Casca Petronius Paul from Ottawa, 71175,3401 The Field of Mars was full of haunted people. Normally, the Field was Nero's private playground - his bathhouse was here, so was his private lake. But the fire had left behind a human tide caught between the shock of loss and the astonishment of life. The fire had burned for five days, then burned for another three after re-igniting. It has started over by the Circus Maximus, and it - along with much of what once stood Aventine, Esquiline and Capitoline - had been destroyed. Three of the city's 14 divisions had been utterly destroyed, another seven were close to destroyed. Miraculously, the Forum and the Capitol had both been spared by a quirk of flame. Casca Petronius looked around him in the Field. The whole area was beautifully landscaped with lawns, bath-houses, temples, colonnades and the afore-mentioned artificial lake, as well as the famous Pantheon. The Field of Mars was also home to Augustus's domed mausoleum and a stolen Egyptian obelisk that served as a giant sundial. Soldiers were everywhere, trying to control the looting and to keep the supply of grain moving through the city. Grain was usually distributed free to a third of the Roman citizenry, even though a healthy proportion of those demanding free grain clearly didn't need it. About 150,000 people in the city of Rome were on the granary dole, and more were added to the rolls every time an insurrection looked to be brewing. And any delay at all in the free grain was cause for riot. Casca shook his head as he passed out bread rolls. The stupid soldiers hadn't realized that with the mills gone, raw grain was just about useless. A man in his 40s happily took his loaf. "I heard Nero started it. He was up on his roof playing his lyre, composing poetry as his city burned." Casca shrugged. "I heard he was in Antium, but that he was rushing back today. Who knows, though, with Nero any depravity is possible." A woman in her 20s, next in line, shrieked, "I'll tell you who did it! It was the Christians! Read their propaganda! Read about that fiery end of the world they keep promising! These cults keep washing up in Rome, they've a danger, I tell you! Look what happens! Casca shuddered. Despite being one of Rome's richest citizens, it was also a fairly open secret that Casca was also a Christian, and that much of his wealth supported that very cult. Casca had been born in Palestine, son of a Roman administrator and a Jewish woman who had been converted after watching a Zealot named Joshua bar-Joseph get crucified. Casca was only six years old at the time, but he remembered the excitement as rumour spread that Joshua rose from the dead three days later. Casca had never really given his mother's religion much thought. He grew up paying ritual devotion to the dry Roman gods, earning some renown as a chariot racer. Those had been glory days - woman, wine and fame were his. Much of the income he made went into shrewd investments, and Casca soon built enough of an empire to leave the circus. But when Peter and Paul arrived in Rome, Casca became intrigued. Paul had come first, full of a radical vision that eschewed traditional Jewish practices. What he had in mind was not a Jewish sect that was devoted to Jesus Christ, as Joshua bar- Joseph was known in Greek, but an entirely new religion. Ironically, as Casca found himself drawn into Christian circles, he also found himself drawn to the traditionalists, the ones who insisted on keeping kosher and on circumcision. Casca shuddered again. That had hurt. The memory pulled Casca out of his reverie. The two refugees were still arguing. "Nero has wanted to leave his mark on Rome for some time," the older man was insisting. "I'll bet he has plans for his Neropolis in place already." The woman snorted. "How can you defend these Christian cannibals. They practise incest, you know?" "Nonsense," Casca finally interjected. "Lies." The woman snarled. "Well, the Senate must agree. A decree was just read from its steps calling for the arrest of the Christian leadership." Casca's mouth dropped open. He'd need to warn them. Paul had been under house arrest due to some complicated religious dispute back in Jerusalem. Peter and the others gravitated around him across the Tiber River. Casca would have to leave right away. He left the food bank to the others and wound his way through the ruins of Rome. It was no wonder most of the city was a smoking ruin today. The poor had been stuffed into shoddy tenements that occupied a full block and often rose to such insane heights as six stories. Casca passed tenement ruin after tenement ruin. He cut through the blackened timbers of one such building, utterly unaware of the assassin who followed his steps. The daggerman was one of the private army of thugs at the hire of any nobleman with a grudge to bear and enough money to pay to have it taken care of. Senator Marcus Aurelius Quintus was one such man. Quintus had a fortune of his own, operated by Greek slaves with an aptitude for commerce. It would, of course, have been unseemly for a real Roman noble to conduct business in his own name. It would have been just as unseemly for a noble to kill a rival after having been outsmarted over silks from Parthia. The sicarius stepped behind Casca. The rich Christian stopped. The footsteps were too close behind him. His suspicions were piqued just a second too late. The assassin had grabbed Casca, a knife at his throat. Casca could hear his hard voice in his ear, smell the man's awful breath. Casca's heart pounded, but his muscles were frozen. It all happened so fast. "This is from Marcus Aurelius Quintus." Casca felt the knife slice open his throat. There was no pain. Shock. The killer let Casca fall to the ground, amid the ash of Rome. Casca saw the warm blood spread over his tunic, felt its stickiness in his hands. He watched himself bleed until the loss of blood to his brain finally pulled Casca into unconsciousness. But at least Joshua bar-Joseph would be waiting for him. In a far, far better place than Rome. At the first news that Rome was in flames, and that they were already approaching his Domus Transitoria, Nero hurried back from Antium. Now indeed he had a sensation to his heart's content. At first he was shocked by the magnitude of a catastrophe more overwhelming than had ever before happened to Rome or any other city. He mounted the tower of Mæcenas, and gazed for hours upon the scene -- thrilling with excitement which was not without its delicious elements. Safe himself, he was looking down on a storm of tempestuous agony, which he could regard in the light of a spectacle. He was accustomed to gaze unmoved on human pangs in the bloody realism of the amphitheatre, and to see slave after slave flung to the lions, with their arms bound in chains concealed with flowers. But what scene of the circus, when the gilded chariots were reduced to a crashing wreck of collisions, in which the horses kicked one another and their charioteers to death -- what gladiatorial massacre, filling the air with the reek of blood, was for a moment comparable to the sight of Rome in flames? The sublime horror of the moment stimulated in him all the genius of melodrama and artificial epic. Surrounded by his parasites, he compared Rome, now to a virgin whom the tigers of flame devoured, now to a gladiator wrestling with troops of lions in the arena. He was lost in admiration of the beauty of the fire. Now he called it a splendid rose, with petals of crimson; now a diadem of flaming and radiating gold; now again an enormous hydra with smoky pinions and tongue of flickering gleam. He wrote many a quaint and fantastic phrase in the notebooks which were crowded with his much-lined commonplaces of poetic imagery! Here were the materials for many future poems before him. He could, for instance, write an Ode on Tartarus -- its horrible spaces of silent anguish, its black vapours, its brazen gates, and iron pillars, its ghosts and demons gibbering and shrieking