Atticus couldn’t tell his wife that he’d quit the militia, so he dressed up in the morning as usual and pretended. He took his pressed uniform and re-wired sandals with a curt thank you and buckled up, offering a peck on Cecilia’s cheek as he rushed out the door. Everyone thought they knew his destination—the Forum city office where Cato and Brutus would post their individual assignments for the militiamen. Cecilia would want him stick to inner-city patrols. His son, Marcus, would prefer that his father be posted as a bodyguard for someone special, maybe one of the senators.

Everyone thought they knew how Atticus’ day would go except maybe for Atticus himself. He still wandered his way to the Forum, though, through the eerily quiet streets and the hushed voices that now whispered over his shoulder as he passed, but he stopped short of the square that was still blood-stained from the night of the riot. The butchery and savage killing the militia had participated in had been revealed to the people in the past few days through messenger boys, gossiping maids, private consilium discussions, and senate notices posted on the large wooden doors in front of the senate house.

But all of that was redundant. Brutus had decided to display the decapitated heads of his victims in plain sight for all to see. They numbered twenty-three spikes by the ponds, eye-holes emptied by scavengers, and together they stared into the souls of the few who still had the stomach to venture into the square for their business. On the first day, Atticus watched a crowd of the victims’ families gathered around the bodies, crying and wailing for anyone to hear, but not even the gods had answered. With most of the city still holed up in their houses, the poor folk had dragged the headless corpses of their loved ones on their shoulders through the empty streets. Some priests from the temple of Belshamin had rushed to help and arrange the funerals. But the usual crowd that would be present on a summer’s day was now absent.

Most caravanners and traveling merchants had fled the city immediately, and so there were no market stalls bringing in the populace, just some clansmen who had no choice but to open their offices for their local patrons. The senators were taking their time announcing their next meeting.

Atticus watched the heads for most of the morning, exploring what he felt. He’d been right, of course, about the victims involving local civilians who’d been caught up in the looter’s path. The Bedouin thugs were just as much to blame as Brutus’ vicious response. But Atticus wasn’t concerned about the validity his own choices. He was right and he’d made the correct choice given the circumstance. Fate was a part of life and when it came at Atticus the way it had, he’d been pinned to a corner and his virtues tested. He was not a murderer, so the choice had been a simple one.

No, Atticus didn’t regret his choices, or even that he hadn’t tried to prevent Brutus from killing those people. It was too late and too dark, and Atticus was just one man. Fate had backed him into a corner and his power didn’t extend beyond his own will. Atticus didn’t even regret lying to his wife. Sooner or later, she would find out, but he could at least let her have some nights of peaceful sleep before then.

Life was a race and he was just getting too old to keep running. Rent and grocery took most of his monthly earnings, and after the next month, he would have no choice but to dig into his savings. But that’s who he was, wasn’t he? He didn’t think much of worldly business and focused on his own virtues. When he made a choice, he accepted its consequences without flinching.

“Bodies wither and fate remains,” Atticus whispered as he watched the crows land on the decrepit heads. They’d begun ripping the skin off starting from the eyelids.

Atticus body was withering away, he could feel it. Being a man of virtue might just be a young man’s game, he thought, but then he shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the obscene view and searched for the office that read argentarii.

A few of the Mattabol clansmen had shown up to work, taking their place at their desks, noses just inches away from their wax tablets. They’d re-arranged themselves to face away from the ponds, and instead faced the wall in an awkward way so when Atticus climbed the steps, no one noticed.

“Gentlemen,” Atticus said, and his commanding tone cut through the scraping of their quills. They stilled, balding heads turning to see who their first patron was for the day. Atticus recognized one of the clerks, a Mattabol man by the name of Sisifus. He usually doled out Atticus’ weekly pay and was familiar with his ledgers.

“Good morning, Sisu,” Atticus said as he grabbed a stool. “We need to—”

“No early payouts, Atticus, we talked about this,” Sisifus hissed, his ink-stained fingers coming up to scratch at his blackened nose some more. He spared a glance towards the militia office across the square.

Sisifus had always been a shifty, little man and recent events seemed to have heightened his mouse-like tendencies. For a man so concerned with illicit behaviour, he couldn’t have chosen more suspicious mannerisms.

“Even with Cato dead, we don’t know who will be stepping up, and then there is the whole audit thing with…”

Atticus held up a hand and waited for the man’s rambling to stop. “It’s not about that, Sisu. I quit the militia. For good.”

