Murder
at the Republic Twilight
An ancient Roman Mystery
This is
the story of Marcus Crispus Figulus, a young citizen farmer whose
family is quickly ascended to wealth when a hoard of gemstones is
found buried on their land. Marcus and his wife Aula take their
newfound wealth to the city of Rome, the capital of the great Roman
Republic. But as soon as they move to the city, tragedy strikes, and
Aula is murdered by a mysterious cloaked killer. Set against the
colorful backdrop of the last years of the Roman republic, Marcus's
journey takes him through a dark and brutal quest for revenge: to
find his wife's murderer and bring him to justice. Along the way
Marcus will be aided and hindered by a wide range of characters, some
historical, others fictional, as he investigates the dark secrets of
the city, and the darker corners of his own soul. Will Marcus be able
to get his revenge? And more importantly, if he does, will he be able
to survive the hard choices and changes necessary to bring his wrath
down upon his enemy, or will he end up becoming the monster he
chases?
The killer raced
through the atrium towards the door of the house that was supposed to
have been empty. He spun at the entryway to size up his pursuer, and
recognized him instantly. Marcus Crispus Figulus, the young new
equestrian whose family had become wealthy overnight. No wonder the
house had not been empty. The killer turned and fled out the door
onto the curving road that ringed the top of the Palatine hill with
wealthy houses. He paused for half a second, trying to decide which
way to turn, and then plunged north towards the great forum, just as
he heard the pounding of Marcus's footsteps catching up to him. The
street was cobbled, and lined with noble houses, some even of two
stories, from which slaves came and went, doing some duty for their
masters. The killer used this to his advantage, weaving through small
groups of slaves, and overturning a basket of firewood and an amphora
of wine in his wake. But as he neared the edge of the Palatine hill,
the numbers of people thinned, and the killer knew he would have to
find another way to lose the tenacious young man chasing him.
The killer pondered
as he ran, thinking of various distractions or misdirects he could
use to evade the young Figulus. But as he thought, Marcus gained on
him, and eventually the killer was left with only one option. He
grasped the knife that was so dear to him, still wet with that
woman's blood, and spun to face his follower. He realized that the
woman he had killed was probably this young man's wife, and knew that
he would have to end this quickly since his pursuer was filled with
the rage that only loss can generate. Still, the killer was not
without his own rush: the adrenaline of murder and hate was coursing
through his veins, as it did after every killing. He drew the blade
and prepared to meet the man coming for him head on.
The killer was
wearing a mask and a long cloak with the hood up. Marcus noted this,
and the knife in his hand, as he rushed towards the man who had
murdered his beloved. As he reach where the killer stood he ducked
down quickly, to take advantage of the killer's limited visibility
through the mask, and struck the man in the gut. The killer seemed
surprised by this attack, but his own reflexes were fast, and he
brought the knife down against Marcus's arm, drawing blood. Marcus
wheeled back, dodging the flashing blade, as the killer advanced on
him. Soon, however, the killer made another error, over-swinging at
Marcus's head, and left an opening which Marcus took, kicking at the
man's legs to trip him. The killer toppled backwards, his head
missing a nearby cart by inches, and landed on his back, knife barely
held in his fingers. Marcus leaped at the prone murderer, intending
to take him by the throat, but the killer was again too quick for
him. As he sailed through the air Marcus felt the killers feet,
lifted in defense, collide with his abdomen, crushing the wind from
him and sending him flying past his target into the wooden cart. As
he tried to right himself, he saw the killer rise, and the flash of
the bloody blade swinging down towards him. He flinched, and rolled
to the side as the knife connected with a sickening thud. Yet, when
he opened his eyes, he was not dead. The killer's thrust had missed
his chest by a hair, thudding into the wood of the cart, and pinning
the folds of his unraveling toga with it. The killer was surprised
only for a moment, then he tugged on the stuck knife, and, unable to
free it, turned and fled, abandoning his blade.
Marcus struggled
out of the half-shredded fabric, and leapt up to follow the killer
again, seeing him turn a corner into a private garden down the
street. He rushed after the assailant, and turned into the garden
just in time to see the killer leap the fence on the far side. Marcus
ran to the ledge and stopped, momentarily stunned, as he realized the
killer had just leap off the very
side of the Palatine hill! Marcus, noted him then, scrambling over
the roofing tiles of the new homes there, perched and terraced on the
steep hill. It took only a moment of consideration before Marcus
joined this insanity and leapt to the nearest roof as well. He
followed the killer as he crossed the the tile roofs, leaping small
alleys and narrow roads as he wound his way by roof-top down the
steep side of the Palatine hill towards the Roman Forum. Soon, he
reach the ground level homes, and the next set of houses had roofs at
a parallel hight. Marcus gained on him, watching as, trapped, he
scrambled down the side of one of the houses, grasping a window ledge
and trying to lower himself to the street level. They were quite
close to the forum now, and Marcus could see the domed top of the
Temple of the Vestal Virgins over the next ridge of roofs. He peered
of the edge into the crowd of people bustling to and fro from the
Forum, and his eyes landed upon a vendors cart laden with dyed
cloths. Marcus took a quick glance back at the killer, still
struggling halfway down a wall, and ran to the edge of the roof,
leaping off in what must have appeared to be a truly suicidal
fashion. His aim was perfect and he landed softly in the cart of
cloth, showering stola, scarves, and toga all over the ground.
