Emathia

Lucan has long held a strange gravity for me. His Pharsalia isn’t merely a poem about civil war—it’s an autopsy of empire, an unmasking of ambition, a dirge for the Republic’s soul. It is, in its own way, a gospel of ruin, where even the victors stand accused. That tension—between the human hunger for order and the inevitable collapse it breeds—has followed me through both my academic work and my fiction.

Years ago, I spent months exploring how the Gospel of Mark mirrors Lucan’s Rome: the inversion of power, the subversion of victory, the quiet, apocalyptic tone beneath the surface. Lucan taught me that narrative can shake empires precisely because it refuses to comfort them.

Emathia was born from that fascination—with Lucan, with the cyclical nature of civilization, and with the myth of human progress. Yes, “Roman Empire in space” has been done before, but what I wanted wasn’t grandeur—it was recursion. A return to the same human failings dressed in new technology, new stars, new gods. The same Rome, just colder and farther from the sun.

I never finished it. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to. But in its fragments, I see the same questions I’ve always written toward: what happens when the center cannot hold? When the empire is not a place but a pattern?

So, I’m sharing Emathia here—not as a finished work, but as a moment in my own creative cycle. A prose drawn from the ancient poem about power, exile, and the endless repetition of human ambition, cast against the dark silence of space:

Emathia, the celestial enchantress, stretches across the cosmic expanse like the mouth of a grand river, its banks veiled in the shimmering sands of the cosmos. A symphony of celestial currents dance and sway within her radiant arms, orchestrating the eternal ballet of creation. Encircled by grains of stardust, she stands as a monument to the celestial artistry that paints the canvas of the universe. And amidst her ethereal embrace, concealed from prying eyes, lies a clandestine congregation of starships, their hulls once gleaming with the promise of unseen adventures but now stained with the marks of battles, the repairs of desperate engineers – the Republic’s best to be sure – and a weariness that is palatable, but cannot be expressed with words for fear of failure. Even with dashed hopes and a heavy present reality, they stand ready for their next order in a cosmic crime, a crime that is more than civil – a crime that entails war, but war is not enough to describe the chaos that man can exact on another man, a planet, a Republic, or even the galaxy. As Emathia whispers her secrets to the cosmos, the fleet awaits, safely hidden for some time to mark their repairs, ready to embark once the order is given.

In the celestial tapestry of the universe, amidst the twinkling stars and swirling nebulae, Emathia exists and seems to tie the entire galaxy together. The pontifex of the Imperial Science Academy has laid an unbreakable precept for all of the Republic’s religions to follow – that it is in Emathia we might find the gods but it is in Emathia we find ourselves. It was a place of sublime beauty, where the cosmic currents flowed like rivers, and the sands of time whispered tales of ancient wisdom. But beneath the serene façade of Emathia lurks a turmoil born of ambition and betrayal. In millennia before and since the founding of the Great Republic, Emathia’s star-dusted nebula has witnessed the ebb and flow of countless conflicts, all meant to protect humanity’s cradle, Rome. But now, more so than with Sulla or those malcontents before him, civil wars tear at the fabric of society, and the thirst for power had corrupted the very essence of justice. Once united by common bonds, the people were now divided by greed and treachery, following their false idols and the populist promises made to them to give away the treasury to issue new suffrage rights, to give to the people of the Republic the very elements of governance reserved those who should govern. No gift to the people, even at the expense of the Republic, was too much, and each proposed gift, each dreamed-up progress, created only more brutal treachery.

At the heart of this turmoil stood a powerful faction whose ambition knew no bounds. They had abandoned the principles of honor and integrity, instead embracing a culture of deception and manipulation, and did so in the name of the people. Led by a cadre of ruthless leaders, they sought to extend their dominion over the entire realm, crushing any who dared to oppose them. But within the ranks of this division lay a web of familial ties, binding together relatives whose loyalties were torn between duty and desire. Brother fought brother, and father stood against son, as the lines between right and wrong blurred in the fog of war. Amidst this chaos, a broken pact of rulership emerged, shattering the fragile peace that had once prevailed. The once-respected standards of governance were cast aside and replaced by the iron fist of tyranny. And as Emathia descended into darkness, the entire cosmos trembled at the specter of impending doom. As Rome and all of her seers, prophets, and wise men stood neutral, the name of Caesar thundered forth – the head of this cabal. He was the one who decided that he alone could and should govern Rome and the Republic springing from the Tiber.

Across the empyrean expanse, standards clashed with hostile standards, each bearing the emblem of a faction driven by its own agenda. Partisan eagles soared through the heavens, their talons sharpened for battle, while spears shook at spears in a symphony of destruction. But amidst the carnage, a glimmer of hope flickered like a distant star. For in the darkest hour, when all seemed lost, whispers of rebellion began to spread like wildfire. Brave souls, weary of oppression, dared to defy the tyrants who sought to crush their spirits. United by a common cause, they rallied beneath a banner of freedom, determined to reclaim their birthright, and restore honor to their realm. And as the tides of war shifted once more, Emathia stood on the brink of redemption, poised to rise from the ashes like a phoenix reborn, shielding the only hope the Republic had left. Even in the face of adversity, the spirit of Emathia remained unbroken, a testament to the resilience of the human soul and one soul in particular. In one man stood this spirit, General Cato the Younger. And though the scars of conflict would linger for generations to come, they would serve as a reminder of the enduring power of hope in the face of darkness.