“Oh,” was all the clerk was able to say, and then his eyes narrowed, “Oh.”

“I’d like to withdraw my coin, all of it.”

“Coin?” Sisu said, scratching his nose again. “What coin balance?”

Atticus held his breath to control his frustration and the bubbling anger. He could feel his heart pumping heavier so he breathed deep and slow, in and out, until he was sure his words would have no bite. “I have been saving a portion of my weekly pay for years, Sisifus.”

“Yes, that, well that’s not a balance, Atticus. It never was.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was always just salt and slaves, mostly. I can tell the magistrate to organize an auction and sell the slaves. The salt you’ll have to take as it is. The slaves of course are older now and have been laboring at the kiln so their value won’t be as much as you think... I mean, you could have sold them yourself or put them to work in your household so I don’t know why—”

“How much?”

Sisu shrugged, clearly not interesting in counting it out. “Three-thousand denarii if I had to guess.”

Atticus stared over his head to the empty auction blocks, and beyond them to the road that led to the temple of Belshamin. A group of militiamen sauntered out of the shadowed alley, spears over their shoulders and easy smiles on their faces. One of them was Pulcher, Atticus’ preferred partner in his daily patrols.

“Atticus?” Sisu said.

“Sell the slaves,” Atticus replied, “and arrange for the salt to be delivered to my place. Packed tight and barreled if you can manage it.”

“There will be a fee, you understand, and selling the laborers will take some time. We can sell the men but there is also a girl, she cleans the latrines but doesn’t know much else.”

“We’ll keep her. Send her to my place with the salt.” Atticus figured another pair of helping hands would ease Cecilia’s worry. Three-thousand denarii, give or take, would get them through the year. He would have to arrange something after. Maybe they could invest in a vineyard like they’d always wanted.

“Were you there that night?” Sisifus finally asked, his voice even more hushed than it usually was. He peeked a glance at the spiked heads, and Atticus couldn’t help but feel a pang of annoyance at the question. But why was that?

Atticus quickly decided that it wasn’t the clerk’s business what he was doing the night of the butchery. “I’m done with the militia, and you have no business asking me.”

Sisifus sniffed, perhaps thinking Atticus was hiding something. “If you say so,” he said, and began scribbling a receipt for Atticus on a piece of papyrus. He stamped in the insignia of the money lenders with a lazy hand, and the symbol was nothing but smudged ink.

“Would I be able to…” Atticus began but the clerk interrupted him, stuffing the small paper scroll in his hands.

“Take this to the Basilica and have a magistrate sign it,” Sisifus instructed, “They’ll give it back to us and I can put your slaves up for the next auction. Whenever that will be, I suppose.”

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“Would I be able to get a loan against my assets until then?”

Sisifus shrugged, “you’ll have to talk my senior, and negotiate the terms. I’ll have to warn you though, you won’t get a good deal these days.”

Atticus figured he wasn’t that desperate. He still had some coin from this week’s pay to last him until he could sell his stock. “Thank you, Sisifus. Have the salt barreled.”

“Yes, yes,” the clerk waved him away, face already bent over another form. Atticus had worked with him for many years, and he still felt like a stranger. He’d never been very good at making friends. Everyone in Atticus’ life was either an acquaintance or family. Except maybe for Pulcher.

Sisifus was Mattabol, the clan with the most Latin blood and great statesmen like Cato and his brothers. They’d respected Atticus from a distance for the sake of his pure Roman origin.

“Your father is a senator,” Atticus said awkwardly, his attempt at a friendly conversation. “Have you heard when they are planning their next session? Perhaps a condemnation against the Persians? And preparations for Cato’s replacement?”

Sisifus’ quill paused in its scraping, the tip hovering over the dry paper as the clerk slowly craned his neck. “I don’t know, Atticus. Maybe you should mind your own business.”

Sisifus stared at him with an odd expression, almost confrontational, but Atticus felt only confusion at the answer. The other clerks continued their work, scratching away at their ledgers, their scraping accompanied by the crows fighting for their scraps across the square.

Fair enough, Atticus thought. It wasn’t his business. He nodded to the clerk and descended the steps of the office, heading for the austere, high-ceiling building that housed the Basilica. But something else pulled at him half-way there.

