Date: February 5, 2001 (Aether: October 24, 3907)
Place: Garden - Palladium - Haven
Cast: Alexander, Gabriel
Scene: Recently, the elite soldiers of the Praetorian Guard, known as the Schola, increased their numbers around the Hall of the Sky in the Palladium, and about the imperial palace in Civitas Dei. Some viewed this as an unspoken confrontation with the Aegis, which speaks of choosing a new Emperor now that Drusus Jove has been missing for many months. Two men -- an Aegian and a Schola -- meet in the garden to discuss the ramifications of this act, and what might be done about it in order to preserve the unity of the Empyre.

It is the early hours of the morning and darkness has begun to retreat in the wake of the first rays of the new day. Coated over most things within the garden is that soft, cool dew that sticks to the leaves of the trees and the petals of the last flowers of fall. There is a freshness to the air, a brisk breeze that only comes in the earliest part of the day. It is a lovely day and it is a new day, with promises of something special.

And assembled in the garden, on this October morning, are five members of the Praetorian Guard. Upon closer inspection, it is obvious that they are more than simply Praetorians -- they are the elite of the elite, the Schola. Their red-dyed shoulder plates and red or purple chlamys give away their positions. One among the five stands apart, and it is Alexander who is the focus of the attention of the other four officers. He speaks in low, gruff tones as he points to various portions of the gardens and the general surrounding area as the men discuss amongst themselves.

A yawn precedes the complaint, "I'm all for sparrin'. But this early? If I'm going to get my nose punched in, I'd rather do it after a full night's sleep."

"So maybe you can go to sleep a little earlier, Dralo," comes the reply, though it is not without amusement. Two men are entering the garden from the courtyard beyond, where the living quarters are situated. One is tall and dark and brawny, the other slighter, and fair-haired. And winged. The latter adds, "if you want to improve, you'll need to know discipline. That's one of the first things I was taught in the Nest."

"Aye, but this ain't the Nest," is the muttered rejoinder. Then both men stop as they round the winding path and find themselves in the midst of a gathering of Schola.

"That is right, Marcus. I want the Schola to augment the Guard's presence here. Let them take care of the fucking House nobles, but our duty is to the Aegis. And so..." The tone and accent used by Alexander might be mistaken for some common gutter trash, if not for the badge of authority that signifies his rank as Tribune of the Schola. Cut off in mid-sentence, as the soldier points out some position to the man standing to his immediate right, the icy blue eyes flicker over the newly arrived. And slowly, by inches, a grin begins to grow across his lips.

"Yessir. I'll make sure we begin our own round of patrols. I'll discuss with Imperator Theron what..." Mimicing his superior officer, the red-haired Marcus trails off to pick out what has gained his commander's attention. In turn, the other three men also pivot in their position towards the newly arrived pair.

The brawny mongrel fellow drops his head in a deferential nod to the surrounding Schola. He hasn't the look or attitude of a slave or servant, and so he does not bow or shy away from their gazes. But his respect is still obvious, and so is his frisson of uneasiness. Dralo nudges the shorter Empyrean next to him, and is heard to whisper, "Everythin' all right, Gabe? This ain't part of your cousin's doin', is it?"

Gabriel had stopped short at the sight of the guards, and his teal-green gaze had flickered rapidly from one to the other, before settling on the taller, ruggedly-featured one issuing the orders. Likewise, a faint, barely discernible smile flashes across his countenance. "No," he tells the mongrel at his side, "it's not my cousin's doing." Then he starts forward, shaking his head as his smile grows, and he thrusts out one caesta-wrapped fist to grasp the older man's. "Gradivus. Don't tell me they went and promoted you? Is this some sort of joke?" Alexander:

Harsh of features, broad of form, this Empyrean has none of the subtle elegance of nobility one often associates with his race. Rather, if analogies were to be made, he might be better compared to a grizzly bear or perhaps some caged tiger ready to spring. Though past his prime, the underlying raw ferocity of his spirit has not dimmed with the years and is only softened by the wry humor that often glitters in his ice-blue eyes. Still, he is given some dignity in image by the silvering of his short, brownish-blonde hair and the war-weary lines that crease his roughened skin. His figure is muscular; not in the way one acquires from regimented calisthenics, but rather a fitness borne out of the sheer need for survival.

Twin arches of white and silver rise from behind his shoulders, a magnificent testament to his heritage. Those paired wings are as powerful as the figure they belong to, giving the illusion that they could carry him to the heavens itself.

