Order amidst bloodied streets
The soldiers still patrolled the streets, Rome was still in a state of lock down. The crowd that gathered at the rostra was small compared to the mob of just a few weeks ago. Even so, the soldiers looked on uneasily as Pallas ascended the rostra. He wore the white toga of a candidate and he shone underneath the December sun. It was a cold day and Pallas could see his own breath with each word. Rome had rarely became this cold before. He raised his hands before the crowd gathered for silence.
You have suffered, all of you. You have bled. For some, and I can only address you through prayers, have passed on. The bloodstains of your shame, your torn lives, and the wretched cries of your children, they still remain. The bloodied swords of the soldiers still remain. Yet I stand before you in a dazzling white candidate's toga when I should be in my mourning clothes, mourning for the death of Rome's virtue and honor.
He sniffed from the cold, but from afar, it seemed as if he were crying.
But we will have a chance to rebuild. We will let our hands, baptized and cleansed of our sin by the blood of our fallen, rebuild the destruction that our previously unclean hands have visited upon our proud City. We have seen the powers of a demagogue, the trickeries of a traitor, and the lies of one who would pour words sweet as honey in your ears while plotting with a knife to your throat.
Some of you still bristle at the sight of the soldiers, reminded of your bitter struggles against them when they first entered the City to restore order. They are not your enemies. Look at them, they are tired, they are wary, they are every bit like you. They ARE you. They are your brothers, your fathers, your husbands, your sons. They are the hopes and light of Rome, they are the binding lignants of the fasces, the axe amongst the rods.
And you are the rods of the fasces. Without you no authority can be given. Without you Rome cannot exist. There are those who would deny those facts, and they are wrong. I know them to be wrong, you know them to be wrong, but they do not. They see you as a mob, as a single entity aiming entirely to move without direction, needing someone to lord over you. You are not a singular entity. You are individuals, individuals with your own hopes and aspirations, individuals with your own imperfections, individuals with your own skills that set you apart from the multitude of faces that surround you.
You are Citizens of Rome. Inheritors of a proud legacy. Few on this world can claim such a heritage. Few can be as proud as you are. And be proud of that legacy, Citizens, for who upon this earth can claim to have such forces of Law behind them?
Of course, those forces of Law have been all but shattered in the events of the past few weeks, haven't they? Law seemed to have been abandoned in favor of riots, of looting, of assault, and of rape.
Pallas looked about at the crowd and saw many of them nodding.
You have turned on each other, you have turned on the soldiers, who are of the same blood as you, who are of the same race as you, who are of the same families as you. You have turned on the Senate, who sought to guide you and protect you. But most egregious of all, you have turned on yourself by letting these base acts take place. And I am saddened, Romans, by the choice you have taken. I am saddened by the route you have taken. But I am especially saddened that while you have bled, while you have suffered, I still stand here with my white candidate's toga, unblemished from the events.
I aim to change that. I am to show you that I will bleed alongside with you. I will show you that I, as Praetor, will bring law and order back amidst these bloodied streets. That Romans can proudly say that they are Romans once more.
Citizens, this one act that I am about to perform before you, let its image forever burn into your mind. Soldiers, remember this act as the embodiment of your sacrifices, remember that I too am willing to bleed besides you.
Pallas produced a small knife from the folds of his toga. Gasps went up in the crowd. The soldiers reached for their swords. But they did nothing. Pallas gripped the blade with his right hand and pulled the knife. A spurt of red shot up and blood rand down the length of his arm. The gash in his palm burned, but he kept his face composed. Letting the blood run down his arm and staining his toga, he dropped the knife. He took his bloodied hand and pressed it against his heart, leaving its imprint on his toga.
Romans. I shall bear this bloodied print upon my toga until the blood and shame has been purged from our City. This is my promise to you. This will be my legacy unto you.
As he descended from the rostra and walked into the crowd. The people parted. Some bowed in reverence, others stretched out their hands to touch his own bloodied hand. Like a shining beacon, Pallas walked passed through the crowd, through the soldiers, and through Rome.
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