Amidst the tumultuous tempest of Rome’s celestial shores, with all the promises of the gods, why did war and fury come to you and so against yourself? Did you think it wise to continue the family slaughter, parading it amongst the galaxy’s inhabitants? Babylon should have been humbled. Should not Crassus’ restless spirit lay to rest before we reveled in wars devoid of hope? Did he teach us nothing with his alliance with Sulla? And for what? How much of Rome and the cosmos might have been conquered without littering the star fields with the bodies and blood from our citizens’ hands— where suns shed light on new worlds, where stars break the endless night’s embrace, where men and women had conquered fiery shores, and where asteroid fields block the Black Fleets of the Scythians. We could have harnessed the might of China and their fleets, tamed the untamed Araxes energy field and the systems that draw their power from that rich vein of the universe or conquered the tribes who are said to trace Emathia’s sacred origins. Yet, Rome has made war her lover. Rome, had you subjugated the world to Latin laws, then in your leisure, you could turn your sword upon yourself! You still have adversaries but see only yourself and the ancient traditions have given victories to your generals as the greatest threat.

But now society falters in our cities, once-proud emblems of the Republic lie in ruins and homes stand deserted, Hesperia lies fallow year after year, and plowlands cry out for labor. The blame falls not on Pyrrhus nor on Hannibal—for wounds this deep are inflicted by our own hands, hands we have called well-meaning and hands we have used to swear our oaths to defend the Republic.

If the cosmic weave decreed some future emperor’s emergence amidst the eternal realms’ toll if the celestial realm demanded a costly tribute for its dominion, then let the echoes of Pharsalia’s fields carry curses, and no victor be deified! Let our past be counted as nothing, and the blood spilled to build and then to defend the Republic count as nothing. Rome owes its trajectory to the tumult of its internal conflicts— as if it was all orchestrated for an ascension. Either the fleet in the nebula stops the ascension, or the Republic’s vigil of life concludes, and the memory of freedom is wiped away. Would then Emathia care for Rome as much as Rome has cared for it?

Prologue

“Do you think anyone will know?”

“My dear sweet sister,” Clotho sang out, “We have moved this story twenty millennia from that old planet. History is too big now, too big for these mortals to care, too big for them to know. They are so consumed with the next rumor or gossip or tragedy that they have no time to learn about themselves,” Atropos said. She looked to Lachesis for confirmation. The other sister only smiled and nodded, as she always did. Clotho could always count on the vote of Lachesis, that is, if Clotho spoke last on any subject.

“Besides, if the gods themselves do not remember, how could we expect a mortal to remember this story.” Clotho breathed. Atropos needed to be repeatedly reminded why this plan was taking place. “Perhaps this time, the story will be different.”

“The gods are dying, sister.” Lachesis. Always Lachesis with the solemn fact that the gods will die. “They have been dying, again, for some time. And we will be forgotten again.”

This was always the sore point with the sisters. The ancient gods of old stood on the precipice of oblivion, their once-majestic temples now mere relics of a bygone era. New religions, new philosophies, and new pastimes had arisen. No one had time for the old gods anymore. Among them, the Moirai, the weavers of destiny, felt the icy grip of fear tighten around their immortal hearts. With each passing century, they witnessed the slow erosion of belief, the fading whispers of prayers that once sustained their divine existence.

Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the three sisters who controlled the fates of mortals and gods alike, gathered in the shadowed halls of the celestial realms, their voices hushed with trepidation. They knew that with the waning of belief, their own legacy was in peril. If the stories of their deeds were to be forgotten, they too would fade into nothingness, their existence erased from the tapestry of time. In a desperate bid to preserve their memory, the Moirai devised a daring plan. They would recreate human history, weaving a new narrative that would ensure their enduring remembrance. With trembling hands, Clotho spun the threads of time, while Lachesis measured their length with a heavy heart. Atropos, her shears trembling, trimmed away the frayed edges of forgotten epochs, determined to salvage the essence of their divine legacy.

As they worked, the Moirai poured their essence into every strand of the cosmic tapestry, infusing it with the stories of their timeless deeds. They resurrected the triumphs and tragedies of ancient heroes, breathed life into forgotten civilizations, and ensured that the echoes of their presence would reverberate through the ages. And so, with each deft stroke of their celestial loom, the Moirai forged a new history for humanity, one that would ensure their memory endured long after the last ember of belief had flickered and died. They had decided this time that they would never be so long forgotten again.

Clotho knew that recreating their darkest hour was the place to begin, to right the wrongs of the past, and to control the cosmos finally. The last time, she and her sisters had refused to intervene, even when they knew that not doing so would eradicate the gods and thus themselves. While Rome all of those millennia ago crumbled under the fiery pangs of civil war, they withheld their hand, only doing their duty. They let some be born and took the lives of others. They set how long each person would live. And they watched as their hopes for each new string sewn brought nothing but agony, nothing but war, nothing by their own place in the cosmos slowly hidden and eventually forgotten. This time would be different. This time, they would cut short what needed to be cut short and increase the length of the lives needed. This time, they would do what the gods would not, and that is fight for themselves. Only the sisters remember ancient Rome. Even the gods could not take their eyes off the tragedy unfolding beneath their aural plane to think back.

Life and the universe have an irredeemable habit of replicating and mimicking themselves. Science would call this mimesis, but the Fates called it a plan—a plan to get it right.