Attired in the uniform of a Praetorian, this man bears the symbol of one of the most exalted positions within the Guard: Tribune of the Schola. His armor is of fine leather and obviously new, too new to have seen combat yet. Bracers, greaves and cuirass are all of exemplary make as one would expect of someone of his rank. The shoulder plates are dyed red, marking his place in the Imperial Guard. He has chosen to adopt neither the Emperor's red, nor the Aegis' purple for his chlamys, but instead wears one that hints of both colors, a subtle shading of both offices. Ending this ensemble is a battered gladius and matching pilum that are set at his waist.

In all of Aether, there is perhaps only group that can potentially match, and in some cases, even exceed the martial prowess of the Angi-Haidar. And that is the Schola. And it is obvious why. So subtle, so careful, the four accompanying officers shift in their stance as they cover the positions of their commanding officer. Just a slight touch to the hilts of their blades, just a quick glance to the shadows of the gardens. Paranoid? Perhaps, but that is what these men have trained all their lives for and in these uncertain times, and with so many assassinations in the last few years, paranoia is simply a way of life for them.

"Augustin?" grunts Alexander as his intense blue eyes take in Gabriel's countenance and form. "Finally woke your lazy ass up and got out of bed, eh? Its fucking late in the day already and I can see you're still yawning like a baby." He snorts. Loudly. "Nobles." But beneath all that gruffness there is a hint, just the barest of hints, of respect and fondness in his voice. With a steady stride, the Tribune stalks over towards Gabriel and clasps his hand in his large, gloved one.

A chuckle escapes the Augustin nobleman's lips as he clasps the hand of the Schola, and he remarks, "You haven't changed at all. Still barking orders to anyone who'll listen and treating anyone more than three years younger than you like a babe just out of his swaddling clothes." His grip is strong, and intentionally so -- it's not a means of showing off, but just a method of countering the older man's barbs, and after proving his point, he takes a step back and looks Alexander over curiously. His gaze lingers especially on the purple-red chlamys he's wearing. "You've done well for yourself," he comments. "Beats shouting at fledglings in the Nest, does it?"

Dralo is still hanging back, watching the interplay between nobleman and Schola, and casting surreptitious, skeptical glances at the other guardsmen arrayed around them. But since Gabriel does not seem nervous or uneasy, he's going to strive not to be, either. Even if he can't quite help it.

"Wish I could say the same for you." The words are all but barked out in that loud, almost abrasive tone of his. With a skeptical eye, Alexander studies Gabriel's form for imperfections, even as the two men clasp hands. His grip is powerful, as it always is -- perhaps a show of manhood, perhaps a way of attempting to assert domination, as one alpha male might do to another. Finally, he releases his hold on the younger Aegian. "You've changed," he mutters as his right hand moves down to Gabriel's torso. "You're looking soft. And flabby." He pats the other's stomach, with a rough touch.

A moment passes and the old Tribune leans forward, as if spying something on the Aegian's collar. His nostrils flare, as he takes a long whiff of the younger man's scent. Grey eyes scrunch up, as if he's detected something terrible. "And you're smelling fucking pretty. What, you putting on perfume like some woman?" This declaration is made with a loud snort. "Wearing pretty clothes, smelling like roses, soft as baby's newborn skin. If you put on a chemise, I am going to ask you to marry me, Augustin."

And with this said, a loud, harsh laugh pours out of his lips. It is gruff, deep and true to form, but it is entirely genuine and without malice. "Boy, it is good to see you." And with that large, almost cocky grin of his, he replies, "And you could be right, but I miss the Nest sometimes. I liked whipping fledglings into shape. At that age, they were too fucking stupid to be stupid, if you know what I mean."

All the while, in the background, the other four officers continue their watch over the scene as it plays out. Marcus, especially, seems to have fallen into the natural role as the Tribune's chief guardian. A curt nod is given by the redhead to the mongrel, but no other acknowledgement is forthcoming.

