Prologue A warrior’s heart would lead to greatness But a weak fighter’s mind is just painless. It was a late Italian evening, over three thousand years before the time we call ours. Warm shafts of light burst through the flowing leaves of the canopy. The young boy crouched in the thick bushes of the forest’s floor. A rotting log from a fallen tree lay before him. He wore his woollen shirt tied at the waist with a worn leather belt. His trousers were of similar style to the shirt which he wore. It was a fine quality shirt. Not one a poor man may wear, but one with a slight collection of gold. It was not the finest either. He wasn’t a very old boy, not much over the age of 15, but he was experienced. Well, he had more than an average boy of his age. In his bulked arm he held a wooden bow, which he had built only a few hours before. It wasn’t the best built bow. The wood was beginning to age and weaken. The string was not the strongest, nor was it the most elastic. It was the best a boy of his type could get. The boy pulled for an arrow that he had placed in the ground beside him. These arrows were not of the greatest quality either. The feathers were bent, with small chunks missing from the centre of some. The shaft was not the straightest, nor the smoothest, shaft one could make. But the heads, they were well crafted, carefully chipped away flint. The boy looked around the forest, consumed by the vivid greens of a forest of spring, finely weaved in beauty by the powers of nature. Behind a man kneels. His father, an older man, who went by the name of Silvius, the king of Alba Longa, his was face worn and faded by past war and battle. He was a sharp man. His eyes glinting in the sun from his power. He looked across the small clearing ahead of them. A quiet rustling came from the other end. Then it turned to look deeper into the forest. It was only a young deer. Its antlers had barely begun to grow. The boy pointed towards it. “Father, over there.” He whispered as to not alert the sensitive creature. “Yes, Brutus,” For Brutus was the boy’s name. “You see it.” Silvius turned to two servants waiting behind the man and his son. They, too, wore woollen clothes, yet these were faded with colours not so bright. Silently, Silvius indicated for them to run around the edge of the clearing, moving the deer closer to Brutus’ final shooting place. Brutus carefully stands, minding not to make a loud sound from the undergrowth. He turns a climbs over the log, running to the other side of the clearing. The servants move the deer closer to the log where Silvius was still waiting. Watching his son as he lined up the shot. Brutus pulled back on the string. The arrow had already been nocked. The muscles in his arm tensed. He shut his right eye. Took a deep breath. The deer ran in front. He released the arrow. The flint head cut through the musty forest air. The deer turned to watch the arrow. As it watched the arrow flew past. Narrowly brushing against its nose. The arrow continued on. Then it stopped. The sharp flint pierced, only slightly under, the breast of Silvius. Silvius looks down, grasping the arrow protruding from his chest. The warm river of blood drips from between his fingers. He begins to gasp. Panting for a single breath. A final breath. The bow dropped to the ground. Brutus stood, frozen, stuck to the ground. He wanted to scream. To cry. But he could not. He was brought up, trained, to be a man. A warrior. Not a crier. Brutus stopped. He thought for a moment. Around him the world slowed. Time stopped. The deer ran. Leapt from the clearing. Brutus moved slowly forward. He tried to run. He wanted to get to his father, but something was preventing him. He tried to look over the log. He could not quite see. One of the servants ran and knelt beside Silvius. The other ran to hold back Brutus. Brutus struggled. He resisted. He fought. He kicked. He punched. He pushed. The servant struggled to hold him back. There was not much he could do without Brutus overpowering him. He ran towards his father. As he clambered over the log he saw a single, solemn breath hang above his father’s mouth. One of the servants said something. Brutus paid no attention though. Brutus fell beside his father. Still holding back his tears. The blood on Silvius’ hand wiped onto Brutus’ face as his father pulled him down closer. A single tear drop ran down Silvius’ cheek. This was followed by a tear of Brutus’ falling onto his father’s forehead. “Do not try to die like a hero, Brutus. But do not die as I have. A coward. You must leave our country behind. Get away. Run to the other side of our lands if you must. Just do not stay.” Silvius pulled Brutus further down. He placed a kiss upon his forehead, just as his eyes fell shut. A final breath warmed Brutus’ cheek. He fell into his father, weeping. He grasped hold of the large man. He squeezed him. He whispered into his father’s ear. “Please don’t leave me father. Please don’t” The man did not reply. Brutus looked up towards the servants. He stood. He looked down to the arrow pointing to the stars twinkling in the sky. Pointing Brutus in the direction of his father. Brutus crouched down. He gripped the arrow and pulled. The head was still warm with blood and the flesh it pulled with it. Brutus snapped the shaft. The splinters stuck into his hand, like the arrow to his father. He felt nothing. None of the physical pain. Brutus threw the arrow, not really looking where it might go. Brutus fell back to the ground. He held onto his father’s hand, repeatedly whispering to him. Crying, weeping. The man never moved. Brutus did not either.