Bookstabber Episode 17: This Is How You Lose The Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone
At the end of time stand two opposing forces: The Willow Agency, who finds this book to be a bloated Writing 201 experiment, and the Gene Garden, for whom each book is like a newborn bird being hatched. Can either win the Time War? Obviously not, it’s in the title.
Holding the closed envelope in his hand, Remus felt as though he’d carved his heart out from his chest and painted his entire sleeve red. Gods it wasn’t like him, he thought, to write a letter like this. He’d been so recklessly, almost cruelly honest. He had to end it in a hurry as well, before all the certainty slipped from his mind. The air was heating up rapidly after the morning passed, sweat started to gather on his forehead. He shoved the letter into the post, lest the jittering in his chest made him pull back and tear it up.
—
Sirius,
I hope you’re doing well. James sent me a letter earlier this This is not a letter to offer you forgiveness. Though that’s a complicated business, as I’m sure you understand. Yet, part of me feels I still could tell you about a few things on my mind.
James sent me a letter earlier this week. A tiny note, not much else beyond the haphazard announcement that you’ve run away from home. He told me I didn’t need to reply right away, that I should feel free to take as much time as I needed. But since I’ve been having all the time in the world at home, I have been obsessing my way through these thoughts. Here’s to share some of them, until I visit.
Before anything else, Sirius, I know you. Thus, I feel as though I could see exactly which string pulled in your head, and which string didn’t jump to react, that led to you doing what you did. This goes for both your running away and what you did before the end of school. I don’t know if I should be the one to pronounce judgements but— what happened and what you did to me was beyond rash and stupid (it goes without saying), but does not make you an evil person.
I could see how sorry you’ve been, despite not having approached me at all (which I appreciate, so thank you). I could tell how you’ve been beating yourself up, how you’ve locked yourself in your head this month at Grimmauld— ready to react, to lash out, to prove.
So now tell me, if I’m so wrong in assuming, whatever happened that led to your running away, was at least in part because of me?
I know the Potters must be trying their best to take care of you. And I’m sorry thatI.regret that don’t want to add to your agitation, so I thought it’s best that I wait before going to see you. Because Padfoot, I feel I shouldn’t forgive you so easily. Nor should I, out of respect for myself, offer forgiveness because I know how bad you’re feeling, or for I know what you did because of me. In the close possible world of having actually made a murderer out of me, I would surely never forgive you nor myself.
Though I have a confession to make. This is something which, for once, I doubt that you know.
It is perhaps a lie to say that I could have killed Severus that night. It would not have happened as you imagined, if James hadn’t arrived in time. Because you see, James didn’t arrive in time. There were a couple of seconds when Snape, screaming, got a good look at me, long enough for any other wolf to have taken a lunge at him. But even as I snarled and bared my teeth, I was in my own mind. I found myself able to hold my head in the wolf’s, in the presence of another— hostile— human being, even without any of you around.
It is this realisation that has accompanied every other dreadful feeling passing through my head since. It occurred to me that in the wake of the whole business with Snape, perhaps I should be feeling more ashamed of what I am than ever. But I was not. Am not. Does this surprise you? It was you who taught me this. Since you— all of you— started running with me. You made me see this horrible thing could have its glimpse of something beautiful, of happiness.
As I am writing, I draw up the vivid memory of a full moon, in my own eyes, albeit through the wolf. The three of you would be close behind me, and all the grounds would be sizzling with moonlight and magic.
Anyway.
I think about facing Snape again, and I feel a strange kind of honesty. To myself. I feel defiant— rather than ashamed— about looking Snape in the eyes again. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been hiding but, I only hope that someday I’ll have nothing more to hide. Let the moon shine on all the broken pieces.
And that leads me to the second thing I wanted to say to you. Sirius, all our lives we’ve been made to feel in pain, having been broken, irrevocably lost something that makes one whole, normal. That we’re missing something crucial in our perspective that means we’ll never see ourselves and the world in the same way as them. But Sirius, love, we’ve come through. And standing on the other side, we can see better.
