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The head of Gnaeus Octavius sits at the other edge of the table, still half-wrapped in some sort of ragged cloth, the pool of blood growing ever so slightly under the bottom of the bundle with each passing moment. It has not started decomposing yet, but it reeks nonetheless, and the smell is putrid, horrendous enough to force Censorinus, who brought the head in the first place, out of the room. The wretch refused to join him for dinner outright and left with a disgusted grimace on his face, as if he was not the one to carry it through the streets. And yet Cinna does not feel the stench at all, he cannot distinguish it from the smell outside. These days, all of Rome stinks the way Octavius’s head does, so he feels no need to try and escape the terrible odor he cannot feel in the first place. And, since Censorinus declined his amicable offer, the head would be his dinnertime company, and a welcome one at that. At least it does not talk of people it wants to see dead. Not anymore.
Cinna reaches for the plate with the bread and tears a piece, then dips it in the oil. His hand shakes slightly, and the tips of his fingers almost touch the golden liquid, stopping just above the surface. He waits for a few moments, unblinkingly observing the way it gleams in the candlelight, and theт brings the wet slice to his lips, sparing the head a glance.
“You don’t mind, do you, Octavius?” he says, and then puts the bread in his mouth. It tastes sour. Too sour, even.
“Quite decent, actually,” he nods at the head, as if it asked him, whether or not he’s enjoying his food. “Not the best bread I have ever tasted, but proper grain supply has resumed only recently, so I cannot expect any sort of excellency.”
He reaches for another piece, but stops halfway, his hand atop of a goblet, filled with wine. The wine was probably brought to him by someone upon his arrival, as one of the many meaningless gratitudes for restoring the order, maybe. He does not remember, for his mind cannot be occupied with such trivial, hollow matters.
He takes the goblet in his quivering fingers and swirls the maroon liquid, with a bit too much force, so the ripple raises higher than it should, licking at the edges, like the Tiber licks at the City during the flood.
"Have you ever thought of how much blood flows within the waters of Tiber?" he asks, still watching the wine wavering in the goblet. "They have swallowed the Gracchi and their friends, they have swallowed the men that came with me to the forum, they had swallowed countless nameless men before them, and they will swallow more. They would have swallowed Romulus and Remus, even, if not for the lupa. Tiber accepts everything we bestow upon him. He, as gracious as he is, lets us drown the civil strife in his waves, over and over." He falls silent for a few moments, and then drains the goblet entirely in one go. "It's just how we go about these matters now, don't you think? I did not necessarily intend for it to end this way. If you could just let me thread the path of Sulpicius! But you had to thread it yourself instead, just in a rather… different manner. A shame, really. You could have fled.”
He reaches for the wine pitcher and refills the goblet, involuntarily spilling some of the liquid. The spilled wine glistens in the flickering candlelight, indistinguishable from blood, yet another splatter of deep maroon appearing almost black in the dimness of the room. Cinna gazes upon it and lets out a tired sigh.
“Yes, you could have fled. So could Sulpicius, maybe. But he did not grasp the situation entirely, poor, bold youngster, and you… maybe you grasped it too well. You were too scrupulous for your own good. You hated the mentula, I know you did, yet you stood for what he’s done, you broke the law for it, you even took the responsibility for thousands of fellow citizens in the Tiber. Nothing noble about it, Octavius, nothing proper. I just hope you knew it yourself.”
Cinna runs his finger over the edge of the goblet almost absent-mindedly, and then looks back at the head. The sight seems unsettling to him now, so maybe Censorinus was wise to leave him to it. But then again, the responsibility is his. Not a responsibility, even, he corrects himself mentally, his obligation.
“He did not extend the same courtesy to Sulpicius, you know?” he finally says, still staring at the head. “On the other hand, Sulpicius was Rufus’s friend once, after all, and not his, so maybe he had no reason to. But it’s not because he’s that proper, not at all. I think he would have done worse things to the head of Marius, if he managed to end him. It probably would not last in decent shape until rostra. Though, I think he would have mounted it anyway, the mentula he is."
Cinna raises the goblet and takes a sip. This time around, he tries to make something of the taste. It is sour as well, and it irritates his throat, too. All of this makes him wonder if he'll ever see or taste something that won't be some spawn of the civil strife, and he gives himself an honest answer right afterwards, looking at the head. There's simply nothing else left, and both inimici accepted it a long time ago, maybe before either of them took Rome. So why can't he?
"Marius... he still thinks the war is raging on in the streets of Rome. Or maybe he doesn't, I cannot make sense of him. He acts as if he does, though, and he makes me seem bad. He would have made himself seem bad, if only the third founder of Rome could ever fall out of their favor. But Cinna can, and does. Gods, Octavius," he chuckles, and then mumbles, gritting his teeth, "will there ever be an end?"
