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The Rise and Fall of Aro	By : spazzygob Category: Twilight Series > General Views: 1804 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Rise and Fall of Aro
- 1
I wrote this out of pure imagination. Although the official Twilight website claims that Aro was born around 1,000 A.D., I decided to place him in the second century. I wanted to use the ancient plague that decimated a large population of Ancient Rome, and the prelude to the uprising against Rome in what is now Britain.

                I researched a bit, but many different sources explain history in many different ways. I apologize if any of my facts are incorrect. Please don’t take the time to point out historical inaccuracies. It’s just a story, in the end.

Rome

                168 A.D.

                Aro waited outside his family villa, clenching fists, teeth, anything he could. He focused on his left arm, studying the sinuous muscles that had just begun to surface in his 15 year old body, the dark blue veins that were visible in the inner crease of his elbow under the lightly tanned skin, and the way they seemed to want to leap from his body near his wrist, where his fist was tightly balled.

                Aro did not cry. No Roman boy, nearly a man, would be allowed such a luxury. He belonged to a family of land owners, fortunate and wealthy all his life. He was the eldest son, and it was no secret that his mother favored him above his two younger brothers and his inconsequential elder sister. It was understood that his family’s properties would someday be inherited by him, and it would be up to him how much of it he would dole out to his siblings. That is, after the death of his father.

                Which had been a mere three days earlier. Only one day later, his death had been followed by the death of Aro’s sister, aged eighteen. Poor Lucia.

                The gods were displeased with them, with the Roman Empire, it seemed. This plague that had begun among soldiers, and had quickly spread to those of the poorer classes, had seemed far away from Aro and his family. What could touch them? They contributed large amounts of silver to the temple each month and believed that they were above reproof. What god would dare strike them?

                Tears threatened Aro’s dark eyes. He blinked them back desperately. If he were to cry, would the gods see it as a victory? Would they end this massacre of everything he loved? Or would they see it as a grave insult and strike him down with more force?

                Better to keep them in, to hide his grief until he discovered some way to channel it.

                So Aro stayed perfectly still, leaning against a tall pillar outside the family home. He studied the leather straps of his sandals, noticed the way they cut into his skin. They had become too small for him, but this was only a minor observation. He could care less, for he stood waiting outside while his mother died inside. He hadn’t been very sorry to see his father go. His sister’s death was a slight blow, but not very great a sorrow. His mother, on the other hand. . .

                The thought had only barely begun to flutter its wings inside his brain when the short, stocky physician who had been charged with his mother’s care came to stand next to him. The man was covered in sweat, his sparse graying hair stood up in several places. He stood for only a moment before he began to speak in his hoarse, defeated voice.

                “I am very sorry, Aro,” he muttered. In the same breath he said next, “my fee?”

                Aro, numb with the realization that his mother was now a cooling corpse, dropped three coins into the waiting man’s palm. The man closed his fist over them and hurried away. The physician was fairly sure that he would be back to this villa shortly. Hadn’t the entire Empire been sentenced to death?



Rome

                183 A.D.

                What more could he have done?

                It was one thing to survive the plague, hardly a victory. It was one thing to survive the clash between him and his only surviving brother for the right to their family holdings. Septimus had fought him tooth and nail for his birthright. Septimus had been fairly easy to defeat. However, the government was not.

                The government had seized all of his properties, claiming that his late father had not paid taxes on them for several years. Aro was certain that this was false, knowing that the government coveted the property that belonged to the Horatius family.

                Aro had been left with nothing.

                What choice did he have but to join the Roman army, to attempt to rebuild his life from scratch? Of course, no one could say that he had ever built his life originally. It had been handed to him, a thing he had taken for granted.

                He had been in Gaul for the past five years, watching the dangerous teeming of potential uprising from the natives there. The generals had hoped to quell the beginnings of rebellion with the sheer magnitude of our army. Who would dare move against the skilled warriors of the largest Empire in the world? Only those who wished to die.

                Aro was now back inside the capital of the world. It was not like a homecoming, more of a troublesome memory he had been forced to relive. The generals had sent him back, hoping he would recruit more soldiers to their cause. They had promised him a promotion, the ultimate for a soldier such as him. General.

                He had risen through the ranks of the army easily. At age thirty he was on the cusp of ultimate authority in the Legion. He would have command of his own battalion. He would decide how lives would be spent under him. The promise of such power intoxicated him.

                It had been a simple thing. The generals had taken notice of him and his unbelievable gift. He was a master of interrogation. He had only to lend a kind hand to upstarts and criminals who were brought to him. They would confess to him their crimes, the almost painful hope shining in their eyes that he would absolve them, that they would walk away with their lives. Information that others had to glean by torture, he could gain easily by the calm, conversational way he spoke to them. He would earn their secrets, promise them absolution, and then order his inferior officers to spill their blood at his feet.

