#patrician and plebeian

[catos-wound]

you will NEVER be plebeian.

[nulfaga]

forget my previous remarks. expeditions rome is a terrible no good game. (it is so well written i feel personally affronted by the various misfortunes befalling my character)

[richo1915]

The Death of Virginia

One of the Decemviri, Appius Claudius (a patrician) demanded sex with a young plebeian woman called Virginia, unmarried but betrothed. Deception and Corruption followed as Appius suborned one of his followers to claim that she was his slave, who had been stolen by her so-called father and Centurion Lucius Virginius.

The judge in the case was Appius himself, who of course found in his accomplice’s favour, and strode through the Forum to grab Virginia. In the argument that followed, her father grabbed his pugio and stabbed his daughter to death, shouting “I am making you free, my child, in the only way I can!”

The display of Virginia’s body and passionate speech that Virginius gave to the Army led to riots, mutiny and the abolition of the tyrannical board of the Decemviri.

[uncleclaudius]

The Lyon Tablet, a transcript of the speech Emperor Claudius had given in the Senate in 48 AD, arguing for the admission of senators from Gaul.

1. I should say at the outset that I reject the first thought that will, I am sure, be the very first thing to stand in my way: namely that you will recoil from my suggestion as though I were introducing some revolutionary innovation.  Think, instead, of how many changes have taken place over the years in this state and how many forms and constitutions our state has had, from the time of its very foundation.

2. At one time this city was held by kings, though they did not pass it along to successors from their own families. People from other families came to the throne and even some foreigners.  Numa, for example, succeded Romulus, and was a Sabine; that made him a neighbor, certainly, but at the time he was also a foreigner. Another example is Tarquinius Priscus, who succeded Ancus Marcius: because of his impure blood--his father was the Corinthian Demaratus and his mother was from Tarquinii, to Tarquinius Priscus supposedly had a Greek father and an Etruscan mother. And though well-born she was very poor, which is why she was forced to marry such a husband.--Tarquinius was kept from positions of honor in his own land and thus emigrated to Rome, where he became king.  Between Tarquinius and either his son or his grandson (for our authorities disagree on this point) there came Servius Tullius.  And according to the Roman sources Servius Tullius had as a mother a prisoner of war, Ocresia; according to the Etruscans he had been the faithful companion of Caelius Vivenna and took part in his adventures, and later, when he was driven out by a change of fortune, he left Etruria with all the suriving troops of Caelius and seized the Caeliian hill, which thus takes its name from his leader Caelius, and after changing his name (for his Etruscan name was Mastarna) he was given the name I have already mentioned, and became king, to the very great advantage of the state. Then, after the behavior of Tarquinius Superbus came to be hated by our city--and not only his behavior but that of his sons--the people obviously became tired of monarchy, and the administration of state was transferred to the consuls, who were annual magistates.

3. Why need I mention the dictatorship--more powerful even than the consulship--which was what our ancestors came up with when wars were particularly hard or there was serious civil disturbance?  Or why need I mention the the creation of tribunes of the plebs, to provide assistance for the plebs?  Why mention transfer of imperium from consuls to the decemviri, and at the end of the reign of the decemviri the return of imperium back to the consuls?  Why mention the distribution of the consular power to multiple recipients, called tribunes of the soldiers with consular power, who were first six and then eight in number?  Why should I mention the fact that offices that were once patrician ones were shared eventually with the plebeians, religious ones as well as military?

4. If I were to tell of the wars, which our ancestors started with and which have continued down to the present day, I fear that I would appear too boastful, and look as though I wanted to boast about my glory in extending the empire beyond the Ocean.  But let me instead return to my original point.  Citizenship can ... [some text is lost here]

[column II]

5. Certainly it was a new thing when my great-uncle Augustus and my uncle Tiberius decided to admit into this Senate house the flower of the coloniae and the cities from all over the empire--all of them good and wealthy men of course.  But, you may say, is not an Italian senator more useful than a provincial one?  When I start explaining this aspect of my censorship I will reveal what I think about that.   But certainly I  think that provincials should not be rejected, as long as they will be a credit to the Senate.

6. Behold that most glorious and flourishing colony of Vienne: how long has it provided senators for this chamber?  From Vienne comes an ornament of the equestrian order with few equals, Lucius Vestinus, whom I esteem greatly and retain even now in my service.   May his children, I beseech you, enjoy priesthoods of the first rank, and after that, in the years to come, may they proceed to further honors.  (I will not utter the dire name of that brigand—I detest him, that monster of the wrestling-ring—or the fact that he acquired the consulship for his family before his colony had ever obtained the solid benefit of the Roman citizenship.  And I could say the same thing about his brother, who suffered a pathetic and fate, and was thus no use to you as a senator.)

7. It is time now, Tiberius Caesar Germanicus, to reveal to the senators where your speech is headed; for you have already come to the extreme limits of Gallia Narbonensis.

8. Consider all the distinguished young men I see before me: the fact that they are senators should cause no more regret than that felt by Persicus--a most distinguished man and a friend of mine--when he reads the name Allobrogicus among the images of his ancestors.  And if you agree that this is true, what should I not also point out to you that the land beyond Gallia Narbonensis already sends you senators?  We do not, after all, regret that we have men in the senate from Lugdunum.

9. I was somewhat hesitant, senators, about leaving the boundaries of provinces that were well known to you, but now I must make the case for Gallia Comata with some seriousness.  If anyone concentrates on the fact that the Gauls resisted the divine Julius in war for ten years, he should consider that they have also been loyal and trustworthy for a hundred years, and had this loyalty tried to the utmost when we were in danger.  They it was who provided my father Drusus with secure internal peace when he was conquering Germany, even though he was summoned to the war while in the middle of a census, which was then a new and strange business for the Gauls.  And we know from our own experience how difficult the census can be, even though for us it involves nothing more than the public recording of our resources. (tr. E. M. Smallwood)

[p-clodius-pulcher]

ptp transition (patrician to plebeian)

[syoddeye]

the dinner

ceo!price x reader / ~4.4k words

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 Very special thank you to @sleepyeugene @greatstormcat and @mortuarywriting for beta-ing ♥️ Tagging: @sweetspicynoodles

CW: alcohol, oral sex

Straw. Actual straw. Collected, cut, snipped, and arranged by careful hands to ring a porcelain plate to resemble a bird's nest. A piece pokes the chicken egg in the center, and a thin drizzle of black truffle sluices from the puncture and soaks into the dry, flat bed of mushrooms.