This is uncalled for, and it is just the sour bread, and the sour wine, and the persistent, unchanging sour odor in his nose, and Gods-know-what-else, and it is not something he'd share with anyone, but the head. Even with the head, he would rather not, so he laughs, and reaches for bread again.
"Of course not," he grins, trying to focus on the bread. It does not come off as easily as the last piece, and he overdoes it a bit, for when the slice finally tears, his elbow hits the bowl of oil, and it falls down, shattering with a loud, unsettling clang. The oil splashes onto the legs of the lectus, and at his sandals, and at the edge of his toga. It is a liquid, it is of a nearly transparent, golden color, he's seen it in the bowl a few minutes before, but it still looks dark enough to be blood. It is unbelievably ridiculous, and it shouldn't bother him at all, so he stands up sharply, as if compelled by his worst yet unformed thoughts, walks round the table, the bread still in his hand, leans over the head, and finally dips the piece in the pool underneath. For a few moments he stares at it silently, his mind empty, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and then he hastily puts it in his mouth.
The bread is wet and sour. It tastes the same as everything else did, and it makes him nearly furious.
"You," Cinna whispers through his gritted teeth, still choking on bread, "was it worth it?"
The head is silent, and he reaches for it with both of his hands, messing up the hanging folds of his toga in the process. He holds it up almost gently, even though gentle is the last thing he wants or needs to be, and gazes upon it, now so close to his face. He looks into its’ half-lidded, cloudy eyes under the dark eyelashes and sees nothing, no answer, no rebuke, no pity.
"Was it?" he almost croaks, and then closes his eyes and leans in, bringing the bundle yet closer to his face. He does not know what he's doing, or maybe he does, but he cannot comprehend it, the way poor Sulpicius couldn't comprehend Sulla's seizure of Rome. What he is doing is simply beyond his perception of the universe and of himself, too. And it, after all, still tastes sour.
There is a faint sound, coming from behind, from where the doorway to the atrium is. It is more of a muffled chuckle, as if someone snickered in their fist, but it makes Cinna jump, as if it is a battle cry. He lowers his trembling hands by instinct, almost dropping the head in the process, but it is already too late for doing anything at all. Even before he turns around, he somehow knows who is standing behind him, boring his eyes in his back.
"Good evening to you... Lucius Cornelius."
There is a way he always drawls his name, Cinna thinks, as if he is unsure if it is the right name to say. Or, maybe, too sure that it isn't.
"Good evening to you as well, Gaius Marius". At this, he finally turns around to face the man, the head of Octavius still tightly clasped in his hands. Marius looks at it with a sort of amusement on his face, the way a predator could look at its cornered prey, and then gestures, as if asking to pass the head to him. Cinna wordlessly complies.
Marius holds it up, looking at it intently, and then makes a grimace, baring his teeth as if in mockery. Upon seeing his teeth, Cinna feels relieved at the sight of rare, yellow dents, as if he expected them to be red, as red as his gums, as red as his own mouth probably is now. He absentmindedly licks at his inner cheek, tasting the same sourness yet again. Despite his better judgement, he wonders if Marius feels the same.
Marius stands motionlessly, only glaring at the head for a few moments, for how long exactly Cinna cannot tell, and then he places it back in the puddle at the table. Then, his eyes are back at Cinna, still dark, as Tiber's waters would be, were they permanently murky with all the blood ever spilt in it. Marius grins with his lopsided smile and reaches for his face, still silent. Cinna does not move. Marius’s wrinkled, nearly withered thumb softly brushes upon his chin, wiping the blood that was apparently trickling from the side of his mouth, and then with disquieting deliberation puts the finger up to his own chapped lips, licking at it.
"I see", he says, still smiling. He will not elaborate further, Cinna realizes, but it's not as if he would want him to, though.
Marius walks round the table and seats himself at the lectus next to the head. He puts his own head on his hands, and then looks back at Cinna, as if inviting him to join. It is not an offer anyone could decline.
Once he's back on the lectus, Marius speaks again, his expression still carrying his idea of pleasantness: “When I heard about your dinner, I have decided to pay my dear future colleague and friend a visit. It's no good to dine alone, after all." Curse Censorinus, Cinna thinks angrily.
Marius looks at the head and nods, as if acknowledging someone’s presence.
“But, from what I can tell, you’re not alone. And you’ve made up quite the smart thing, actually. I have to try this as well soon enough.”
“Who?”, Cinna almost gasps, glancing up at Marius, and at that he laughs, reaching for the pitcher.