in the shade, its torments and its Pyriphlegethon with cataracts of blood and fire. He felt sure that after these incitements of emotion and infusions of realism, his poem on the Burning of Troy would be immortal, since it could not fail to catch from such a scene a tinge of voluptuous sublimity! -from "Darkness and Dawn", by F. W. Farrar ................................................................................................................... ....... Summer, 64 A.D. Rome In these dangerous times, there are many ways you imagined you might die. You survived the dangerous chariot races of your youth, but the fire that claimed so many lives could easily have claimed you. You were enormously lucky that neither your estate nor your person was touched by the flames that are still consuming some neighborhoods in Rome. Unrest was increasing even before this blaze, and the rumors that Nero himself may have set the fire, while not wholly impossible, were making you nervous because even a mad Emperor like Nero is better than anarchy and civil war. Not much better, but at least some order prevails as long as there is someone nominally in charge. Nero himself could prove to be your greatest threat; anti-Christian propoganda fills the Senate. the nonsense spread by the ignorant and the malicious....tales of cannabilism and human sacrifice. Indeed, you were hoping that you could save Peter and Paul from their imminent arrest, perhaps help them escape to the country, where you may well take refuge yourself until things cool down. But having your throat slit open like a slaughtered pig, in a smoldering slum tenament building, was not how you expected to die. Marcus Aurelius Quintus...that was the name the assassin gave you, before murdering you. Typical of Quintus...he would want to make sure you knew who had you killed. A petty, vengeful man who can never be satisfied until everyone who has ever crossed him, in even the smallest way, can be made to suffer immeasurably for it. Your death was not nearly as surprising as your resurrection. But you can think of no other word for it. You sit up amidst the blackened foundation of the building you were passing through, in the slum quarter. (STUPID to walk alone in such a district, you chide yourself, you practically begged an opportunity to be assassinated- if concern for the messengers of Joshua bar-Joseph had not preoccupied you, you'd never have been so careless.) And you feel quite alive. A tentative hand to your throat finds no wound, the skin is whole. Yet blood still stains the front of your tunic; it's mostly dry now. Peter and Paul said that Joshua bar-Joseph promised eternal life. But surely not like this? <><><><><> Casca Petronius runs his hand over his neck and throat. At first he doubts his own memories, wonders if perhaps he had succumbed to the smoke, if perhaps he had dreamed it all. But the blood down his tunic belies this. Warily, he stands. Warily, he breaths in the charred air of Rome. Warily, he steps forward. He is alive. A living man that stands and breathes and walks. There had been talk ... wild talk ... that the fire was the end of the world, that Joshua bar-Joseph, whom the Greeks call Jesus Christ, was coming back to the world on the flames of apocalypse to deliver his chosen back to their promised land. Casca chuckles. He was one of the chosen. He had shared in the resurrection, he had been returned to judgement day, when the enemies are smitten and the righteous rewarded. And Casca's delight fades. This Roman, this businessman, this Christian ... is no saint. Wine, woman and song ... yes, he has indulged in them all and surely, if righteous men are to be rewarded, Casca Petronius ought not to be among them. He forces his feet forward. His estate on the Esquline is probably gone now, but he has to check. It is a long walk. The streets are full of the dead and dying and of those who wish they were. Casca keeps his mind blank, afraid of conclusions he wishes not to draw. <><><><><> [GM] The devastation is terrible. Many of Rome's rickety tenement buildings were deathtraps before the fire...weekly, you heard of a slum apartment dwelling collapsing of its own weight, or bursting into flames and killing all trapped within before the vigiles could contain the spread of the blaze...if they did, rather than simply letting it burn itself out. Cheap construction condemned hundreds of Rome's most destitute citizens to a pitiful demise before this calamity. Now you shudder at the thought of how many thousands of screaming, helpless poor people, slaves and freemen, must have been trapped in neighborhoods set ablaze, roasted alive in homes that became mass funeral pyres. May God have mercy on them all. The center of the city has been gutted. The shrines to many of the pagan gods, the grand Temple to Jupiter, the Palatine....all are gone. Centuries of glory wiped out in a few days. The fire reached the shores of the Tiber river, and turned back, to sweep through the inner districts again. As you pass through smoldering neighborhoods en route to your upscale district, you find yourself forced to take shelter several times in the blackened ruins of a shop or apartment much like the one in which you were caught and assassinated, as wandering mobs of looters are still moving about grabbing what can be grabbed. It was worse immediately after the blaze began to die down, before the Guard could be mobilized. Throngs of angry and desperate rioters flooded the streets and did nearly as much damage in some neighborhoods as the fire had, and some of your colleagues' estates, untouched by fire, were sacked by looters. When Nero returned to the city, he sent out the Praetorian Guard to quell these disturbances, and things are beginning to get back under control, but it seems Nero took long enough before acting...and the Guard can't be everywhere, and usually isn't in poor neighborhoods such as these, where the residents are people of little consequence. But arriving finally at the Equitas, you walk along it until your estate is in sight. Miraculously, the fire seems not to have reached it. There is, however, a detachment of Praetorian Guards standing outside your home. <><><><><> Casca stops and watches. His mind, relieved for a puzzle more mundane, works over the possibilities. In all liklihood, they are here to protect his home. Of course, they could also be here to execute the order to capture Christians. For a moment, Casca wonders whether a resurrected man can be killed again? There is no use tempting fate. None at all. He turns away and walks around the perimeter of his estate, using whatever cover he can to survey activity within. His slaves, mostly Greeks and Nubians, would under normal circumstances be tending to various matters. In the chaos of this holocaust, it would be easy for a man to slip away. Casca had a ranch in Syria -- raised Arabians for transport to Rome. Syria was far away. A good place to hide. But he needed money first. And the Praetorians were between Casca and his fluid assets. But soon, he'll be able to attract the attention of a slave. <><><><><> [GM] From the alert, somewhat tense demeanor of the guardsmen, and the equally tense demeanor of what slaves you can see, your instincts tell you that perhaps hiding was the best course. If they were merely surrounding your mansion to protect against looters, they might be expected to be more relaxed. No mobs are in sight, and the fire apparently never even came too close to this neighborhood. The first slave to come near your hiding place, behind a fountain ringed with olive trees, is one of your groundskeepers. Zeno, a not particularly bright fellow. You're surprised you remember his name, actually; he's one of your many slaves on the estate with whom you've had the least personal contact. He's leaving your mansion. A soldier, full of pomp and self-importance, steps in his way and loudly demands his business, which strikes you as absurd; what does the soldier hope to gain by