artyartie

Two drabbles (one Vorenus and Pullo, one Tiro and Cicero) for this week's rome100 prompt, Body. Spoilers for 'De Patre Vostro' and 'Philippi.'

( the withered leaves of our sensations )

Two more Cicero (pre-series) and Brutus drabbles for rome100, with the prompt of 'Desire.'

Cicero wonders at what moment he first loved his wife. Not their wedding night - he still flushes at the remembrance of fumbling hands and the impatience in her eyes. It was a gradual thing, his love, like struggling with a new language for years only to hear it, suddenly, from his lips.

He should die in her arms, not in bitter exile. The sun flickers through the window and he closes his eyes, denies this day has come. Yet his longing that all will be right is stronger, however faintly, than the desperate desire to remain forever with her.

***

The vaulted Stoic freedom felt nothing so much like a cage, only with bars Brutus couldn’t see. But he could feel them, twisting about, threatening to crush him at any moment.

Living life without desire had once been so easy. He was never disappointed, for there was nothing in which to be disappointed. And now –

His mother’s plots, Cassius’ pleading – their desires were those invisible bars, closing around him. The graffiti, that damn note, the eager gleam in Cicero’s eyes, the guarded caution in Caesar’s-

What good was it to live without wants if he could not live without resistance?

For the rome100 challenge, Future. Two futures which never happenned to two very different men.

It wasn’t hubris if he succeeded.

And he succeeded, in spite of every obstacle before him. Mark Antony and his ambition, Cicero’s harangues in the Senate, Brutus and his-

It still made his heart ache, Brutus’ betrayal. Caesar had mercy, when he could afford it, but the treachery of the man who had once been like a son could not be forgiven. Servilla followed her son soon after, and some nights her curses still rang in his ears.

Yet these were bearable costs, to forge his own destiny. To craft the very future of Rome, to earn them both immortality.

***

He never should have fled his villa into yet another exile. His death would have held some honor, at least. His life now held nothing but shame.

Antony’s death brought no satisfaction. Octavian was far more dangerous than he ever imagined, no mere boy the Senate could use. The day of his triumph, Cicero came home and held a sword to his belly, but could not drive it in.

With this latest failure, he finally abandoned Rome, slunk back to his villa. He drank too much and wrote too little, of futures that never happened and courage he never had.

Theme: "Senses"
Written for rome100

The skin of the peach caressed his hand, soft as the hairs of a baby’s head. His wife regarded the luminous fruit with wide eyes, reaching out her hand to take it.

“Peaches? How did you get these?”

“You don’t want to know.” He smiled at her and took a bite, the flesh juicy and succulent, all the sweetness of summer in a single mouthful. His wife closed her eyes in bliss, pressed a hand to her belly, just beginning to swell.

“We’ll plant a tree.” Cicero leaned over and kissed Terentia, sticky fingers tangling in the curls of her hair.