Night of Falling Stars

The sun hung low over the Palatine, a bright disc that should have warmed the marble terraces and the gardens of Livia’s house. Instead a thin, grey veil slipped across the sky, thickening with each breath of wind. The air grew cold, as if a breath from the earth itself had slipped through the heavens.

Livia stood at the edge of the garden, her hand resting on a column of white marble, and watched the clouds swallow the light. The birds that had circled the oak above—sparrows, swifts, a lone raven—suddenly stalled, their wings beating against an unseen pressure. One after another they dropped, a silent rain of feathered corpses, landing on the limestone steps and the freshly trimmed rosemary.

A low, wet thud echoed each impact. The scent of burnt pine and wet feathers rose, mixing with the faint perfume of jasmine that still clung to the hedges. The wind turned sharp, carrying a metallic tang that tingled Livia’s nostrils. She could feel a subtle vibration in the stone beneath her feet, as though the ground were humming.

She bent, fingers brushing the cold surface of a marble statue of Augustus, and lifted a fallen sparrow. Its eyes were wide and glassy, its chest still trembling. The bird’s throat was cracked, a faint black smoke curling from its beak. Livia’s mouth went dry.

“What is this,” she whispered to herself, the words barely audible above the rustle of leaves. “Why would the sky turn to night in the middle of the day?”

She glanced toward the western wall of the palace, where a line of torches flickered weakly against the growing gloom. Below, the city’s streets were already stirring; voices rose in confusion, the clatter of sandals quickening. A distant shout carried up the hill—a guard’s command, “All men to the gates! Keep your doors shut!”—but the sound seemed muffled, swallowed by the oppressive blackness.

A sudden crack split the air, the sound of a stone column splintering under an invisible force. Dust rose, swirling in the thin, soot‑filled wind. Livia felt a chill slide down her spine, an instinctive pull toward the hidden corners of the Forum where she had once watched senators argue. The omen she had always feared—signs from the gods—now wore a different face.

She lifted her gaze, searching the sky for any hint of ordinary storm. Instead, the clouds moved with purpose, forming a thick, uniform sheet that seemed to block more than rain. Somewhere far to the north, a low rumble grew, like a drumbeat in a funeral procession. The birds’ sudden death, the blackened sky, the unnatural stillness—they were not random.

Livia’s mind raced. Carus had been gathering men, whispering of “purging the corrupt” and of “restoring order.” The sign she saw now could not be a simple act of nature; it felt engineered, a weapon cloaked in the language of the gods. She pressed the dead bird to her chest, feeling its cold weight, and a thought settled in her mind like a stone.

The disaster was being used. The darkened heavens were not a warning but a signal—an omen that would rally fear, give Carus a pretext to strike at those he deemed enemies. The very sky had become a tool of political purge.

Livia drew a slow breath, tasting iron and ash, and turned away from the palace’s crumbling silhouette. She knew she could not stay, could not let the darkness find her doors. The safety of her estate, the modest protection of her walls, would soon be a liability. The omen had spoken, and she would have to answer it before the next blade fell.

A cold wind brushed her cheek as she stepped back into the shadowed garden, the black sky hanging heavy above, promising that the night was only beginning.

The stone of the Via Sacra was still warm from the sun, but a cold wind swept through the narrow lanes, carrying a thin scent of ash that smelled like burnt olive wood. Livia pulled the silk scarf tighter around her neck and slipped from the marble steps of the Palatine, her sandals clacking softly on the packed earth. Behind her, the garden’s jasmine whispered against the darkness, but the sound was drowned by the low murmur of a crowd gathering in the streets.

She moved quickly, keeping to the shadow of the portico, eyes flicking from one doorway to the next. Every few meters a ragged shout cracked the air: “Mark it! Mark it with the ash!” Men in rough tunics, the color of fresh dirt, moved in tight rows, their faces hidden beneath the brims of wide hats. Their hands held small ceramic bowls filled with white ash, the powder spilling like ghostly snow onto the thresh of each doorway.

Livia heard a thud as a bucket tipped, the ash hissing as it settled on a wooden door. The thud was followed by a harsh bark, “Carus’ men!” A thug stepped forward, his eyes narrow, and raised a finger as if to point at the next house. He bent, brushed his thumb across the plaster, and left a perfect circle of ash, a silent sign that the household inside was marked for death.

