There are many ways one can make enemies. But Octavian couldn't, for his life, think who would ever view his mother as an enemy.
She always had that smile on her face, the one that lit up her blue eyes- the eyes Octavian inherited. The only time it would be missing was when she chided him. He never liked that, so he always tried his best to make her happy. She made his favourite meals and read to him stories of heroes at night. She had several copies of the tales of the Greek heroes, as Octavian's father tended to burn them whenever he caught his wife reading to his son about those Graecus.
"Why does daddy say the Greeks are bad? Perseus killed Medusa! Medusa is bad. So Perseus is good. Greeks are good," young Octavian once said.
His mother sighed. "Your father doesn't like them because the Greeks are enemies of Rome," she said. "But that's ancient history. We're in the future now, and I believe it's time to make peace."
"But the Greeks are good, right?"
"The Greeks are people, just like us," his mother replied. "They can be good, they can be bad."
Octavian's father, though, couldn't count his enemies off his fingers even he had hundred hands like Briares. He didn't wonder why his father made so many enemies, though. He hated his father himself.
Octavian was nine when it happened.
The house always seemed a lot more peaceful when Octavian's father wasn't home. They always looked forward to days when his father went downtown to check on the firm he ran. Octavian's mother would churn out a batter of cookies and they would sit at a table on their balcony, from where they could see the Field of Mars in the distance.
"Someday, I'll be praetor," Octavian said, absent-mindedly nibbling on his cookie. "I must be praetor."
"Nonsense," his mother scoffed. "Your father's been drilling a lot of nonsense into your head. You don't necessarily have to be praetor. You can be a centurion, and I would still be proud of you."
There were times when Octavian disagreed with his mother and sided with his father instead. His father was right on this one, being a praetor was everything. But he didn't say anything. It was such a nice day, he didn't want to ruin it by arguing with his mother.
There was a knock on the door. "I'll get it," his mother muttered, as she got up and left the balcony. Octavian sat where he was, still gazing at the Field of Mars, imagining himself swinging his sword about, knocking down other legacies and demigods, like Odysseus, Diomedes and the gang had done in the Trojan War.
His mother returned a few minutes later, with a box of chocolates tied with a blue ribbon in her hand. She smiled at her son, as she set it down on the table. "Heracles had it delivered to us. Said it was from someone Roman, but I think he's just saying that because he doesn't want your father to know he sent me chocolates."
"Heracles?" Octavian knew that guy. He'd met him before. He was named after the Greek hero-turned-god Heracles (or Hercules, as the Romans knew him), but was actually a Greek demigod son of Demeter (or Ceres). Octavian's mother and him had gotten to know each other over their love for nature and cooking. They were good friends, nothing more.
"Here, have some," his mother said, as she took a bite out of one of the square chocolate pieces.
Octavian shook his head. He wasn't fond of chocolates, but there was something else bothering him. Somehow, when his mother had mentioned her Greek friend sending over some chocolates, his father's words echoed in his mind. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts."
His mother ate two more pieces. Mother and son talked for a while more, discussing the Trojan War, and how Rome had started with a Greek- Aeneas. They talked about Old Rome, and how it was such a wonderful vacation spot, but they couldn't go because it was in the Ancient Lands.
"I think I'm going to take a nap. I don't feel so good," his mother said, after a while. She put a hand to her forehead. "Must be all the late-nighters I've been pulling recently." She smiled at her son. "If you want to read about Greek heroes, the book is under the loose floorboard in the storeroom. Remember to put it back before your father comes home."
Octavian nodded. His mother retired to her room.
Five hours later, Octavian's father still hadn't returned. And he couldn't be gladder. He'd taken the book from under the loose floorboard and was attempting to draw the heroes and monsters from the descriptions. Being a descendant of Apollo, he had some artistic skills. Nowhere near as good as a descendant of Minerva would be, though (then again, Minerva probably had no descendants as she was a virgin goddess).
Octavian was quite pleased with how his sketches turned out. Though Perseus looked like he was holding a theatre mask attached to a wild grapevine instead of Medusa's head, the others turned out pretty well. He grinned, collecting his sketchbook and rushing over to his mother's room. His mother should've woken from her nap by then, and was probably reading.
Octavian wanted to surprise his mother. He ran and burst into the room, his sketchbook held high and leaped onto his mother's bed. "Mommy, look what I did!" he yelled, triumphantly, before realising that his mother was still asleep.
"Oops," he murmured, looking down at his mother's sleeping form. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, her skin pale, as still as a corpse. "Sorry." Octavian slowly edged out of the room.
That was when it hit him.
Why didn't his mother wake when he leaped onto her bed. She couldn't possibly be in such a deep sleep that she could completely ignore her nine-year old son jumping on her bed and yelling at the top of his voice, could she?
Octavian re-entered the room, and stared at his mother. His blood ran cold. She looked too much like a corpse.
"Mommy?" He shook her gently. She didn't respond.
His heart pounding, he pressed an ear against her chest. He remembered learning about pulses during P.E. in school, and he checked her wrist. Her neck.
Nothing.
#
The chocolates had been poisoned. The Greek demigod son of Demeter was captured, but he claimed he had only been asked to deliver the chocolates. No one believed him, definitely not Octavian's father.
Octavian didn't think he'd ever cry as hard as he did ever again. He had his face buried into his pillow when his father walked into his room.
"Octavian."
Octavian looked up, tears still streaming down his face. He wiped them away, knowing what his father thought about crying and displaying weakness.
"What have you learnt from this?" His father's voice was grim.
It took Octavian a moment to process. A Greek had poisoned his mother, even though she liked and trusted them. When he thought about it, he realized his father had been right all along. The Greeks were bad. Perseus had KILLED Medusa. Medusa had been an innocent victim before that. Diomedes had wounded two gods. Odysseus had tricked the entire city of Troy.
"Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," Octavian said.
The rage in his father's dark eyes seemed to grow. "Beware of Greeks themselves. Let them burn, those enemies of Rome."
Octavian nodded, firmly. He knew where he stood now. He couldn't do anything about his mother's death, but surely he could make sure it wasn't in vain. He would defend Rome from the Greeks. They would not harm another Roman again.
"So, what would you do when you are praetor, son?" his father asked, like they were just having another one of those pre-praetor lessons. "What would you do if Greeks came to Camp Jupiter? To New Rome?"
"Burn the dirty Graecus," Octavian said, gritting his teeth.