impeding slaves who are *leaving* your residence, on whatever business? The fellow is obviously bored. Zeno mumbles something which seems to satisfy the guardsman; he steps aside and waves the poor slave past with a contemptuous gesture. Zeno wipes his nose on the short sleeve of his tunic, and walks down the street, with an ambling pace. He'll come near you, but at a point within sight of the soldiers; depending on which way he turns past the next mansion over, you may or may not be able to follow him without stepping into their line of sight. <><><><><> If possible ... Casca will follow Zeno until he is out of the soldiers' field of vision, or at least further from it. He'll then speak only as loudly as neccessary to catch the man's attention. Otherwise, if he can't follow, he'll risk calling to him from where he is. <><><><><> [GM] Zeno dawdles his way down the street, fortunately taking the turn that will bring him out of the soldiers' line of sight. You follow a reasonably safe distance, then whisper, "Zeno." The man doesn't hear you. Louder, "Zeno!" Lost in his own world, the slave keeps shuffling along, clearly paying little attention to what's going on around him, simply intent on wherever it is he's heading, even as he enters a neighborhood much like the one you just emerged from, and with similar dangers. Finally, when you're about ready to simply run up and grab him by the shoulders, you say "Zeno!" in a voice slightly raised from a whisper, and the groundskeeper stops with a jerk and looks up. Then, finally, he thinks to look around for the source of his name, and spots you still hovering near a wall, a few paces from him, ready to slip back into a side street. He blinks, then his eyes widen as he looks you up and down, simultaneously recognizing you and spotting the blood and dirt and smoke on your tunic. You must be quite a sight, you realize. "M-m-m-master!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here?" <><><><><> "Shut up, Zeno," snaps Casca. "Come over here." The pair step back to a secluded area, or as secluded as things get, anyway. "I need you to do something for me. In my room there is a small box under a false floor where the hypocaust is. If you feel around, you'll notice a circular depression in the floor." Casca wipes his brow. This is looking less and less promising by the moment. "Press down on the depression and a section of the floor will pop open, revealing the hypocaust. There is a small box in there. It's full of gold coins, so it'll be heavy, even though it's small. I need you to smuggle that box out for me. Bring one of the carriages up by the house and just drop it out the window, then cover it up." Another problem. Carriage traffic is forbidden in daylight. He'll have to hide somewhere until nightfall. "I'll meet you at the Temple of Venus. Come no matter what, even if you hear that I'm dead. If you don't hear from me within 30 days, declare me dead. Give what I have to the victims of the fire." Casca tears off his bloody tunic. "Give me your tunic. I could probably get away with looking so badly in light of recent events, but why attract attention." <><><><><> [GM] Zeno's eyes widen. "Gold coins?" is the only thing he repeats as you recite the directions, but he nods, licking his lips, concentrating to remember everything you tell him. You hope he'll remember it all, anyways. You really wish one of your brighter slaves had been sent on whatever errand brought Zeno out into the city. "The Temple of Venus. It hasn't been burned?" he asks. Then he stares blankly at you for a moment when you demand his toga, then finally says "Oh. Yes, yes of course, master," and strips off his to exchange with you. Once you've finished dressing, he looks a bit uncertain (or rather, moreso than before.) "I was to go see whether we can stock up on non- perishable food items," he says. "Marrus [your steward] is worried that supplies might not continue to flow freely for a while. Should I still go?" <><><><><> The Romans heated their homes with furnaces underneath. The heat collected in an empty space called a hypocaust. Casca nods. "Yes, go. There's not much to be done before sunset, in any event." A pensive worry occurs to the wealthy Christian. "Let me come with you." <><><><><> [GM] "Come with me?" Zeno repeats, dully. Then, "Umm, well, yes, ah, if you wish...." he stops himself. Of course, if you wish, it's not as if he has anything to say about it. Nervously, he begins walking with you towards the marketplace. Through streets that, if not burned, have been littered with the aftermath of looting, you make your way to one of the upscale open-air markets where the servants of the wealthy do their shopping for large estates similar to yours. Normally, there would be all manner of luxuries, from bolts of fabric originating in Persia or even farther away to rare food delicacies. Now, while the market is open despite the recent cataclysm, pickings are slim indeed. There is some milled flour, a luxury not available to the unemployed and homeless masses (whose number is vastly swelled now), and other staples, but you also notice that there is a contingent of soldiers patrolling the perimeter of the marketplace and overseeing purchases, something not normally seen. It also seems they are imposing rationing....even the wealthy are not being permitted to hoard, which makes sense, because even at the doubtless inflated prices, someone as rich as you could probably buy up entire warehouses, and some men would do just that, either out of selfishness and panic, or worse, greed. Zeno, no more intimidated than usual by the sight of soldiers, continues walking towards the square. <><><><><> A lick of tension teases Casca. "I'll stay back here. Do your business and meet me back here." <><><><><> [GM] Zeno looks at you again, no doubt thoroughly confused by his master's odd behavior. "Yes, master," he says, and continues into the market. He spends about an hour, by which time your sense of anxiety has only increased. It seems that the soldiers are watching him, but they're watching everyone, and surely Zeno can't have attracted their attention. Well, there is the matter of your bloody tunic, which he's now wearing. But it's probably your own nerves. Being murdered can make a man rather paranoid. Zeno comes shuffling back towards your hiding place, laden with a couple of sacks. It's surely your imagination that one of the soldiers is eying his progress. <><><><><> Casca shivers. "Come on. Let's go. Quickly." <><><><><> [GM] Zeno nods. "Yes master." He looks at you the way one might look at a man one suspects has gone mad. You walk back the way you came, listening for footsteps behind you, but you don't hear any. Zeno is silent for most of the way, then when turning onto the street where your mansion sits, he says abruptly, "They said in the marketplace that Peter and Paul are to be executed. Peter is going to be crucified tomorrow." Though never spoken of, at least in your hearing, you have no doubt that if much of Rome knows of your secret Christian sympathies, your servants can hardly be unaware of the small, furtive groups you've admitted into your home late at night, or of the donations you've made. <><><><><> Casca stops. Peter is going to be crucified. Publically. Except, of course, he won't die. If *Casca* could survive death, if Casca could achieve the blessing of eternal life, then surely Peter's execution will nothing less than the platform by which Joshua bar Joseph returns to cast Rome down to hell. "Zeno, why are those men watching our home?" [I'm going to presume the following to speed things along. Feel free to void this.] Zeno frowned. This all should have been obvious. Even to him. "They wish to arrest you, master." Casca nodded. "Very well. You are my cock, Zeno. You have crowed, not three times, but once. I will not deny what I am. I will not deny the gift that God has given me. I will not shirk my duty to spread the Good News in these end times." He takes back