Ignoring the vendor, who quickly recover from the shock of having a
man land in this clothes, and began to beat Marcus with words and a
tablet he was using, Marcus pulled himself from the pile and stood to
continue his pursuit.
As
he tried to run from the crushed vendor cart, Marcus's leg spasmed
with pain. I must have hurt it in the fall,
he thought as he trudged forward. He limped down the street and saw
the killer, eyes wide under his mask, turn the corner at the end,
having successfully extricated himself from the wall. Marcus
followed, as fast as he could, and caught the tail end of the mans
cloak as he turned into the forum in between the Regia and the Temple
of Vestia. Marcus followed, pushing through the crowd and entering
the form. His eyes scanned the people milling about the forum, and he
caught a glimpse of the killer leaning against one of the pillars of
the Temple of Castor and Pollux, apparently out of breath. Realizing
that he would not catch the murderer with speed, given his new
injury, Marcus slipped into a crowd of slaves carrying some sleeping
senator about on his litter. From his new hiding place Marcus watched
as the killer he tracked cautiously glanced about, regained his
breath, and walked down the temples steps. He then, looking in both
directions, turned north and quickly crossed the forum to the old
Basilica, newly renamed the Basilica Paulli. Marcus followed,
slipping from crowd to crowd to remain hidden. As the killer slipped
into the crowed Basilica, Marcus cursed his luck, as it would be hard
to find a man in such a crowd. He broke the cover of his newest
hiding spot and limped across the forum.
As
Marcus entered the busy, bustling Basilica he ignored the hawking of
vendors and merchants and pushed through the crowd, searching for the
fleeing killer. Surprisingly he noticed the man almost immediately,
standing on the other side to the Basilica and listening to a scholar
teaching a group of students about Alexander the Great. He thought it
strange that the killer would so quickly think himself safe, and
snuck up behind him, cautious of a trap. He reached the man and
swiftly pulled him to the ground by his shoulder. Taking him by the
throat, Marcus ripped off the mask, prepared to choke the life from
this monster. But this can not be right! Marcus
thought, as he looked down at the man under the mask. Except that man
was not the right word, this was a boy, dirty and scared. As Marcus
tried to understand the boy sputtered and coughed, trying to spit out
some explanation. Marcus was very aware of the crowd that was now
watching him, drawn by the commotion of his attack. He withdrew his
hand from the boy's throat and let him stutter out a sentence.
“Ple-please, k-k-k-kind, sir, master, sir, p-please don't
k-k-k-kill me. I-I-I didn't know, I j-just took the man's m-money and
clothes w-when he told me t-to.” A slave,
Marcus realized, tricked into wearing this cloak and mask
by the real killer. “Who paid
you to wear this!” Marcus demanded, “Who?!” The slave
tentatively responded, “I- I do not know, sir, a senator, but I
d-do not know which one, only that he had the Toga Praetexta, and he
was carried on a litter.” The sleeping senator! He was
right under my nose! Marcus
cursed himself for being unobservant and hurried back out to the
Forum, but the Senator and his litter were nowhere to be seen.
Marcus
rushed home, fearing he knew what he would find. When he arrived his
wife was already dead, as he knew she would be. He screamed at the
gods and cursed himself for letting her go to their new home first,
cursed himself for not protecting her, and cursed himself for losing
her murderer. He retraced the flight in his mind, and remembered the
battle with his nemesis, the pain in his arm where the knife had cut
him. The knife! Marcus
rushed from his new house for the second time that day, and hurried
to the cart when the killer's knife had been stuck in the wood. He
found it as it was left, caught in the bloody remains of his toga
where the nearby slaves had not been brave enough to take it. He
pulled it from the wood and found he had a new burning desire for
revenge. He had lost the killer on this day, but with the knife he
had a clue, a lifeline that would lead him to his new and bitter
enemy.
As Marcus walked
the familiar journey to the roman forum he thought back to the dark
day a few weeks ago when his wife, Aula, had been killed. He
remembered the fleeing killer, the race through the streets, and most
of all the knife, which he now held in his hand. He hated the knife,
for it had taken his wife from him, but at the same time, he was
thankful: without the knife he would have had no clue as to the
killer's identity. He had reached the base of the palatine and turned
to toward the forum, pulling out the knife to look at it again, as he
had so many times. There was no longer any blood on the blade, but to
him is stilled glistened with the sinister air of death. He hoped his
contact would be able to help identify the maker, maybe even the
owner.
He was jolted from
his musing as he neared the forum by an elbow from a small crowd
rushing past. He was about to say something when he noticed just how
much commotion he had been overlooking, while lost in his own mind.
The whole of the forum seemed to be filled, pouring out of the every
corner and into the basilica and the surrounding streets. A great
tumult could be heard, as it seemed every person was shouting. Marcus
was slightly alarmed at what could have happened, perhaps news of
the civil war? he thought. He carefully wove his way through the
crowd towards the meeting spot, trying to hear snatches of
conversations as he passes. “But what will he do now!?” “You
said he fled? So he is not dead?” “Will Cesar follow him?” So
it did have something to do with Cesar's war after all Marcus
thought. He had reached the small statue where he was told to meet
his new contact, and waited for the man to recognize his broach.
