OUT OF OCEANUS
Year of the Consulship of Lucullus and Cotta
When your ship rose out of Oceanus,
I wished my worst nightmare had come true,
Because the monsters I imagined
Were lambs compared to you.
Two legions from Louron
Marched under Sertorious,
(So desperate Pompey was)
To meet your host
At the Iberian coast,
Only to have their hearts
Ripped into a thousand parts,
Targets for your exploding darts.
Not an inch would they yield
To mail, courage, or shield.
At dawn we watched,
Hidden among the rocks,
Your line of bronze-clad infantry,
Yellow-feathered helmets, still as stone,
Through each nose, a gilded bone,
Facing our legions across the sand,
A black cylinder held in each copper hand.
Your thunder ship pivoted parallel to the line,
Vast mainsail made fearfully ornate
With the savage cat you venerate,
Hide of orange spots ringed in brown,
Forepaw reaching for Saturn’s crown,
The hungry Chavin God of War
Clawing at the Republic’s door.
A thunderous blast from your ship’s deck,
A plume of smoke, a cluster of darts
Flew faster than my eye could track,
Above your men and fanned apart
Plunging directly into the hearts
Of our helpless legionnaires,
Delivering them from earthly cares
And a battlefield bloodstained and barren,
Into the waiting, gnarled hands of Charon.
We saw you strip each body
Of armor, weapons and dignity,
With methodical malignity
As Sol sank into Oceanus.
Then suddenly, with hours creeping by,
Your ship spat smoke into the sky,
Smoke shooting up and turning bright,
Spraying dots of yellow light across the night.
Far above we watched at dawn,
Your fleet one hundred ships strong,
Under a favorable breeze,
Past the Pillar of Hercules,
Skim steadily eastward bound,
Following the Oceanus coast,
Without pity or the faintest sound,
Heading for Rome, we supposed.
First Year of the Chavin Conquest
Chavin invaders prowl everywhere,
Mauling here, mangling there.
A sentry by the sea, eastward gazing,
A tower of limestone with six eyes blazing,
A jaguar-snake-man who guards the shore,
Marking territory Roman before.
Thunder is all a Roman hears.
Dart blasters held in each Chavin hand
Obliterate anyone who interferes
With the ruthless Chavin conquest plan.
A shaman whose balm is bloodshed,
Plait to one side of his shaven head,
Face painted like a jaguar’s hide.
In his hands our children have died,
Ashes scattered on Oceanus by decree,
Sacrificed to some Chavin god beneath the sea.
Chavin nobles occupy the Forum,
Roman senators are hunted and slaughtered,
Without an ounce of Roman decorum.
Roman blood turns the Tiber red,
Rome is finished.
Rome is dead.
Hiding and hungry in a cave by the cape,
We have carefully prepared a desperate escape.
Our father’s boat filled with family and fear
Will make for Jaffa at last, tonight,
When Luna makes the moon disappear
Above Oceanus, casting no light.
Hasmonean Judea is our distant destination,
The Oceanus endpoint, our hope for salvation,
Where religious zealots forever contend
With inflamed wills that never bend,
Less suited for Chavin ambitions
Than for a legion of patient logicians.
There is even talk of a Deliverer there,
A Liberator, a King,
A Final Judge infallibly fair.
My sons and I will seek him out,
Beg him to intervene and end the rout,
To send the Chavin home
And resurrect the glory of Rome.