his bloodied tunic and steps forward to the nearest soldier. "I am Casca Petronius Quintus. Who are you?" Casca's voice booms with the full power of his birth. His status, his hours of studying the rhetoric of Rome's masterful lawyers, all come to the fore now. <><><><><> [GM] Zeno's brow wrinkles. "Your cock....what crowing?" Then his eyes widen as you march straight to the nearest Legionnaire. The soldier's head snaps up and he instinctively assumes a more military posture as you address him, from the casual slouch he was standing in. "Casca Petronius Quintus?" He blinks. "I am Lucius Claudius Marco. By order of Emperor Nero, I am to place you under arrest." Then he looks around, a little less confidently. "Umm, I should probably let our captain do that, actually." He yells to his nearest companion, and a higher-ranking officer comes trotting around the building shortly, holding a sword and a scrap of parchment. He looks at you with cold severity. "Casca Petronius Quintus, you are hereby under arrest. You will come with us." And with that, they tie your hands behind your back and march you through the city streets, like a common criminal, until they reach one of Rome's several overflowing prisons, perpetually crowded as long as Nero has been on the throne. "Here you can join the rest of your cultists!" says the captain, and shoves you into a damp, smelly cell built to hold ten men. It looks like about forty are here, and you do recognize some of them, fellow Christians. Despair shows in some of their faces, while others merely look at their jailers and smile serenely. <><><><><> [A word of Roman naming conventions. I believe only the mucky-mucks have triple-barrelled names.] On the way to being arrested ... Casca whispers, "We do not die, Lucius Claudius Marco. I shall return and I shall offer you your own salvation." On being arrested ... Casca smiles at the gathered men and women. "Do not despair, fellow Christians. This is the day of our salvation, of our final judgement. Those of us who have held to the faith, who hold on to that faith until th every end, shall be rewarded with eternal life." He raises his hands. "I know this. I myself had my throat sliced by a sicarius. See my tunic? This is my blood. Yet, this is my body." Casca suddenly becomes aware of his accidental reference to the Eucharist, and take a different direction. "I have been killed once, yet still I stand. The men and women of God have life everlasting at their fingertips, if only they believe. Remember Peter. Remember the story he tells of walking on water. It was his lack of faith that sank his feet beneath the waves. Have *faith*, my brothers and sisters, and you shall live forever!" <><><><><> [GM] Your fellow Christians look at you with a mixture of pity, awe, and puzzlement. A soldier outside the barred doors of the cell laughs. "Oh, really?" he asks, and draws his sword. "I've heard a lot of strange stories about what you Christians believe, but I'd like to test this 'coming back from the dead theory' myself. I'll tell you what- you hold still while I run you through with my sword, and if you get back up again, *I'll* convert!" His companions all chuckle. <><><><><> There is, for a moment, a flicker of doubt. What if ...? No, Casca stands. Casca breaths. That is all the proof he needs of Divine grace. He brings himself flush against the bars. "And naturally, a convert will release us. Does this seem a fair bargain to you? If so, might I suggest pushing your gladius up this way." He sticks his thumb up under the left side of his rib cage. "If my anatomy lessons hold, there are some particularly important organs in this vicinity. It would be a shame if there were any doubt as to my death, no?" Despite his outward calm, Casca's heavy breathing pushes him back and forth against the bars, ever so slightly. He holds the bars tight now as his hands begin to tremble. Faith. Faith. Faith. <><><><><> [GM] The legionnaire stares at you in amazement, still clutching his sword. The other soldiers stop laughing. Then he shakes his head. "By the Gods, you Christians really are insane! No wonder you've been declared outlaws. Nothing's more dangerous than a bunch of wild-eyed religious fanatics." He sheaths his sword in disgust, angry that you called his bluff and spoiled the joke. "I'd be happy to run you through, but you're all to be held for questioning, so we can root out the rest of your cult. Don't worry, though, I'm sure Nero will grant you your wish soon enough." He turns away and goes back to rolling dice with his comrades. One of the other Christians approaches you and whispers "That was wonderful, brother! The wicked cannot bear the sight of a righteous man. May your courage give us all strength!" <><><><><> Casca exhales and briefly shuts his eyes. He barely hears the other man. The soldier has his dice to toss. So does Casca. Once again, he grips the bars. He swallows hard. He voice is not loud. It is uncanny slow, in fact. "So unlike a true Roman to walk away from a bargain. Even the sneakiest Greek keeps his end. Yours is a lost soul. A lost soul that also happens to have the keys. Kill me, soldier. And when I live, give your soul to God. And the keys to me. A simply bargain, weighed so heavily in your favor. Besides, I do think I'm trying to escape, don't you, you walking sack of dog excrement?" For effect, Casca shakes the bars. <><><><><> [GM] The soldier stands and stalks back to your cell. He swings his sword angrily against the bars...smashing the flat of the blade against your fingers. While you involuntarily cry out and jerk your hands back, with stinging, possibly broken fingers on one, he snarls "Listen, you addled lunatic, I'd be happy to carve out your guts if that's what you really want, but you're not only a Christian, you're probably the richest Christian in Rome. The Præfect, Tigellinus, gave specific orders that Casca Petronius was to be held for him to question you *personally*, along with the other ringleaders of your demon-worshipping cult. So trying to escape or not, I don't dare kill you. But when Tigellinus is done with you, you'll be begging to die, be sure of that." He points his gladius at another of your cell-mates, a cowering young woman. "But, if you Christians can really come back from the dead, one of you should be as good as any other, right? If you keep bothering me with your ravings, I'll kill her. Are you as eager to volunteer this girl as you are yourself?" <><><><><> Casca pulls back his fingers and instinctively sticks a knuckle in his mouth. He considers the soldier's suggestion. For a moment, doubt niggles at him. But what could this be except the Grace of God. Could this grace be his alone? No, it cannot be. Faith. "Take her and see for yourself." <><><><><> [GM] The girl's eyes go wide, and she shrinks back against the men behind you, whose faces also reflect shock. "Brother, what are you doing?" one of the other Christians says. "We do not offer one another up as sacrifices for some sort of unholy bargain with our keepers!" The soldier shakes his head, disgusted. "If that's what it takes to shut you up-" he opens the cell door. The girl quivers in terror. "No, please!" she exclaims. "I believe in the Son, but I do not want to die!" "Life's rough," the soldier says. "And short. Bring her out." A couple other soldiers move into the cell, heading for the woman and shouldering their way past the other Christians. The first soldier, with the cell bars still between you, looks at you with contempt and, perhaps, a little pity. "In truth, I'm probably doing her a favor," he says. "Her death will be quicker than yours. But if you're willing to renounce this nonsense about rising from the dead, and admit your religion is a bunch of superstitious crap, I'll spare her." The girl, moaning and pleading, is dragged out of the cell, while your fellow Christians murmur and mutter imprecations. One steps forward. "Soldier," he says. "Our brother is misguided, perhaps, but true in his