleman who has three main characteristics: he is Good, he is Handsome, and his King loves him A Whole Lot.

We are then introduced to this Nobleman’s new wife, who is, by all accounts, a good person. But, she is also very anxious to know why her husband keeps disappearing to for three days at the time. At last he confesses that every week he “turns bisclavret” and goes into the woods to hunt as a wolf. This absolutely terrifies her, and in her defence, it’s really the kind of thing he should have mentioned before marriage.

The terrified Lady finds out that her husband has to hide his clothes somewhere every time he transforms, and decides to go to a knight who has been loved her since before her marriage. (It’s specifically stated that she never made him believe it was reciprocated.) She tells him she wants to be with him and asks him to take her husband’s hidden clothes.

This means, of course, that the Nobleman does not come home, and no one is more saddened by this than the King. A year passes (in which the Lady marries the Knight) and then one day the King goes hunting. Suddenly a wolf comes from the woods and bows for the King, nuzzling at his feet and legs until the King orders the hunters to leave him alone. He takes the wolf home with him, where it never leaves his side: “It went along with him constantly. That it loved him was easy to see.”

Keep reading

[enemyofrome]

god i love reading about stupid drama in ancient greece. like there was an athlete named theagenes who was so good at every kind of athletic contest that when he died, one of his opponents would go to beat the shit out of a statue of him out of spite, but then one day the statue fell on the guy and killed him so the greeks took the statue to court for murder, convicted it, and threw it into the sea

[enemyofrome]