It took almost no
time at all. “Marcus Crispus Figulus?” the stranger asked as he
slipped over through the crowd. “Yes” replied Marcus as he turned
toward the newcomer. As his eyes took in the man who would be his
last hope of finding Aula's killer he recognized him. “Gaius
Caecilius Avitus!” he exclaimed, and it was indeed. “You were
Quaestor with Cesar's legions! I had no idea Gratus knew someone as
prominent as you.” Gaius chuckled, and replied “Yes, he does, but
I am as surprised as you that I let him know me. Now what was it you
needed help with, I was lead to believe it had something to do with a
weapon.” “Yes” Marcus responded “A knife used to kill my
wife, and dropped by the killer's own hand as he fled the site of his
crime.” He took the knife out again and handed it to Gaius.
“Interesting” Gaius mused as he turned the blade over in his
hand. “Interesting indeed. This lookes to be Syrian or Persian
design, it is not Roman made.” Marcus was crestfallen, there would
be no chance of finding the smith then. But Gaius continued “wait,
there is a design here on the pommel, ah, Persian then, I had not
noticed this last time I saw this blade.” Marcus looked up. “What
did you say?” “The last time I saw this blade, it's owner did not
let me inspect it this closely, but it is without a doubt the same
knife” Gaius replied. Marcus felt his heart leap into his throat.
Gaius knew the owner of the blade!
“Who was the owner of this weapon?” Marcus asked, trying to
remain casual. Gaius slowly replied: “A centurion by the name of
Septimus Tavia Letus, but how this knife came to be in the hands of a
killer I couldn't guess.” Marcus was puzzled. “ What do you mean,
this Septimus couldn't be the killer?” Gaius laughed. “Not unless
the dead have started stabbing people! Septimus died in Gaul several
years ago.” Another dead end.
Gaius continued “but do not lose hope. A knife like this is bound
to be remembered wherever it goes. You should talk to Septimus's
widow, she could tell you more. Her name is Publia Tertia, I will
have one of my slaves show you where she lives.” Gaius turned to
one of his bodyguards, but before he could say anything the crowd
shifted suddenly, and a wall of people crashed into them. Marcus was
slammed against the statue which kept him upright as many of the
people around were thrown to the ground, tripped in the tangle of
bodies. As the person in front of him fell, Marcus could see what had
caused the commotion: a fight had broken out between to sets of slave
bodyguards as their masters quarreled. Someone had pulled a gladius
and it appeared as though several people were in the process of being
wounded. Understandably the crowd around this spectacle was thinning
rapidly, leading to stampedes like the one that had just slammed into
them. Marcus turned to see Gaius pulling himself up, shouting orders
to his small cache. “What in Jupiter's name is all this about?!”
Marcus shouted over to him. Gaius seemed surprised, “You haven't
heard? Cesar and Pompey have done battle at Pharsalus. Cesar has
won!” No wonder there is battle in the streets
Marcus thought, those who supported Pompey openly may have
left the city, but not everyone here wanted Cesar to come out of this
victorious. “Is Pompey dead
then?” Marcus asked. “No” Gaius shouted over the din “He has
fled like a coward by ship.” A particularly loud shout from
Marcus's right announced the beginning of another brawl, and Marcus
decided it might be a good idea to leave before they drew weapons as
well. “Gaius,” he shouted, “thank you for your aid, but this
area is becoming dangerous. Perhaps we should leave.” Gaius pushed
through the crowd as he agreed: “Yes, it is time to evacuate. But I
have other business, and cannot tell you more. I wish you luck, and
will send you my slave tomorrow to guide you to Publia's home.” He
handed the dagger back to Marcus and began pushing his way out of the
forum. Marcus turned and similarly shoved his way out, walking home
the same way he had come but he had much more to think about on the
return journey than the one he had taken earlier in the day. The
owner of the knife found, and news of Cesar defeating his rival all
in one day. I wonder if tomorrow will be as interesting.
Marcus slept very
little. His thoughts were of the dagger and how to find it's owner,
and his dreams were of blood and vengeance. True to his word, Gaius
sent a slave over the next morning, and Marcus eagerly set out with
him as soon as he arrived, shortly after dawn. They traveled together
in silence taking the road down from the Palatine hill and across the
Velia. Marcus's head was brimming with the thoughts of his life,
quickly spinning out of control now that Aula was dead. Only three
days past he had received a letter from her father demanding he repay
the dowry that had accompanied their marriage. Marcus had no problem
returning the petty sum that Aula's family had scrapped together, he
wanted no quarrel, and he had loved her greatly, but her father
seemed to think that the dowery should be paid back as a percent of
their total wealth. It was a thinly disguised ploy to take the lions
share of Marcus's family's new wealth, and while he had little
attachment to the money that he felt had robbed him of his true love,
he knew his family felt otherwise. Also, it disturbed him how quickly
Aula's father had been to turn on him. He has always liked the man,
and they had gotten on well, but now, with Aula's ashes barely in the
ground, her father seemed determined to make himself into an enemy.