faith. You cannot ask a Christian to renounce his faith, it would be a thousand times worse than asking you to renounce your vows as a Roman soldier. But if you spare Cleto, I will make sure our brother does not disturb you any more. Isn't that right, *Brother*?" His hand falls heavily on your shoulder, with a strong, almost painful grip. "And," he adds, "if that will not move you, then I beg you to let me serve as the demonstration you desire instead." <><><><><> Doubt ... Doubt niggles at Casca. If one of them dies, they'll come back. He knows that. But what if ... Then again, what is to be served by forcing the issue this way? Why tip our hands? Wouldn't be so much more effective for them to watch us all rise ... en masse ... from the dead? What a shock that would be to Rome. A sense of showmanship, that's what was needed. Casca pulled away from the bars. "At ease, soldier. We're just having some fun at your expense." <><><><><> [GM] The soldier looks at you in amazement. "Fun? This is some kind of joke? Are you a madman or just a fool?" He seizes the unfortunate woman by the hair, and swings her around, slamming her face-first into the bars of your cell. Blood spatters against you from her shattered nose and the split skin of her forehead and chin. Holding her head against the bars, he snarls at you, "I find your sense of humor not at all amusing!" while she screams in pain and shock. The man who grabbed your shoulder moves forward, towards the woman, but the soldier jabs the point of his gladius through the bars, at the large man's stomach, and he quick-steps back away from the thrusting weapon. The girl begins mumbling something that might be a prayer, if it could be heard coherently through her broken lips mashed against the metal bars. "Funny, she's not laughing either!" the soldier continues. And pressing his blade against the side of her head, he pushes down...severing her ear, messily. Her frantic prayers become louder and more hysterical, until they dissolve into blubbering wails. Her ear drips down onto her shoulder, and lays there for a moment, glistening and wet. Blood pours down her neck and soaks into her clothing, and runs in little rivulets down the cell bars. The soldier lets go of her, and she clutches the bars, holds onto them as she sinks to her knees, her hands sliding down the blood-slicked metal, and her ear falls off her shoulder and lands with a moist little splat on the filthy floor, in the puddle of blood that's forming. She stays leaning forward against the bars, eyes clenched shut, sobbing and breathing in wheezing gasps. The soldier shakes his sword, idly flicking droplets of blood from it. "If you can come back from the dead, surely such a trivial miracle as reattaching an ear should be trivial. No? Well." He nods at the other two soldiers, and they grab the maimed girl, lift her to her feet and toss her back into the cell, where your fellow prisoners catch her and pull her back into a far corner. The soldier locks eyes with you. "I don't want to hear any more religious horses*** from you. Keep your delirius babble to yourself." Before turning away, he looks down at the floor and says, "Don't forget this." With a sneer, he scuffs the severed ear against the floor with the toe of his sandal, and kicks it between the bars, into the cell. <><><><><> Casca retreats against the stone prison wall, horrified. The sight of all that blood has made his uneasy and a little nauseated. "Sister, for- forgive me." He slides down the wall, and curls up. "But ..." and he whispers now "... God has favoured us. You must believe that. He has favoured us and we will not die." But he is not as confident as he sounds. And he doesn't even sound all that confident. <><><><><> [GM] The woman sobs as some of the other men and women tear strips from their clothing to staunch the bleeding. Someone- the big man who grabbed you by the shoulder- approaches, and kneels next to you. "Of course we will not die," he says gently. "God has promised us life eternal. But we must endure the trials of this world before we join the Son of God in the next." "I'm not sure what you intended there, brother. But I do not think it is in the teachings of Joshua bar-Joseph that we should goad our jailors to kill fellow Christians to demonstrate God's will. If martyrs we must be, then martyrs we shall be, but let us not throw our lives away recklessly." He holds out his hand, offering to help you up. "My name is Brianus." <><><><><> Casca stands unsteadily, rubbing his face and temples, "Ave, Brianus. I ... it is so complicated. You are right, of course, but in the time of judgement, the dead shall live again. A firey apocalyspe. That time must be now. It has ... it is happened to me." He kneels down beside the battered woman. "Please forgive me, sister. I was weak and did not know what ... but I am convinced ... perhaps I have lost what mind I have, perhaps I am raving like those false messiahs we see every day, but I am convinced that the final days are upon us and that, had he killed you, you would stand again." He stands again and turns to Brianus. "Break my neck." As Brianus considers, or perhaps is too stunned to respond either way, Casca recoils. "No! Don't!" He slumps back against the wall. "What has happened?" <><><><><> [GM] Brianus and everyone else look at you in shock. "Please, brother," Brianus says. "Perhaps these are the days of the last judgment, but we are not to precipitate them. We shall wait for God's will to manifest." You hear someone whisper "Poor man....he's gone mad." <><><><><> And perhaps he has, thinks Casca. Perhaps he has. Maybe it's the religion after all. Maybe it's the stress or the fire. Maybe it was the loss of blood. An alternate, terrifying theory forms itself in Casca's mind. Perhaps he was maddened by loss of blood. Or perhaps one of the other humours. Perhaps he was not dead at all. Never was. At least not yet. Casca's heart begins to thump. He has made a titanic error. A foolish, titanic error. And it's going to cost him his life. Casca quitely begins to sob. <><><><><> [GM] [From "The Tragedy of Nero", written circa 1624, author unknown] ---------------------------------------------------------------- (Scene 3) Enter Tigellinus Solus What multitude of villaines are here gotten In a conspiracy, which Hydra like Still in the cutting off increaseth more. The more we take the more are still appeachet And every man brings in new company. I wonder what we shall doe with them all! The prisons cannot hold more then they have, The Iayles are full, the holes with Gallants stincke; Strawe and gold lace together live, I thinke. 'Twere best even shut the gates oth' Citie up And make it all one Iayle; for this I am sure, There's not an honest man within the walles. And, though the guilty doth exceed the free, Yet through a base and fatall cowardise They all assist in taking one another And by their owne hands are to prison led. There's no condition nor degree of men But here are met; men of the sword and gowne, Plebeians, Senators, and women too; Ladies that might have slaine him with their eye Would use their hands; Philosophers And Politicians. Politicians? Their plot was laid too short. Poets would now Not only write but be the arguments Of Tragedies. The Emperour's much pleased: But some have named Seneca; and I Will have Petronius. One promise of pardon Or feare of torture will accusers find. [Exit.] .......... The other prisoners try to comfort you, as they comfort all those whose courage wavers. You feel even more miserable, seeing the calm, even joyful acceptance with which many of your brethren await their fate. Brianus seems not to be eager for whatever your jailors have in mind, but he has a resignation about him...if he must die in the Son's name, he will do so without complaint. That doesn't stop a tremor from going through the entire inmate population as the outer door rattles, and then the stairs echo with many footsteps. Swaggering into the fetid, dark aisles between