Page 19 of The Night Belongs To Lovers

Washenot Lord of the Night, after all? He was certain Coeus’ dust, long now upon the wind, did not need such exquisite embellishments.

Though Olympius wore well-made leather sandals, their use for protection from the rigours of travelling hard roads and irritants like pebbles and rocks was inconsequential. He was of Titan blood and haughty, hovering above the ground under his godly power; his feet seldom touched the soil and stone tread by mortals and beasts. Fine marble was the exception, as he appreciated its cold, smooth flatness.

Upon the emergence of night, Olympius had watched proudly as his warrior-god led their assembled army to war. The aggressive men, all hungry for blood, were gathered from near and far. All the cornersof Italia, from Ostia to Syracuse, had been scoured for soldiers; even Greece was a source for recruitment.

During the past year, the group’s leader, a man they calledGaius, had forged them into an effective fighting force. None knew he was actually a supposed dead and infamous Roman General using shadow and speed to obscure his facial features.

Since being reborn a god, Coriolanus had abandoned his mortal identity, though he still called himself by that earned name, but only in the presence of Olympius, never in front of his men.

Not that Olympius showed any interest in interacting with mortals anymore. No prayer, caught by godly hearing or through mind-touch, had been answered since Veturia’s last plea, a visit Coriolanus knew nothing about.

Their encampment moved frequently to avoid Rome’s watchful eye. During this time, Coriolanus kept his men happy with more than coin, using several methods, including food, wine, and what Olympius called “mortal debauchery.”

From the start of the siege, a surprise attack, Olympius watched gleefully as his soldiers hurled countless sharp javelins and launched hundreds of whistling arrows at the guards upon Antium’s defensive wall. He grinned wide when the brutal Calvary men finally overwhelmed the central gates and charged into the city upon strong, well-trained steeds to destroy their enemy, hands gripping steel, whip or torch.

Coriolanus, at the forefront of the assault, led with a spirited determination, ensuringGaius’braveryshone like a beacon. Hehad no desire to remain at Olympius’ side, safe from the battle, overseeing the conflict from a secure vantage point. Fearless, he charged headlong into the brutal melee, knowing he was immune to death at the hands of mortals. Also, the warrior-god was eager to confront the pompous Aufidius for his betrayal.

Coriolanus had beseeched his Maker to allow him to begin their war at Aufidius’ doorstep; Antium was the betrayer’s home.

Although the city was of little importance to Olympius, as it was part of the sovereign state of Volsci and not under Roman rule, he agreed it would be an excellent place to begin before moving against the traitorous Republic to the north. It would be a chance to test their forces’ mettle, fortitude, and how well they took direction.

To Coriolanus, the Volsci deserved his spite nearly as much as Rome did.

Upon Aufidius’ death, Olympius planned to have his great army move from town to town, carving a bloody path toward Rome. And if more souls dissatisfied and outraged by Rome’s arrogance and cruel, oppressive rule wished to enlist, all the better.

As he marvelled at the fire and smoke billowing out from the city, painting the starry sky in a mosaic of red, orange, and gray-black hues, Olympius felt a suddenwhooshof air around him. The air swept his cloak, causing it to dance in the moonlight before eventually settling.

Coriolanus was suddenly—and unexpectedly—at his side.

With a look of confusion, Olympius silently questioned his paramour’s return so quickly from the still ongoingbattle. It would be some time before Antium fell utterly, and did Coriolanus not wish to lead the onslaught?

From sheer curiosity, Olympius looked over Coriolanus’ crimson-dyed paludamentum. He noted at first glance that the heavy cloak, while dusted with cinders and the expected grime caused by battle, had very few blood stains.

Upon a more thorough examination, he saw nothing Coriolanus wore, from his linen body armour to his bronze chest plate to his leather baldric, which carried his steel, sported much mortal blood.

Olympius was about to enter his warrior-god’s thoughts to determine the issue but quickly remembered Coriolanus had insisted he never do so without permission.

“If you feel any guilt around claiming your revenge, my love, do not,” Olympius calmly stated, choosing words over thought to express his concern. “Guilt is a useless emotion to a god. Death is no less than what that traitorous bastard deserved, though you should have lengthened his suffering before killing him. This return feels premature.

“Or is that the problem? Have you spoiled your fun by acting impulsively, allowing rage to get the better of you? A quick kill is merciful and rarely satisfying.”

Coriolanus stared intently down at the battle but said nothing to his Maker.

“What is with this ridiculous silence?”

“I did not kill him.”

Furrowing his brows, Olympius frowned. “What! Did yourlionnot betray you, envious of how the people loved you?! Did he not condemn you to death?! I was there, Coriolanus, watching from the shadows as your oh-so-noble General stood on top of your corpse in triumph. Oh, how I wanted to send the darkness to rip him apart. I held back, knowing you would desire that pleasure as an immortal. I do not understand any of this. Beloved, this was why we came here!”

Olympius threw his arm out with a grand flourish, moving it and his cloak in a sweeping motion to encompass the vista of Antium’s collapse before them.

“I hurt him, yes, as he deserved,” the warrior-god admitted through clenched teeth. “I effortlessly picked up Aufidius as if he weighed no more than a piece of parchment. His fierce struggle meant nothing to me as I hurled him at a thick stone wall. He broke an arm and a leg upon impact, and part of his face was crushed. As he sat there with shattered limbs and torn flesh oozing fluids, he looked nothing likemy lion. He was nothing but a terrified, mewling baby, a coward hunched against cold stone and marble.

“Towering over him, I claimed ownership of the ongoing destruction of his city. I cursed the bastard, reminding him of his betrayal of me. I said I would end his miserable, mortal existence, for that I, now a god of vengeance and darkness personified, was a bringer of death.”

“What stopped you?” Olympius questioned harshly. “Make me understand this moment of weakness.” He was sure he haddestroyed all frailty in Coriolanus the night of his Becoming, all traces of mortal man’s imperfection.

“After all this time away from Aufidius, time spent with you, my love, I have changed. I felt something wholly unexpected in that moment of revenge against my former lover. Not indifference, certainly not forgiveness, but something other than the expected abject scorn. Anger was there, as was disdain, and though I spoke harsh words of condemnation, as betrayal is unforgivable, the fire to empower them was absent from my inner forge.

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