On the Eighth day - chapter 5; verses 15 – 17

And Hollandé was might displeased, for thrice had the majesty of his office, nay, that of his nation itself been impune’d. Firstly, had not the messiah himself (may the lord bless the path he treads) been humbled whence he visited upon Cameronius, there to dispense his great wisdom to the boiled oeuf faced one. Yet in return had he not been stood next to the emperor’s praetorian guard, his stature noted by all who so saw as diminutive in comparison.

And only a small passage of days thereafter, had not the sideburne’d chariot racer from Brittanicus bested his countrymen – yea, even in spite of the messiah’s promise to flog their lycra’d backs to the bone, none of his humble subjects could withstand the one known only as wiggo. But the gaul (no pun’eth intended) that did rankle above all others was the vaunted - and much lauded - jousting tournament held in Londinium. For the evil priest Sarko and his predecessors had feted those to whom the choice of the site fell and showere’d rose petals before their feet, yet still failed to persuade the blazer’ed ones to let them host the games. 

And from all the kingdoms of the earth did warriors arrive in Britannicus, its amphitheatres bursting with a happy throng. Fleet of foot and broad of shoulder did tribes from across the ocean vanquish all before them. Their maidens too did run’eth like the wind (thusly staying pure and unsullied by the intentions of their squires). And the scribes did praise Cameronius, their parchments carrying naught of the messiah’s oratory for one whole cycle of the moon.

So it was that the glowing embers of Hollandé’s fury did burn brightly in the dark corners of the palace. He heard not the pleadings of the crowd at the gates to give them surcease from their poverty, yet he did vow that once again his voice would be heard.

So endeth the lesson.