Peeing on a Mulberry Tree

Legate's POV

As I put the last olive into my mouth (and make sure to swallow it with care), my mind wanders to the new boy. How nice of him to attend the banquet, even if the situation was clearly new to him. He seems like a nice lad. However, there's something about him that makes me wonder…

From time to time, I catch the lad looking at me, choking in his words, as if he was too flustered to continue. There's intensity within his gaze, there's the burning feeling of deep…

Passion!

Oh no…! The boy is clearly in love with me.

It wouldn't be the first time I've gathered passioned gazes of my many admirers. The position of power is to blame, I'm sure of it. I didn't have a reason to notice them before but once Tacita passed away (bless her heart), it seems that they're everywhere.

Oh, but of course there's Camilla. I almost forgot about her. Thank goodness she can't read minds, even if she sometimes makes me think otherwise.

Now, the lad must be informed that it's not proper to—

Oh. Is that Marcus? What is he doing?

The boy is looking around, apparently thinking I can't see him. Then, he raises his tunic's hem and—

Oh no. Not again. I just asked for a new one.

Other sons run for offices, they become Senators, they make a name of themselves. They bring honor to the family name.

This one pees on my potted plants.

I go to him, dodging a few drunk guests on the way. I ignore their smiles, even if a part of me urges me to smile back. This is not the time for 'how are you enjoying the party' talk. I need to confront my dog of a son. They will forget about my rudeness, I hope. 

"Marcus. Why?"

He lowers his tunic and turns to me, as if he was waiting for me. He wants me to know that he's the one who's been killing my trees.

"Why?" I repeat, knowing why. "Why are you doing this? What did the poor tree ever do to you?" 

"Nothing. You, on the other hand…"

"So you're taking your hatred on innocent trees."

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. 

"I know you despise me. I just want you to know that—" Our conversation drowns in the laughter of the guests. At least I hope so. Please let it drown. This is too important to ignore, he needs to know that I'm sorry. He needs to know that not a day goes by without me regretting what happened.

"No."

"If you can please just—" I reach for him, as I've done many times before. I try to take his hand, picturing it as it was when he was little. Soft and chubby, reaching back to me.

"Don't." He yanks his hand away, leaving me grasping for nothing. He gives me another look of disdain, one I've grown too familiar with. It stabs at my heart, pain makes me look away.

When he turns his back on me, all I can do is to watch him leave. I've ran after him before. He hates me even more for it. So I just stay there, trying to ignore the pressuring feeling in my chest.

I love you. Please forgive me.