You would do unspeakable things for a lamb samosa. 

The drinks are delicious, though the service, along with everything else, proves an adjustment. Two sips into a kir, savoring, the waiter clears the glasses, moving you into the second dish without a word. Each course you pick through transitions the same: with a person clad in a fancy little vest ferrying away three-quarter full glasses and disassembled plates you ruined in search of flavor.

Baffling. Pompous. Wasteful. 

Your work anniversary dinner. Your date with John Price.

Across the table, he dines in his own world. He methodically pierces the egg on his nest-plate-thing, peppery black truffle oozing more neatly than your own onto the mushrooms. He prepares a bite, and you trail it to his mouth. His eyes close briefly, and your lip twitches.

Holding back a sigh, you mirror him as you have the whole dinner, a plebeian to his patrician.

The conversation lulled when a former business associate of John's, wife in tow, briefly stopped at the table. You don't remember either of their names, only that their intrusion was the killing blow. Although introduced, the conversation remained limited to the three. By the time they departed for their table, the plates had changed.

John did not help the silence, seemingly content with it. While generous in material ways, the Moynat proof of that, he was stingy when it came to speaking about himself. He masterfully keeps the focus on you, with a special interest in your time at The 141 Group.

But as you reluctantly dominated the earlier conversation, you were not keen to restart it. You let the quiet continue to hold you hostage.

The server takes the remains of the cheese course, the most palatable and normal by far, and he finally speaks.

"Not a fan of French food?"

Your eyes flick up from the napkin in your lap. Unfazed, the server arranges another clean set of flatware. John's elbows rest on the table, poor etiquette for a man of his station, leaning forward until his breath makes the candle flame flicker. He doesn't move to make the server's job easier, forcing them to work around him.

You glance to the waiter, mildly comforted they seem unperturbed, then return to John's question. "I don't mind it." 

"You hardly ate."

"I don't think my palate is refined enough for this," You carefully explain. This is a free dinner. This is the head of your company. You're neither impolite nor stupid to accidentally insult the man's taste.

"I doubt your tongue's the problem," He smirks, then lowers an arm to the table and extends a hand, palm up, expectant. Grins when you take it, thumb dragging over the skin. "I'll let you pick dessert."

The profiterole is an olive branch. A delicious one, vanilla cream and chocolate exploding over your taste buds, erasing the earthiness and grit of the earlier courses. Fingers pinching the dessert's accompanying demitasse, you find John studying you. His choux untouched.

"Not a fan of sweets?" You ask, echoing him.

"Not particularly," He pushes the saucer around the candlestick. 

You take the pastry. With so much food wasted already, it'd be a shame to let the taste of paradise slip past.

The server never returns to the table. The meal ends when John informs you the car is waiting out front, and he herds you to the coat check with his hand on the small of your back. He helps you into your wool coat, murmuring, "Pity it's cold out."

You know what he means. It took hours and a FaceTime call with Jordan to pick a dress. Your friend wasn't so much of a consultant as she was a soundboard, reassuring you looked good over and over again. 

"He said he liked the green," you explained.

"Told you, big sexy pine tree," Jordan teased, voice crackling through the phone speaker.

You wore the dark emerald dress to a wedding years ago with good results. It's formal enough the maître d' didn't stop you at the door, yet simple enough in its construction that you don't feel like a peacock or a tryhard. The silky material clung comfortably to your frame but wasn't too snug and fell to your mid-calf. The slit that cut a generous distance to your thigh invited John's eyes when you slid into the car upon pick-up, followed by his hand. The dress dipped beneath your scapulae in the back, the scoop neckline traveled straight across your cleavage, and the thin straps exposed your shoulders. You feel sexy, and you know you look it, too.

The coat's lining is cool on your skin, contrasting with the heat of John's breath on the back of your neck. Your things back in your possession, he steers you to the exit.

John pulls Alex aside when you duck into the car, and the bodyguard glances over his employer's shoulder. His attention returns within the second, but a smile forms under his neatly trimmed mustache.

With that furtive look, it occurs to you you don't know what's next on the agenda. Given the lack of edible food and stilted conversation, you'd prefer to head home and tuck into the samosas you've dreamt of all evening. Bid adieu to this alternate universe where you kind of date CEOs and own expensive purses. Yet, from your limited experience with John, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

It's as if he reads your mind.

"Night's young. Thought we might have a drink, if I haven't completely mucked this up."

You frown. "You haven't," It's unfair he gets to self-deprecate, and your immediate inclination is to comfort and dissuade him. Knowing the man could buy your building with pocket change grates against the simmering frustration in your chest. You want to go home and ditch the date, as you have others, but instead, you are agreeable. "I could use a drink."

If he registers a hint of your inner turmoil, he does not show it. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Good. Somewhere we need to stop first."

He looks out the window and settles a hand above your knee again. You should break the habit, even if his palm is warm and the gesture scratches an itch you don't want to acknowledge.

You observe him in the periphery. Since this situation began in the copier room, you look up John Price online every few days. He's constantly in the news, whether by mention or for a quote. Each story uses one of three photos, all from the same batch of headshots. Interestingly, he seems to avoid video interviews, though there are three or four soundbites where he's been invited to chime in by a network.

His Wikipedia page contains more information on The 141 Group than his personal life. The section itself is a measly three sentences covering his birthplace, heritage, and when he founded the company. And although you knew it was a long shot, you searched high and low across every social media platform you could think of, reactivated your Facebook, and everything. Nothing. His control over his public image seems as ironclad as his control over the company. You count yourself lucky his command extends only to work. If you wanted to exit the car at the next traffic light, you're sure he'd let you out and wish you a good night.

An idle flex of his fingers on your leg, as if he really is a mind reader, extinguishes the thought. 

Neon light punctures the tinted windows of the car. Your head swivels, and you scrunch your nose in recognition. John's brought you to a popular row of nightclubs, and fuzzy memories surge to the forefront of your mind. The taste of cheap tequila on your tongue and playing drunken therapy in crowded bathrooms. It's beyond you why John needs to stop here, but you're not opening that can of worms.

John reaches for the door handle, and your arm shoots out without thinking, curling over his forearm. 

"John, wait."