She halted at a narrow archway that led to the market where the scent of baked bread mingled with the iron tang of sweat. A young boy, his hair tangled, scurried past her, dropping a handful of figs. He turned, his eyes wide, and whispered, “Signa, Livia! They’re marking the senatores’ houses!” He slipped away before she could answer.

Livia’s heart hammered against her ribs. The ash fell like snow on each door she passed, and each fresh mark felt like a blade she could not see. She could not afford to stop, yet every step brought her closer to the place she had tried so hard to protect—her own home, the villa she had built after Gaius’ death, the place where the freedwomen gathered to learn reading and arithmetic.

The street widened, opening onto the bustling Forum. The great marble columns of the Basilica Aemilia loomed ahead, their capitals etched with scenes of victory. Above them, the sky was a bruised violet, the clouds moving as if pushed by invisible hands. A low rumble rose from the west, a sound like stone grinding against stone, and the ground trembled just enough to make the marble dust in the air swirl.

A loud crack split the silence, and a piece of a column fell, scattering ash everywhere. From the shattered stone emerged a group of Carus’s thugs, their faces hard as the walls around them. One of them, taller than the rest, raised his voice so that it carried over the clamor of the crowd.

“This is the order of Carus!” he shouted. “Every door marked with ash is a traitor. Burn them all. No mercy!” He thrust a torch toward a nearby shop, and the flame licked the dry wood, sending a plume of black smoke upward.

Livia froze, her eyes snapping to a narrow side street where a door stood ajar, its threshold already dusted with a perfect, circular scar of ash. Her breath caught. It was the door to the inner courtyard of her own house, the one she had entered a moment before the omen arrived. The ash glimmered faintly in the weak light, a silent accusation.

She felt the weight of her cloak buckle as she pressed her hand to the cool stone of the nearby column, feeling the tremor of the earth under her palm. A surge of panic tried to rise, but she swallowed it hard, tasting the metallic iron of her own blood.

“I cannot,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the wind. “They will come for the women, the children—”

A sudden shout from a nearby merchant cut through her thoughts, “Help! Someone get the ash off the doors! They’ll burn us all!” The merchant’s face was flushed, eyes wild with fear, his hands trembling as he scraped the white powder from his own doorway.

Livia saw her reflection in a puddle of rainwater that had collected at the foot of a column—her hair slick, her eyes hard, the scarlet brooch at her throat catching a sliver of dying light. In that moment, an idea formed like a sudden flash of lightning.

She turned abruptly, moving past the thugs who were busy marking the next row of houses. Their swords clanged against their shields, and the sharp scrape of the ash pitted against the stone. Livia slipped into an alley that led behind the market stalls, the scent of dried figs now mixed with the acrid smell of burning wood.

“Marcus!” she called, her voice urgent, but the name fell on empty air. She knew he was in the Basilica, but she could not wait. She needed a way to hide the sign that marked her home, to make the thugs think the house had already been taken.

She crouched beside a stack of overturned crates, feeling the rough wood under her palm. From the side of the alley, a thief—a lean boy with a scar on his cheek—peeked out, eyes darting. He whispered, “You look like you need a hand, lady.”

Livia met his gaze, her own expression a mixture of desperation and resolve. “Take this,” she said, thrusting a small vial of oil she had kept for the night lamps into his palm. “Spread it on the ash. It will turn black, blend with the dust, and hide the circle.”

The boy nodded, understanding the risk. He moved quickly, dabbing the oil onto the white ash, and the powder darkened, the sharp contrast fading into the surrounding grime. Livia watched as the circle disappeared, the mark camouflaged by the new, darker shade.

She felt a surge of relief, but the moment was brief. One of the thugs turned, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the movement in the alley. “Stop them!” he barked, brandishing his gladius.

Livia stepped out of the shadows, her hand hovering over the hilt of the dagger hidden in her belt. “Leave my house unmarked,” she said, voice steady but low, “or I will spill your blood in the street.”