“Antonius, for a start,” he chuckles, putting the spout right to his lips, and then, in an instant, he overturns the pitcher and gulps the wine down, greedily so. Cinna watches it trickle down at his flabby cheeks and chin, dripping on his toga, staining it with maroon. It is him, he thinks, resignedly, it is his future co-consul. Maybe Sertorius had a point, after all.
Marius sets the pitcher aside with a loud thud, and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He’s still thinking of Antonius, Cinna realizes upon locking eyes with him. He smiles, wine in the corners of his mouth, but his eyes appear motionless, almost dead, if not for the bitterness swimming in them, as if the dream of retribution is the only thing that keeps him alive. He chuckles again, more grimly now, and says, turning away from him, almost as if he’s talking to the head: “That mentula Antonius thought that he could just stay put and wait it out. He thought that when some usurper declares his friend hostis, it was his obligation to stick his eloquence up his ass, even when an opportunity to open his able mouth for a good thing presented itself. And when said usurper had sliced the head clean off of the sacred tribune, a young man the old mentula knew, his loyalties and morality, guess what, were as well deep in his old useless arse. I do not care what he thought or where any of his presumed virtues were, though. To Pluto with the dead.”
“But is he already…” Cinna starts, unsure if he even wants to know. Antonius had to die, if Marius thought so, and besides, he was one of the negotiators with Metellus, so Cinna must wish for his demise as well, but it still feels off, and he cannot bring himself to care much either way. At that, Marius grins at him, and reaches for the bread.
“He’s in the City, from what I have learnt. And if he’s in the City, then he’s dead. I will make sure of it.”
While Marius munches on the bread, Cinna thinks of what he said earlier, about Sulpicius. He singled out the tribune right after himself, as two people who Antonius wronged by his silence, therefore it almost sounded as if he cared about a considerably innocent life lost. But he knows that even the hapless Antonius probably pitied the tribune more than Marius ever could. Even he himself, who was never close to him, pitied him more. He could even cry, if he had to speak of poor, unfortunate Sulpicius, but the emotion would be as true as the ones that he had shown at Nola. An act to win over the listeners, a trick to curry their favor, but not an oration entirely devoid of substance. He actually hated how Octavius wronged him, and he felt genuine disdain for how the usurper dealt with the tribune, too. The only thing Marius hated about the situation was his own prosecution. He would not shed a tear, had his son’s head been mounted on the rostra next to Sulpicius’s, but he would use it as a reason for vengeance. Not because he cared about his son, rather because he cared if someone took something from him that he considered to be rightfully his.
“The bread is mediocre,” Marius says, moving the plate with the half-eaten loaf aside. “I’ve got better bread at my house, and plenty of other dishes too. Come over for dinner next time, Lucius Cornelius, tomorrow, even. I will most likely introduce you to my special guest, too.” It takes all of Cinna’s willpower to not wince at the wording.
Marius considers something, then adds: “But the wine was good, though. I had something similar at the dinner hosted by a now dead man. Did not expect to stumble upon it in the house of someone who opposes the plunder of dead people’s property, you know?” Cinna doesn’t. It’s probably not even the same wine, and besides, whoever he’s speaking of could get it at the same place the man that gifted it to him did. Even if it was the same man, he wouldn’t care, or even remember.
The guest at last stands up from the lectus, wipes his mouth once again, and walks towards the atrium door, almost too steady for such an old man. At the threshold, he stops and turns around, and says, almost as an afterthought:
“Nonetheless, I thank you for your hospitality, Lucius Cornelius. Just do not forget that the head must end up on the rostra one way or another. Don’t mess it up too much, will you?” And with that, he’s gone, vanished into the darkness of the atrium, as if he has never set foot in it.
For a second, it is tranquil, the way utter emptiness would be, devoid of any motion, any sound, any sight. The thoughts, clustering his head, gone with the man, who, if he manages to convince himself well enough, maybe was not here at all. But then Cinna’s gaze drifts upon the head, still sitting at the table, and he feels sick, the sour taste vibrant on his tongue. Next moment, he’s already calling for his slaves, his shout almost desperate, demanding them to take the head to the Forum and mount it on the rostra for everyone to see. Only after it is finally gone, he lets himself breathe out, his exhale coming out ragged, almost a wheeze.
The nausea is still persistent, welling up in his throat, so he takes the pitcher, and throws up into it. Once he does, he takes another shaky breath. The smell is still sour, but maybe a bit less sour this time around. He sets the pitcher aside and sits back at the lectus, burying his head in his hands. Gods, Sertorius was definitely right about Marius, and about the murders, too. And yet, he knows, there is nothing he can do.