He stops immediately. "Something wrong?"

"Can I stay in the car?" You ask, eyes moving past his furrowed brow to the few clubgoers outside. "I'd prefer to stay here."

John's face slackens, and then he turns away, his shoulders heaving with a short laugh. He shakes his head and pats your thigh. "Alright, but I'll need your order."

Confusion finds its home on your face this time until John gestures with a thumb over his shoulder out the car's rear window. A bright red food truck sits behind the private car, warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. You watch a woman claim a paper tray cradling a doner kebab. The sight sinks claws into your belly.

The want must be plain on your face as John chuckles and cracks the car door open.

"C'mon. Two tiny pastries is a poor meal. I cannot, in good conscience, take you for a drink on an empty stomach."

When you order, and he reaches for his billfold, you quickly tap your phone to the register. Thanking the truck owner, you delight in the cross expression on John's face.

"You covered dinner, I assume, unless you've made an accomplice of me," You joke as you step to the side of the line with the man, your souring mood remedied with the promise of Turkish food.

John's eyes pinch as if trying to sort you out, and then his face drops into a feigned solemnity. "'Fraid so. We'll never be able to return."

"I'm gutted."

"I can tell."

The two of you stand out of the way of the groups loitering outside of the clubs. Alex hovers nearby. 

You watch the short lines with a mixture of admiration and worry. It wasn't too long ago you were one of the giggling young women forgoing proper attire to stand in lines to dance and drink. Arms linked with friends, buzzing from the pre-drink, and making eyes at whoever caught your fancy. It's surreal to be back here with John, of all people. He'd look like an ordinary man if he wasn't in a bespoke suit.

A booming voice calls your number, and you retrieve the food. His serving is massive, tricky to transfer.

"I'm starvin'," He mutters, tucking in like a dog gets after a bone.

You, no better, are two big bites into your kebab. You swallow, shielding your mouth with a palm. "I thought you liked dinner. Our first dinner."

John considers you a moment, cheek bulging slightly with a bite. Before he takes another, he smiles sheepishly. "I hate that restaurant."

The admission poleaxes, and you nearly drop the kebab back into its flimsy tray. "But…I saw you absolutely relish that egg dish. With the truffle?"

"I was keeping the sea urchin down."

"That's what that was?" Your stomach twists, suddenly persnickety, recalling the slimy, coral-pink dish preceding the egg and mushrooms. It tasted salty, but you assumed it was another type of shellfish. Mildly scandalized, a bite finds its way to your mouth, but you pause, shy of the target. "If you hate the place, why did you take me there?"

"Thought you might like it."

You snort, wiping the corner of your lips with a disposable napkin. "Well, I didn't," Despite the lightheartedness, a sliver of asperity threads through your tone, and you swipe your tongue over your teeth. "You didn't ask what I like to eat, or where I might want to go for my anniversary date."

"So this is a date."

You glare, thinking how fast Alex might react to you taking a plastic fork to your employer, shelve the twinge in your chest and settle for pointing the prongs accusingly. "You have some nerve, Mr. Price. Taking a young woman, an employee, to dinner without consulting them."

The glint in his eye sharpens in the kaleidoscopic light. "You didn't complain earlier. You didn't ask."

You rapidly lose patience. "Should I ask next time?"

His mouth curls beneath his beard. "Next time?"

That’s it. You pitch the scraps of your food, dab your mouth again, and head for the car. With a huff, you bypass a hesitating Alex and wrench the car door open, your face flaming with embarrassment and irritation. Head of the company or not, he's an ass, deliberately riling you up. When you turn around, mapping the route home in your head, John's broad form cages you between the open door and the car. A quick glance at the American, and Alex turns away, forcing you to focus on the man before you.

"John." You state simply, hoping his name's magic enough a word to compel him to step aside.

"Didn't mean any harm, doll," He rasps lowly, a hair above a whisper. "Thought the place would impress you. I should've asked, I know, but I've made up for it, haven't I?" This close, his eyes appear darker, overcast with how he's backlit.

Lump in your throat, you exhale through your nose and lick your lip, tasting paprika. "I don't appreciate being teased."

John hums. "No?" His eyes switch between yours before giving a nod of understanding. "Noted. Then I'll be direct. I'd like to take you back to mine for a drink, so we can have some privacy," His hand lifts, palm cupping your face, thumb sweeping a cheek. "Get to know each other. Talk."

Talk. Uh-huh.

It's another precipice that every bit of reason in your bones tells you to step back from. Abort, abandon ship – this man is your boss's boss. No, higher than that. A man whose net worth is a question mark in every record you find. A fragmented exasperation comes out in a sigh, more surrender than defeat. As you mused earlier, leaving the man's company is easier said than done.

~~

It's terribly stereotypical – the sleek high rise, the terse doorman, the private lift, all down to the echo of your heels clicking on dark parquet floors leading to his door, the penthouse, naturally. 

However, John's home is warmer than you thought it would be for the owner of a company. A mixture of contemporary artwork hangs throughout the foyer, living, and dining area. Designer fixtures and hardware, clean lines melding with traditional pieces, and a color palette trending darker yet somehow rustic. Despite the company's technological bent, you have yet to spot a single smart home device. Whoever he paid to design and furnish his place, you figure they made out like a bandit.

Eyes cast out of floor-to-ceiling windows, you hold a glass of a Grand Cru, a Bordeaux whose name you immediately forget when you clap eyes on the year. The taste of dark cherry and smoke feels like silk and velvet on your tongue, and you savor it. The view's not too bad, either.

"Like it?"

"It'll do."

It's maddening. Going from barely looking the man in the eye in the line for a themed cocktail at a company party to standing in his home, drinking his expensive wine after he's paid for dinner and the purse currently on his dining table. As you take in the skyline, you hold on to that thought. The umpteenth time, you ask yourself, what the shit are you doing here? This is bad. There is no rationalization. The facts are laid bare in your mind: You are younger than him, not indecently so, but enough that your parents and friends would raise a brow. You are his employee and well on the way to breaking half a dozen more rules. You are an average person with bills and debt and stand to benefit from his generosity. You see it coming, the belated realization that hits like a pile of bricks.

The words slip out. Part declaration, part self-reassurance, wholly unformed. "I'm not going to be your…sugar baby, or whatever." You take a swig, fighting a wave of embarrassment.