The slave and
citizen had now crossed the Roman Forum, and were turning south,
passed the capitoline hill, towards the Tiber river. They continued a
ways down the road, eventually turning onto one of the side streets
that lead around the base of the Capitoline hill. Marcus admired the
neighborhood, not nearly as opulent as his own, but old, and full of
fraternity. It seemed odd, a place full of friendship and happiness,
and Marcus had to remind himself, not for the last time, that few
shared his grief. To the rest, it was any normal day. And indeed it
was. As the light of the morning sun was cresting the Esquiline Hill,
patrons were beginning their salutatio, and the street was busy with
clients coming and going. Lost in thought as he was, Marcus nearly
bumped into the slave when he stopped and indicated that they had
arrived. The house was like many on the street, grand, but not
opulent, old, but not ancient. There was a healthy bustle of clients
entering and leaving, and Marcus squeezed through to the Atrium to
observe the salutatio. Marcus watched, a knot of apprehension
tightening in his gut. I do not know how to oversee a salutatio,
to give out sportula. Yet I am now one of the wealthy, I will no
doubt have clientela, I will probably be a horrible patron.
As he mused, Marcus watched the Patron of this house at work. A very
old man, this patron could barely mumble some of his clients names,
and seemed to rely heavily on his nomenclator. But what is
this?! Marcus was surprised: it
appeared as though this nomenclator was a woman! He puzzled over
this, and eventually came to the realization that this woman was far
too important to be a simple servant, yet she did the nomenclator's
job, whispering the names of clients and their histories to the
patron.
The
line of clients was beginning to thin, and even though he stood off
to the side, the woman's eyes found him, even as he puzzled out her
station. He met her gaze and felt a chill run through him. It was as
if her eyes were spears of ice, blue and cold, pinning him to the
wall in a most uncomfortable way. Then, with the slightest of smiles,
so thin it was nearly imperceptible, she turned back to her task, and
whispered another name. Marcus shock off the feeling that he was
naked, and waited for the rest of the clients to disperse. It did not
take long, and soon the woman rose and addressed the remaining crowd.
“Ave
atque vale, dearest clientelae. My father has graciously provided for
you with the gold of his own house, and the wisdom of his own mind. I
know that many of you have earned the privilege to dine with your
patron, and rightly so, but alas, I must inform you that though his
health is strong, my father finds himself tired, and must retire
without sharing a meal with you today. Be well, and may you bring
respect and honor to our house and your own.”
Many
of the clients seemed dissatisfied with this dismissal, and that it
had come from a woman, not the patron himself, but they left anyway,
muttering on the way out. The blue-eye woman sat again, and motioned
for the slaves. They hurried forward and carefully lifted the old man
away. Marcus stood defiantly next to the exit, his arms crossed, as
if daring her to send him away as well. Instead, she turned to him,
and indicated for him to approach. “I come seeking the widow of
Septimus Tavia Letus” Marcus announced as he walked to where she
reclined.
“You
have found her” Publia replied “but I must wonder why a widower
should seek a widow, it does seem so very inappropriate.”
“I
believe you mistake my motivations” Marcus replied, flustered. “I
am here about a knife carried by your late husband.” He pulled the
blade from it sheathe and held it out.
“Well,
well, we've only just met, and already you are waving around your
blade” Publia teased. Marcus felt his face redden, but grimaced as
he thought again of Aula. “Don't worry, I seem to have that effect
on most men” Publia continued “come, break your fast with me, and
we shall discuss it.” That said she promptly stood and walked away
to the dinning room. Marcus was taken aback. Not only was the
invitation very unusual, but so was its source, and she had left
before he had had a chance to reply. Lacking any other option, Marcus
promptly strode after her.
He
entered the dining area to find Publia already reclining, as though
for a formal dinner, and as soon as he entered she motioned for him
to lay directly next to her. The dining area was modest, but
permanent, with hard concrete couches. Publia's spot, and those next
to her were lavishly thrown with richly colored pillows and pads, but
the rest of the couches were starkly bare, seemingly on purpose.
Marcus frowned and chose to recline across from Publia, despite its
lack of comforts.
“You
choose the hard, cold stone over a soft pillow and a warm companion?”
Publia asked, putting on a face of playful pouting.
“I
trust those things that are hard and cold to keep me strong and
clear-minded” Marcus retorted, his composure returning. “It is
all to easy to lose oneself in the blindness of sleep and dreams when
one is warm and soft. You must forgive me for forgoing them.”
“I
see, then we are straight to business then. I normally prefer play
before I eat, and passion before I do business, but as you are the
honored guest, I suppose I can postpone them for now.” Publia
smiled as she said this with the air of a cat with a mouse, it was a
smile which did not reach her eyes. She signaled the slaves to begin
serving.
“I
am not going to delay my speech, or trade words like so many
merchants haggling over a pig.” Marcus took a deep breath to soothe
his irritation before continuing, “I am not here to flirt. The
death of my beloved is still to near. I came because this knife
belonged to you husband, and it was the same knife dropped by the man
who ripped my love away from me. You can tell me about this blade,
and you will, or I will be forced to assume it was your family that
did this deed.”
“Oh?
My family? Who was it, widower? The senile old man? The whore of a
daughter? Perhaps it was the dog? If you are to make a threat, make
it like you would stab a sword: straight at the enemy's weakness
without reservation, not wildly astray just to prove you have a
weapon.” Publia's eyes burned with a cold light as she continued
“Do not assume that you have a monopoly on loss, or that those who
do not trip over themselves to help you are your enemies. I will help
you find your wife's killer, but as the people say of me, I do no
favors for free.”
