Chapter 62: Heavy Silence
Chapter 62: Heavy Silence
The night had settled over Rome like a shroud, heavy and still. The moon was a pale sliver behind thin clouds, casting the streets in shades of grey and shadow.
The peristyle garden of House Porcius was dying with quiet dignity.
A few oil lamps flickered along the colonnade, their light trembling on the shallow water of the impluvium pool. The fountain had run dry years ago, and weeds pushed through cracked paving stones.
The columns still stood, elegant and streaked with grey where rain had wept through the roof, but the roses were gone, and the oleander had long since withered. The garden smelled of damp stone and the faint, fading memory of flowers. It was a place for endings, which made it the right place for this conversation.
Marcus Porcius sat on a stone bench near the empty pool, a woolen cloak draped over his thin shoulders. The night air was cool, and his joints ached, but he preferred the garden to the study. The study smelled of old books and older dust. The garden, at least, smelled of earth and the faint memory of flowers. It was a place for thinking. And tonight, he had much to think about.
A servant appeared beside him with hurried pace. "You have a visitor, Dominus." He said with a bow.
"Who could it be at this ungodly hour?"
The servant hesitated before responding, "Dominus Cornelius, Dominus."
For a beat, surprise flashed across the wrinkled face of the old patriarch. "Send him over." He finally said.
Cornelius stepped into the garden like a man who had been walking through shadows and was relieved to find light.
He was younger than Porcius by a decade, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his toga immaculate, his rings catching the lamplight. A man who dressed like he was still wealthy and spoke like he was still powerful.
"Marcus." Cornelius spread his hands in greeting. "Forgive the late hour. These are not times for daylight conversations."
Porcius gestured to the bench where he sat. "Sit. Sit."
Cornelius sat, adjusting his toga with the particular fussiness of a man who cared too much about appearances.
"I’ll come straight to the point," Cornelius said. "This is a matter of utmost urgency... Rome is bleeding." He let silence wash over them for a beat, before he continued. "Brutus spends like a drunken patron at a brothel. The games in Macedonia alone could have fed the city for a year. And now I hear whispers of tax increases." He shook his head. "The man is running the empire into the ground."
Porcius said nothing. He gently stroke the back of his palm with the other hand.
"He’s becoming exactly what he killed Caesar for." Cornelius leaned forward, his voice dropping. "The man has completely gone mad with power."
The lamp flickered. The shadows stretched across the old man’s face.
"I’ve spoken to others," Cornelius continued. "Fabius, Drusus. And even Galba The younger. They see what I see. Brutus must be removed before he destroys everything we’ve built." He paused, his eyes searching Porcius’s face. "At the next Senate meeting, we intend to call for a vote. A formal removal from power. But we need your voice, Marcus. Your name still carries weight in that chamber."
Porcius let the silence stretch. His eyes, sharp despite his age, studied Cornelius with an expression that revealed nothing.
"Is that all?" Porcius asked quietly.
Cornelius blinked. "All? Marcus, I’m offering you a chance to save Rome. To restore the republic. To honor everything your house once stood for."
"What my house once stood for," Porcius said, "was loyalty. To Caesar. To the man your co-conspirators murdered in the Senate chamber. You’ll forgive me if I’m cautious about whose coup I lend my name to."
The words landed like stones in still water. Cornelius’s face tightened, just for a moment, before the mask of noble concern slid back into place.
"Caesar was different. He was—"
"He was your patron. He made your career. And you stood aside while Brutus put a blade in his back." Porcius’s voice was calm, conversational. "Now Brutus spends too much on games and taxes you too heavily, and suddenly you remember your love of the republic."
Cornelius’s jaw tightened. His rings caught the lamplight as his hands curled into fists on his knees. "This isn’t about personal grievance. This is about the fate of Rome."
"The fate of Rome," Porcius repeated. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "You’ve spoken to the others. And how many of them, I wonder, are motivated by the fate of Rome? How many are motivated by the fact that Brutus’s tax increases will cut into their profits? How many are motivated by the simple truth that Brutus is spending their money on spectacles instead of lining their pockets?"
Cornelius stood. His face was flushed now, the mask slipping. "I came here because I thought you understood. The old houses are dying, Marcus. Yours first. Then mine. Brutus will drain us all dry, and the mob will cheer while we drown. If we don’t act, there will be nothing left."
Porcius looked up at him. The old man’s expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes.
He had seen this before. Men who mistook their own desperation for principle. Men who dressed greed in the language of duty and called it courage.
"I will think about it," Porcius said.
"That’s not—"
"That’s all I can offer you tonight." Porcius’s voice was final. "I’m an old man, Cornelius. I think slowly. If you want my support, you’ll have to wait for it."
Cornelius stared at him for a long moment. The flush on his face deepened, then slowly faded. He smoothed his toga with deliberate, controlled movements.
"Think hard, Marcus. The fate of Rome is in our hands."
He turned and walked out without another word. His footsteps echoed through the villa, fading into the quiet of the night.
Porcius sat alone in the garden. The oil lamp flickered. The distant bustle of Rome echoed through the garden, but it was all white noise to him.
He stared at the archway through which Cornelius had departed, his thin fingers resting on the arms of the bench, his expression unreadable.
A coup. A vote. A removal from power. Another conspiracy in a city that had been built on conspiracies. Cornelius and his allies would move forward with or without him. They had the numbers, or thought they did. And when the time came, Brutus would respond as tyrants always did.
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The room was small and dark, the only light a thin sliver of moonlight creeping through the shuttered window.
Oseka lay on a makeshift bed on the floor—a straw mattress that had seen better days, and a blanket that was too thin for the Macedonian cold. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for hours, his mind still churning with images of what he had witnessed from the pulvinar.
Then, the door creaked open.
Gaius stepped through, his movements slow and heavy, the way a man moved when he had spent everything and was running on nothing.
His bag was slung over his shoulder, the leather strap digging into his tunic. He set it down on the table with a thud that was louder than he intended.
Oseka sat up. "Where have you been, old man?"
Gaius glanced at him. The old medic’s face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a weariness that went deeper than exhaustion. "You’re still awake?"
"Where have you been?" Oseka asked again.
"None of your bloody business." Gaius retorted, before he turned towards the empty bed that was meant for him. "Now go to sleep. I need rest too."
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his sandals, one by one, the leather straps creaking in the quiet. Then he lay back, his joints protesting, and stared at the ceiling.
Oseka lay back down. The silence stretched. Outside, the distant murmur of the city filtered through the window.
"Albius really was unbelievable today, wasn’t he."
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, quiet and full of something that might have been awe.
Gaius didn’t answer for a long moment. When he did, his voice was flat. "Yeah. Unbelievable."
Silence stretched between them a second time.
"He really is like a different person when he fights, isn’t he?"
The silence that followed was heavier than the one before. Gaius stared at the ceiling. His hand, resting on his chest, was still.
"You have no idea," he muttered.
Oseka turned his head. "What was that?"
"Nothing." Gaius closed his eyes. "Now go to sleep. I’ve had a long day."
"Grumpy old man." Oseka lamented, as he turned on his straw mattress. He pulled the thin blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing had slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.
Gaius lay awake. His eyes were still closed, but his mind was still racing.
"Alexander." He whispered to the silent night.
He glanced at the bag one more time. The images of Albius, and the carnage of the arena flashed in his mind.
He let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes and waited for sleep that wouldn’t come.