In the window's reflection, John rocks on his heels. "I didn't think you were. I don't want you to be."

You turn, meeting his gaze when he mirrors you, squinting at the amusement written clearly on his face. "Then why the drinks? The dinner? The purse?"

"You deserve to be rewarded."

"No, no," You insist, shaking your head and lifting a finger. "You don't do this for other employees."

"Who says I haven't?"

"Have you?"

"'Course not."

You snort into the glass and drink deep. "You're impossible. How do you run a company with that attitude?"

John grins wryly in his own glass and ignores the jab. "Mm. Is this you askin' what we're doing here?"

Usually, eye contact is easy. Now, it's a challenge. "I suppose so, yes."

"We're two people enjoying each other's company," John's eyes drag down you shamelessly, ending back on your face with a polite smile as if he didn't blatantly ogle you. "One of whom happens to be in a position to give presents, and possesses the inclination."

It's an intentionally obtuse answer. "You know what that sounds like."

"It bothers you that much? To leave things as they are?"

"'As they are'," You repeat, then venture, "Casual, then?"

John faces you completely, looming. "I prefer to call it friendly."

Your chin lifts. "And you know what human resources would call it?"

"I might have some sway there."

"You'd abuse your power for me?" You scoff.

"I'd do worse, if you asked, sweetheart."

There’s a pause, an opening, and to your surprising delight, John takes it. He leans down for a kiss.

It's a mix of restraint and fervor. John's hand cradles your jaw, deepening the kiss when he realizes you're not running for the exit. His mouth's clearly the dominant player when yours opens without prompting. Any trace of stiffness in your posture melts, and it's a good thing you're holding a half-full glass of wine because you don't know what else it would reach for or where else it would head.

"Get to know each other. Talk," John said. If this is how he wants to get to know you, you accept it, and let him take you to his bedroom.

~~

"This'll wrinkle," John rucks the sheath of your dress up to your waist, fingers appreciatively trailing down your hips until they curve beneath your knees. His eyes follow a similar path, albeit starting from your face.

"I'll bill you for the dry cleaning." You murmur, biting your lip, watching him take in the view. It's intoxicating, the shift in his breathing, the narrowing of his eyes when it reaches the pale gold silk of your thong. It's as sheer as gossamer and carefully stitched with a pretty floral design, the gusset the only solid strip of fabric apart from the band.

The look on his face makes the bit of debt it put you in worth it. 

Your smug grin collapses under the crawl of a knuckle down your covered seam, featherlight. 

He hums, hands sliding beneath the band. His eyes flick to yours, the blue cloudy with want. His turn to smirk. "This too?"

"John," You warn half-heartedly, knowing what he's actually asking, lift your hips a little, and plant your hands on the bed.

Slowly, John pulls the garment down your legs. A sharp, audible inhale escapes him when his eyes snap to the apex of your thighs, and he tosses the piece of lingerie aside.

John sinks to his knees at the edge of his bed, unhurried, clearly content to observe your sex like it's one of the expensive pieces of art in his living room. His hands return, gliding up your legs to draw circles into the patches of skin on either side of your pussy, smirking again when he hears you gasp. He remains fixated. "Look at you," he purrs, a thumb brushing through the wetness, spreading it deliberately over your clit.

His thumb continues its lazy swipes while his mouth starts kissing a trail up your thighs. You tremble head to toe, anticipation painting everything in a lush haze.

"Fuck," The curse slips out in an aborted hiss you bite back. It's annoying how easily John works you up, his nettling at the food truck to this – he's barely touched you, and speech is suddenly a weakness. Has it been so long since you last saw some action? The brief, scalding memory of your last romp in the sheets plays in your mind. Freshly broken up with, it was a half-baked rebound with a man from a bar you went to alone, stupidly, and took in like a stray dog. Rutted like one, anyway. Come morning, he'd gone, having apparently found the cash in your wallet but not your clit.

A nip brings you back to the present.

"Still with me?" 

How many times could you make a rich man doubt himself in one night? Quite the undiscovered talent to discover. "Sorry, yes," You breathe, words working their way out through a shudder, "It's been awhile."

His stroking slows, eyes narrowing at your admission, mouth tracking to its north star. 

For a moment, it seems like he might stop or, worse, ask about it. You reach a hand toward him and stop short. "Can you, just–please?"

Without another word, John parts your thighs further apart, fingers digging gently into the sensitive skin. He dips his head lower, warm breath fanning over your pussy. His broad tongue flattens and drags one long lick from your hole to your clit, circling the sensitive bud. He groans, lapping up the first droplets of arousal, huffing your scent with his nose pressing to your curls. One of his hands makes for your ass, holding you in place when you inevitably jerk from the sensation.

His tongue is a wicked thing. Fitting, given his predilection for banter.

You involuntarily cant your hips up to his mouth, his beard scraping. "John!"

His smirk stretches across his lips, and he chuckles. For a second, he pauses. It's deliciously agonizing, the sight of him licking his lip before he returns back between your legs. The delay is long enough to make the next touch of his tongue a pleasant shock.

But he stops again. "Yeah? You want more?" The question is punctuated by a swipe.

You clench at the sheer arrogance in his voice. Maybe you did like being–

"What was that earlier?" His teeth gently, gently rake over your clit. "Something about you not appreciating being teased?" His laugh is downright mean when you practically squeal.

Your face burns, leaning back on an elbow, unable to remain seated with how you shake. "John, please."

Every word laces together with amusement. "Impatient, aren't you? Just want to make this last, sweetheart."

He delves back in, and in the process, he hauls one of your legs over his shoulder. You drop the other arm back to hold yourself up. His hand on your thigh leaves its post to join his efforts, and his middle fingers slide in without preamble - no need, judging by the obscene squelch.

Your head is the next to fall back at an angle, eyes squeezing shut at the slight stretch, hips bucking when he thrusts them shallowly. Gradually pushing deeper, stroking you from the inside out. His tongue makes a slow pass over your seam, licking over where his fingers disappear, and his mouth seals over your clit.

Again, language fails. The incoherent, shattered pleas and curses erupt out of you seem to spur John on. He groans when your cunt tightens its grip on his fingers, the heat in your belly skyrocketing to the peak at a dizzying speed. You know the orgasm will hit hard if it really has been over a year since someone assisted you in reaching one.