***

“Salve, citizen,” Pulcher said to Atticus without missing a beat. Atticus had waited for the right time to approach, just as the man turned to leave his post for lunch, but far enough that the others didn’t notice their former tail-leader.

Pulcher’s dry humor was lost on many, but he usually won them over with his polite manners and charming smile. Atticus had managed to dig deeper over the years and felt lucky to consider him a friend first, partner second. “Forgotten your betters already, have you?”

Pulcher snorted at that, and combed a hand through his dirty blonde hair. “Come, I don’t have much time.”

“I apologize if Brutus has been hard on you, on my account.”

“You can buy me a bottle, then,” Pulcher replied. “Since you’re so torn up about it.”

“Aye.”

Atticus accompanied his former patrolman through the seamstress alleys, weaving and dodging colorful draping that always turned these streets into a maze; one which street urchins found especially fun to race through. A boy rushing past Atticus tripped over his feet, and before Atticus could even bend over to help, the child pounced up like a cat and vanished.

The cobbled roads eventually led to a Greek part of town, quieter than the rest of Palmyra. It was too far from the colonnade to have random passer-throughs wandering about, but it was just before the buildings gave way to the laborer camps and the slums to the north. The common agora had some craftsmen and guild-houses belonging to either Mattabol or Komare clan families.

One of the main reasons that this common square was largely empty had to do with more than just recent events. Women and children were not allowed here, except for maidservants. Even they were eventually shooed away during schoolings and rhetor sessions by the scholars.

Pulcher led Atticus to Pompeii’s Popina; a humble drinking bar with patrons that included tired, old men who had long retired from their work and engaged in grumpy debates for the better part of the day.

After a few scuffles with the locals in other popular bars, Atticus and Pulcher found this popina to be their favorite now. The bartender, a full-bearded man called Pompeii—though he definitely wasn’t Greek—harumphed as he saw them enter. He was either frustrated with them showing up again, or was angry they hadn’t visited in a few days now. It was always hard to tell with Pompeii.

“Good afternoon, dominus,” Pulcher said with a smile, and slid into his usual stool, as did Atticus. Both of them were wearing the uniform, but only Pulcher had entered with a spear.

Pompeii didn’t ask any questions. He poured them both some spiced wine, and offered a basket of bread without a word. When Atticus reached into his satchel for coin, Pulcher waved him off.

“I was joking, Atticus, don’t bother,” he said, quickly rolling some silver to Pompeii who flicked them off the table with practiced hands. Atticus had barely gotten his own coin purse out, before he sighed and put it away.

“Thank you.”

Pulcher nodded, “You’ll need every sestertius now.” He tore off a big piece from his loaf, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Good fucking bread, this,” he said as he chewed.

Atticus was about to do the same, but he realized he wasn’t really in a rush. With no post to return to, he could for once sit and breathe and take measured bites. He took the small bottle of olive oil at the counter, and drizzled it onto his loaf. Then with a knife, he cut the loaf into clean slices that he could then dip into his spiced wine and enjoy, bite by bite.

Pulcher had already gulped down his wine and tapped the cup for Pompeii to refill. “Where are you working now?” he asked Atticus.

“Finding work, still,” Atticus replied, then added, “getting my affairs in order too.”

Pulcher nodded gravely, and they both stared into their cups for a while. Pulcher eventually replied, “You could always fight in the tournament. Become a famous gladiator.”

Atticus chuckled at that, a low rumble that didn’t seem to stop, and Pulcher finally broke too, joining him in a fit of laughter that seemed to annoy Pompeii and some older patrons in the back. The elders squinted their disapproval at the two soldiers now doubled over the counter.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Atticus said, teary-eyed, and applied some olive oil to Pulcher’s last slice of bread, which the man ate in one bite.

“Ave Atticus!” Pulcher cried with a full mouth. They touched their cups and downed the rest of their wine.

Pompeii slid them another basket of bread, interestingly enough. Atticus thought they’d always annoyed him, especially Pulcher, but the gruff bartender’s actions spoke otherwise. “Thank you,” Atticus replied, and the man nodded.

"You know, I thought about joining you..." Pulcher said suddenly and his smile slowly faded as he stared down at his empty plate. "I just remember being so confused that night."

Atticus laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "My choice was mine alone. I didn't expect anyone—"

"I would've, you know, if you'd asked me," Pulcher cut in, his words hard.

