2. History Repeats Itself

Tresmo, a sentient tree surrounded by eternal fire, was not just a hidden meeting place for sneaky plans. It was also seen as the perfect location for funerals. Tresmo wasn’t thrilled with that, of course, but he liked to look on the bright side—a phrase which here means “stubbornly ignore the downsides of always being on fire”.

He could oversee and overhear almost everything that happened in Amor. Whenever an important figure died, he was the first to know. As the family checked out Tresmo to arrange the funeral, and knocked on his trunk three times. For good luck, they said. Or possibly to check if Tresmo wouldn’t fall over during the funeral, causing another funeral near Tresmo, causing another funeral, and the loop would never end.

Now remember, dear reader, that currently Empero did not actually have … anything. He would inherit Gatagrip’s wealth if she died—though being exiled doesn’t really make you rich—but nothing more. He was nothing. Just a boy who truly believed he was made to be Emperor, and that he would be the best, even better than the beloved Gulios Kaisar.

And so, within weeks of returning, Gatagrip found the richest ex-Consul around and married him. Krispos.

Whose funeral are we attending at present? You guessed it: Krispos.

Mere weeks after marrying the “love of his life”, this strong and healthy man had suddenly succumbed to a strange disease. His entire estate, his piles of gold coins, would now be inherited by his son.

As Empero sang a sad song, as Gatagrip pretended to weep and squeezed his soft hands, the other funeralgoers sung a different tune. They were fed up—which her means “it was blindingly obvious that Gatagrip was killing them all and they should probably put a stop to it”.

“Seize her!” yelled Klaudios, the current emperor—and Gatagrip’s uncle. A fact you’d better forget, or the rest of this story tastes even worse.

Gatagrip turned around, wide-eyed, and briefly bared her teeth. “W-What for? Why? My husband just died, oh, pity me—”

“Your intentions are clear, foul woman,” said Klaudios’ wife, a fierce and powerful female wolf.

“You … you have no proof. Oh, may the gods be merciful on—”

“We have proof. Your letters from your previous attempt to murder emperor Kaligull.”

“But dear empress,” said Gatagrip in her sweetest voice, “surely you can’t punish me again for old sins? I did my time! I wasted away for years on an empty island!”

Everyone looked at Klaudios. He stayed silent for a while, giving everyone his iron stare, even as his wife snuggled up to him for support.

“Gatagrip speaks wisely,” he said finally. “The law is clear. Once punished for a crime, you are clean again. Until we find proof of Gatagrip—”

“You’re a fool!” yelled his wife. As Gatagrip lifted her own son Empero, and clutched him to his chest, the empress did the same thing with her own son. They were roughly the same age. They even looked the same, as all these people were each other’s uncles, nephews, aunts and other not-so-distant relatives.

The funeral continued without the empress. Not another word was spoken about the suspicious death of Krispos, even though everyone was still thinking about it. Tresmo was a magical tree, yes, but he couldn’t read thoughts. He was ancient enough, though, to still be in touch with the old nature of the gods. He could feel the anxiety, the hatred, the thirst for revenge among the people of the Senate.

Gatagrip’s late husband had spoken the truth all those years ago: nothing that involved her could ever be good for Amor.

Three days after the funeral, Gatagrip tucked Empero into bed. And she tried to, slowly, explain to him how abundantly wealthy he’d suddenly become.

“But why doesn’t the money belong to you, mom?” The four year old wolf struggled to stay awake.

“It’s … it’s hard to explain,” said Gatagrip. “Men and women are not viewed on equal footing. Almost all belongings of your step-father went to you. But that is a good thing! Not the part about inequality, of course, but the being rich thing.”

“Why? You always said you can’t just buy the throne?”

“No. But you can buy almost anything else.”

Gatagrip spoke softly, motherly, whispering in his ear as if spies were always nearby. And she was right, in a way. Tresmo stood nearby—the wooden spy that was ever awake. He heard all this, and that’s why I can tell this story now, and be sure it is true.

“Starting tomorrow,” she said, “you will get a tutor. Sinnika, the best I could find. You’ll learn history, languages, mathematics, politics, economics—everything. Everything you need—”

“—to become the best emperor ever!” The realization made Empero wide awake again.