"John, please, John," you hurtle towards oblivion, leaving human resources in the dust. You fist his bedding, knuckles flexing, and force yourself to look at him.

John's eyes are open, pupils blown, zeroed in on your face with an intensity that makes you clench once more. He grunts something in response, vaguely encouraging with his big palm on your ass, squeezing and keeping you in place.

When it crests, your back meets the mattress with a cry. John rises slightly to follow your body's momentum, tongue still working fervently, though his fingers stop. He pulls out the digits to grab the ankle of your leg over his shoulder, your own wetness painting over the joint like a brushstroke. He gently removes the limb from its perch, and his mouth slows.

The first hints of overstimulation make you whimper and clumsily reach for the crown of his head, fingers threading through short hair to pull him off.

John detaches himself from your pussy, but not without a few parting kisses. 

While you try to gather the pieces of your consciousness flung about, John retracts and stands, rubbing one of your calves. You nearly short-circuit when you meet eyes at last. He's sucking his fingers with the same care he showed at dinner. The first one. He grins.

"My dessert."

You consider chucking his own pillow at his face. The crime of a rich man using a cheap line. It's annoying you still want his cock. You reach for him, fingers hooking around his belt to pull him forward and down, a knee landing between your legs. He ducks his head to meet you halfway for a kiss, your tongue licking over the seam of his mouth, tasting yourself. You kiss and kiss and kiss until your lungs hurt. Now that he's broken your dry spell, it's open season. 

Only, he puts a stop to it, pulling back when you unfasten his belt buckle. He cups your face. "I'd rather focus on you right now, sweetheart."

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. "That's not–You don't have to…"

"Hm, I want to see how many times I can make you come tonight." His other hand toys with the thin strap of your dress. "Should get this off you, before I ruin it."

The dress is a lost cause, as with any intention you had of sneaking out in the middle of the night. The dress joins your underwear, and you spend the rest of the evening learning just how generous John Price can be.

[apas-95]

Karl Marx: “The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman,”

me (under my breath [main exposure to society has been flash animations at this point]): and gandalf the grey and gandalf the white and monty python and the holy grail's black knight

K.M.: “...in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.”

me:

K.M.:

me: ........... it was the ultimate showdown

[rogue762mm]

Liberalism = the worship of Liber, the patron god of the Roman plebeians, defender of the plebeians' rights to ecstatic liberation, self-expression, and freedom of speech against the morality of the patricians.

Its festival merged with the Bacchanalia (the romanization of the Dionysian cult), essentially an intoxicating orgy.

Liberalism is in essence the overthrow of aristocratic power through mass degeneration.

[catominor]

patrician senator owners: lucius comes from a long line of illustrious consuls. his ancestor built our most famous aqueduct and other senators regularly consult him on serious matters of state. his clients fill up an entire city block.

plebeian senator owners: this is quintus his tunic is brown :)

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Manifesto of the Communist Party

[ Table of Contents | Next ▹ ]

A spectre is haunting Europe – the spectre of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.

Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?

Two things result from this fact:

Communism is already acknowledged by all European powers to be itself a power.

It is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Communism with a manifesto of the party itself.

To this end, Communists of various nationalities have assembled in London and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the English, French, German, Italian, Flemish and Danish languages.

I. Bourgeois and Proletarians*

* By bourgeoisie is meant the class of modern capitalists, owners of the means of social production and employers of wage labour. By proletariat, the class of modern wage labourers who, having no means of production of their own, are reduced to selling their labour power in order to live. [Engels, 1888 English edition]

The history of all hitherto existing society† is the history of class struggles.

† That is, all written history. In 1847, the pre-history of society, the social organisation existing previous to recorded history, all but unknown. Since then, August von Haxthausen (1792-1866) discovered common ownership of land in Russia, Georg Ludwig von Maurer proved it to be the social foundation from which all Teutonic races started in history, and, by and by, village communities were found to be, or to have been, the primitive form of society everywhere from India to Ireland. The inner organisation of this primitive communistic society was laid bare, in its typical form, by Lewis Henry Morgan's (1818-1861) crowning discovery of the true nature of the gens and its relation to the tribe. With the dissolution of the primeval communities, society begins to be differentiated into separate and finally antagonistic classes. I have attempted to retrace this dissolution in The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State, second edition, Stuttgart, 1886. [Engels, 1888 English Edition and 1890 German Edition (with the last sentence omitted)]

Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master‡ and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

‡ Guild-master, that is, a full member of a guild, a master within, not a head of a guild. [Engels, 1888 English Edition]

Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other – Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.

The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the colonisation of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development.

The Communist Manifesto - Part 1

[ Table of Contents | Next ▹ ]

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 14 March 1883, German communist Karl Marx died in London, aged 64. He had travelled to Britain after being banished from Germany, and arrested and imprisoned in Paris, from which he managed to escape. The Manchester Courier and Lancashire General Advertiser reported that at his funeral Friedrich Engels, Marx's lifelong friend and collaborator, described Marx as the "best hated and worst calumniated man in Europe… [who] had lived, although his work was not finished, to see his views embraced by millions of both hemispheres." Marx was clear that the driving force of history is the fight against oppression, writing with Engels: "The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. "Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes. "The modern bourgeois [capitalist] society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. "Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other — Bourgeoisie [capitalists] and Proletariat [the working class]." We have a number of works by or about him available here: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/collections/books/karl-marx To access this hyperlink, click our link in bio then click this photo https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2229979087187229/?type=3

[0junemeatcleaver0]

This post is the first in a series where I attempt to untangle the most mysterious aspects of Marius's mortal life.

Here I attempt to tackle the question of his political life in Rome.

DISCLAIMER: I would like to preface this by acknowledging the obvious, which is that I doubt Anne actually put this much thought into Marius’s back story. Additionally, when I hit post on this, I will be done thinking about the topic. Meaning: my mind is largely made up on this particular matter. I've done as much research as I want to do, and I've done the amount of arguing that I want to do--which is none. None arguing. This is more or less just a very researched headcanon, ignore if you like.

We of course are introduced to Marius in The Vampire Lestat. TVL is where we get the most insight into Marius’s life as a mortal--more so than we get in even his own book, Blood and Gold. We also gain additional information from Pandora’s story.