Marcus
was taken aback at her ferocity, and barely caught her double
meaning. “Very well, what is it you want of me my lady?”
Publia
sighed. “I had very much hoped to present this offer under more …
intimate circumstances. I knew who you were the minute you walked
through my father's door, and it was not difficult to guess at what
you wanted, not at all when I have had my ear tuned to the cities
gossip. Clearly, you do not want to enjoy yourself, so I will present
my proposal as business, even though you may find it could be quite
pleasurable business.” Publia smiled, and again her eyes remained
cold. “You seem less stupid than most, so perhaps you can see the
state my father is in. Most of my family is dead, and with him
nothing more than a senile shell of the man he once was, I am
unofficially in charge. But things will not stay this way. Though I
am a widow, my husband died before consummating our marriage, soon my
father will die, and because of this loophole I will be put under the
charge of a guardian, a wholly distasteful arrangement. However, were
I to be married again, I could retain some element of autonomy,
assuming my husband allowed it.”
Marcus
groaned as he realized where this was going. “I will not marry you,
Publia, not so soon as this. Besides the dishonor it would show to my
late wife, I truthfully do not know if I could marry for politics,
not after having once married for love.”
Publia
smiled again, but this time it seemed genuine and bittersweet. “If
only we all had the freedom to marry for love, and the mercy to never
feel loss. But the world is not so. A marriage between us would not
be a disadvantage. My family is old, with much history of honor, a
rare commodity to one such as you, with all wealth and no status. I
am not asking for your faithful devotion to the bonds of marriage
either. Think of it like a business arrangement: I get my freedom,
money, and a pretty new house on the Palatine hill, you get honor,
status, and true power in the city. Oh, and lastly you get to know
what I know about that dagger. Marry me or you will never find your
wife's killer.”
Marcus pushed
through the crowd next to the parade route. Always crowds,
he thought, I was never pushed by so many shoulders in all
my life in the country. He had
begun to hate the city. It was the city where the love of his life
had died, the city where a killer escaped justice, the city where he
was an outsider, and a year ago, the city where he had been forced to
marry again, and not for love. He hated himself for agreeing to marry
Publia Tertia, and hated himself more for beginning to see the wisdom
of the idea, and hated himself most for the feelings for her he was
fighting to repress. He hadn't agreed right away. Indeed, he had
shouted, pleaded, threatened, and tried to bribe the information
about the dagger out of Publia. He had quarreled with her viciously,
hoping to convince her that a different way would be better. In the
end she only said “see, we already fight like a man and
wife, do you want to make up like one?”
He had stormed out. He lasted almost a month, tortured by nagging
doubts, and haunted by Publia's offer and her last invitation.
Eventually, he came to see it was out of his hands, the
gods themselves must have had a hand in this, to make it such an
inescapable trap, and agreed to
her terms. It took a year for them to be married, and Publia had
spent the time before and after securing and solidifying his
political power within the city, and indirectly, her own. I
hope this ends up being worth it,
he thought, remembering after the wedding: sitting down with Publia
the first time she showed him the letters.
The
letters were an extensive collection of communications between her
late husband Septimus Tavia Letus and some unknown senator, who
signed with the abbreviation M.I.B. Some of the letters were
political in nature, or having to do with the army, and many of these
detailed plans, aspirations, and news of Julius Caesar. So much of
the information being passed to the mysterious M.I.B. was politically
sensitive in nature that Marcus began to wonder how accidental
Septimus's death may have been. However, the most shocking thing in
the letters was not the espionage, but the love letters. It seemed
that Septimus and his mysterious correspondent had been having
intimate and passionate relations for years. Parts of the letters
still jumped to Marcus's mind unbidden, discussions of sexual acts
and desires that his limited imagination had never conceived of.
Other letters evoked a pang of sorrow in him as he recognized a love
that, while different from what his own had been, was no less strong.
He found himself empathizing for M.I.B. when he spoke of his deep
love for Septimus, or of fighting his feelings of jealousy: “Know
that I turn at night to think of you surrounded by young men, strong
and attractive, brushed in the sweat and blood of battle, for were I
so ensnared temptation would overcome me. I trust in you, be safe, be
faithful.”
Marcus
had read the letters many times, and several things had become clear.
M.I.B., whoever he was, was far more in love with Septimus than
Septimus was in return. Septimus wrote of wanting women as while as
men, and how they would throw themselves at him upon his triumphant
return. M.I.B. had responded darkly to this, and he wrote of women as
a plague on the earth of men. He urged Septimus to stay true to him,
as women were unsatisfying and not worth their manipulations and
spite. Marcus had learned from Publia that it was this mysterious,
women-hating senator to whom Septimus's knife had been given. He did
not find it hard to believe that this twisted individual had taken
his hatred for women out on Marcus's own former wife, but why he had
chosen to kill her remained a mystery.
Marcus
was torn from his thoughts as the first part of the triumphal
procession came into view down the street. It was over two years
since Caesar had defeated Pompey at pharsalus, and all Rome knew of
his death at the hands of the Egyptians. Since that time Caesar had
conquered army after army, some foreign, but some Roman as well.
