Murder at the Republic Twilight (All Assignments)

 

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.