Here is what we learn about mortal Marius:

He was the illegitimate child of a wealthy Roman man and a Keltic slave woman

In B&G, he claims to have been high ranking in one of the legions, though he never saw battle

He claims to have later been a Senator, which means his father would had to have been of the Patrician class or a plebeian who became so rich he was promoted to Senatorial class

He never married

This is where we run into our first inconsistency in Marius’s back story.

In Blood and Gold, when Thorne asks if Marius was a soldier, this is how Marius responds:

Marius shook his head. “A Senator,” he said, “a maker of laws, something of a philosopher. I went to war, yes, for some time because my family wished it, and I had a high place in one of the legions, but my time wasn’t very long and I was home and back in my library. […] I never really knew battle. (B&G, p. 28-29)

Meanwhile, in Pandora, Lydia pleads for her father to allow her to marry Marius. He shoots her down, saying:

[…] But believe you me, the Emperor himself would not approve of you marrying such a mad wandering historian as Marius! He has never served in the military, he cannot enter the Senate, it is quite impossible. When you marry, you will marry well.” (Pandora, p. 55)

As previously stated, it is impossible to know if this is just Anne’s love of unreliable narrators at play, or if this is a lack of her remembering what she’d stated in previous books. But for our purposes, we will treat this as being purely a matter of unreliable narrators being at play.

So what’s the truth?

We can figure out who is telling the truth by looking at Roman laws of the time. The question is “Was Marius ever actually a Senator?”. There are three avenues that could lead us to the conclusion that he was; but if he isn’t seen to meet any of these requirements, it is safe to assume he is lying to Thorne.

Fortunately, we have enough clues about which avenue(s) would be most plausible (if any) just from the information provided by Marius himself.

The oldest male of a Patrician family (or the eldest son, if the father were infirm) could become a Senator

The same could happen for the son of a plebeian family if his father had become wealthy enough to jump to Senatorial class

So from what we know of how he was treated by his father (taken under his control--IE: adopted--and given an education and unlimited resources for his travels, etc.), he was seen as being equal to his legitimate brothers.

The Institutes of Gaius also detail several ways that Marius could have become a Roman citizen even if his mother had not been freed.

So with the problem of his parentage and his related rights out of the way, we are left to ask: Was Marius the eldest son?

It’s not stated explicitly where in birth order Marius falls, but I suspect he is not the eldest son due to this line:

And her people had been giants, it seemed. At a very young age, I towered over my father and my brothers. (TVL, p. 397)

Towering over your younger siblings isn’t so remarkable as to need making a point of. And so it stands to reason these brothers Marius talks about are older than him.

The third path to becoming a Senator is the longer path, and it begins with serving in the legions and then rising slowly through the ranks of the lower offices.

It certainly seems as though Marius is implying that he took the last of these routes to becoming a Senator. Which would be rising through the ranks of the Cursus Honorum.

But perhaps the most damning evidence that Marius is lying here is time itself. Marius simply did not have enough time to climb the ranks of the Cursus Honorum before he was turned at the age of 40. 

Here are the facts: 

The first time Pandora sees Marius, she is 10 and guesses him to be 25 years of age. 

We know he was not serving in the military at this time because of two laws: The one prohibiting soldiers to marry, and the Lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus requiring all male Roman citizens between the ages of 25 and 60 under the rule of Augustus to marry. 

On page 51 of Pandora, Marius attempts to ask for Lydia’s hand via her father. On page 52, he explains to her: 

“Well, that sort of wanderer and dreamer likes nothing better than to betroth himself to a young girl of ten because it means she is not old enough to marry and he has years of freedom, without the censure of the Emperor. They do it all the time.”

If Marius were already enlisted, he’d be too early into the required ten year service to be worried about securing a wife. But if he weren’t serving, the matter of marriage would become more pressing, as an unmarried man of his age would be expected to pay extra in taxes for continuing to be single. 

Ten years in the military was mandatory for securing political office (though some wiggle room was given there). 

When we next see Marius, Lydia is 15 and so Marius would have been 30. 

As previously stated, Lydia’s father says on page 55 of Pandora that still at this time, Marius has never served in the military and thus cannot enter the Senate. 

And while it is possible that her father was lying just because he didn’t like Marius, Pandora’s reaction to his proclamations lead me to believe that he wasn’t, as does this passage: 

“[...] why don’t you marry me to Marius? I don’t understand it. I’m rich. He’s rich. I now his Mother was a wild Keltoi princess, but his Father has adopted him.’

My Father said witheringly, ‘Where have you learned all this?’ [...] ‘I don’t know; it’s common knowledge.’” –Pandora, page 55

It makes sense–the Patrician class was a small group in comparison to the plebians. And people have always been the same IE: gossips. It would make sense that the basics of Marius’s background, his station in life, and how he’s been biding his time would all be known to Pandora in at least the vaguest way. She doesn’t refute her father’s claims about Marius’s life as a loafer because she knows it to be true already. 

And this is a Marius of 30 years of age. If he completed the required 10 years of service, he’d be 40. If he were allowed the wiggle room others were afforded, he could have ended his service as early as 37 years of age. 

And it still wouldn’t matter. 

Because under Augustus (the Emperor who ruled from the time Marius was 3-4 years old until about four years after he was turned), freedmen could not run for office, nor could they be made part of the senatorial class. 

Marius describes himself as “illegitimate” several times and even tells Lestat that his mother died when he was born–implying she died in childbirth (page 397 of The Vampire Lestat).

It is not a huge leap in logic to assume Marius’s mother never received formal manumission, as Marius claims all he knows of her is that she was once a Celtic princess and a slave. It stands to reason that if Marius's father ever freed his mother, he would know about it–especially since his mother being freed at his time of birth would have made Marius optimo jure, thus giving him full rights as a Roman citizen. 

Because all children born to slave women were considered slaves, it also stands to reason that Marius’s father adopted him via manumission, and since the freedman in that situation would take on his former master’s nomen gentilicium and then enter into a pseudo-paternal relationship with him, it stands to reason that Marius’s father would treat him as a son and give him freedom, money, property, etc. 

But he would still not be eligible to become a Senator. 

And it is for those reasons, I believe Marius was never a Senator, and indeed never served in the military, either. 

Sources:

[whencyclopedia]

Plebeians

Plebeians were members of the plebs, the hereditary social class of commoners in ancient Rome. Their exclusion from political power by the patricians, who claimed to be the descendants of the first senators, led to Conflict of the Orders, a centuries-long struggle for equal political rights for plebeians, which saw the creation of the Twelve Tables and other laws.