It’s a gift, that we should see the world differently from them, that we are able to. Magic is a gift. Loving you is a gift. And I can see it now, the wolf is a gift.
There’s pain. But that means it’s real— it’s because of the pain that it’s real. I think of the others, drifting through life without a glitch, without an ounce of wonder at what’s in the grey underside of fluffy white clouds. Think of Peter. His shelters. Those are all that he has. For his whole life all he’s known are shelters, and he’d grow up only anxious to find more shelters. But we stand beyond it, don’t we? We can run free and wild, if only we could pry off the shackles in our head. And beyond anything else, this is the one thought I’ve been having since everything. Do you see what I mean?
Ma is calling me to breakfast, I’m afraid I’ll have to end the letter here. I hope I’ll see you soon, I want to know what you have to say to me. And I hope you see now forgiveness is a strange thing I don’t yet know what to do with. I hope we figure it out.
I don’t know why folks are acting surprisedthatDracula Daily has captured the interest of the Tumblr community the way it has.
Like, it’s a piece of discursive epistolary fiction framed as a series of personal missives among a rotating cast of intensely weird viewpoint characters being drip-fed to its audience in serialised daily updates.
This is not unprecedented, is what I mean to say.
(For those in the notes going “fucking Homestucks”, I feel obliged to point out that I could also be name-checking 17776, or any number of trending Weird Fiction podcasts, or… like, I’m not drawing a line between two data points here. This is a trend.)
If you wanted to get all academic about it, you could probably get a decent paper out of drawing a line between Tumblr’s preoccupation with serialised epistolary fiction and reblog chains of rambling personal anecdotes as a primary mode of engagement.
Testing antivirals for agents rated L4 and above is allowed, right? I was planning on injecting the HABA with EX-Chrim tomorrow. Location of said injection would preferably be the central nerve, and I’d start the procedure at 3:00 PM.
Somebody should call an exterminator. I don’t care if security can’t let any non-personnel inside.
I’ve felt something crawling up my leg. On multiple occasions, a whole swarm of things have run over my feet during biopsy missions. But when I look down, they’re gone.
Something is here. With us. I don’t know what, but it has to be alive. There’s no other explanation.
jonathan harker when he is given terrible omens, driven round in circles for hours, meets the weirdest guy on earth, is isolated in a creepy castle: well this is odd :/
jonathan harker when his shaving glass is thrown out the window: i am a prisoner!! i have been trapped i am like a wild animal!!! how will i be able to shave?? through the reflection on my pot or watch case???? oh my prison guard is SOULLESS and i am DISTROUGHT
Ah, yes. It would seem we’re all immensely enjoying Dracula Daily♂️
Text Chat between Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes; or, The Holmes Brothers being chatty. It’s all about The Work, and Alan Turing. A Story in Five Parts.
E-Mail exchange between John Watson and Mike Stamford; or, Cupid is on a mission. His name is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. A Story in Two E-Mails.
Then All The World Would See (How Much In Love We Are)by@a-different-equation:John Watson (33) meets Sherlock Holmes (28) and falls in love instantly. However, Sherlock looks for a different kind of fix and John is an ex of many things and people. Also, he’s his boss.
A story about warzones beyond Afghanistan, second chances in life, and how to not be a fuck-up anymore. Told in (dead) letters, notes and texts. It’s a Johnlock love story, elementary. (BBC!Johnlock, mature, ca. 25k)
Chapter Two is Up. And OMG does it look differently now. It took ages but hell, I know why I *love* epistolary. There’s not much more fun than “spying” on the Holmes’ brothers bickering & bantering (which they would deny, of course) :D
Thursday Teaser for chapter 2 of “Then All The World Would See (How Much in Love We Are)”
I mentioned that the fan fiction is an epistolary fic, right? As you can see: I experimented a bit :D
Thetexting, the blog entries, the emails, the letters, the notesetc., ALL will be visuals now.
Quite exciting, don’t you think. It’s a WIP atm - however, it’s not Sunday yet (& I’m shit with tech stuff & I’m on holiday … so take it easy on me, yes, pretty please.)
