Chapter 76: Ho Ho Ho
Chapter 76: Ho Ho Ho
The Curia Julia stood at the northwest corner of the Roman Forum, its marble façade pale against the grey morning light.
It was not the largest building in Rome, not the most ornate, but it carried a weight that no temple or basilica could match.
Inside those walls, the fate of the Republic had been debated, decided, and dismantled. Laws had been passed there. Wars had been declared. A dictator had been named. And then, on the Ides of March, that dictator had been murdered by the very men who now sat in his shadow, pretending they had saved Rome from tyranny.
The irony was not lost on Brutus.
He sat in a high-backed chair at the front of the chamber, his position elevated just enough to remind the senators who was in charge without needing to say it. He did not call himself king. He did not call himself emperor. He was simply the hand that guided Rome, the wise steward who had rescued the Republic from Caesar’s ambition. And he presided over the Senate from a chamber that still bore Caesar’s name, a reminder that even dead men could leave their mark on the world.
The senators were already deep in argument when he arrived. They had been arguing for hours, their voices rising and falling in the particular rhythm of men who disagreed with each other but were too afraid to disagree with him.
The topic was the same as it had been for weeks; the treasury, the games, the taxes. The slow, grinding collapse of an empire that was spending more than it could afford.
"The games are bleeding us dry!" The speaker was Marcellus, a fat senator with a red face and a voice like a wounded bull. "The spectacle in Macedonia cost more than the entire annual budget of two provinces. And now we’re being asked to fund even more?"
"And what would you suggest?" The response came from Fabius, a thin, sharp-featured man whose family had grown rich on government contracts. "Cancel the games? Turn the mob loose without their bread and circuses? They’ll riot within a week. You saw what happened the last time the games were delayed. The people need their entertainment. They need to be reminded that Rome is strong."
"Rome is not strong!" Marcellus slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "Rome is bleeding. The coffers are empty. The provinces are restless. And we’re sitting here arguing about how many gladiators to feed to the crocodiles while the empire burns around us!"
Brutus listened to none of it. His attention was fixed on the heavy gold ring on his left pinky, a piece he’d commissioned years ago from a Greek artisan who’d since been executed for tax evasion.
He turned it slowly, watching the light catch the intricate engravings, the laurel wreath, the tiny inscription that no one else could read. It was a beautiful thing, and he liked beautiful things.
The argument continued. Marcellus proposed reducing the games to once a month. Fabius countered with increasing taxes on the merchant class. Another senator, whose name Brutus couldn’t be bothered to remember, suggested selling off public lands.
The proposals grew more desperate as the morning wore on, each one more absurd than the last, until finally the chamber fell silent and every eye turned toward the high-backed chair.
Brutus looked up. He had been aware of the silence, of course. He was always aware. He let it stretch for a moment, savoring the weight of it, the way fifty grown men held their breath waiting for him to speak. Then he sighed, a soft, almost theatrical sound.
"Increase the taxes by forty percent," he said. His voice was calm, almost bored. "And increase the games to three times a week. That should be enough to keep the masses quiet. They’ll be too busy cheering for gladiators to notice their purses are lighter."
He stood. The senators remained seated, stunned.
Marcellus’s mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water.
Fabius looked like he was already calculating how much the tax increase would cost his family. The rest of them sat in silence, trying to process the enormity of what had just been decreed.
Brutus turned toward the exit. He was already thinking about lunch, about the roasted pheasant his cooks had prepared, about the wine he’d been saving for a suitable occasion.
The hearing was over, the decision was made, and the Senate had served its purpose, which was to listen and obey.
"Brutus."
The voice came from behind him. It was not a shout, nor was it a plea. It was the voice of a man who had made a decision and was forcing himself to see it through.
Brutus stopped. He didn’t turn immediately. He let the silence stretch, let the tension build, let the senators shift in their seats and wonder what would happen next. Then, slowly, he looked back over his shoulder.
Cornelius was standing. His face was pale, his hands trembling slightly, but he was standing.
His toga was immaculate, his rings still caught the light, but there was something different in his eyes now. Something desperate. Something that had been building for weeks and had finally reached its breaking point.
"Ho ho ho." Brutus’s laugh was soft, almost gentle. "And what, exactly, do you have to say, Cornelius?"
The chamber held its breath. The senators leaned forward in their seats, their earlier arguments forgotten. This was something new. This was something dangerous. And every man in that room understood, in that moment, that the morning was not going to end the way they had expected.
Cornelius took a breath. His hands, which had been trembling, went still. "I have something to say about your decree," he said. His voice was steadier now. "And about the man who made it."
The words hung in the air. Brutus’s smile faded, just slightly.
And the chamber went silent.