1. Birth of Empero

Behind a wall of flames, the plants saw history repeat itself. A man you might’ve heard of, Gulios Kaisar, walked around Amor and enjoyed the praise of the Commonfolk—a word which here means “those who weren’t rich and powerful”, not that they all looked the same.

Gulios had won them wars. Gulios was a handsome wolf, charismatic, and, obviously most important, had a singing voice that “wasn’t too shabby”. The skilled Consul succeeded at everything he tried, and he smiled and waved as he passed you by on his way to the Senate.

That’s why he had to die.

Through the wall of flames, the leaves had seen it all happen. Gulios became greedy. Gulios deposed of the other Consul, who was supposed to keep him in check. Gulios defied orders not to cross an important river, and not much later he declared himself dictator for life.

The Senate—a word which here means “those who were rich and powerful”—was supposed to have a say too. Increasingly, they didn’t.

Until this moment, Amor was founded on the best of principles. As they fought the First Conflict—the war against the gods—they vowed never to let “dictators” rule them again. That’s why two Consuls would always share power, and the Senate would share votes and influence over some hundred different animals. What a novel idea!

Gulios, popular and wealthy Gulios, was about to ruin all of that.

And so, peering through gaps in the fire, the trees saw how Gulios was betrayed, lured into the building on false pretenses, and murdered by his own Senate. Twenty-three stab wounds later, the Amor Republic lacked a leader and was thrown into chaos.

As it turned out, Gulios had named some distant, distant nephew his only heir: Augustos. When he arrived, he saw only one way to keep everything together: temporarily give all power to himself and defeat his enemies.

The twigs heard him say the words one day: “The Republic has failed. It needs but a spark to go up in flames.”

Exactly what the Senate had feared, they had made happen: the Amor Republic became an Amor Empire. One with only a single emperor at its head. They had returned to the very thing over which they’d fought the gids.

And, oh, dear reader, Augostos did his best. He was probably right to do as he did. Some beings whisper he was the best emperor they ever had. A compliment Augostos didn’t mind hearing. That, however, only made what happened afterwards even worse.

As soon as one emperor was crowned, the Senate already planned its downfall—a word which here means “poison, kill, betray or publicly shame them”. Following Augostos, behind a wall of flames, the leaves saw Tiberios crowned emperor.

He is of no interest to his story, dear reader. You can forget his name, as so many have. Yes, the First Conflict ended when he was around, and he did well winning that war. But his wife … she was another beast entirely.

Gatagrip was the granddaughter of Augostos. You’d think that was enough for her, being so closely connected to the line of emperors. But no—she wanted more. When Tiberios died, Gatagrip’s own brother became the next emperor. They say she killed her own husband, but not even the ancient tree Tresmo—located in the heart of Amor—has proof of that.

Being the emperor’s sister, in Gatagrip’s view, was as good as being empress. She demanded her face be added to coins—a flat, round face that made everyone confused about her age. She demanded special privileges, such as special seats at games. She even demanded that new soldiers swore oaths in her name too, not just that of emperor Kaligull.

But even that wasn’t enough.

One fateful night, she and two others visited Tresmo. They stepped through the cold flames that always surrounded him, an eternal curse from previous magical mishaps. Not many dared come here, which is why they nicknamed the area The Sneaky Spot.

They all assumed Tresmo had died long ago, or gone mad from the pain. But no, Tresmo was always listening, always watchful. The leaves saw, the twigs heard. And so he heard the Plot of the Three Daggers.

“It must be tonight,” said Gatagrip. “I can’t wait any longer. But Kaligull suspects me and is surrounded by guards.”

“It must be tonight,” agreed a male voice. “For I fear Kaligull suspects my sins too.”

“Then it must be poison,” said another female voice.

“No,” said Gatagrip, “we tried that already. It’s too subtle; it won’t work. We need to be inspired by what they did to Gulios Kaisar …”

All three of them wore the large white robes typical for the time. Very impractical for walking; very practical for carrying things. All three of them produced sharp daggers they’d secretly smuggled out of their homes.

“Then it is settled,” said Gatagrip, her posture taut and her eyes full of resolve.

I must remind you, dear reader, that this wouldn’t have happened if Amor was still a Republic. Killing one person wouldn’t do much, as that person had as much power as the hundreds of other Senate members. But now that they had one emperor … if Kaligull would die, surprisingly, then his favorite sister Gatagrip—because she was his only sister—would suddenly rule the entire empire.

Gatagrip jumped, reaching for the tree branches.

Tresmo instinctively drew his branches back, evading her touch.

Gatagrip frowned, but attributed it to a gust of wind. She tried again, and again, until she broke one of Tresmo’s lowest branches. His grunt of pain merely made them say “hurry up, sounds like thunder is coming!”

With her sharp teeth, she scratched messages into the branch. Inviting Kaligull to a special dinner. To come alone and spend some quality time with his sister. That two others would be present as well, but that he should pay them no mind, as they were just servants, obviously.

The problem with written messages, dear reader, is that they can live for longer than you want. Especially Tresmo’s wood was often used to create papyrus, a paper-like substance on which they wrote poems, books, or, most likely, vague insults hurled at their competitors in the Senate.

Somehow, the traitorous messages reached Kaligull that night. They reached him before Gatagrip could their plot.

Some say Kaligull showed no mercy. Tresmo believes he showed far too much mercy.

He didn’t kill Gatagrip. He didn’t punish her with a terrible death. He merely exiled Gatagrip, sending her to an island far away. No visitors, nothing to do, but she was otherwise free. To cuddle sheep, watch the ocean, or write more traitorous letters.

It was there, on a remote island and without power, that Gatagrip birthed a son. Her husband died just after learning she was pregnant, but not before supposedly saying: “I don’t think anything produced by me and Gatagrip could possibly be good for the state or the people.”

She decided it was no use hiding her ambition anymore. She wasn’t coy about it: she called her son Empero.

Every day of his life, she told him he was meant to be emperor. And Empero would smile and respond, in a naïve high-pitched voice, saying “Yes! I want to be the best emperor Amor has ever seen!”

She would tell her son that the evil Senators of Amor took her right away. That they caused this unfair exile. And Empero would agree, happily saying “They’ll pay for what they’ve done!”

Until Empero became old enough to walk, talk, write, run around the island telling everyone he was their king, or give involuntary singing performances to the sheep.

And Gatagrip received the surprising message that her exile was lifted, and she was to return immediately to Amor.

Tresmo wasn’t on the island, of course, so he didn’t know this part for sure. He only learned about it because historians wrote the story on papyrus from his wood. But he suspected Gatagrip was playing another game, and wasn’t surprised in the slightest!

For when she returned to Amor, the next part of her plan immediately sprung into action.