In case, you’re interested in catching up: chapter 1 can be read here.
What’s the fun in setting a Johnlock fic in a Dead Letters Office WITHOUT making it into an epistolary fic? Not sure if the Holmes’ brothers would use WhatsApp but let’s play pretend, yes?!
In case, you’re interested how John felt about Sherlock showing up at his work:
One morning, a young man stood upon my office threshold. I can see that figure now – his expensive looking, probably tailor-made suit, a cosy looking scarf which matched the colour of his button-down, and a coat that resembled the iconic one Oscar Wilde used to wear. He was overall strikingly gorgeous.
The man was Sherlock Holmes.
And as it is over, I can admit it now, in these private documents for anyone but myself, that I saw him and fell in love with him instantly.
Our eyes locked and it was as if I had come home at last, only to learn that home was not a place but a person. A person who happen to be a man.
Well, fuck me.
The complete first chapter (ca. 2,500 words) can be read here. Chapter 2 will be up — all with shiny new visuals - on Sunday, 15th of July.
John waved around, his aim unclear, but Sherlock understood anyway. He nodded shortly. Then, he went and put a box of letters on one of the already overflowing tables and put off his coat as well. John turned and saw THE letter Sherlock had pinned at the wall.
“Is that…”
“Oh, yes,” confirmed Sherlock. “It is the letter, the one that started it all.”
Silently, as if there was a secret bond between them, they started to reread the now familiar lines. Instantly, as if it was their letters, their story, their love, Sherlock took over Gilbert’s part and John voiced Gordon. For a flicker of a moment, they were not unsung anymore, they came to live, bright and full of hope, fierce and proud, two men out of time:
“Darling, Darling”, Gilbert said, “We are in a pretty ghastly time, I know. But we are in for it together, my dearest love. I want to be with you, always, and it is all going to be okay and we have each other and love each other more. Won’t we? Won’t we?”
“Yes”, clinging to him, Gordon said, “we will, won’t we. So that something rather wonderful will come out of it all.”
“I promise you, it will”, Gilbert said, “You will see. As long as we together.” “That’s right,” Gordon, said, “Being together is everything.”
For a minute or two, there was silence, not awkward or tense; it was companionable. As if they had been old friends, even maybe more than that, life partners, incarnations, going back decades or even centuries, and that it had been always been like that: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221b Baker Street in London, sitting in two chairs in front of a fireplace.
Then John cleared his throat and asked “How did you get hold of the letter?”
“I got someone to duplicate it for me. Do you remember when we met?”
“We had a row, didn’t we?”
“We did. In fact,” Sherlock said, “there is scarcely an occasion in which we have met when we haven’t got a row. Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I guess I’m rather defensive.”
“For a rather long time I rather thought you simply disliked me,” Sherlock heard himself admitting. His voice sounded odd to himself, quiet and unsure, a mirror of his inner workings.
“No, you rather got under my guard.”
[…]
And before Sherlock could explain, reply, whatever, John had pulled down his hand and put it against his lips. Everything Sherlock had ever felt, every frisson had just be a preparation for this moment when his hand melted against his lips. Presently, he found himself leaning over him. He still held his hand like a talisman. Sherlock took John’s face between his hands and kissed John, hard, on his mouth. Sherlock felt that he came alive under his lips. Then he let John go.
“Don’t think I should ask you to forgive me,” Sherlock said. “You have no right to let this go by, John. You are damn to particular to do it by half. I’m your man and you know it.”
Chapter Four of “Then All The World Would See”: Sherlock Holmes, in the language of his insufferable brother, was ‘definitely intrigued’ about his job at the dead letter office. At twenty-eight, he had outgrown the horror of drug addiction, which was so characteristic of his younger years. Enter one John Watson, a fuck-up who doesn’t want to be a fuck-up anymore and also wants to fuck Sherlock Holmes. That he’s Sherlock’s boss happens to be the least of their problems. A story about warzones beyond Afghanistan, second chances in life, and how to fall in love. Told in text, notes and (dead) letters. It’s Johnlock, elementary.(BBC!Johnlock, so far: ca. 15k, explicit).