Atticus simply nodded. He took his own clear-mindedness for granted, sometimes. He'd forgotten how much experience he had over Pulcher and the other men in the militia. To Atticus, a night ambush was nothing he hadn't done before. Killing men in the dark was just something you got used to when defending the Danube River most of your life. Pulcher, while only a few years younger than Atticus, had spent most of his life as a street guard; dealing with patrols and maybe some rioting and street ruffians along the way. Before that, Pulcher had been a baker’s apprentice in his youth. He simply wasn't prepared for Brutus' methods now that Cato was no longer around to keep the former Centurion leashed.

As Pulcher stood, Atticus followed instinctively, his hands reaching for a spear that wasn't there. He didn't have a post to return to, so he sat back down.

"You're going to stay?" Pulcher asked.

"I think so."

Pulcher nodded, and dropped a few silver coins on the counter again. "Have another on me, brother. And give my love to Cecilia."

Thank you for your friendship, Atticus wanted to say, but knew it would be an odd thing to say out loud. “I will,” Atticus said simply and shook the soldier's hand, who offered him a last, sad smile before sauntering out the door with his spear.

***

With Pulcher gone, Atticus’ mind returned to darker thoughts, to the knot of building despair in his chest that he kept pushing deeper with his stoicism. Ever since he’d read Fronto’s Fear, A Life of Dalliance in his youth, he’d dedicated his every moment to controlling his emotions and checking his perspectives. Most of his choices in life had been made with a strict adherence to his own list of virtues, which he meditated on at least once a week.

But with his life and finances wrapping a noose around his neck, he felt uncharacteristically confused. His choices had ultimately led him to living in a frontier desert town, with an unhappy wife and a vagrant son, and now he was on the brink of becoming destitute. Ambition had been something he had avoided for himself, but had that been a mistake? His relentless desire to make the right choices on the case of his principles, had somehow led him to this moment: drunk, unemployed, lying to his wife and soon to become a disappointment to his name and blood.

Atticus downed another cup of wine. Pompeii offered to fill him up again but Atticus realized he’d burned through the last of Pulcher’s silver. He waved the bartender off.

A painting of a bright blue sky, some fluffy clouds and a shepherd strolling the green expanse colored the wall behind the counter. As Atticus’ blurry vision cleared for a moment, he saw another figure; a dark man with ripped wings and horns that protruded in demonic ways. He had upturned canines showing through his growl as he crouched in the corner of the painting, his figure smudged and nearly buried under a boulder he was carrying.

“Who’s that?” Atticus pointed, and it took a moment for Pompeii to come over and understand what he was asking. “That dark man in the corner, who is he?”

“The plaster?” Pompeii asked, gesturing to the painted wall.

“Yes, yes,” Atticus said impatiently. Wine always made him irritable, and sad.

“That’s Light-Bringer,” Pompeii said, then he grew a little quiet, “and that’s Jesus,” he whispered, pointing to the shepherd.

So, Pompeii was Christian? Atticus had met a few in his time, and they always kept to themselves and practiced their religion in private. Nero had made them the Empire’s evil-doers. Atticus didn’t believe anything he didn’t see for himself, though, and Pompeii had been a good host to him.

“Light-Bringer?” Atticus said, “he doesn’t look like a bringer of light.” Atticus knew of Jesus the carpenter, but the horned man was new. “Is he another god?”

“There is only one god,” Pompeii replied confidently, but his words were quiet and hushed.

“Only one?” Atticus said, mulling it over. It didn’t make much sense. How could a single god do everything? “Why is Light-Bringer carrying that large rock?”

“He is a fallen angel called Lucifer,” Pompeii said, then he explained how Lucifer had betrayed his kind, how he had allowed his own strong pride to deny this one god’s commandment, and that is why he deserved to be punished. But instead of giving up, Lucifer had promised to wage a war against humanity for eternity.

“He didn’t bend to this god’s will, then,” Atticus mumbled.

“Bend?” Pompeii said. He looked frustrated. The bartender probably meant for this demon’s story to be a call for warning against rebelling against his god’s will. But as Atticus stared at the rabid eyes and the straining muscles under his heavy burden, it made Atticus’ own blood boil with energy.

“He will be crushed by his own deeds,” Pompeii wagged a finger at Atticus.

“I don’t think so,” Atticus replied as he stood, and collected himself. “He looks like he can carry it.”