cells comes a procession of Roman soldiers, this time high-born officers. And at their head is a man whom you have seen only once or twice before, but you instantly recognize- Nero has many depraved and evil men in his inner circle, but few are closer, or more depraved and evil, than his Præfect, Tigellinus. <><><><><> Casca stands, saying nothing, but remains against the wall. He feels as though he is sliding down a hill ... nothing can intervene until he reaches bottom. <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus comes directly to your cell, and leers at you and your fellow inmates. "Casca Petronius....can it really be? One of Rome's leading citizens, an upstanding merchant, secretly aligned with a cult of doomsayers and cannibals?" His smile is like that of a bully who's trapped a smaller child in a dead-end alley. "Tell me it's not true, there's some mistake. You aren't really a Christian, are you?" <><><><><> Casca sighs. Peter had been asked this once. Do you know him? Peter had been asked three times. Casca didn't want to go through this three times. "It was the worst-kept secret in Rome. I am indeed what I am." <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinius' expression is malevolent and triumphant as he clucks and shakes his head. "Shocking, truly shocking. I am afraid there is very little hope for you, then. But you can make things a little easier for yourself. As such a prominent Christian, you surely know all the other leading members of society who fell victim to this insidious cult. Tell me their names, and in particular who engineered the fire, and who are the men and women responsible for the vile atrocities that we know are also Christian in origin, and I promise I will make things much less....unpleasant for you, when your judgment comes." <><><><><> Casca grabs the bars. Tightly. He fights to control the fear that pounds through his system. "As for the leaders of our so-called cult, you have all of them here. Or will soon. But I can share with you one important morsel of information. I know who started the fire." Casca drops his voice, "Listen carefully. You're culprit is Lucius Drusus Aheno-Barbus." Nero. <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus blinks. Then laughs, a deep, evil sound. "We'll see what tales you spin when stretched on the rack. Most men find it difficult to summon such levity when their bones are breaking, very, very slowly. And if that doesn't work, a hot iron brand up your anus will, I'm sure, make you positively voluble." He gestures. "But not yet. You can sit in your cell and enjoy the amenities." He points to Brianus. "You first." The soldiers drag him out of the cell; he goes with them, without resistance. <><><><><> A cold shudder of fear runs through Casca's blood. No. He can't, he simply can't ... "Tigellinus, wait. I'm ... mad, I think. My faculties, I don't know, something impossible ... we should speak. I need to think clearly." <><><><><> [GM] "How can you speak clearly if you're mad?" Tigellinus asks, smirking. "Speak now if you have something to say. Otherwise we'll speak later, at my leisure. Don't try to waste my time, though. Stalling me with nonsense will not avail you." <><><><><> Casca's shoulders slump. So, his abject humiliation is to rendered complete, is it? So be it. "I thought I had myself returned from the dead. It was some sort of ... religious delusion. I don't belong here. I am mad." <><><><><> [GM] "Returned from the dead?" Tigellinus laughs, with mocking backup from the soldiers. "Isn't that what this sun-baked messiah from the east is supposed to have done? Yes, that sounds quite mad to me. But mad or not, you DO belong here." He pauses, his eyes narrowing with a cunning, malignant smile, enjoying every moment of your discomfiture. "Unless....are you saying now that you are NOT a Christian?" <><><><><> A whirl of thoughts fight through Casca's brain. His desperate fear for his own life, his confusion, his abiding all faith ... "No," he mutters. "I am a Christian. You are right. I do belong here. I think I was only begruding the madness that let me fall in your hands." <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus laughs. "So be it." They take Brianus away, but not far. They make sure you can all hear his screams. Brianus is brought back, an eternity later, with one eye put out, blood pouring from his lacerated scalp, several fingers messily divested of their nails, and a leg broken so severely that, assuming he escapes this place alive, he will never walk normally again. "Quite the fanatic," Tigellinus says, as Brianus is dumped on the floor of your cell like a pile of refuse. "He still insists that you Christians did not start the fire, and denies that you have carnal knowledge of children, and then slit their throats and drink their blood during your rituals. No matter, the truth will out. Even if it takes all night." The soldiers drag the next nearest available prisoner out of the cell, a young man who quakes with fear. "Remember," Tigellinus says to the rest of you as the youth is led back to the cell where he and his men are conducting their interrogations, "we only want to hear the truth. If you tell us what we want to know, you spare yourselves all this needless suffering." <><><><><> Casca stays back, trying to pray unobtrusively. <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus interrogates half the men and women in your cell, but does not get to you, either by chance or by design. He leaves early in the morning, promising to return. The next day, a rumor sweeps through the prison that Peter has escaped! This is attributed variously to bribes, guards with Christian sympathies, or a divine miracle, but it gives hope to all of your cellmates. You don't know whether to be overjoyed or despairing when the Apostle himself appears in your prison, accompanied by some more of the faithful. Apparently, it is not that hard to slip in and out of the prisons. Being as packed as they are, the guards don't notice everyone's comings and goings; they rely more on the locks on your cells than on the exterior doors to keep you contained. The man is old, and looks a bit worse for the wear at his recent confinement, but his smile is warm and his eyes are untroubled. You can practically feel the spirit of the Lord radiating from him. [No, you don't feel the Quickening. ] He raises his hands as if to bless the miserable lot of you, and says "Do not despair, brothers and sisters, but rejoice. This time of persecution for us only gives God the opportunity to demonstrate the love He has for His faithful that much sooner. The evil these men do is done in ignorance. Do not curse them, but forgive them." "Brother," Brianus whispers, through swollen lips. "What do you here? In Jesus' name, get you away and find safe haven somewhere far from Rome! We need you to survive and continue to spread the Word!" Peter smiles gently and shakes his head. "No, the Word is spread already, and will continue to spread. I have done my job as best I could, but it falls on the shoulders of others now, to carry the Word forth to the rest of the world. If I run now, I will look like the criminal that Nero's servants claim I am. Let their lies find no substance. There is no fate I fear that can be dealt by mortal men." <><><><><> Casca resists the temptation to throw himself to his knees. Peter the Fisherman was never keen on that sort of thing. "Peter ... I think I'm ... is it possible that Christ could favour a man with resurrection? A man of uneven faith and broken deeds? I think this happened to me, my sense say that it did, but my midn says it did not ... could not have happened. I am so confused. Is this a gift of the Lord or the ravings of a madman? Is Jesus trying to tell me something? Or have I lost my own mind? Have ... have we all earned the Gift of Eternal Life?" Casca is vaguely aware that he is taking up a huge amount of the venerated man's time for what is probably a strictly personal