Get your hankies and kleenex ready, this one is for the heart. I got all teary eyed when I wrote and edited it.
At last, an all-new chapter of ‘Then All The World Would See (How Much In Love We Are)’. It’s time for first kisses, love confessions… and drama. Those two idiots in love…
January 5th, 1500, Rome, originally recorded in audio, later transcribed in writing.
So, uh. I. Have no idea what to say. Fuck. How do I even - where the hell do I even begin. With the phone maybe? Like that even - fuck, with my luck this thing will break down in a week, and then whatever I even say won’t matter. I shouldn’t even keep this thing, right? It’s a risk to the time continuum of something. Herein lies the paradox. But.
Fuck. I’m so fucked, hehe - heh. Fuck.
So.So.I’ve travelled back in time!
Not exactly what I was expecting. Only maybe I sort of - it’s kind of - it’s weird. I’ve spent so much time in the Animus, living through history, travelling back in time in memory, that this, that in some part of my mind where habits are born I’ve gotten used to this. Like, I’ve gone through something so similar to this so many times that it’s - it’s not even a shock anymore. Like, I know this is a big fucking deal - I’m back in time. But in that part of my brain where, uh, where humans build routines, you know? It’s just like, like whatever. Animus, time travel, it looks the same on the surface, to my grey matter. So I’m like… comfortable? At home. At ease. As far as my Animus-ingrained instincts go, this is normal. And on the inside my common sense is throwing a fit. It’s a weird feeling.
And that’s - that’s completely beside the point, right. I should, uh, start from the beginning.
I activated the Grand Temple - something I probably need to explain later, seeing as this is… kinda the first record of it in human memory, probably? Later, I’ll do that later. Anyway, I activated the Grand Temple, and I honestly expected to die. Juno kind of made I seem like that was what was going to happen, and Minerva didn’t exactly reassure me there either. I was - I wouldn’t say fine with it, but it was - it was what it was. It was what had to happen, so I was… okay with it.
I can’t really explain what it was like. It hurt, but like - like - I don’t know. Fuck. It was like a painful stretch or like the itching of a healing frostbite. Like my nerves couldn’t categorise the sensation properly, so they just fired raw white noise sensation at me. Buzzing itchy pain, all over, but also… not. All pain really is, is your nerves sending alarm signals, right? I think mine just got confused. There’s no basis of experience for what happened to me.
If I had to guess, I… I think I got disintegrated. Demolecularized. Like fucking Star Trek teleportation beam - I was broken apart into atoms.I don’t know if I was transported or - copied. Something happened.
Rebecca once went into this rant about teleporters in science fiction, about how they’re material shredders and copiers - how people who use them are probably instantly destroyed, broken apart into materials, and then remade again, and probably not even from the same materials. That what actually moves between teleporters is building instructions, and people being beamed up are just rebuild on site after their horrible, silent murder at the hands of the teleportation beam. It was kinda gruesome, the way she put it.
This… will make absolutely no sense to anyone for about four hundred and fifty years, haha - hahaha - ha…
I think I maybe did die in the Grand Temple. And Minerva’s Vault here, in Rome - the one under the Vatican, it… printed a copy of me. A perfect, exact copy, with all the information intact. Even had my backpack and phone and everything.
Only it’s, uh, five hundred and twelve years early.
Which, uh. Well, we already knew that the Precursors, or at least Minerva, saw time differently. The lady could have dialogue with people tens of thousands of years after her time, so she had some means of getting data from the future and interacting with it in a way that affects the future. So, that, um. That’s something.
What’s five hundred to a woman that’s been dead for seventy five thousand years? Barely a blink of an eye. So, she takes info from a later moment, and brings it back, like - like moving bits in a chain. One later domino moved slightly earlier to change how the chips would fall. Because it will affect how the chips will fall. I’ve already killed like two people who probably weren’t supposed to die just yet, so…
Fuck.