Gatagrip turned around. With her teeth, and great difficulty, she opened a drawer and took out a leather object.

During the First Conflict, they’d enslaved many Bearchitects to build their pretty homes and furniture. They had delivered fine work, of course. Especially Bunjo was incapable of creating an ugly table. But everything they made was tailored to animals with hands, or at least the ability to stand on two paws.

“We killed this snake today. It’s a rare one.” And extremely poisonous, Gatagrip knew, but she didn’t want to scare her son. “I’ll have it mixed with gold and made into an armband. When you wear that band, know that it will protect you, and that you are safe.”

“Isn’t it against the law to kill other beings?”

“Not if you have the right reasons,” said Gatagrip confidently.

Empero nodded, though his mother could see he didn’t truly understand. In his eyes, he was always safe, because the Commonfolk would love him. That’s what Gatagrip had always said.

She rolled up the dried snake skin and put it underneath his bed.

Gatagrip left, and Empero instantly fell asleep.

That night, just as clouds covered the moon and light was at its scarcest, his bedroom window suddenly opened. Two black cats climbed over the windowsill. One of them held a thick rope, pierced by their long nails to stick it to their paw. The other cat held a message written on papyrus in their mouth. Their nails were sharpened and readied like knives.

Tresmo knew exactly what had been written on that piece of paper, made from his wood.

I will not wait around until you kill me, my husband and my son to claim the throne. Consider this preemptive justice.

Preemptive justice, in this case, means something along the lines of “punishing someone for crimes they haven’t done yet”, which is similar to “very very illegal”.

The message didn’t need to be signed. Which was a silly move anyway, when you tried to secretly assassinate someone else.

The cats tiptoed towards Empero’s bed. Empero slept on his belly, curled up, as wolves tend to do. One might have thought a blanket covered him, but it was just that white cloth—a toga—that everyone wore all day.

The cats pulled the blanket off of him. They nodded: yes, this was Empero, they were sure.

The larger black cat sharpened their nails a final time. The smaller one already placed the message on the table. Empero slept peacefully, innocently.

Sharp nails shot towards Empero’s throat.

The smaller black cat shrieked.

Sharp nails narrowly missed his throat.

The cat pointed feverishly below the bed.

“Snake,” they hissed.

In the dark, they could only see its yellowish eyes. Moonlight had returned and illuminated the poisonous fangs.

The smaller cat bent over backwards to escape. The larger cat wasn’t afraid, at least not outwardly so, but they still didn’t want to finish the attack.

“A … a bad omen,” they whispered, a word which here means “I believe that if we kill this boy we’ll start fifty years of bad luck, plagues, and magical curses”.

Gatagrip ran up the stairs, which are mostly a suggestion to a powerful large wolf like her, and kicked open the bedroom door.

The cats escaped just then. But they forgot the message they left behind.

Gatagrip was quick to act. She left Empero sleeping and brought the evidence to emperor Klaudius. Tresmo can’t tell you what happened then, as he wasn’t close enough to the Emperor’s Palace to hear.

When Empero woke up, he didn’t even know he’d almost been murdered. The house was empty. He felt cold, unsafe, and alone. He ran through the streets, yelling if anyone had seen his mom.

At some point, they all started pointing him towards the same place.

The largest forum of Amor, where Klaudius had dragged out his current wife—the empress—to shame her for her deeds.

And so, the leaves observed sadly, the cycle repeated. Precisely what the empress hoped to avoid, happened because of her: Klaudius pushed his current wife aside, though he really did love her. He thanked Gatagrip for bringing this proof to him, and became more and more friendly with her.

What happened next should be no surprise. At least not to a tree that has been seeing these things for thousands of years now.

Gatagrip married the new emperor Klaudios, even though he was her uncle. The Commonfolk hated this with all their heart, as they hadn’t forgotten what Gatagrip had done. The Elite—which here means the Senate and everyone who thinks they belong in it—supported the marriage. They said it was because it unified two families that had been fighting for years. In reality, they simply liked it because the Commonfolk hated it.

And so it happened.

From humble beginnings, literally in another part of the world, Empero was only a small step away from achieving his destiny. He would inherit the throne … if something “unfortunate” were to happen to Klaudios …