Continue reading...

[lordmartiya]

Hi. Today is the Ides of March, and I come to you not to defend Caesar but to contestualize his killers. Because I've noticed most people here are directly or indirectly influenced by William Shakespeare's play on the events, play that alters a few facts and presents Marcus Junius Brutus as the most sympathetic character of the entire mess for sake of drama, and forgoes ENTIRELY the historical context. Being Italian I grew up with MOST of said context, so allow me to present you with the series of civil wars that ended the Roman Republic.

The dominoes started being placed at the very start of the Republic, when, according to legend, the last king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (properly translated as Lucius Tarquinius the Fucking Arrogant - the English language doesn't have the right word to translate "superbus"), got the Romans so furious that they joined forces and chased him and his family out of town under the leadership of Publius Valerius and Lucius Junius Brutus (this name is important, remember it). No matter if the legend has any basis in history, the Roman here started LOATHING the King, and while the office was maintained as the Rex Sacrorum (King of Sacrifices) for its religious significance it lost all its political power, and every year the holder would be ritually chased out of Rome as a reminder of what happened to Tarquinius, a tradition that apparently continued all the way until the office's abolition under EMPEROR TEODOSIUS THE FIRST (the Romans loved tradition and could hold a grudge for a long time). Also, the Romans reformed their government around the Senate, whose families, the Patricians, formed Rome's nobility, so that they could properly rule their city, the villages and towns directly subject to it, and the largish alliance centered around Rome, accounting for any foreseeable future growth of said alliance. Keyword: FORESEEABLE. Because the founders of the Republic apparently anticipated Rome's control to expand at most from the Alps to Apulia, maybe Sicily if the local Greek colonies decided to pick a fight and their friends in Carthage decided to share.

Then the unexpected happened: the antics of the Mamertines, a band of mercenaries turned bandits, dragged Rome and Carthage into war and hatred, and when the second of the three wars ended Rome's hegemony extended from just south the valley of the Po river to Apulia, while the Po valley and the rest of Northern Italy, Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, and a large chunk of the Hiberian peninsula were now the provinces of Sicilia, Sardinia et Corsica, Gallia Cisalpina, and Hispania Citerior - and to top it off they had committments in Greece (as the Macedons had briefly entered the Second Punic War) and Africa (where Rome's new ally of Numidia was itching to go at what remained of Carthage's empire, with Carthage pinching every penny to pay the immense war reparations under the wrong impression that once they were done Rome would leave them alone and let them settle the score with the traitorous Numidians). Rome had grossly overextended its territory beyond the capacity of its institutions and was due a reformation - but much of the political power, and the war loot that came with it, was in the hand of the Patricians, and any workable reform would by necessity dilute said power, for starters by recognizing that many of Rome's Italian allies were now Romans in every way that mattered except the citizenship and its privileges (including a larger share of the war loot), and that the common people of Rome, the Plebeians (that's their literal name), were owed either a larger share of the loot themselves or some state-owned lands that various Patricians and Equites (the wealthy merchant class of former Plebeian extraction) had bought up. Thus the reformations stalled, for almost a century.

Then came Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, who, recognizing the problem, used his term as Tribune of the Plebs to start addressing the problem and force a land reform in the Senate's throat, but in the process he broke a number of unwritten rules and was lynched on the orders of the Pontifex Maximus (this being one of the two circumstances where a Tribune of the Plebs could be killed in spite of being under religious protection, and the Pontifex had to explain himself after the fact or be executed himself). Thus the Senate was able to sabotage the reform by not allocating any fund to it. Then, to their dismay, Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, Tiberius' younger brother, was elected Tribute and continued his work, even trying to extend citizenship to the Latins and Latin rights to the other allies... And used violence first, eventually leading to the Senate passing an emergency bill to kill him, even bringing weapons inside Rome's Pomerium (the area of Rome where bringing weapons was usually forbidden on pain of being beaten to death on the spot, and where any official's military power was annulled the moment they stepped in) if necessary. Factional violence had started.

Eventually, and with a war against Rome's Italian allies that had grown tired of just waiting to be recognized as proper Romans (plus the irreducible Samnites making one last play at reconquering their independence) that ended when the Consul Lucius Julius Caesar made the Senate cough up that citizenship (and the Samnites being wiped out as a nation for continuing the war even after Rome coughed up the citizenship), the factions coalesced around two well-meaning strongmen: the Populares, serving the interests of the people (including the Plebeians, a number of impoverished Patrician families, and part of the wealthy Equites merchant class) and led by the Plebeian war hero Gaius Marius, and the Optimates, serving the interests of the elites (the Patricians and the majority of the Equites) and led by the Patrician war hero Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Both Marius and Sulla, who had fought together against the new king of Numidia Jugurtha, recognized Rome was speeding toward self-destruction (Jugurtha literally PAYING OFF a number of Roman generals before Marius took over that war and brought Sulla to help whip the demoralized troops back into shape had proved that) and something had to be done, but disagreed on how... And eventually a civil war was fought. Marius initially had the upper hand, seizing Rome while Sulla and his army were away fighting Mithridates, but he died by old age before Sulla's return, and without him the Populares couldn't stop Sulla from winning back Italy. The first round went to the Optimates, with Sulla forcing reforms that stabilized the situation for a time before retiring for fear of becoming a tyrant. Sulla also took the chance to have a number of Marius' allies killed, but was persuaded to spare Marius' nephew - a skilled and brave swordsman named Gaius Julius Caesar. He still left his allies with a warning, that in this young man he saw many Marii - for this guy was THAT Julius Caesar (and a nephew of the now late Lucius Julius Caesar).

