Antonius stood in solemn thought,
Despite the war that fate had wrought,
His heart, though scarred by Lucius' hand,
Still beat with hope, could they withstand,
The bitter wind of pride and hate,
And forge anew, before too late.
He called for peace, his voice was strong,
Lucius, brother, this war was wrong,
Though swords were raised and blood was shed,
Our bond, not yet, is fully dead,
The Senate walls held silent breath,
As both men spoke in the shadow of death.
Lucius, torn by guilt and pride,
Felt envy burn deep inside,
Yet Antonius' words rang clear,
Could he let go, forget the spear,
But ambition's fire still held sway,
In Lucius' mind, it led the way.
Antonius knew not of the plot,
A dagger in the shadows sought,
His heart was pure, his trust held fast,
In Lucius' friendship, deep and vast,
Yet whispers in the Senate grew,
And death awaited, dark and true.
Marcus, the boy with heart of flame,
Saw danger in the Senate's game,
He ran to warn his uncle dear,
But Antonius, his judgment clear,
Refused to doubt his lifelong friend,
Unknowing that it marked his end.
Uncle, please, young Marcus cried,
I've seen their knives, the death they hide,
But Antonius, with calm reply,
Placed trust in Lucius' watchful eye.
Fear not, my son, I know them well,
No threat from Lucius' heart can dwell.
Yet as they walked through Senate's gate,
The shadow of betrayal's weight,
Fell heavy on that fateful day,
As daggers gleamed in cruel display.
The Senate closed around their prey,
And Antonius, the lion, lay.
Lucius watched with darkened soul,
As blade met flesh, and blood took toll,
His heart had sought this power's gain,
But now he stood, consumed by pain,
For in that strike, his brother lost,
He paid the highest, bitter cost.
Antonius fell, but in his eyes,
No anger, only sweet surprise,
He looked to Lucius, not with hate,
But sorrow for their broken fate,
With final breath, he whispered low,
Brother, why this path of woe.
The Senate trembled in their might,
Yet shadows grew in Rome that night,
For power gained by treachery's knife,
Would lead to naught but endless strife,
Lucius turned, his heart of stone,
But found himself forever alone.
Young Marcus knelt beside the slain,
His uncle's blood a crimson stain,
With tears that burned like bitter fire,
He swore revenge upon the liar,
Yet in his heart, the lion's roar,
Still whispered peace amidst the war.
Thus ends the tale of Antonius' reign,
A lion's heart that knew no stain,
Though power claimed him in the end,
His soul, unbroken, would ascend,
For in his life, both sword and grace,
Shaped Rome's great fate, in time and place.