NOW I AM RIGHT HERE, AND IT’S TIME, ‘CAUSE THIS IS REAL, THIS IS REAL AND IT’S ALL MINE*

*Chapter 3: A Knife in the Garden*(continued)* The scroll burned fast. Cassian dropped the ashes into the fountain and watched them swirl away. The name *Vibius Claudianus* vanished in smoke and water, but not from his mind. He could not afford mercy. Not now. Not when his past could be turned into a chain again. In his chamber that night, beneath a false floorboard, Cassian placed what he had salvaged: a copy of the ledger page, a map of the senator’s estate, and a letter addressed to a name only whispered among former rebels—**Calvus**. Tullia watched from the doorway. “You’re not sleeping again.” “No.” “What are you planning?” “I’m planning,” he said quietly, “to rewrite my beginning.” She stepped forward, arms crossed. “You said once you didn’t want to just escape. That you wanted to change something.” “I still do.” “So why are you building a graveyard?” Cassian met her gaze. “Because some things must be buried so that others can rise.” --- ### **Outside the City – The Ruins of a Burned Farm** They met at dawn. Calvus was older now, limping from old wounds, his beard streaked with white. But his eyes—sharp as ever. “I thought you were dead,” he said without turning. “Everyone thought so.” “I was.” Calvus turned, studying him. “And now you’re dressed like a senator’s pet.” “I’m dressed like a survivor.” “That’s a fine line, Cassian.” Cassian unrolled the scroll. “Vibius Claudianus,” Calvus read aloud. “Traitor. He gave us up in Antioch.” “Yes.” “And now?” “He’s vulnerable. He has enemies. And I have access.” Calvus raised an eyebrow. “You want to kill him?” “No.” “Then what?” Cassian leaned in. “I want him remembered for what he is. A coward. A liar. A man who feared a classroom more than a sword. I want every senator to know. Every merchant. Every priest. I want his name to rot before he dies.” Calvus grinned. “You always were a poet.” --- ### **Back in Rome – The Senate Portico** Volcatius strolled through the columns, robes immaculate, surrounded by sycophants. He barely acknowledged the slave who delivered the letter. Inside: a list of names. Secret donations. Broken oaths. And—at the bottom—**Vibius Claudianus**. Volcatius smiled coldly. “A weakness,” he murmured. “Delightful.” His aide squinted. “Why send this to us?” “Because someone out there knows how to play the game.” He folded the letter. “And I think I know who.” --- ### **That Night – Decimus’s Villa** The council had reconvened. The air was thick with incense and argument. The empire had fractured further. Gaul was slipping. Egypt silent. The Rhine boiling with unrest. “Rome cannot bleed from within while the wolves gather outside,” said one magistrate. “We need alliances. Gold. Order.” Decimus was pale but upright, his arm still bound from the wound. Cassian stood behind him, quiet as always. But this time, he did not wait for permission. “We need truth,” Cassian said, stepping forward. The council murmured. A slave—speaking? Cassian ignored them. “There are men in this room who made their wealth from silence. From the blood of others. From broken cities. They speak of saving Rome, but they’ve already sold her, piece by piece, name by name.” “Who is this?” someone snapped. “He speaks for me,” Decimus said weakly. “No,” Cassian said. “I speak for myself.” He stepped to the center of the room. “I am Cassianus of Antioch. I was once a teacher. Then I was a slave. And now I stand here with a choice: to be silent… or to speak while I still can.” He unrolled a scroll and laid it on the marble table. “Read it. Or don’t. But understand: I remember. And so will others.” He turned and walked out. The silence behind him was loud enough to shake the columns. --- ### **Later – On the Streets of the Subura** Tullia walked beside him. “You made yourself a target.” Cassian nodded. “Good.” “They’ll come for you.” “Let them. At least now they know my name.” --- ### **Meanwhile – Senator Vibius Claudianus’s Estate** Vibius awoke to find his outer wall covered in words. Written in pitch, tar, and blood: **"TRAITOR OF ANTIOCH. KILLER OF MINDS. HISTORY REMEMBERS."