Chapter Text
“Charge!”
Octavius’s shout rang over the clamouring squadron of Roman soldiers. In flashes of silver and red, they formed into a triplex acies, and advanced towards the enemy’s territory, swords and shields at the ready.
The enemy, in this case, was none other than the Wild West exhibit next door. It was a new addition to the museum (though, arguably, Octavius and his Roman comrades were as well, having only been added a few weeks before,) along with the Mayan exhibit a few metres away. However, it also meant the Roman exhibit had significantly decreased in size. Octavius would not stand for this blatant disrespect of the might of Rome, and besides, he needed the land. If too many more Romans arrived, the diorama would become overcrowded, and Octavius feared they may starve. The Western territory was tantalizingly close…and tantalizingly unguarded.
An earth-rattling boom shook Octavius back to the present. Several of his soldiers staggered backwards, injured, as a blonde cowboy threw another lit stick of dynamite into the middle of the squadron.
“How d’ya like that, ya little clowns!” he shouted. “Hah! Yer little battle plans don’t do nothin’ against firepower like this!” Octavius heaved a deep sigh. This blonde cowboy was Jedidiah, the leader of the Wild West cowboys. He was tall (or, well, tall for a miniature, anyways,) and had a rugged look to him, with his rough stubble and calloused hands. He looked up, and Jedidiah's gaze met his own. For a moment, Octavius was caught off-guard by the cowboy’s startlingly blue eyes, before he shook himself out of it. He is an enemy of Rome, he reminded himself. There is no value to be found in this man.
“What’s wrong, pretty-boy?” Jedidiah taunted, waving a stick of dynamite in the air. “Y’all haven’t discovered nitroglycerin yet?” Octavius gritted his teeth. The cowboy frustrated him—that was a given. But calling him pretty-boy was the last straw.
“What’s wrong, dimwit?” Octavius spat back. “Have your men not yet mastered a command of the English language?”
“Are you sayin’ we talk funny?” Jedidiah hissed. “We don’t talk funny! Y’all talk funny!”
“Speak up,” Octavius taunted. “I can’t hear you through that drawl.”
“Now yer gettin’ it!” Jedidiah shouted, running through the now-disorganized smattering of soldiers and towards Octavius. He drew his gun from its holster.
“I say we have a right proper duel,” Jedidiah said. He tossed a gun to Octavius. “I’ll even let you borrow one a’ my pistols, seein’ as you don’t got your own.” Octavius picked up the gun gingerly.
“This is ludicrous,” he snarled. “I’m not dueling you.”
“Why?” Jedidiah sneered. “Scared you’ll lose?” Octavius saw red, and before he knew what he was doing, he had loaded the gun and pointed it at Jedidiah.
“Not at all,” he said. “I am scared you’ll embarrass yourself.” He gripped the gun uneasily, his hand sweating. The instrument of war was still foreign to him, no matter how many times the cowboy had pointed it at him over the last few weeks. His finger reached for the trigger.
“Hold it right there, you two,” came a thunderous voice from above them. Octavius, startled, pulled the trigger, but before he could see what effect this had had on Jedidiah he found himself floating in the air.
“Stop manhandling me!” said a familiar, twangy voice to his left. Octavius glanced over and saw Jedidiah, squirming to break free from whatever beast had taken them captive. Looking up, Octavius saw that they had been picked up by the new night guard, Cecil.
“What is the meaning of this?” Octavius said, mustering up the best Roman-emperor voice he could manage.
“I’m sick of your fighting,” the night guard said. “Sounds like little flies buzzing around my ears. I’m going to set you two down, and you’re going to shake hands and get over it.” Jedidiah crossed his arms.
“And right before we were going to have our right proper duel,” he said grumpily. Octavius rolled his eyes.
“Here you go,” Cecil said, setting them down on a bench. “Now shake and get over it.” He left as quickly as he came, leaving Octavius to glare at Jedidiah.
“You know it’s your fault we’re here,” Jedidiah said. “If it weren’t for all yer dadgum yammering about buildin’ yer empire, we could all be livin’ in peace!”
“You forget just how invested your men are in the railroad,” Octavius shot back. “If you would only cease your expansion—”
“I can’t,” Jedidiah said, exasperated. “It’s destiny, manifest destiny. And it won’t stop for no one. The railroad’s the future, I swear it.”
“Rome is the future,” Octavius spat. “We are the strongest army ever to exist. And we must expand until we conquer the rest of the world.”
“Y’all don’t even know about guns!” Jedidiah exclaimed. “How can you be the strongest army in the world and not know about guns and cannons and dynamite?”
“How can you call yourself an expert on guns when yours doesn’t even fire?”
Jedidiah’s eyes went wide, and Octavius knew he’d hit a sore spot.
“How’d you figure that out?” Jedidiah hissed.
“Right as the night guard picked us up, my finger slipped and I pulled the trigger,” Octavius said smugly. “And nothing happened.” He tossed the pistol back to Jedidiah, where it landed at his feet with a clink.
“Dadgum it all,” Jedidiah cursed. “I didn’t reckon you’d know how to work this thing.” He gave Octavius a baleful stare. Octavius almost felt bad for the man.
“Well, I certainly ain’t shaking hands with you now,” he said, his voice just quiet enough so Octavius could hear the hurt in it. Turning away, he said, “I guess we’ll just hafta keep fightin’.”
“Yes,” Octavius said quietly, his eyes on Jedidiah’s retreating figure, a thousand conflicting thoughts in his mind. “I suppose we shall.”