                Death was his life, encompassed his being entirely. He had begun to like it.

                There were whores for the taking in Gaul, of course. Plentiful and easily attained. One of the perks of his rank, they would be brought to him in his tent. They came willingly, enthusiastically, to him. They were paid for by the government, if indeed they asked for payment. It was almost an honor to be chosen by a high ranking Roman soldier, to be given to him for a night. He would take them violently, relishing their soft cries of pain and the fear he would put in their eyes when he touched them. This was all evidence of his masculinity, his superiority, to the men he was in charge of. They would guard the tent outside, and listen to the shouts inside with leering grins. They knew that whatever whore was inside the tent at that moment would be theirs in under an hour. And they would be used no less sadistically.

                Ah, but he had missed the Roman bath houses of his birthplace. The thick, sweet air that was filled with the cries and moans of men and women, the pungent smell of arousal, and the intoxicating excess of those who were used to obtaining all they desired.

                One August night, shortly after his return, he found himself within such a place. He walked through it easily, as if he were treading a path through his own bedroom. The carnal pleasures taking place around him incensed his own desires.

                Sweating men kneeling with their faces buried in the sweet, dripping folds of beautiful women, their hair impeccably styled and the rich fabric of their clothes pushed over their hips. They drank wine and sampled sweets even as they climaxed loudly.

                The smooth, white buttocks of adolescent girls and mature women thrust into the hot air while men of all ages plunged whichever hole they saw fit to enter.

                Men and boys locked in erotic embraces, tongues tangling, the smooth columns of their manhood rubbing together and hot sprays of white viscous liquid.

                Everyone fucking, fucking anything that moved, merely because they could. Delightful!

                Aro had spotted a woman unlike any whore or wealthy wife he had ever bedded. She lay naked atop a stone threshold, next to the steaming pool of water in the middle of the bath house. Her skin was pale and smooth; certainly she had to be one of the upper class. Her pink nipples stood erect atop two of the most beautiful breasts Aro had ever seen. Her skin seemed pore less, faultless. Dark, raven hair ran down her back in cascading waves, while the hair at the crown of her head was braided perfectly, coiled in a perfectly symmetrical spiral atop her skull. Her face, however, was covered in a sheer veil of the deepest black, more so than her hair.

                The most perplexing of all, to Aro, was that she lounged there perfectly alone. She hadn’t invited anyone to her, he surmised. If she but turned in his direction, he would sprint over and fall to his knees to beg for a taste of the pink, glistening lips between her legs.

                He forced himself to turn away. Not for him, this one. Perhaps she belonged to a senator. He could never hope to whet his appetite with her.

                However, he could not look away for long; as if she were a magnet and his eyes had been cast from iron. Eventually he settled for a woman that seemed only a few years younger than his thirty. Her hair was a plain brown, expertly styled, but boring nonetheless. Her large breasts rippled and bounced each time he forced his teeming member into her. Judging by the curve of her belly, she had given birth more than once.

                She was a cow compared to the woman by the pool.

                Aro finished, not sparing the plain woman even a glance. She did not care, however. She was already presenting for a grandfatherly man carrying a large cask of wine. Aro glanced in the direction of the pool, his need for the beautiful, goddess-like woman no less consuming, even after his release.

                She was no longer there.

                “Pardon me, but are you Aro Horatius?” a man’s voice sounded from behind him. His voice was a smooth, perfect tenor. It surprised Aro. Few were ever able to sneak up behind the veteran of battle, and those who did were usually introduced to the sharp end of his sword.

                Aro stood and faced the man, his eyes narrowed to slits. The woman he passionately coveted, even after only a few minutes of laying eyes on her, had had an almost drugging effect if he had let his guard down so easily. When he turned and saw the man, however, he was taken aback.

                The man was beautiful, anyone could see that. His black eyes were perfectly shaped, impossibly long eyelashes, for a man, fringed them. His nose was long and straight, set above the perfectly curved cupid’s bow of his lips. He was smooth, like marble. His skin was pale as moonlight, as the woman’s had been.

                “Well? Are you?” the man asked again, showing a hint of impatience. Aro only then realized that his vocal chords had been temporarily frozen.

                “Yes, that is I,” Aro replied. His voice did not shake, though he was afraid. He did not allow his hands to tremble, though he longed to reach for the knife concealed within his clothes. He had been trained well.

                The man smiled, and it seemed out of place on his countenance. It was almost vulgar. His teeth caught the light and they seemed sharp, like a row of small knives gathered together.

                “Then come with me, the lady would have a word with you.”

                And so he went.
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The Rise and Fall of Aro