The thug hesitated, the blade trembling in his grip. The crowd behind him shouted, “Leave us alone!” Their voices rose in a chaotic din, the sound of clanging metal, shouting, and the rustle of ash swirling in the angry wind.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, with a grunt, the thug lowered his weapon. He turned, gesturing angrily to his men. “We have other doors!” he shouted, retreating down the street, his boots splashing through a shallow pool of rainwater, the water rippling with ash.

Livia stared after him, her chest still heaving. The alley fell quiet, the only sound the distant crack of another column falling, the faint echo of a woman’s sob from a nearby house, and the ever‑present hiss of ash settling on stone.

She pressed her palm to the cool wall, feeling the tremor of the earth beneath her feet. The decision was made. She would not hide forever. She would burn her own estate, the very place that had given her safety, to erase any trace of her name from Carus’s purge. The fire would mask her movements, give her a chance to gather the others, to lead them through the labyrinth of Rome’s streets, away from the ash‑marked doors.

A sudden clap of thunder rolled over the hills, a low rumble that seemed to shake the very pillars of the Forum. Livia lifted her eyes to the sky, watching the ash swirl like a storm of ghosts. She breathed in the cold, metallic air, feeling the weight of the decision settle on her shoulders like a stone.

She turned, stepping back into the street, her silhouette merging with the crowd. The thugs continued their grim work, marking door after door, unaware that the circle on Livia’s house had been erased. The tension in the air throbbed, each heartbeat a reminder that the city itself was on the brink, and that Livia, with a single radical act, had begun to rewrite the fate that the ash had tried to seal.

The marble columns of the Basilica Aemilia shook, a low groan riding the wind that carried pumice like falling snow. Light filtered through the cracked roof, turning each shard of stone into a trembling ember. The air tasted of hot ash, of iron, of damp stone—every breath a reminder that Rome itself was breaking.

Livia slipped through the opening between two columns, her cloak snapping around her legs. The crowd surged forward, a river of people and panic, while Carus’s thugs fanned the flames that leapt from a nearby vendor’s stall. Smoke curled up, blackening the sky, and the sound of collapsing marble rang like distant thunder.

“Marcus!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the clamor. He turned, his bronze breastplate flashing as he ducked under a falling piece of plaster. His eyes were hard, his face smudged with ash, but a spark of recognition lit them.

“Livia—” he began, but the word was swallowed by a crash as a column gave way, sending a cascade of dust onto the marble floor. He pushed past the falling stone, his hand finding the edge of a broken column and pulling himself upright.

Selene stood near the entrance, her hands still stained with the pigment of the Mosaic of Memory she had been repairing earlier that day. She clutched a small brass lantern; its steady flame flickered, casting shifting colors on the mosaics embedded in the floor—blues, reds, golds that seemed to pulse with the tremor of the earth.

“Quintus!” she called, her voice trembling but fierce. The former gladiator turned, his muscular frame silhouetted against the broken arch. His eyes, scarred but sharp, scanned the chaos, landing on a group of thugs hoisting a torch higher to set another stall ablaze.

“Livia, the estate—” Quintus started, but before he could finish a low rumble shook the columns, and a slab of marble cracked, spraying shards across the aisle. He vaulted over the debris with the practiced grace of a veteran fighter, landing beside Livia as the ground shivered.

“Enough talk,” Livia breathed, her gaze flitting between the crumbling ceiling and the flickering lantern in Selene’s hand. “We have minutes, not hours.”

Marcus stepped forward, his sword already drawn, the metal glinting in the lantern’s light. “The contract is still with us,” he said, the edge of his voice tight. “If we can get it to the Senate before the ash blocks the streets, Carus won’t have the leverage he thinks he holds.”

Selene’s eyes narrowed. “The Mosaic—” she began, glancing down at the floor where the tiny tiles formed a hidden map. “The phoenix is already rising. If we can expose the glyphs, the crowd will see the truth. They’ll stop the thugs long enough for us to flee.”

Quintus raised his massive hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing. “Then we need a diversion. Something big enough to pull their eyes away from the contract and the map.”

Livia’s mind raced. She could feel the weight of the decision pressing against her ribs, as solid as the stone she’d once walked upon. “My villa—” she whispered, almost to herself, “the fire will draw them here. They’ll think I’m dead, and the ash will mask our exit.”

