"War Journal: The Battle of Rome"

In the old eRep, my war diaries were famous: first-person accounts of the battles fought. This is a vain attempt to reclaim that legacy, hoping I still have a good pen. Let posterity be the judge.

Rome, May 19, 2026.

A light breeze comes in through the open window. The torpor of May in the air – those days we Romans know well: mild climate, fresh air on the skin.

An empty plate on the table. The wine glass empty. The small coffee cup waiting.

«Do you really have to go to parliament again today?»
«Yeah. Afternoon votes. Busy day.»
«Will there ever be a day when you rest?»

I look at her. I smile.

«Oh yes, sooner or later… and you know that…»

A bang. Loud. It cuts me off.

«Another accident?» she asks. «They should put a speed bump on this road.»
«Mmh… That was too strong to be…»

Second bang. Third. Louder. The windows rattle.

«No. Something's wrong.»

The regimental radio crackles. Every soldier has one. I, commander of https://app.warera.io/mu/6973b4d3eed64c805d54bd07, always keep it within reach. A task https://app.warera.io/user/69696382422cd6752173a622 entrusted to me months ago.

«All regiments: Vatican troops have started firing on the crowd in St. Peter's Square. It's a massacre. The Pope has declared a holy war against Italy. The non-aggression pact is broken. Enemy troops have occupied Castel Sant'Angelo and control the bridge. They're heading for the Quirinale! They're heading for https://app.warera.io/user/697250c4b74dc09afb8cfc81! Rome MUST NOT fall!»

Shit. The Pope? What the fuck is going through his head?

«Please» she whispers. «Don't get yourself killed.»

«No. Not today. I still have to bother for the rest of your life.»

I grab the rifle leaning against the sideboard in the living room. These days, we always keep it nearby. An attack like this? With the Germans at the gates of Paris? I was ready to leave, but this… And the civilians…

I don't want to think.

I just want to kill some priests.

I arrive at the Licestino HQ. https://app.warera.io/user/69696382422cd6752173a622 and the other commanders are waiting for me.

«Frappa. https://app.warera.io/mu/6886502bdb293829ac2d83ff and the https://app.warera.io/mu/696555d7cde9ff82a479dffd have set up a front on Via del Corso and Corso Vittorio. They're holding. We need to attempt a sortie to Piazza Navona. Hit the enemy's flank and relieve the pressure!»

I nod. Grab the rest of my gear. We move out.

Piazza Navona is hell.

Explosions everywhere. Our troops fight like beasts. I shoulder my rifle. I fire. Enemy bodies fall. A jet of blood dies out on the Fountain of the Four Rivers – now it gushes blood, not water.

«Advance! Now or never!https://app.warera.io/user/69d2ac1243a67adf4e024b7bcover us!»

This is the moment. We come out from behind the sandbags with the fury of an entire people.

The advance works. https://app.warera.io/user/69dab6261b4838dca80b7b43 throws himself onto the enemy barricades. I see an enemy behind him. I hit him at the last second.

«Saved your ass this time.»
«Beelandi… friends of Strisc…»

A sharp pain in my arm. Shit. I've been hit.

Before I can get back up, two Swiss Guards pounce on me. The rifle is out of reach. I have no choice. Bayonet.

The fight is brutal. But I make it out alive.

The radio crackles.

«Bztt… This is the https://app.warera.io/mu/696555d7cde9ff82a479dffd. The Vatican Guard is retreating. Rome is defended. But it's not over, soldiers! We will make them remember why https://app.warera.io/user/694422ef16baf6b5d5a3cc61 was president!»

The silence that follows is not peace. It is the labored breath of those who survived.

I turn slowly, my arm still burning from the hit I took. Blood runs down my fingers, mixing with the red water of the fountain.

Behind me, there is no more Piazza Navona. There is a graveyard.

The sandbags are gutted, their contents scattered like ashes. The cobblestones are chipped, stained red. Motionless bodies – ours and theirs – lie next to the statues of the rivers, which now seem to weep. The air stinks of gunpowder, of iron, of death.

One soldier crawls away, dragging a leg. Another screams the name of a brother who does not answer.

The Fountain of the Four Rivers no longer spurts. The water has become a dark trickle. On the white stone, rivulets of blood draw maps of this small, absurd victory of ours.

I close my eyes for a second. I open my bloodied hand.

You will pay dearly, priests. I swear it on every stone of this city. On every single drop spilled today.

Your white robes will not wash you clean of this massacre. Your prayers will not save you.

You will pay for everything.

The May sun sets slowly over Rome. But inside me, it is already night.