After Sulla's retirement and eventual death, things started unraveling again due the one thing he had failed to account for: the Senate was corrupted. So corrupted that eventually control of the state was usurped by three men: Pompey the Great, one of Sulla's old lieutenants and the war hero who destroyed Sertorius' Populares army in Hispania, saved Rome from the existential threat posed by the Illyrian pirates (who had grown strong enough to endanger Rome's grain supply due the Senate's corruption), and finished off Mithridates; Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome, the war hero that defeated Spartacus (and had Pompey promptly steal the glory as he was returning from Hispania), and major asshole who got so rich by buying up the firefighters, come to any house on fire, and telling the owner that if he didn't sell him the house at a much reduced price he'd let it burn (he was also the most hated man in Rome); and Julius Caesar, not yet a war hero in spite of how his own run-in with pirates went (those pirates thought he was joking when he paid up twice the ransom and told them he'd come back and have them all hanged to crosses. They realized he was serious when they discovered who exactly had just led a Roman fleet to storm their base and capture them all) but the apparent leader of the Populares by virtue of who his uncle was. With this arrangement, Crassus went to the east to try and conquer Parthia, Caesar got himself made governor of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gauls and got to work to conquer the rest of the Gauls at the first excuse, and Pompey remained in Rome to hold the fort... But Crassus got himself killed like an idiot, and without him the Senate was able to bring Pompey back into their Optimate fold. And when Caesar came back from the Gauls as a conqueror he knew he had two choices: go back peacefully and get killed, or take Marius' mantle and march on Rome. He choose the latter, and when the dust settled Caesar was the master of Rome and Pompey was dead, assassinated by the courtiers of Ptolemy XIII of Egypt to try and appease Caesar but instead royally pissing him off (that's how Cleopatra became the Queen of Egypt, she knew killing Pompey was a stupid idea and was already an exile, so when Caesar got the news she allied herself with him), with only one remaining Optimate army still resisting in Sicily under Pompey's son, Sextus Pompey.

Caesar was a much different man from Sulla. For starters, his reforms followed the Populares' ideals. Also, he didn't like to have people executed for being political enemies - a honorable death on the battlefield was one thing, but having someone killed in peacetime for having different political opinions was another, and Pompey's surviviving soldiers fell for him when Caesar ordered his men to let them live. And then there's the part that usually gets omitted in Italian school books: he had no intention to relinquish his power once he was done, and even planned to make himself King of Rome, even with the ghost of Tarquinius still looming over Rome. Being a genius, however, he decided to test the water first, most notably by arranging for his trusted lieutenant Mark Antony to publicly offer him a crown while STARK NAKED, so that it could be dismissed as a tasteless joke if needed. The people booed at Antony's action, so Caesar rejected the crown and tried to pass it off as a tasteless joke... But part of the public opinion started wondering about Caesar's true intentions, and a number of Optimates decided it was time to deal with Caesar.

These men, the self-proclaimed Liberators, were a number of lesser Optimates that for various reasons felt personally insulted by Caesar (one even owed him money), and took Caesar's probes toward kingship as excuse. Their leaders were Gaius Cassius Longinus, who Caesar had refused a political appointment in favor of someone else, and Marcus Junius Brutus, direct descendant of the Brutus that led the Romans against Tarquinius and infamous weathervane who joined anyone who seemed to be the strongest, first choosing to side with Pompey, who had his father's killed during Sulla's purges, because his allies had sided with him against Caesar, then siding with Caesar when he got the upper hand, and now realizing that his entire political career was at Caesar's whim (it was in fact him who got the appointment Caesar denied to Cassius) and the master of Rome could change his mind any time, and seemed rather inclined to support his trusted lieutenant Mark Antony and his grand nephew Octavian. The Liberators waited for a Senate session outside the Pomerium (as a number of Senators were also holding military offices), thus in a place where carrying weapons was allowed, and with their knives jumped Caesar on the Ides of March. The tyrant was dead, and they could now take whatever political office they wanted while Cicero, Rome's most honest man who was nonetheless biased toward them as an Optimate, brokered a peace with Caesar's allies... But they had mistaken Antony as a brute. At Caesar's funeral Antony gave a legendary speech and read out Caesar's will, in which he gave lavish gifts to the masses of Rome, thus turning the entire population of Rome against the Liberators to such a point Sextus Pompey didn't want anything to do with them, and igniting the third of the four rounds of civil wars that would destroy the Roman Republic and turn it into the Empire.

In conclusion, was Caesar killed for a good reason? Most certainly yes. But was Brutus a hero? Nope. He was a weathervane ready to switch sides the moment the tide turned, and turned on Caesar out of fear he'd cut his political career off if he opposed him (though Mark Antony turning the entirety of Rome on him apparently restored his coherency, as during the following war he finally fought to his own death). Thus screw Caesar, screw Brutus, and screw Mark Antony for restarting the war. Only Cicero and Octavian can be spared. Wait, wasn't Octavian just Caesar's grandnephew? Well, yes... But he was also Caesar's legal heir, equally ambitious and brave but much smarter and cunning, enough to secure his power first by allowing Antony to screw himself over by thinking with his lower head (Antony cheating on his wife Octavia with Cleopatra in spite of Octavia being the very model of a Roman bride pissed off a LOT of Romans. Especially her brother, who happened to be Octavian himself) and then by actually solving the entire problem of Roman institutions having overextended themselves (you know, what had started the entire mess to begin with), thus creating the Roman Empire while assuming the name of Augustus.

As for the knife block? It's made in Italy. Because we may hold Caesar as a national hero to this day, but with such an obvious joke...

[metalgearzoe]

Star Wars usually: Hey look! Aren't space wizards and laser swords and galaxy magic and space dogfights cool?

Andor: The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and...

[syoddeye]

wip wednesday

for a late wip wednesday, here’s a snippet of the next part of business or pleasure. parts 1-4 available here. still editing so it may change.

cw: alcohol

Straw. Actual straw. Collected, cut, snipped, and presumably arranged by careful hands to ring a porcelain plate to resemble a bird's nest. A piece pokes the chicken egg in the center, and a thin drizzle of black truffle sluices from the puncture and soaks into the dry, flat bed of mushrooms.

You would do unspeakable things for lamb samosa or a boti kebab. 

The drinks are delicious, though the service, along with everything else, proves an adjustment. Two sips into a kir, savoring, the waiter clears the glasses, moving you into the second dish without a word. Each of the courses you pick through transitions the same way: with a person clad in a fancy little vest ferrying away three-quarter full glasses and disassembled plates you ruined in search of flavor.

Jarring. Pompous. Wasteful. 

Your work anniversary dinner. Your date with John Price.

Across the table, he dines in his own world. He methodically pierces the egg on his nest-plate-thing, peppery black truffle oozing more artfully than your own onto the mushrooms. He prepares a bite, and you trail it to his mouth. His eyes close briefly, and your lip twitches.

Holding back a sigh, you mirror him as you have the whole dinner, a plebeian to his patrician.