Gabriel is hardly insulted by the Schola's familiarity and taunts -- they only make his grin broaden all the more, and he slaps the back of his hand against the Tribune's own iron-hard abdomen. "I'll still take you any time, Gradivus. You're getting old -- not long before it's old and feeble. You sure you can still totter around, even? I wouldn't want you to wear yourself out." His own comments are offered in the same manner -- one of easy camaraderie, which hasn't diminished despite the years separating their last meeting from this one. The Augustin nobleman had changed after the war -- grown more somber and serious, but here is a glimpse of the man he'd been before time and tragedy changed him. The confidence is a newer thing, though. When last they'd parted, it had been as soldier and commander. Now, roles have changed, and the younger man treats the elder as more of an equal than a superior. Yet his respect is still plain as he offers, with more sobriety, "It is good to see you again, Gradivus. Tell me what brings you to Haven?"

His gaze flickers briefly toward the other Schola, and it's likely that Gabriel already has a guess. Yet he asks all the same.

Dralo's still watching from the sidelines, alert and a little wary, though Alexander's and Gabriel's obvious familiarity with one another put him a trifle more at ease.

"Take me any time? You asking me out for dinner, Augustin?" growls out Alexander in a tone one might consider menancing if they did not know him well. But between commander and former soldier, it is one of closeness, a tie that has not been broken even over the years. "I told you already, I'm taken. Too many young women need me; can't be wasting my time with the likes of you." Slapping Gabriel's shoulder in a way only one soldier would do to another, a brotherhood of men of war, he replies, "And I'm getting old, ya. Soon, you just might be able to make me break a sweat and force me to keep both eyes open in a fight." His last words are accompanied by another rough, hearty laugh.

That laugh dies out after a few seconds, as Gabriel's question cuts through the levity of the moment. "It is good to see you too, Augustin. Good to see you. Especially in the Aegis. We need men like you in the Aegis." Perhaps the closest thing the Tribune has ever said to a 'political' opinion, without being drunk off his rocker. Finally, he replies to the meat of the issue. "Some dumb fuck misread his orders, recently. I am here to make sure all the assholes in the Schola can read properly." This is about all one might get as an admission to trouble within the ranks of the Guard in such a public setting from the old Gradivus warrior.

And still, Marcus, ever patient Marcus, keeps his vigil. To his right stands Alexiel, to his left is Michael and somewhere in the vicinity is Sebastian. All four officers of the Schola seem absolutely content to stand and watch. In all probability, they would hold their positions till the next moon, if so ordered by their Tribune.

"Mm." Gabriel refrains from further jibes at his former commander in favor of the more serious discussion, and he glances over his shoulder, canting one wing aside as he takes note of the ever-loyal Dralo who, despite being a freedman, still has a tendency to watch over the Augustin. Especially in situations such as these, when he's surrounded by similarly red-caped Schola as those who were seen blocking the Hall of the Sky. He may just be a mongrel, but Dralo's still canny enough to keep up with rumors and gossip within the Palladium. The burly man lifts his eyebrows to the Aegian, who, in response, gives a subtle shake of his head. Reassured, Dralo offers a nod to the surrounding guards as he lifts his hand in a wave to his erstwhile sparring partner.

"I've got a bed callin' for me. Vale, Gabe." He starts off down one of the garden paths, soon disappearing from view, and the Aegian then turns back to the Tribune.

"You received my letter, then?" he asks in a discreetly low voice.

The departure of Dralo is watched with careful consideration by the four Praetorian officers in attendance to the Tribune. None hold rank lower than Optio, with Marcus being the highest rank at Praefect. When Dralo is finally out of sight, the redhead glances sidelong towards Alexander, who simply drops a curt nod. Obeying this unspoken order, the four men fan out in a protective circle around the Aegian and Praetor, ensuring that neither will be disturbed or spied upon without being spotted.

Glancing at his men as they fall into position, Alexander finally turns his gaze back on the Augustin. Hard, ice-cold blue eyes say the answer that is shortly forthcoming. "Yes. I did." He claspes his leather covered hands together as he mutters, "I am glad you wrote. If you had hesitated." He does not add more to it, except to say, "I took action. And so did the Pontifex. I'm here to clean up matters and make sure there are no more delusions of grandeur." With a slight shake of his head, he mutters in a low voice, "What has the Guard become that we're forced to this level. I think the Kronian would weep to see us now."

Blue-green eyes drop down to his own leather-wrapped fists, and Gabriel sets about unwinding the caesta that are no longer necessary. While doing so, he speaks, and his voice is as moderately-pitched as before. "I fear there is some splintering in the Guard -- in its loyalties. This act by the Schola is only one indication. I trust in your abilities to stamp it out, but even the most carefully-tended fire can spread. We'll have to be vigilant, and watch for further signs like hawks. This is a vulnerable time, and the Empyre could well be at the mercy from warring forces within. Just as surely as it was once at the mercy of the Varati army."

