13 Days Before the Kalends of Aprilis, 710 Ab Urbe Condita
There was no sound in the hole but the sniffling and coughing of Quintus Lugarius and the snores as some of them slept. Had they even been inclined to talk, topics of conversation would have run out long ago. A fetid, putrid stench filled the room, stronger in the corner where they'd agreed early on to do their business in. Little pieces of stone and bone on the floor pricked at their backs and legs constantly, so that some of them took their togas off and used them as blankets. The air was warm with body heat and insulated well from the spring chill.
Gaius Trebonius closed his eyes and opened them again. No change. All he saw was a blackness as deep and complete as the ocean. He couldn't see the men next to him, or the outline of the trapdoor above, or even his own hand in front of his face. They were in the darkest, loneliest pit of the Tullianum, probably used last in the tempestuous times of the writing of the Ten Tables four hundred years ago. The bones littering the floor that cracked under the conspirators' weight were brittle and fleshless, though here and there were the more complete corpses of small animals--rats, moles, a rabbit or two--that had found or dug their way down here and hadn't been able to escape.
Each day brought forty pitchers of water, forty hunks of stale bread, and the crushing loneliness that darkness brought with it. The lictor who brought their repast kept his lips tight, and enforced isolation from the outside world. He felt the twenty feet of heavy black dirt above his head pushing down, ready to cave the ancient little room in and suffocate him, with no chance to escape.
He breathed out heavily, forcing himself to calm down. Panic and worry did no good. Either they'd be released from this hell eventually, or they'd be left to starve to death. He could do nothing about it, so why worry? Oh but he'd rather be flung from the Tarpeian Rock and be dashed on the boulders below than be left in this pit.
Labeo next to him mewled and called out in his sleep, and a few of the other snores ceased. When you did nothing but sit and sleep, wallowing in misery all day, any sound or interest brought you awake.
"What is it?" a voiced hissed furtively straight ahead. He thought it was Galba.
"Just somebody dreaming," the dead tones of Lucius Cassius Longinus answered.
"Be quiet," said Cinna's gruff voice bitterly, shifting on his toga, and it was a credit to their depression that nobody argued with such an offensive command.
Their was silence and darkness after that. He didn't know how long. There was no day down here, only night, and he could only tell that a day or perhaps half a day had passed when food and water were brought. So far it had been four times.
He raised his head at a harsh scraping sound somewhere above, far away. The other shuffled and perhaps sat up, waiting. Again he became aware, as he always did just before food arrived, at the knotting and growling of his empty stomach. He'd become used to hunger during his days and weeks under siege by Gauls while serving under Caesar, but war and country and love for Caesar made a man forget hardship.
Then he thought he saw a flicker of light somewhere, but knew that it must be a trick of the mind. But no! There was a square of dark dark grey in the blackness, the outline of the trapdoor. It grew lighter and lighter, growing to brown and then yellow, the clacking hobnailed footsteps of some lictor growing louder and louder.
The footsteps stopped and there was another shriek of protesting hinges. The trapdoor swung open and Trebonius had to shut his eyes tight against the light. "Dear Gods, oh you poor sweet children," said the most ordinary voice.
He opened his eyes slowly, little by little, and eventually saw the mournful, crouching figure above. Small eyes were narrowed further in compassion, very Roman nose wrinkled in disgust, small full mouth turned down in sympathy. The round, bulbous head and sweating pate were made sallow by the yellow lamplight.
"Cicero," said Cimber in surprise, and then they were all babbling excitedly and roaring furiously all at once. The sounds echoed and reverberated, making their eyes water, and Cicero only waited for them to quiet down.
"Caesar," he said viciously. "Treating men of his own class and station in this way. But no, I've forgotten, he's above everybody else, he's become king in all but name. How could you fail to kill him?" he ended with an imploring wail.
"You weren't much help!" shouted Gaius Longinus viciously. He'd scarcely said a word since being detained, but now all of his typical temper was coming out at once. "You fucking cowardly cunt, Cicero! Waiting for others to do the dirty work!"
There were grunts of assent from the others that were silenced by Cicero's heavy sigh. "You're right, Gaius Cassius, I'm not much for military bravery. But you've forgotten that nobody even told me about this." His measured, academic words, strung together artfully on the spot, were like an essay, or one of his speeches, telling them what they'd done wrong. "Imagine the power and authority my support could have lent to this fiasco. I've heard now, from Gnaeus Hiscius, that even
Marcus fucking"--here they jumped, for Cicero rarely swore--"
Antonius was invited! You should've killed him, not invited him!"
There was silence for a few moments as they took in his words. A few of them shuffled to stand, bent over because the room was only four feet high, and step gingerly toward the opening to reality.
Then Quintus Antistius Labeo, having woken up, said in his quiet but carrying voice, "We embody the true Roman republican virtues, and so did Marcus Antonius when he was a simple legate for Caesar."
"He was Caesar's servant, and so were half of you! Basilus, you brothers Casca, Cimber, Trebonius, Cinna! All happy to drive the legal Senate from Italy and fight against the
mos maiorum. Now when Caesar better awards those who lick his ass better, you turn against him. I've been against him from the start."
The Longinus brothers, Marcus Brutus, Quintus Ligarius and others were beginning to speak up in Cicero's favor when the other shouted them down.
Lies! You murdered Romans without trial, Cicero! You did nothing to really support Pompeius during the civil war, Cicero! You supported Pompeius's ridiculous unconstitutionality, Cicero!
Gaius Cassius Longinus threw the first punch, and other followed. Little damage was done, as the men were hunched over and weak from lack of food, but heads and limbs hit the rough ceilings and walls, and Cicero left them weaker than they'd been, disgusted.
"So...have you decided on the punishments yet?" Marcus Antonius had just walked into Caesar's study and was glancing at him wearily. The man was working with all his customary energy and efficiency, not minding the bandages that showed pink strips of blood. Large dark circles showed under the piercing eyes as Caesar stared back at him.
"Not yet," was the answer at length. Caesar looked down and went back to writing swiftly. It had been three days since the assassination attempt, and some kind of demon of speed and energy had possessed him. Cleopatra's physician, who went with him everywhere now, had ordered him to slow down and rest, and hand the helm of state to somebody else for a while. Caesar, of course, has refused.
The betrayal of Decimus, especially, has him paranoid of everyone, and now he's practically ignoring even those who saved his life. If somebody like Decimus Albinus, who'd been almost like a son to Caesar, wanted to kill him, what did other, more distant powerful men want to do?