By Jo Anzalone
It lay
a stinger in his sleeve,
concealed,
a way to deal with bees
too busy for their good.
When he knew
the truth of it,
spilled through a boyish game,
When innocence
had let him see
aloneness appalling
in its compass, full,
His hand,
fingers chilled,
blood flowing from a heart
now iced beyond repair,
Reached up,
feeling there
beneath the flowing cloth
the form of it,
Waiting,
but not for long.
He had him,
trussed like some battered ox,
to do with as he willed,
And what he willed,
ah, what he willed,
fingers making sure
yet once again
It lay
safely tucked,
out of sight,
freshly sharp
and...ready.
What he willed
was simply
that the man be gone,
from him,
and family,
from Empire,
and especially from life.
So as he walked,
adorned in white,
a statue of some god,
He rubbed his sleeve,
in smiling
anticipation...
Waiting,
but not for long.
Sifting down
into the shadowed
vaults below,
Roaring voices of the crowd
settled on him as he walked,
fuel upon his fire.
Smiling grimly,
yes, he would see
they knew without a doubt,
knew...in the end...
he was the better man.
Well, with a little help...
and once again,
he felt the silent asp
curled within his sleeve,
Waiting,
but not for long.
How easily
the blade plunged in,
its shining length
piercing quickly,
in and out
within the mere blink of an eye...
And it was done
while hugging close
and kissing cheek
of his intended prey.
A great sigh
of something like relief
flooded all his bones
for now the facing could be done
in safety on the sands
And he would look
the hero
when he killed the General
before their eyes.
One brief glance,
looking back,
satisfied,
though not a cry,
just a startled gasp,
escaped his victim's lips.
It was enough,
he knew
his blade had done its work,
the silvered scent of blood
came to his nose,
Waiting,
but not for long.
Sweat running
down his neck,
he moved across the sand,
Surprised at how much fight
the General still retained
despite the constant flow of blood.
Then he sliced his leg
and smiled...
he'd have him soon.
How could he know
the man would roar,
an angry, wounded beast,
And come for him
with force that sent his sword
flying 'cross the sand?
How could he know
even dog-like Quintus
would disobey command?
Then...it was there...
the look he'd searched so for,
that 'leaving' look
when a man prepares to die.
It was time
for blade to finish
now its deadly work
and send the swaying General
onward through the gates.
A flash of sudden sunlight
sparked on revealed edge,
pulled forth,
readied for its plunge,
Waiting,
but not for long.
In his own hand,
the blade was turning,
inexorable
as the millstones of the gods,
Turned by a strength,
unexpected
in one so near to death himself.
How could it be?
Wherefrom
this overpowering
strength of heart
and will alone?
He stared
in frantic, startled disbelief
from bladetip
to eyes centered on their task,
And in them both
he read his death,
though how it could be so
he did not understand.
Twisting, writhing,
pounding to escape
a thing escapeless,
Waiting,
but not for long.
Then it was done,
his body slumping sack-like to the sand,
a cast-off thing,
Emperor no more.
Then it was also done,
General toppling like a giant oak,
still, somehow, General
though he lay so quiet in the sun.
And somewhere
in between the two
lay the blade,
half-covered by the sand,
tasks complete,
Waiting,
...without end.
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