delusion, but his mind has been a torment of shifting possibilities and endless implications. He has to know. Something. <><><><><> [GM] Peter looks at you, puzzlement in his eyes, but his expression is nothing but sympathetic. "We are all promised resurrection and eternal life, my son," he says gently. "I am afraid I don't quite understand your question. Your sins and broken vows matter not, if you have put your faith in God, and His Son. We are all equal in His eyes. Christ said we are born again through Him, and I have known many faithful who experienced something like rebirth upon accepting Him as their savior. Is this what you speak of?" <><><><><> Casca feels a wave of frustration, one which he fights to hold back. "No ... I ... I remember having my throat cut. Of dying ... or losing consciousness, in any event. But then I awoke, and had no scar, but my tunic was covered in blood." <><><><><> [GM] Peter studies you intently. You see no sign of skepticism or pity in his eyes, just contemplation. At last, he replies "I cannot say that what you remember is wrong. Any miracle is possible, if it serves God's purpose, and it would not be the first time He has chosen men who considered themselves unworthy. If God did choose to spare your life, He must have intended something by it, but there is no point in our trying to guess His purpose. He will reveal it as He sees fit." The aging Apostle sighs. "If you are thinking that it is a sign of the Last Days...again, I cannot speak for God, but I personally feel it is unlikely. I know, it is popular today to believe that Nero's wickedness invites God's final judgment, and that this is the time of tribulation before Christ's kingdom on Earth is established on the ashes of Rome." Peter speaks the last bit with a poetic, almost satiric lilt. "It's understandable, as Rome may seem like the whole world to those of us caught in this charnel house. They forget that Nero is but one man, Rome is but one city, and there are other nations, other men, far beyond Rome's borders, who have not yet even heard of the Saviour. I do not think God will end the world before all mankind has had a chance to hear the gospel." He smiles, sadly. "Our suffering is not for nothing, but I do not think it presages the Last Days. But who knows, I am an old man, and as flawed as any other. I'm sorry, my son, I know that doesn't really answer your question. You will have to trust in God, like all of us." <><><><><> "He who tries to save his life shall lose it," Casca mumbles. He tests the bars. "But the Lord helps those who helps themselves." He tries to push the door open. <><><><><> [GM] The door remains secure. Peter looks sad. "I will pray for Nero to see the Kingdom of God, and have a change of heart. But I am afraid we must prove an example to others by our suffering. Have courage, brothers and sisters." With that, he rises and continues his pilgrammage up and down the dark aisles, spending his precious moments of purloined liberty comforting those still detained, thus assuring that he will rejoin them soon. <><><><><> Frustrated, Casca slams the bars. Peter's words were comforting. Somewhat. But still he has no answers, nothing to peg a decision to either cling to faith or abandon it for life. Ah ... but if one has faith, one should not be tempted by ... too confusing. Too much too think about. It's a conundrum without answer. Casca rolls into a ball, trying hard to fall alseep .... <><><><><> [GM] You go to sleep, as your cellmates begin to sing hymns. They lull you to sleep, but it's almost disturbing- everyone else seems so trusting. Are you the only one with doubts? ..... Curb for the stubborn steed Making its will give heed Wing that directest right The wild bird's wandering flight ; Helm for the ships that keep Their pathway on the deep ; Our stay when cares annoy, Giver of endless joy, O Jesus, hear ! Thine infant children seek, With baby lips all weak, Filled with the Spirit's dew From that dear bosom true, Thy praises pure to sing, Hymns meet for Thee, their King ; O Jesus, hear ! We, heirs of peace unpriced, We, who are born in Christ, A people pure from stain, Praise we our God again ! O Jesus, hear ! ..... In the morning, you hear the expected news that searching Praetorian guardsmen finally found the "escaped" Apostle wandering around right under their noses, and they re-arrested him and took him to Rome's most secure prison, the vault of the Tullianum. Also, a correction to earlier rumors circulates....it is not the Apostle Paul who is also in chains in Rome, but John. (Paul, in fact, had something of a difference of opinion with Peter as to how Christ's church should be run, and the two of them really were not as close as one might expect of two Apostles.) Peter is still scheduled to be executed today, with John shortly thereafter. There is little to do but wait. No interrogators come to question you further. In fact, it almost seems that Nero and Tigellinus have lost all interest in you. Which is surely not the case, not with so many hundreds of Christians now penned up in overflowing prisons. But late that night, your jailers walk up and down the aisles, gleefully shouting out the news to you; Just after dawn, the Apostle Peter was placed on a cross, upside down, in a deliberate insult to the legend of the Jewish Messiah. (His inverted crucifixition was actually more of a blessing than his executioners intended, for he was probably unconscious very quickly.) A little after sundown, Peter was taken off his cross and pronounced dead. His remains were cast into the Tiber River. John dies tomorrow. <><><><><> "Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Chistians by the populace. ... Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing teh city, as of hatred against mankind. "Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired." Tacitus, "The Annals" .......... The news of Peter's demise fills Casca with a renewed sense of both fear and certainity. Whatever was happening, there would be no mass resurrection. If a good Christian like Peter could die and not return, then death awaited all. Death awaited Casca. He had faith, but surely Casca could do more good alive then dead. Surely it did no good if the Gospel was extinguished by the madness of the mother f****** Nero. "Guard," Casca says, "Let Tigellinus know that I wish to ... negiotiate. I am a man of great means, with much to offer." <><><><><> [GM] The guard sneers. "You're hardly in a position to negotiate!" But nonetheless, the message must have been conveyed, as Tigellinus comes swaggering back into the gaol that evening, bringing with him his leg-breakers from the Praetorian Guard. He ignores you at first, and amuses himself with terrorizing some more of the prisoners. You hear a young girl screaming, in the small cell where they take their interrogation victims. Finally he comes your way. "Well, Casca Petronius," he greets you amicably, as if meeting you at a party. "What can this humble servant of the Emperor do for a man of such great means as yourself?" <><><><><> "Tigellinus, you and I both know what happens, under Roman law, if I am convicted by Nero." Casca pulls himself as tall and proud as is possible under the circumstances. His best and last hope now is to convey the status his wealth bought him as a free man. "Nero claims my treasures, my fortunes, my estates. I am a Christian man, and Christ said we have no need of fortunes." The thought gives Casca pause. In the years, decades, centuries that would follow, Casca would often find himself thinking back to these words, and -- in an odd way -- even here he senses that this is so. The moment is trapped in a wierd juncture of time and memory. The moment passes. "I can either die rich, or be free and penniless. Tigellinus, if I could make my will, I am sure that in the interests of our lifelong friendship, there is no better man to operate my estates. Of course, I would not sully the hands of a noble Roman with money. A network