Marcus shared the unease of many of his fellow citizens, worrying
that Caesar had become too powerful, but also like his peers, he had
learned to keep his mouth shut on the issue. The parade was a
triumphal celebration of all Caesar's conquests, and it was as
glorious as anything Marcus had ever seen. The procession was lead by
the senate, all dressed to their station and exalting the dictator
and the glory he brought for Rome. Next came carts laden so heavily
with treasure, Marcus wondered how the axels did not break. There was
more gold than he had ever seen in his life, as well as a massive
cache of other riches from Gaul, and Pharnaces, as well as conquests
from Africa and Egypt. Next came the sacrificial bulls, more of the
great white beasts than Marcus had even realized existed. The arms of
Caesar's enemies followed, in front of prisoners and depictions of
the dictator's conquests. Marcus was surprised that Caesar had
included depictions of Roman leaders, like Cato, who had committed
suicide. It seemed in poor taste, and from the mutterings of the
crowd, it seemed as though they felt the same way. But whispers and
doubts were soon put aside as Caesar himself came into view. Wearing
the laurel wreath and triumphal dress, he looked more god than
mortal, and all seemed awed by his presence.
Marcus
tore his eyes away from the spectacle, and resumed moving through the
crowd. He had wanted to see the whole procession, but his true aim
this day was something altogether different. In the two years since
Publia's offer, Marcus had spent night and day searching for the
killer. His house lay in disorder, and his distraction led to
mismanaging of money, to the ire of all his relatives. After the
wedding everything improved, but not because of his efforts. When
Publia had showed him the letters, he threw himself into his search
with even more passion, browsing legal documents, state records, and
talking with many informants. He found other people struck by the
same killer, mostly slave or freedmen families, where women had been
murdered by knife. He had followed every lead, talked to every
source, but the murderer only became more elusive, better at covering
his tracks. In the mean time, his new wife had turned his public life
around. His house was always a tumult of activities, parties and
dinners with the very wealthy and powerful were common, and it seemed
that under Publia's management his money was making more of itself
every day. For his part he smiled through the parties, chatted
meaninglessly with the guests, and left almost every decision to his
new wife. At night she would try to talk to him, offer herself to
him, but he inevitably turned her down, and she would find solace in
other lovers. Marcus almost felt guilty about that, the way he
dismissed her, he felt conflicted about her: sometimes disgusted,
other times mystified, and alarmingly, sometimes attracted, but he
knew regardless of how he felt, she deserved more kindness from him.
He worried sometimes that, even should he decide to give it, kindness
was something he no longer possessed; his search had turned him into
a hard man, full of bitterness and revenge. But this transition had
not been without rewards. He turned his mind again to the task at
hand: finding Marcus Junius Brutus, a man with the initials M.I.B.
Marcus
had gained on the parade, and was nearing the senators. If he was
correct, Brutus would be somewhere among their numbers. He pushed his
way up the capitoline hill and caught up with the cluster of senators
outside the temple of Jupiter, where they waited for the rest of the
Triumphal procession. Marcus snuck around through the back of the
crowd, something he had become very good at, and slipped a stolen
toga praetexta out of his satchel. He knew it was illegal to
impersonate a senator, but he also presumed that the others would be
distracted by the festivities, and less likely to notice an
interloper among them. Also he had heard that some of the less known
senators, one term Quaestors, and other disregarded people would make
an appearance today to try to see the triumph and cut out their own
little corner of glory. He slipped out of the dense crowd and easily
among the senators, keeping his face down and steps wary. Like a
ghost, eyes passed right over him, and he was free to flit among the
senators searching for Brutus. He knew it would have been easier to
arrange a meeting in private, that he could have spoken to this other
Marcus at any time since he was pardoned, but he had learned to
distrust the courts, and feared losing his chance for justice. During
his time investigating the murders he thought may have been committed
by the killer he hunted, he found a trail of clues leading to a
different guilty man, and helped the freedman family bring their case
against him in court. They had begged him to help them bribe the
jury, but he had been naïve, and believed that truth and justice
would win out. It had not, the murderer walked free. Strangely that
man was in turn found killed, his throat cut by a persian blade.
Several
other criminals had been mysteriously punished since Marcus Crispus
had begun his quest for justice, and those who knew him asked no
questions. But Marcus did not want the true killer of his former wife
to face a dagger in the dark. He wanted justice, public justice, so
that all Rome knew what he had done and how Marcus Crispus Figulus
had caught him. This was why he was infiltrating the senators now.
His plan was to force Brutus to confess here, in earshot of half the
senate, so no one could deny that he had done it. It seemed an age to
Marcus, slipping amongst the senators, but he knew it to be only an
illusion cast by his wildly beating heart. Eventually he saw the man
he was looking for: young, strong, and charismatic, Marcus Junius
Brutus was a powerful and dangerous man. Marcus Crispus weaved
through the senators, stopping behind his target. He slowly slid the
curved dagger free and pressed it to Brutus's back. The man instantly
stiffened, and before he could cry out Marcus whispered in his ear,
“Do not raise alarm, or you shall have a hilt buried in your back.”
Brutus
slowly turned his head, tying to catch a glimpse of his attacker
while he responded, “I will not. You have my attention, fully.”
“Do
you know who I am?” Marcus asked, letting Brutus see his face.
“Not
a Senator. How did you get that Toga?”
“I
am the one with the knife, I will ask, you answer”
“No,
I do not know who you are.”
