Sic Semper Tyrranis
The First Minister disappeared on the coldest day in January. Arctic weather had swept south through Canada all the way to the capitol. The abduction wasn’t discovered until they got around to checking up on him. That was late in the day because the government had shut down to ride out the freeze.
They found him less than a week later. He texted his office manager and posted a tweet. In both messages he said he would resign when he got back if he made it back alive. The text to his office manager added the clarification, “My behavior, my handling of the responsibilities of my office has been nothing short of criminal. I take full responsibility for the consequences. I acknowledge that it is in the best interest of all that I step down immediately.”
The investigation into the incident would show that he could not have sent that message. He had already been dead for days by the time it went out.
His cell phone, which had been dark for four days, stayed on after broadcasting those messages. That was how they found him. The cell phone’s signal led them to the old barn in coal mining country. His body was hanging from a rotting beam that sagged under the weight. The only covering on his body was a tattered rebel flag with the motto: “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” (This is how we deal with tyrants.)
The king had stopped paying servants except for his ministers, his personal staff and the personal staffs of the ministers. Among those not being paid were the centurions charged with ensuring the safety of the king and his ministers. This breach in the payment of wages had led to the First Minister being kidnapped and murdered.
The centurions carried on without pay because of their high sense of loyalty, honor, and duty. But they began to fall by the wayside as the Breach continued. First, the weaker ones gave up. Those with a pragmatic bent quickly decided that they had to take care of themselves. The stronger ones were forced to shoulder more and more of the burden as the number of centurions shrank.
Even the strong must eat and sleep. Two months into the Breach, cracks were becoming obvious. Routines and responsibilities were adjusted to make sure the most critical duties would be taken care of by the remaining guardians. Still, the stress was taking a toll. Those centurions who stayed on the job were true heroes, but they were also human.
In the third month, The People’s Militia made its move. Think of them as assassins or Ninjas or Ninja assassins. They dressed in black and moved like shadows. They relied on guerrilla tactics.
The assault group gathered outside the castle between midnight and dawn on a cold, blustery, cloudless night. A single centurion patrolled the grounds. Her companion was a large bullmastiff. They patrolled along the periphery of the castle avoiding the open courtyard. An intruder would have to cross 100 yards of lawn while she set up her countermove.
Toward the end of her shift, two beggars who had somehow managed to drink enough booze to steel themselves against the icy wind staggered along the fence. They stopped to rest a good furlong from the centurion and her companion. After a few minutes, they went to the carts they had pulled along with them. Each produced two boxes that unfolded into 5 foot long planks. They connected the planks together making a 20-foot ramp that easily reached the top of the 12-foot high fence surrounding the castle.
The bullmastiff stiffened in response to their suspicious behavior. His ears pricked up. He growled a warning. The centurion ordered him to stay. She was befuddled. Leaning a ramp against the fence looked like an attack but the two bums seemed so drunk they could barely stand.
Suddenly a dozen wolf-like creatures raced across the causeway, up the ramp and onto the castle grounds. As soon as they landed, the shadowy wolf-dogs silently dispersed around the edge of the courtyard. The woman ordered her dog to heel and raised her rifle. She did not fire because the intruders were too far away. Trying to hit them in the dark would be a waste of ammunition.
Three of the creatures had raced to the castle side of the grounds and were moving toward her. She advanced cautiously with her rifle in firing position. Her dog matched her step for step. They progressed along their route in this manner for a dozen yards before they came upon the three wolf-dogs lying in a wide circle getting ready to pounce. The bullmastiff charged. The centurion got off a shot that wounded one of the intruders. The other two busied themselves harassing her dog. She was about to take out one of them when a vicious snarl alerted her to an attack from her rear. She spun around to face the new threat but too late. An 80-pound dog traveling 40 miles an hour slammed into her and knocked her to the ground.
She swung her rifle around to club the attacker. A second dog clamped onto one wrist. Almost simultaneously dogs began biting her ankles and pulling. Before she could scream, the dog on her chest lunged in and grabbed her throat. She died quickly.
The bullmastiff did not last much longer.
The Militia’s assault team was already pouring over the fence by the time the centurion died. Two squads came over that fence. One took care of the dogs. It can be stated here that the dogs were a mix of Belgian Shepherd and Timber Wolf. Four of them died that night. The centurion’s bullet killed one. The bullmastiff injured three others so severely they had to be euthanized.
The second squad entered the castle and made its way to the king’s quarters. The assassins found the king sleeping. One of them shook him. He did not respond immediately but when he did, he bolted into a sitting position. Twelve figures covered in black except for their eyes surrounded his bed.
“Who are you?” He demanded. Then he howled, “Get out.”
The Ninja nearest his head on the left side of the bed produced a cloth moistened with chloroform and held it over the king’s mouth and nose. He slumped back to his pillow.
They set up a camera to record the proceedings and live-stream it over social media.
A few members of the squad stripped the man of his clothes. Moving his 300-pound body around was a challenge. In the meantime, one screwed a massive hook into one of the ceiling beams while others installed similar hooks in the floor.
When all was in place, they hung a tattered rebel flag with its “Sic Semper Tyrannis” motto around his neck. They maneuvered his body into position under the ceiling hook and placed a noose around his neck. They hoisted him up off of the bed. He struggled because he had regained consciousness, but he couldn’t scream because they had stuffed a sock in his mouth and covered it with duct tape.
The assassins sang “Dies Irae” and watched the king flail helplessly for the final moments of his life.
Later that morning, a slender woman with coffee-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes walked up to her lover as he lay sleeping in bed and slugged him. He jumped up and looked around as he rubbed his jaw. She sneered contemptuously at him with his alabaster body, his blue eyes, and red hair. “What have you done?”
“What had t’ be done,” he growled.
“No, you fool. You’ve made a martyr of him. He will haunt us forever.”