Short Story: Ruins of Popularity

*A picture is worth a thousand words. In this creative writing series, I write a short story in a thousand words using famous artwork housed in art galleries as inspiration. These short stories are not in affiliation with the galleries or artists mentioned. This work is fictional with no resemblance to real world events, people or places. Names, places, events and incidents are the product of imagination and used fictitiously.* DISCLAIMER – this story is slightly longer than 1,000 words but still just as thrilling.

Left in the Ruins of Popularity

The final column collapses into the rubble that once was the great ancient city of Rome.

The war is over, yet at what cost? The Emperor sits languidly addressing what is left of his apparently loyal people. The war happened below, the nobles watched their beloved city burn, while they played Gods looking down from Mount Olympus. The fate of the people in their hands, yet they pretend like it’s a game of strength like a gladiator in the arena. The ruins of the world they cherished lay at their feet, broken pottery, houses that once hosted the most extravagant parties, yet one item still stands. An ornately carved statue of a woman, her fierce eyes of justice now weep tears from the horror she has silently endured. The city she once built and walked through each day and night, tirelessly greeting her subjects. now crumbled. She left her city in the – now clearly incapable – hands of her husband Caecilius. He was once a man of great strength and diplomacy, now he sits in the wake of the monsters he created. After Augusta’s death, he grieved for several days straight, no sleep, no food, no visitors replaying the horrors of her death over and over again. Once he grieved, he turned horrid, mean and spiteful. He destroyed any source of happiness for the people. He believed that, why should he be the only one to suffer? He stopped all public events and sucked the joy out of the people. Until they snapped, revolted.

Several weeks earlier.

One summer day, the colosseum was bustling with eager blood thirsty spectators, their mouth’s parched for the danger and excitement that the gladiator battles brought to the mundane life of Rome. Crowds pushed their way through over capacity stands, until the creaking beams and stone ached under the pressure of the bloodthirsty spectators. Men and women alike screaming, letting their animalistic tendencies bubble to the surface, waiting for their favourite gladiator to enter the ring. 

“Brutus we love you!”

“Oh Brutus we adore you! Crush your opponent!”  

The men and women cooed. Handmade banners waved in the air, blocking the view of those behind. Over in the Royal box, the Emperor and his nationally adored wife stepped into view. Behind them their divine advisor bothered and fussed in every way possible to catch the attention of the rulers. Alas they didn’t listen. The applause was too loud and the crowd too hungry for the fight. 

“Sire, please you must listen to me… its not safe. The Health and Safety report conducted earlier this morning warns of wear and tear in the upper structures of this box. The stone balcony unstable. Please…” his warnings fell on deaf ears.

Other members of the Emperor’s circle closed the gap between their rulers and the advisor. He was blocked out. A barrier of people always pushing him away from the Emperor’s ear – this was becoming more and more apparent over the last years. Power and popularity gone to their heads, a greed that was so subtle but ever so dangerous when one is at the top. Backstabbers and conspirers alike working together, until one day they achieve their goals and turn on each other, leaving nothing but blood shed on their soft and polished hands. 

The divine advisor worried his lip and wrung his hands in anxiety. “Oh bother! What to do?” he muttered.

He stood on his tip toes and bounced up and down trying to get a look at the carnage that was about to ensue. More crowds appeared and he was pushed back again into the shadows where he would live the rest of his life. The shadows of grief, blame and guilt drawing his thoughts further into himself, until one day he becomes a shadow of the man he once was when he was popular in the divine ruler’s circle. Once the accident happened, he was the one to be blamed. Caecilius would never listen to reason, until it was too late and only when he was convinced that it was actually his idea in the first place. 

Caecilius and Augusta swooned under the applause of their adoring public, their eyes watery under the gazes of admiration. The crowd poured their gratitude into throwing gifts, flowers and gold as the couple waved. Augusta waved her hand to shush the crowd, her delicate flourish quieting the hungry crowd in seconds. 

“My people, this is a wonderful day to be together. We have so much to celebrate – after that most tragic accident of our last arena burning down, we have another to quench our thirst for danger. So please, join me in welcoming Brutus. Our daring and fierce fighter.” 

The crowd screamed and many fainted with excitement when Brutus waltzed into the arena with his armour, trident and net ready for battle. He was the best of the best and many of the nobility thought he and Augusta were an item. She would laden him with gifts, sponsorships and even invite him to dine with high society. Augusta waved at the brute of a man with long brown hair tied with a purple ribbon. He waved back with a devilish smile of pearly teeth. Augusta blushed under his gaze and fanned herself under the beating sun of Rome. 

Next to Augusta, Caecilius waved a hand of support to his favourite gladiator. His thick linen toga ballooning around him as he announced the start of the fight. The crowd hushed and the wild boar entered the ring. Brutus dived and dodged, the crowd screamed. He winked at men and women alike until he took his eye off the enemy. The shouts of adoration filling his head with air. The boar screeched and charged at Brutus. He was cornered beneath the ruler’s balcony. His smug smile faded, his trident and net dangling from his white knuckled fists. Augusta sprung out of her throne, sheer panic rushing through her veins. She leant over the balcony. Her small frame draping over the brittle stone as the woven fabric of her dress caught around her feet. The crowd gasped as the boar became out of control. It charged, kicking clouds of dust behind its little hooves.

Just as the boar was in the sight of a wide-eyed and flustered Brutus, the balcony collapses. Chunks of plaster and stone crashed down at Brutus’ feet. Augusta would have survived the fall if it was not the riled up ball of fury that was the boar. Just as she fell, the animal, with its teeth bared, attacked the beloved ruler. The crowd hadn’t caught up to what happened and continued cheering. Caecilius was paralysed with shock. He sat motionless. The nobility peered over the now sheer drop of the balcony, sniffed and walked away, leaving the advisor to crawl out of the shadows and scream in horror and faint at the mangled body of his mistress. Brutus, too distraught to fight – kneeled down by Augusta’s body. The boar attacked him too until the crowd realised what had happened. The crowd’s screams of triumph transformed into cries of help and pain, they ran in all directions – some crashing into one another and falling into the arena.

That was weeks ago. Now Caecilius sits in the ruins of Rome. His only companions are his advisor and a handful of nobles. 

“This! is your fault” Benedict pointed at their once adored Emperor. A chorus of agreement followed the man. 

“Yes! I agree. You took everything from the people because you would rather sit in misery than honour the beauty that was Augusta.” Another spat. 

The advisor nodded in silent agreement. He knew what he had to do next.

The fallen Emperor stood up and looked at the ruins of Rome, the people fighting one another, attacking any image of Caecilius that remained. He was the single cause of their misery. Now he was nothing without the love of his people, the power of his wife or the popularity of his circle of close acquaintances.  His back was turned away from the party of angry rich men. He dropped to his knees in anguish. 

“This ends now” the divine advisor croaks. He reveals a dagger shining with poison.  

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