Marcus
press the blade harder. “So you do not remember being chased by me,
after you murderer my wife in cold blood not three years past?”
“What?”
Brutus frowned, and turned to see Marcus better. “This isn't about
my siding with Pompey?”
Marcus
was getting frustrated. “No, I couldn't care less about your
politics, or your man-lover's espionage, what I want is justice for
my wife.”
Brutus
paused for a time, thinking. “I don't mean to offend, seeing as how
you have a knife to my back, but is it possible you have the wrong
man?”
Marcus
was taken aback. He was not expecting polite denials from such a
murderer, he had assumed the killer would try to fight, or call for
help knowing that Marcus had learned his secret. “You are Marcus
Junius Brutus, your initials M.I.B. are on these letters to Septimus
Tavia Letus that prove he gave the very knife I am holding to you.
The same knife which was used to murder my wife!”
Marcus
had raised his voice by accident, and a few senators glanced over,
perceiving only a discussion, they turned back to the parade, but
Marcus began backing up anyway, pulling Brutus along with him.
“Septimus
Tavia Letus? The centurion?” Brutus whispered, “I thought he was
dead.”
Marcus
was becoming confused, “He is dead. His dagger was your
inheritance. He died in Gaul, probably because he was passing secrets
to you!”
“How
did you know about Septimus? He carried his secrets to his grave, and
Caesar speaks not of it. Only six of us loyal to Pompey ever knew he
was a spy.” Brutus had fully turned around now facing Marcus with
his dagger around his belly.
“The
letters from his widow. Letters to you!”
“Septimus
never sent any letters to me! He was paranoid! He would only
communicate with Lucius Julius Balbus!”
Their
furious whispering was attracting more attention, so Marcus moved
back again.
“Who
is Lucius Julius Balbus?” Marcus pushed.
“A
worthless snot, and a useless senator, the third son of a failing
line who thought himself all-important because our spy only wrote to
him. He has us all call him Mars, after the god of war, because he had not the balls to earn a nickname like a
real soldier. It is the most unsuited nickname ever given, he is more
woman than man and more worm than woman.”
An
icy chill had come over Marcus. Mars. Mars Julius Balbus.
M.I.B. “Is he here?”
Marcus's words rang like angry flint on iron. Brutus looked about and
pointed. Marcus turned towards the indicated man, the hot rage of
years of searching boiling to his throat. But as he looked he was
startled: the man Brutus had pointed to was Gaius Caecilius Avitus.
Too late he realized what had happened as Brutus wrenched the knife
from his hands.
“Since
the knife has changed hands, it seems I am now the one who asks the
questions” Brutus smirked. “Lets begin with how dare you
impersonate a senator, and threaten me with a dagger!?”
Marcus
slumped, defeated. All his effort wasted on a false lead. “Kill me
or report me, I died the day that monster killed my wife.”
Brutus
stared at him for awhile, contemplating. “You are referring to
Lucius Julius Balbus, the man who inherited the blade from Septimus?”
Marcus
looked up, intrigued by Brutus's new tone. “Yes. Though I did not
know so until today.”
“You
have searched for this killer for some time then?” Brutus inquired.
“Yes.”
“And
has he killed other people?”
“Yes”
Brutus
paused again. The final sections of the parade were approaching, and
he could just make out Caesar coming up the road. “You said the you
had the letters of Septimus. Do you carry these still?”
Marcus
paused, unsure. Finally he pulled the stack of letters from inside
his toga and handed them to Brutus. “These are all of them, many
dark thinks to learn about the love of men, and darker still secrets
of Caesar. I do not think that Lucius shared all with you and Pompey,
if he had, I think the people of rome would not stand for this
dictator. Perhaps you can do something about the tyrant now. But what
will you do to me? Kill me? Force me to stand in a bought trial?”
Brutus
smiled. “I think I will forget I met you. It is fortunate for you
that I feel certain I would never be able to bring myself to spill
the blood of another Roman.” Brutus turned and walked away,
carrying the burdens of thought and leaving the dagger in Marcus's
hand.”
Lucius Julius
Balbus was pacing his room, trying to decide what to do. He knew
something was going on, but not what. For the last few months his
fellow senators had been particularly secretive, especially Brutus,
Longinus, and Albinus, and he longed to know what they were up to.
Vile curs, tittering away behind our backs like women. There is no
decency left to men, it has been stripped away by their wives,
leaving only plotting eunuchs behind.
Lucius felt the ire rise in him, his hate boiling to the surface. He
sighed and pushed it away, he had already killed a woman this week,
and people were begging to ask questions. He had tolerated Marcus
Crispus Figulus nosing around, but when he began married the Tertia
woman it was too close. He had considered ending poor Marcus, but
every time he was tempted something held him back, some fascination
with the man, perhaps even infatuation. He had tried to cleanse the
blight that was Publia Tertia as well, but she was crafty, and never
alone. In the end he had decided to do nothing, thinking that Marcus
would stop after his wedding, after all, why revenge an old wife when
you have a new one to wile their way into your soul.
There
was nothing to be done about Marcus Crispus anyway, and it seemed to
Lucius that he must have stopped looking anyway. Marcus's regular
trips to the records hall had ceased, he was no longer prowling the
streets at night, and he hadn't spoken to any of his contacts in
months. In fact it seemed to Lucius that since Caesar's return,
Marcus had done nothing but become a boring little politician like
all the rest. And as for those politicians, they were up to
something, and Lucius was going to find out what.