He captures Alexander's gaze with his own, for he knows the significance of the reminder -- knows how surely it will find a mark. He was there when the Tribune had to call a retreat rather than face impossible odds, and he knew the price of such an order. It is a weight he still carries, himself. Just as every man did who fled the field before the army advancing on Lycenae.

"Only together can we keep the Empyre safe. Aegis and Guard," he murmurs quietly.

"I will fucking gut the Guardsman who dares think of treason." With such vehemence in his voice, with such absolute fervor in his icy blue eyes, with such conviction in his face, there can be no doubt whatsoever that Alexander will most assuredly do this or die trying. "If I've got to strangle the bastard who dares destroy our traditions with my own fucking entrails, I'll do it. But I swear, as long as I am alive, there won't be treason in the Schola." A paradox of character, some might say. So atypical of the Empyreal ideal, so offensive to most nobility and yet this Tribune is perhaps one of its most loyal servants.

A few breaths are taken before the old warrior can regain some measure of calm. "But you're right. We must be wary. And watchful. What happened in the war with the Varati can never happen again." Oh, it was a terrible price to pay, a terrible one for this Gradivus soldier. No, not the humiliation of having to flee the field, to give the order he had never given before or since. Nor the bitterness of having lost the war against an ancient foe. But a deeper sense of profound tragedy, a sense of having failed the Empyre when she needed him most. Having failed her innocent and helpless citizens, leaving them to a terrible fate. That is the blade that runs deepest through his soul and to this day, its wound has never quite healed.

"The Aegis must lead. The Guard will serve," utters the Tribune with passion and fire on his every word.

Gabriel claps the older man upon the shoulder, and the gesture carries good will and companionability, and an unspoken reaffirmation of his gratitude that need not be issued aloud. The Aegian's face is still grim, however, as he lowers his gaze and struggles with how best to form these next words. "One of the Schola Optios here..." he starts, "may be known to you. He is also the new Deus of Augustus. My cousin."

Gabriel looks up again to focus blue-green eyes on ice-blue ones. "I don't know how deep his involvement is with the... incident at the Hall of the Sky. But I need to ask a favor of you. I can't ask you to protect him. I'll trust you to do your job. But just... tell me what you can -- anything more you might learn from him, before it's too late. He's family, Gradivus. He's an Augustin. I can't allow our name to be dragged further through the mud after his father's role in the insurrection. Will you at least warn me, if it seems that Versus' loyalties might be... divided?"

Those words bring a deep melancholy to the aged Gradivus warrior and it is some time before Alexander speaks again. It seems as if he's lost himself in his own private thoughts, as he searches for a response. He has no great love for nobility in general, yet he has grown to respect Gabriel and care for him as a true friend. One of few that he regards in such a light. So with this revelation...

"I will do my best, Gabriel." His ice-blue eyes find blue-green ones and he holds the gaze for many moments. "I will do my best to shield your House in this mess, as long as it does not compromise the Empyre." He shakes his head slightly, muttering to himself. "How could one family spawn a brilliant Guardsman, a traitorous one and a dubious one all within a generation?"

There's no answer for that, and Gabriel gives none. He only smiles, fleetingly and wanly, and says again, "It is good to see you. And lares help the Palladium when the rest of the nobility meet up with you. Especially the women." His former grimness is alleviated, and his smile broadens as he steps back and executes a sharp salute, as he'd once done when he served under Alexander's command. "I'll leave you to your business," he goes on to say, nodding his head toward the other guardsmen. "I suspect you've plenty of catching up to do."

"The lares save me when I meet all the women. I just won't have the time to keep them all content and happy." The words are spoken in that gruff, amused tone accompanied with a large grin that breaks the sadness that had been clinging to Alexander. Still holding Gabriel's gaze with his intense blue eyes, he raises his right hand to his chest and clenches his fist over his heart, in the age-old salute of a Praetor to a Praetor.

As if on cue, the other four Schola mimic this gesture with perfect precision, paying the same respect to the Aegian as their commanding officer. Once a Praetor, always a Praetor -- a bond that will never be broken. "It is an honor and privilege to see you again, Gabriel Augustin. Ave, my old and trusted friend, and may the gods look upon you with favor," utters the Tribune as his parting words. And with that, he twists on his heel and retreats with his entourage from the gardens.

FIN  

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