The words seemed to hang in the thick air, a promise and a threat rolled into one. A gust of wind shoved a plume of pumice into the basilica, causing the lantern’s flame to sputter. Selene protected it with her hands, her fingers trembling but steady.

“Are you sure?” Marcus asked, his stare fixed on Livia’s face. “If they suspect a trap—”

“I’m sure,” Livia replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “We cannot let the contract fall into their hands. If they see the fire, they’ll chase the smoke. In that chase, we’ll slip into the Cloaca Maxima through the service tunnels. We have only one chance.”

The thugs nearest to the entrance began to shout, their commands rising over the din. One of them, a scarred man with a copper‑stained axe, pointed a torch toward a marble column that was already cracking.

“Burn it all!” he roared, and the torch hissed as it touched the ancient stone. A burst of flames erupted, sending a wave of heat that rolled across the floor like a living thing.

All four of them moved as one, a frantic choreography forged by desperation. Marcus sprinted toward the vaulted hallway where the secret parchments were hidden, his boots splashing through a thin puddle of ash‑mixed water. Selene slipped past a fallen statue, clutching the brass lantern tighter, its light now painting the mosaics with a frantic, almost frantic, urgency.

Quintus grabbed a large marble slab, hefting it with effort, and hurled it toward the thugs, the slab crashing down on the wooden stalls and creating a wall of debris that momentarily shielded the group. The thugs shouted, their swords clanging against stone, but their focus shifted to the newly created obstacle.

Livia, meanwhile, turned toward the street that led to her villa. She slipped through a narrow colonnade, the heat of the flames licking at her heels. A sudden gust blew a plume of ash into her face; she pressed her hand to her eyes, inhaling the gritty dust that stung her throat. She could hear the distant crack of another column, the sound reverberating like a heartbeat.

She reached the outer wall of the Basilica, where a concealed wooden door led to a service passage. Its hinges squeaked as she pushed it open, revealing a dark, narrow stair descending into the Cloaca Maxima. The smell of damp earth rose up, cooler than the scorching air above.

“Come!” she called, voice echoing down the stone steps.

Marcus burst into the doorway, his cloak trailing ash, the stolen contract clutched in his hand. He cast a quick glance back at the basilica, where the flames were now licking the marble columns, a red-orange river flowing through the ruins.

Selene followed, the lantern’s flame now a steady glow, the Mosaic of Memory’s hidden symbols flashing briefly in the lantern’s light. She whispered under her breath a sequence of words, her accent thick with Syrian cadence, as if reciting a prayer: “Aquila, rise, from ash to sky.”

Quintus, the last to enter, swung his massive shield to block a falling beam, then lunged forward, his massive frame barely fitting through the low doorway. He grunted, his voice deep and resonant: “We will not be stopped.”

The four slipped into the darkness, the noise of the basilica fading behind them like a dying echo. The tunnel walls were wet, slick with a mixture of rainwater and volcanic mud, and the air grew cooler, a thin veil of steam rising where the heat met the cold stone.

As they descended, the tremor under their feet intensified. A low rumble rolled through the tunnel, shaking loose a spray of hot ash that rained like fine sand onto their heads. Marcus staggered, coughing, but managed to shield the parchment with his forearm.

“Stay close,” Livia ordered, her voice a whisper against the grinding stone. “The fire will reach my villa soon. We have to be out before the blaze spreads to the tunnels.”

At the far end of the passage, a narrow opening led to a hidden courtyard behind the Palatine gardens. The sky above was a swirl of black clouds and orange fire, the silhouette of Rome outlined in ash. In the distance, the roof of Livia’s estate caught fire, a bright red tongue licking the night, sending up a column of black smoke that billowed like a giant hand.

Livia turned, eyes hard, tears glinting but unshed. “Watch the sky,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. “When the phoenix rises, we move.”

The group paused, the furnace of the basilica now a distant roar, the weight of their actions settling like ash on their shoulders. The scene was still chaotic—flames crackling, stones falling, throats shouting—yet in the darkness of the tunnel, a fragile thread of hope pulsed: the contract safe, the Mosaic’s secret map alive, and their own lives a chance to survive the inferno they had set ablaze.