Lucius
Julius left his house for what he did not know would be the last
time, and set out for the home of Marcus Junius Brutus, who was sure
to be at the center of any conspiracy. Lucius remembered working with
him with distaste, he was a bully and a brute, and had no
appreciation for Lucius's subtle art of spy-work. He slid up the
street like a snake, shadow to shadow, until he could see the door to
Brutus's house, and here he waited. As he watched he wondered what
things his colleges might be planning. It was the Ides of March, and
Caesar was set to leave the next day for more conquest and war.
Perhaps the conspirators were planning to change a few laws in the
dictator's absence? Maybe even go so far as to take the city, try to
stir up momentum against Caesar? Lucius knew that the dictator was
not well liked amongst those of his peers who had had to relinquish
power. If he could find what they were planning, Caesar would likely
reward him for his subtlety. As he pondered what sort of reward a man
of Julius Caesar's wealth would give, Brutus stepped out of his home,
and headed purposefully down the street.
Marcus
Crispus Figulus watched carefully from a nearby roof as Lucius Julius
Balbus stole from his hiding spot to follow Brutus. Marcus had
followed Lucius from his home, staying undetected by walking the
rooftops, a skill he perfected in the years following his original
chase. As he crept along, one stalker tracking another, he wondered
why Lucius was following Brutus. Has he changed his
pattern? Would he kill a man? In broad daylight?
Marcus didn't think so. He had always observed Lucius sticking to his
pattern, hunting at night, choosing easy prey. Marcus had tried to
stop him in his more recent kills, but Lucius was much more cunning
and aware when he was actively hunting for a kill. During the day,
like this, Lucius never even considered that the was being followed,
but when he donned his killing cloak he was almost impossible to
follow, constantly doubling back, leaving false trails, hiding for
hours at a time. Marcus again turned his attention to Brutus. Why
is he following you friend, what does he hope to gain?
He noticed that Brutus seemed, older, somehow, than he had at the
triumph parade, more burdened. I hope those letters have
not caused him too much trouble,
Marcus mused, it would be an ill turn for me to burden a
man who held my life in his hands and chose to set me free.
The
trail of human shadows followed their unknowing leader as he wove
through the streets, heading in the direction of the Pompey Theater.
Just going to a senate meeting then,
Marcus concluded, even more puzzled as to why Lucius might think that
worthy of stalking. Marcus's heart leapt, what if Lucius
actually attends!? I can force him to confess, and justice will be
done. Suddenly Marcus was more
excited than the had a right to be. This could be his chance.
Brutus
stopped in front of the theater. He was early, and it looked as if he
intended to wait for the others to arrive. Marcus stifled a smile
when he saw the awkward position Lucius was in, since Brutus had just
turned around. Seeing he was spotted Lucius regained a casual
composure and strode over to where Brutus was waiting. Marcus was too
far away to hear, but he watched as they exchanged brief words.
Lucius appeared to be explaining himself, and Marcus saw Brutus make
a clear exasperated sigh. Lucius broke away and found a place to sit
nearby, looking sullen. Marcus was confident that Lucius was too much
a coward to try anything in public, but he was glad to note Brutus
checking him over his shoulder anyway. The three of them waited with
their thoughts, unaware of the significance of the moment, until the
other senators started to arrive. Some shuffled into the theater,
others stood and spoke with Brutus. Marcus crept down from his hiding
spot, graceful as a cat, in anticipation of them going inside.
Eventually Caesar arrived, he greeted the senators, and was greeted
in return, then they all filed into the theater.
Lucius
stood and began to follow them in, and Marcus started walking towards
the entrance, heart pounding at the thought of justice so close. But
suddenly something was wrong. Marcus stopped in his tracks, trying to
identify the cause of his unease, and then he heard it: the sound of
murderous assassination, blood-curdling cries of pain and shouts of
pure hatred. He had barely time to recognize the gravity of the
situation before Lucius tore out of the theater, pale as a mouse in a
lions den and twice as terrified. Marcus watched as Lucius paused,
barely stopping his flight to vomit. Marcus knew that Caesar was
dead, and his mind reeled with the consequences as he watched the man
who had murdered his wife. Lucius eventually looked up and his eyes
met with Marcus's. In that moment, years were shed like so many
leaves, and they were the young farmer and the man in the mask all
over again. Lucius ran. Marcus sprinted after him, throwing aside all
plans of justice and confession. Lucius knew his life depended on his
escape, and he ran as though all the chariots of troy gave chase, but
Marcus was stronger this time, faster, and he knew the city like a
wolf knows his forest. It wasn't long before Marcus caught up to the
killer, he had stopped in the middle of the road. Marcus continued
with caution, expecting a fight, but when he reached Lucius he found
the killer bug-eyed and panting, clutching his chest as though trying
to rip out his own heart. Marcus drew the dagger and approached, but
before he had even lifted it to strike, Lucius Julius Balbus began
coughing up blood. Chocking and sputtering on the remnants of his own
exploded heart, the killer looked into the eyes of the man whose life
he had broken, and as the knife slipped from that man's fingers, the
killer realized that it was not Marcus Crispus Figulus's life that he
had destroyed, it was his own. He was dead before the blade hit the
ground.
