Silenced Auguries
The sun hung low, a bruised orange that barely chased the chill from the stone walls. The grove behind the Subura tavern was a thin slice of shadow, gnarled olive trees clinging to the cracked earth. A low hum of cicadas rose from the grass, then fell silent as a cold wind slipped through the leaves.
Marcus crouched behind a moss‑covered column, his back pressed hard against the cold marble. He pulled the stolen scrolls from his leather satchel, their parchment whispering like dry leaves. The ink was faded, but the names—Carus, the Danube legions, the emptied treasury—sang a clear, dangerous truth. He tucked them beneath a loose stone, the weight of the secret pressing his chest.
A rustle broke the stillness. From the darkness a figure emerged, hooded, shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of ages. Varro the Augur moved with a slow, deliberate gait, his staff tapping a muffled rhythm on the ground.
“Marcus,” Varro said, voice low, each word a crackle of smoke. “You come to the grove seeking counsel, yet you hide truth beneath stone.”
Marcus lifted his head, eyes narrowing. “I need to know if the scrolls are enough. If Carus truly starves the Danube legions, the empire will bleed. I must bring this to Livia—”
“The empire bleeds already,” Varro interrupted, his eyes flickering like distant lanterns. “The earth shivers beneath us, and the gods whisper of fire in the mountain’s throat.”
A tremor rolled through the grove, a subtle roll that made the leaves tremble. Varro’s hand tightened around his staff, his knuckles whitening.
“You feel it?” he asked, voice shaking. “The very stones sing of a quake, a breath of Vulcan that will choke the sky.” He stared at the ground, as if the earth could speak through the cracks. “When the breath comes, the mighty will fall, and the false will be exposed.”
Marcus swallowed, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old incense that lingered on Varro’s robes. “I am a soldier, not a prophet. My fight is with swords, not with omens.”
Varro’s eyes, deep and hollow, seemed to look past Marcus, into a future hazy with ash. “Your focus blinds you. The scrolls you hide are a thread, but the loom is tearing. Hear the tremor—feel the quake’s rhythm. It is a warning.”
A sudden crack split the air, a dry snap of a branch breaking far off. The wind shifted, carrying a faint metallic clang that sounded like a blade being drawn.
Marcus shifted his weight, the stone beneath his foot shifting ever so slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, heart hammering against his ribs. The grove’s shadows seemed to move, a darker shape sliding between the trunks.
“Why do you speak of fire?” Marcus asked, voice harsher now. “What will it do to us?”
Varro lifted his staff, palm open, and the wind swirled around his fingers, raising a thin veil of dust that glittered like ash. “The breath of Vulcan will rise, and with it the true heirs will be smothered in smoke. The false will try to choke the truth. They will send you—”
A low, guttural howl rose from the trees, not an animal’s but a human sound, a breath caught in a throat. Marcus turned fully, eyes widening as a figure stepped out from behind a trunk: a Praetorian, armor darkened with dust, his gladius hidden but his eyes cold and patient.
The Praetorian’s helmet reflected the dying light, and a faint scar traced the edge of his cheek. He lifted a hand, palm up, as if to take the scrolls.
“Who sent you?” Marcus demanded, hand drifting to the dagger at his belt.
The Praetorian’s lips twitched, a whisper lost to the wind. “Orders from Carus,” he murmured. “He does not want the truth to leave the city.”
Varro’s voice rose, sharp as a knife’s edge. “Hold! Do not be swayed by the false winds!” He thrust his staff forward, a flash of bronze catching the last sun. “The breath of Vulcan—”
The Praetorian lunged, but the ground shivered beneath his boots. A deeper tremor ran through the grove, the earth groaning as if in pain. Dust rose, swirling around his feet, and for a heartbeat the Praetorian staggered, eyes blinking against the sudden haze.
Marcus seized the moment, slipping the scrolls from their hidden nook and tucking them against his chest. “Varro, pull back!” he barked.
Varro’s eyes widened, his augur’s chant rising in a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to sync with the tremor. “Listen! The breath of Vulcan will burn the false, and the ash will reveal the hidden. Run, Marcus, before the flame catches you.”
The Praetorian recovered, sword flashing, but the tremor cracked the stone beneath him, a fissure opening in the path. He hesitated, then turned, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the grove.
Marcus lunged to his feet, heart thundering like a drum. He grabbed Varro’s arm, pulling the old man toward the entrance. “We must leave now.”
Varro stared back at the trembling earth, lips moving in a prayer. “Remember my words, soldier. The breath of Vulcan will rise, and with it the sky will choke. If you survive, carry the truth to those who can hear it.”
A final shudder shook the grove, a low roar that seemed to come from beneath the city itself. Marcus felt the ground pulse beneath his boots, a warning that the mountain was already stirring.
They ran, the grove closing behind them, the wind now carrying the faint scent of sulphur and ash—an eerie promise that the danger they fled was only beginning.