Traitorous Arms

by Emily C.


A little something I wrote in Creative Writing class a couple months back. At the time, I had just finished reading The Tragedy of Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare, and needless to say, I was inspired.

I do not own any of the quotes from the play that can be found inside this short story, nor do I own Mark Antony as a character. Such works are written and owned by William Shakespeare, and all credit goes to him.

I just wanted to write a what if scenario with the most loyal man in Rome after an unseen tragedy. Sorry for the Latin in the beginning!




"Mala enim vita in bonam homines post eos..."




"Mala enim vita in bonam homines post eos..." The warrior sharpened his blades, "Non longo vivas tempore et bene hominum."

         As he sharpened, his eyes casted to a pedestal across the way, lit only by gentle candlelight and fiery flames; flames that danced and made shadows, fleeting against the tarps of his tent.

         Mortar and stone stared back at him, lifeless eyes looking straight into the depths of his being, the core of everything he was and everything he wanted to be. The statue was more than enough to make him shiver, the memories it conceived branding into him as if he were someone's livestock, someone's meek and gentle cattle.

         Meek, merciful, but not weak-minded.

         He uttered gently underneath a breath, speaking volumes while not even having to raise his voice at all. His eyes didn't falter on the face that was so familiar, one he held dear even till his very last breath. "Julius Caesar... Caesar, Julius."

         His gaze lingered there, flashing with rage only a moment after they filled with longing. He willed himself to look away, back down at his working hands and sharpening once, twice, before lifting the blade to his eyes.

         "O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers... ( Act III, Scene 1 )" His voice tread a very calm line, "They know not the war they have started, one that I intend to finish not for myself but for every wound shed against Caesar, but they will soon enough." He paused to set aside the blade, on a silver tray laying before him.

         "Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue- A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ( Act III, Scene 1 ). A curse." His lips curled, his teeth baring. "Which will not be brought upon them by Gods waiting in the heavens, but by myself who cries havoc against these traitors. These monsters, these..."

         Suddenly, the warrior's tent became a bit warmer; heating the coiling rage within him and burning, burning against his brow.

         "These treacherous men who Caesar once called friends. Friends! I swear to myself- I promise -vengeance for the man I so greatly admired will be mine." His eyes raised to statue across the way, a statue of the land's murdered ruler.



         "I swear to this. Even if it's the last thing I do in this treacherous life."

         Misery loved company, but not more than Mark Antony himself.

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