It was in the dark days of Consul Anneus Africanus Scipio, after the variances amd bloodlettings of the triumverate, elephants thunder along the palpatine, the capitoline amd even crowding the forum. There were concerns over the grain supply; the capitol stood half-empty, the unfavorables straying away to their own courtyards to admire their own various fruit trees. Cicero took pen to paper of course, treatises political, metaphysic, and moral. There were chariots at the ready to storm the city and use their reach and devil-speartips to clear the way of their own control of the city proper.
It was from the dull memories of extravagances such as that out of which the seeds of Kaiser Michelin's rise began, assisting at Vin Di Bona, in modern day Austria and sundry other locations: the edges of Spain, and just east of Damascus. His own singular worries over policy and control quelled much, such was the very even mention in fact, of the Kaiser.
Such figures walk the earth plainly, but hold firm the respect of the people, and the senate house a ghost manor as the more minute squabbles and defiances among the population lay at rest on his shoulders, sometimes with the added benefit of muffling, stifling idle hours that would have otherwise given way to various edicts and decrees to the detriment of the love of liberty.
Invariably, such as the end of all those that live by tip of the spear, his own houseslaves, freedman, rogues from other armies, congealed at once in the night, and choosing one from among them, sent that one ahead strangling Scipio to death with his own half full chamber pot.
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