It’sterrifying that they have this power. Dead for seventy five thousand years, and they can just shuffle things around. How many things have they changed - how many times have they done this? The history I know, how much of it’s - is - is real and untampered and how much of it’s by their design? And -
I -
Ho boy, okay. Right. Uh.
So. I’m in Rome, circa fifteen hundred. Ezio’s come and gone from the Vault and if I have my timelines right, Monteriggioni has already been raised to the ground. Rodrigo Borgia is the Pope, Rome is in grips of a tumultuous, Templar engineered poverty, and, uh. What else? Ezio isn’t back yet, but he will be here soon, I think. Machiavelli is here already, though, I can, sort of, feel him. Very historically important dude. Not as much as Leonardo, though. I can feel him too, stuck behind Templar lines, serving the enemy, so to say.
And I - I need to figure this out. And there won’t be any guidance from on Long Ago - Minerva’s temple is dead now. I think bringing me, or making me, or whatever she did, it drained the Vault’s batteries. It’s completely dead now, out like a light. Just like this phone will be, very soon. I’ll probably write this all down later - preserve it for future Assassin generations and whatnot. Right now…
Right now, I’m.
Fuck.
I’m going to go pickpocket someone, buy some wine and get drunk, maybe. I’ll figure out what to do, after I’ve had the chance to - to turn my brain off and on again. I think I’ve deserved it.
Yeah.
-
Yup. Gonna try writing at least few chapters before posting, but here’s like 1/3 of first chap. It’s not going to all be in epistolary but it will be peppered with letters and journal entries and wanted posters probably. We’ll see how it goes.
Feel free to suggest story titles. Also Desmond’s is going to need an alter ego, so if anyone knows Italian names starting with De or Des, I’d love to hear them. So far the only one I got is Desiderio.
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The third of seven brand new Drarry fics inspired by the seven heavenly virtues.
For our third virtue, Charity, @ladderofyears offer us an epistolary fic filled with gratitude for one Mr Evans, a mysterious and most unexpected benefactor. And if that wasn’t enough, this fic also contains art by the talented @iero0.
When the Ministry claims Draco Malfoy’s fortune in reparations it seems that his future looks bleak. There is no possible way for him to afford the tuition fees or the living costs for a university education, even though a life spent healing others is his dearest wish. To his complete surprise an anonymous benefactor offers him both, as well as a stipend to live on. Even though his benefactor asks for nothing in return, Draco decides to write him letters. He tells Mr Evans about his life, his course and all of the people that he cares about.
This is a story about the transformative effect of charity, and how it changes both Draco’s, and Mr Evans’s lives forever.
Charity- help, especially in the form of money, given freely to people who are in need.
This week, we’ll post one fic per day for seven days, each one inspired by one of the traditional seven heavenly virtues —Courage,Justice,Charity,Hope,Prudence,TemperanceandFaith. Each story is a stand-alone work, but together they make up the anthology we call Seven Shades of Virtue.
Over 7 days, we’ll give you 7 fics — plus an accompanying Spotify playlist containing 7x7 songs.
We — the Seven Shades of Drarry — are a group of Drarry fanfiction writers of different backgrounds, ages, and nationalities who work together in a rare collaboration. Seven different writing styles, seven different strengths, seven different weaknesses, all united in one project, working together to create unified themed collections based around the number seven. Each theme has seven threads, each writer assigned a thread to inspire their story, and all combined to create The Seven Shades of Drarry.
Auror Potter is smooth. He is a dancer extraordinaire. Or so he thinks. Enter: The leather-clad and stunning blond sensation to put Potter in his place. Or: The time Draco decides to do the stalking, and wands are still drawn… Although with significantly more pleasurable results.
Assigned by Wizengamot to fulfil his community service hours in the Department for Unemployed Magical Persons (DUMP), Draco unknowingly becomes Harry’s anonymous case manager and begins a letter exchange with him under the pseudonym “Darwin Marshbottom.” But Draco isn’t known for playing by the rules—and neither is Harry.
Teddy has watched Cousin Draco and Godfather Harry flirt for years as Hogwarts Faculty but never make a move, and he is tired of it. To get them together, he and their families pressure them into throwing Teddy’s Hogwarts graduation party. Now, they must communicate to arrange the party.