of intermediaries, Syrians, Jews .... these people can be the public face of your new fortune. I have no need of it. "Indeed, I have so little need of it, that were you to send me to Palestine, I would have no need ... no desire ... to return to wonder what became of it. And what will the public say? No doubt, they will say that Casca Lucius Petronius died escaping from prison ... so sad." Casca stares Tigellinus in the eye. "What say you?" [I know I gave Casca a different middle name at one point, but I've lost it in the file crash.] <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus listens to you, arms folded, eyes narrowing. The Præfect seems to consider your offer....you can see him weighing the possibilities; the risk, and the reward. But you don't like the mean little smile curling at the corners of his mouth when he asks, "And what of your fellow Christians? Is this generous endowment intended to buy their freedom as well? Or just your own?" <><><><><> Casca does his best not to let his anger play across his face. The Prefect is playing with Casca, asking him to price his own life when he holds none of the cards. It's fully obvious that Casca's bribe can at best buy his own life. The others are out of the cards. But Tigellinus wants Casca to say so. Out loud. He's a dog, but a ruthless dog. "I don't think so many Christians could escape from your custody all at once. You are too efficient for that. One, however, is very possible." <><><><><> [GM] Tigellinus smirks, then turns away, to walk a few paces. "With so many Christians here to provide entertainment, I suppose Nero won't miss one," he says. In a louder voice, he says "I will be back later tonight, to interrogate you further." This for the benefit of the guards. As he leaves, you can see by the faces of your fellow prisoners that they heard your "deal" with the Præfect. <><><><><> Casca turns to face his brothers and sisters. "Someone has to spread the Good News." Ah, yes. But the accusing looks on their faces pales before the withering self-hatred of his heart. The excuse is weak and unsatisfactory, but Casca will live. His mistake, his flight into madness ... none of that matters now. He has a second chance. <><><><><> [GM] There is surprisingly little recrimination from your fellow Christians, but an invisible gulf has opened between you. They speak little, and you sense that you have become, not quite shunned, but definitely no longer one of them. Late that night, a pair of burly guards enter the cell and drag you forth, up the stairs and through the darkened streets of Rome. You hear screeches and bawdy laughter not far away; debauchery never ends, day or night, in Nero's Rome. You're led to a large house at the edge of a well-to-do neighborhood, but still falling within the "working class" district near the Colliseum. Within, you find Tigellinus waiting, seated at a desk. "Ah, my friend, Casca Petronius," he says. "So sorry to roust you in the middle of the night. I'm sure you were enjoying the accomodations." He pushes a scroll towards you. "I just have a little document I'd like you to sign...and then we can make sure you have a quick exit from Rome." <><><><><> [If I were to be really snarky, I'd mention that the Coliseum hasn't been built yet, but sooner or later I'll end up in a period you know better than I do, in which case you'll make me suffer for being such a pedant now ] Casca briefly reads the document but ... really ... what can he do? Presuming that it abides by their agreement. He signs his name. <><><><><> [GM] It is a will, drawn up as you described, bequeathing everything you own to the Præfect Tigellinus [do you know his full name, btw?], and multiple documents naming him as executor of his your lands, your estates, your businesses....everything. Tigellinus watches with avaricious eyes as you sign them. "You understand, Casca Petronius is now dead," he says. "If you ever appear in Rome again, you WILL be dead." He gestures, and the soldiers who brought you here grab your shoulder to escort you away. "Enjoy Palestine, I understand there are still many of those Christian cultists yet to be rooted out there. I advise you to stay away from them." <><><><><> For a man who just betrayed nearly everything he believes in, Casca is tremendously relieved. He says nothing, biding the tense moment's until his feet are over Mare Nostrum. <><><><><> [GM] You are bustled into a carriage, and ride silently through the streets, with armed guardsmen on either side of you. You pass a burned-out section of Rome, where the smell of smoke is still heavy in the air. At the gate nearest the Tiber River, you are passed through by the guards there. Just out of sight of the gate, one of the soldiers says "Here's the quick exit from Rome that you were promised." And a skull-shattering blow falls on the back of your neck, plunging you into darkness. ... Oddly enough, you wake up again. This time, it is bright and sunny, yet you feel chilly and damp. Easily explained, as you open your eyes and find yourself naked, lying in the mud on the bank of a river. You are especially conscious of the feel of water running over your skin. Your sense of touch seems especially acute, almost as if you can feel every individual drop rolling over your skin, but all your senses are similarly magnified. Perhaps the effect of finally being outside after so many days trapped in a dungeon, but the entire world seems more vivid, and infused with colors and sounds and vibrations that you never quite noticed before. <><><><><> Casca looks around. For a ridiculous moment, he wonders if he is in heaven, but eventually realizes that he was simply knocked unconscious and robbed. Which is kind of funny, since Casca literally has nothing to his name. Not even a name, legally. He walks down the river bank, looking for a house of some sort. <><><><><> [GM] You quickly determine that you are by the banks of the Tiber, and only a few miles downriver from Rome. There is a small village nearby. <><><><><> Casca stops. Rome is not where he wants to be. In fact, Italy isn't even where he wants to be, but it's a start. He heads for the village. <><><><><> [GM] The villagers react predictably to a strange naked man walking into their community; they point, yell at you, and then a slightly higher class of peasant comes walking out of the largest house, scowling at you. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands. "Are you drunk, you idiot?" <><><><><> Casca rolls his eyes. "I was robbed. Now, would you please provide me with a blanket." <><><><><> [GM] The "official's" eyes widen. "Robbed? Where? By whom? This close to Rome? By the gods, what a sorry state we're in, what in Hades are the Legionnaires doing if they can't keep the very roads into Rome safe?" He has someone fetch a blanket, and once you're covered, asks, "What's your name, sir?" <><><><><> [As I recall, C was knocked flat at the dock, which would put us somewhere near Ostia.] Casca nods. "Yes, the vigiles too. It really is scandalous. Thank you for the blanet. I'm Casca ... Felix." Casca the Lucky. The man's sense of humour was definitely tending to the macabre. <><><><><> [GM] The village magistrate, Pentius, having decided by your bearing and mannerisms that you must be someone of fairly high social standing, is courteous and has you appropriately clothed and even has his brooding wife prepare you lunch. "I'll notify the captain of the garrison down the road," he says. "Not a very intelligent man, but diligent enough, I'm sure he'll at least send out some patrols to look for the bandits. If you need a ride back to Rome, my son is taking a cart of produce to the city tomorrow morning." <><><><><> Casca enjoys the man's hospitality. "Don't trouble yourselves about the bandits. I doubt your men could bring them to justice." True enough ... "And as for a return to Rome, it was the Eternal City that I was hoping to leave behind. I had thought about Palestine. Now I'd be happy to reach Sicily."