** The servants scrubbed until dawn. But the stain would not fade. And by morning, copies of the same words had appeared on the walls of temples, baths, and markets across the city. --- ### **In the Shadows of the Forum** Volcatius read the graffiti in silence. “Do we move?” his aide asked. “No,” Volcatius said. “We wait. Cassian just threw the first stone. Let’s see what it breaks.” “But Vibius—” “Is already dead,” Volcatius said coolly. “He just hasn’t fallen yet.” The days that followed were restless ones. Rumors flowed through Rome like water down an open sewer—faster than truth, and more dangerous. Some said a slave had cursed a senator. Others said a ghost from the East had returned, demanding vengeance in ink and blood. The graffiti was scraped away, but not before copies had been etched into wax tablets, whispered over wine, and memorized by the city’s gossip-eaters. Senator Vibius Claudianus stayed inside. His windows were shuttered. His servants doubled. His voice, once booming in Senate debates, was absent. He claimed illness. But power, once bruised, begins to rot. --- ### **In the Library of Decimus’s Villa** Cassian sat alone. The chamber had once belonged to a previous master—his scrolls were still stacked in gold-trimmed cases, their knowledge unused, their letters fading. Cassian had repurposed the room into a war council of one: parchments on the floor, names and lines drawn between them like spiderwebs, every thread leading toward his next step. He was not building freedom. He was building **a structure to destroy structures**. Tullia entered, holding a letter. “It’s from Claudianus’s household,” she said. Cassian took it. Inside: a single sentence, scrawled by a trembling hand. **“What do you want?”** He stared at the ink. No threat. No pride. Only fear. “They want you to stop,” Tullia whispered. Cassian nodded. “That means it’s working.” He walked to the shelves and slid the letter behind a copy of *Cicero’s Philippics*. Tullia frowned. “You’re not going to answer?” “No.” “Then what?” “I’ll let his silence speak for him.” --- ### **At the Baths of Caracalla – A Whisper Game** Three magistrates lounged beneath the steam domes. “You heard about Claudianus?” “They say he used to sell prisoners to Parthians during the war.” “Antioch, wasn’t it?” “And this slave—what’s his name—Cassian? He’s the one who exposed him?” “Not just exposed. Made him bleed. Without touching him.” Laughter. Uneasy. --- ### **That Night – On the Rooftop Overlooking the Palatine** Cassian sat with Junius, the boy who once stood in chains by the bread ovens. Now free, dressed in a tunic that fit, ink stains on his fingers. “I don’t understand why you care about this,” Junius said. “Why not just… leave?” “Because someone will always be behind us,” Cassian said. “Someone who thinks they’re allowed to put people like us in cages. And someone else who’s too afraid to stop them.” Junius looked down. “They say you’re dangerous.” “I am.” “But you’re not like them.” Cassian turned toward the dark horizon. “I’m worse.” --- ### **Meanwhile – Deep Beneath the Curia Julia** Volcatius met with the last person who still trusted him: his own shadow. “We underestimated him,” he said. “We could still have him killed.” “No. No more blood. Not now. That would make him a martyr.” “Then what?” Volcatius’s eyes gleamed. “We make him choose.” “Choose what?” “Between the throne and the fire. Between the comfort of influence… or the chaos he claims to want.” The shadow frowned. “You think he’ll pick power?” “They always do.” --- ### **The Garden Again – Full Circle** Decimus had healed well enough to walk the stones again, though slower, leaning on a staff. He found Cassian standing at the same place where blood had once stained the path. “You’ve done something I never could,” Decimus said. “You’ve made them afraid without ever drawing a sword.” “They weren’t afraid of me,” Cassian said. “They were afraid I’d remind others what they were.” “I could make you a citizen.” Cassian looked at him. “Would it change what I am?” “No. But it would change how they see you.” “Let them keep their vision,” Cassian said. “I don’t need to be seen. I need to be remembered.” Decimus stared at the young man who had once knelt in rags, now standing taller than any Roman statue. “You could rule.” Cassian shook his head. “No. I could burn the house. And then we’ll see who survives the smoke.” --- ### **Final Scene – In the Night, A Voice in the Dark** Cassian stood alone at the edge of the Tiber. The water was black, the stars above barely visible. He whispered—not to a god, but to himself. > “Now I am right here. And it’s time.> ’Cause this is real. This is real.> And it’s all mine.” Behind him, in the distance, Rome pulsed with firelight. Not flames. Not yet. But something close. And it was **spreading**.

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