Harry and Draco can’t find anyone to be in a steady relationship with, but they’ll gladly fuck each other to take the edge off. They just send a quick owl or Floo message or what have you and never discuss it. Ever. There are no feelings involved. Until there are.
Harry and Draco were bonded in 8th year by accident. A Healer encouraged them to work through their issues by writing letters to each other to process their feelings while forced to live in such close proximity. Now that they have graduated, their bond is stable enough for them to live independent lives and careers and explore new romantic relationships, but they haven’t yet broken the habit of writing letters to one another.
Harry’s been through hell and back again; his magic’s acting up, he’s had to quit everything he ever liked, and he can’t do anything for himself. For the first time (maybe ever) he seeks help.
A clipping from the Arts & Letters section of the Londinium Herald-Gazette for the @girlgeniusevents Spring Event Week.
May 16th is Fantasy! Presented for your entertainment: a newspaper article about a theoretical theatrical work that Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure might possibly perform whilst exiled in England.
(Transcription under the cut.)
Londinium Herald-Gazette - The Finest News Beneath the Waves
Article: New Work By Payne’s Troupe to Premiere Sunday
By Eureka Miller, Arts & Entertainment Correspondent
Master Payne’s Circus of Adventure is set to debut their newest original work, “Much Ado About Mechanicsburg,” this Sunday at Londinium’s newly renovated Aquarius Playhouse. The return of Payne’s troupe to the Aquarius has been much anticipated, with tickets for the initial engagement selling out just two days after the box office opened.
Followers of theatrical news will recall that the troupe’s last original offering, “The New Heterodyne Adventures: Betrayal at the Battle of Sturmhalten,” was forced to close early due to catastrophic flooding that afflicted the Aquarius in June of last year. Believed to have been caused by a blocked spillway at Hydraulic Pump no. 74, floodwaters took theatre-goers by surprise as water began to fill the Aquarius during the second act of “Betrayal.” Players continued the show even as the flooding worsened, leading to an unforgettable rendition of the “You were once my sister” monologue in Scene 5 as the actors were obligated to stand on chairs, and then to tread water near the end. Act III was delayed for 15 minutes as both patrons and actors were forced to activate the emergency lifeboats and flee the inundated theatre, but even an abrupt change of venue was not enough to put a stop to the show. The performance continued at the nearby Elephant’s Keep Pub on Footlights Lane, and ended with a standing ovation that lasted for seventeen minutes.
“An incredible performance,” Lord Moonbark, who was in attendance, was quoted saying. “Most of us thought the water was part of act, at least until one of the jugglers was bitten by a clam. Things got a little dicey when we all had to swim for the emergency exits, but I’ll never forget the staging of the final battle. The actors tipped over one of the life boats and started to recite their lines atop the hull, right in the pub’s beer garden. We were all on our feet cheering! What a show.”
Though the Aquarius was nearly destroyed in the flooding, a generous grant from Her Undying Majesty’s Council for the Promotion of Stagecraft and Theatrical Arts allowed for the playhouse to be rebuilt, and for Payne’s troupe to convert their stage show into a touring production of “Betrayal” for the duration of reconstruction. Payne’s troupe has reportedly been in talks with the United British Radio Broadcasters Guild to license a radio drama adaptation of the work, with an inside source saying that both parties were “excited to bring the drama to a new, totally unsuspecting audience.”
“Much Ado About Mechanicsburg” has been billed as a romantic comedy. Although the show has yet to open, rumors are already swirling that the troupe may be called to give a command performance of the new work for Her Britannic Majesty. If so, this would be the second such performance Payne’s company has given since their arrival from the continent a little less than three years ago – an honor only a handful of Londinium’s most prestigious native theatre companies can claim.
– Rimbaud’s last known letter, dictated to his sister on November 9, 1891, the day before he died, in: “I promise to be good”, translated from the French by Wyatt Mason
Monsieur le Directeur, I would ask you if I have anything left on your account. I would like to transfer off of this service, the name of which I don’t even know, but in any case will call the Aphinar service. There are all sorts of services here, and I, unhappy and infirm, can’t find a single one, the first dog in the street will tell you as much. So send me the price for service from Aphinar to Suez. I am completely paralyzed: so I would like to leave plenty of time to board. Tell me what time I should be carried on board …
Letter from Édouard Manet to Mme Jules Guillemet, 1880
Translation: Bellevue, Thursday [July-August 1880] To Mme Jules Guillemet
Nonsense if you will, dear Madame, but such sweet nonsense [sketches of her shoes and skirts] which enables me to spend my time very pleasantly. I’m getting better and better, and a letter from you now and then would help my cure along - so don’t be too economical with them.
I haven’t seen Mlle L. [Lemonnier], her mother is very ill and she is moving. Still, I’m surprised to have had no news from her. I hope you won’t find my letters a bore, you’ll tell me, won’t you, and send me your news soon E. Manet
PROPAGANDA ANTIROMANA: LA LETTERA DI MITRIDATE AL RE DEI PARTI ARSACE
“Il re Mitridate saluta il re Arsace […]. I Romani hanno un solo e ormai antico motivo di far guerra a tutte le nazioni, a tutti i popoli, a tutti i re: la loro insaziabile cupidigia di dominio e di ricchezze. Per essa dapprima mossero guerra contro Filippo, re dei Macedoni, nonostante gli avessero simulato amicizia mentre si trovavano sotto la minaccia dei Cartaginesi. Quando Antioco accorse in suo aiuto lo distolsero fraudolentemente dall’intervenire promettendogli delle concessioni in Asia, ma non appena Filippo fu sconfitto, Antioco fu spogliato di tutto il territorio al di qua del Tauro e di diecimila talenti. Poi fu la volta di Perseo, figlio di Filippo, del quale questi astuti e abili orditori di perfidi inganni, dopo molti combattimenti di vario esito, avevano accolto la resa a discrezione sotto la protezione degli dèi di Samotracia e che, poiché nei patti gli avevano promesso salva la vita, fecero morire d’insonnia. Eumene poi, della cui amicizia essi ostentatamente si vantavano, prima lo consegnarono ad Antioco come prezzo della pace, poi, trattandolo come custode di un territorio occupato, a forza di esazioni e di oltraggi, da re che era ne fecero il più miserabile degli schiavi: inoltre, dopo aver prodotto un falso e sacrilego testamento, trascinarono nel corteo trionfale alla stregua di un nemico il figlio di lui, Aristonico, solo perché aveva osato reclamare il regno paterno. Così l’Asia fu da loro occupata. Da ultimo, alla morte di Nicomede saccheggiarono la Bitinia, nonostante esistesse sicuramente un figlio suo natogli da Nisa, a cui egli aveva conferito il titolo di regina.
Debbo proprio portare ad esempio me stesso? Io da ogni parte ero separato dal loro impero, essendo frapposti regni e tetrarchie, ma poiché correva fama che io fossi ricco e non disposto a servire, mi provocarono a guerra tramite Nicomede […]. Ora considera, ti prego, se dopo la nostra disfatta tu possa pensare di opporre una resistenza più valida o che ne venga la fine della guerra?
Io so bene che tu hai una gran quantità di uomini, di armi e di oro: per questo io ti cerco come alleato ed essi ti vogliono come preda […]. Ignori forse che i Romani, dopo che l’Oceano ha arrestato la loro marcia verso occidente, hanno rivolto qua le loro armi? E che non vi è cosa loro, patria, mogli, terre, impero, che fin da principio non sia stato frutto di rapina? […] Che nessuna legge né umana né divina può distoglierli dal depredare e dall’annientare alleati ed amici, popoli vicini e lontani, deboli e potenti, e dal considerare nemici tutti quelli che non sono sotto la loro servitù”.
✍️Sallustio, Storie, IV, 69, (a cura di R. Ciaffi), Milano, Bompiani, 1983.
In foto: Statua di Mitridate oggi conservata al Museo del Louvre di Parigi.
