sixthiterationlogs | † mihi aqua et igni interdirectur

WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: Main east-west path in 6I
WHEN: March 15
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: none

Gaius still misses Rome every day. Not just the city itself, though of course he misses that, but the life of the city, the excitement of the courts, the thrill of the people's assembly, the sounds and sights of the forum, going about the morning's business under the gaze of the Capitoline temples and the Palatine houses, the feeling of being in the heart of the most important city in the world. Rome hadn't just been his life, it had been his reason for being, its service his purpose in life from his earliest days. He'd been away from Rome before, of course, on trips to his family's estate, but even much of the time he'd spent away from the city had been in its service: visiting his clients or supporters, serving in the provinces with the army or on the governor's staff, traveling to oversee road building or the foundation of a colony.

It's a stark contrast to this place, where there are dozens of people, not hundreds of thousands, where there is no government and much resistance to establishing one, where his name and his family mean nothing. There is a reason it is one of the Roman state's greatest punishments to banish a man from the city, and though Gaius has had to accept being here instead of home, acceptance is all that it is. The fine toga Kate Kelly had made for him is no cover for that reality.

He tries not to miss the crowd of people that used to surround him when he left his home on business, and he's come to accept the solitude that he can usually find on a walk here as a daily occurence instead of an exception. The walk along the village's main road is pleasant enough, and the river at least is clearer and cleaner than the Tiber.

Gaius has crossed back over the river and is on his way back to the Inn, until he's not.

In front of him rises a colonnaded building, eight grand columns reaching up towards a carved frieze: the temple of the goddess Diana, oldest and grandest of the temples on the Aventine hill. He stares, dumbstruck in a way he very rarely is, at the magnificent edifice and takes a step forward. Behind him, someone screams, and voices shout, and he turns to look behind him, but he's stopped by a hand on his arm and a voice.

"We must go!"

"Licinius?"

But his friend and relation isn't there when he looks back, nor is the temple.

Nor are the screams.

Gaius turns on the spot, around and again, grasping for the vanished man, the temple, the moment. He'd been there, in Rome, and the sounds he'd heard and the urgency in his kinsman's voice had spoken of that last terrible day.

He's left standing there in the middle of the path, wide-eyed, his breath suddenly racing to match his heartbeat as Licinius' fear grips him and only slowly subsides.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's a brief blink at Gaius' explanation of what he's seen - what he's thought he's seen? - but any confusion only lasts for the briefest of moments and then Picard shakes his head. He's certainly not about to rule out the possibility that what Gaius has just seen had been, in some way, real. But even if it had been, it had been something personal. Something that only he'd seen.

"No. Just the village."

Although he might be on the lookout for things not seeming to be as normal, now that Gaius has mentioned it. It never hurts to be prepared, after all.

"Do you think it could have been the Observers?"

It had been so real, as if one moment he'd been here in the village, and another transported back to the city that had been his life. Gaius had had visions before, but not like this: they'd been intrusions into his dreams, messages from his brother from beyond life. This hadn't felt like an image, or a dream, it had been so real he'd been certain he'd felt Licinius' hand on his arm.

That it hadn't been real at all, at least in the physical sense, is apparent from Picard's negative: it had been something Gaius and Gaius alone had seen.

"What could their purpose be in showing me?" he asks, softly, and the question is not merely rhetorical. He doesn't understand the Observers, the beings here that are as good as gods to their captive exiles. The Observers' will is not easily interpreted, and they show little sign of responding to the same prayers and rituals that the Romans used to petition their gods. The Observers, for all their very direct impact could be felt so often here, were difficult to appeal to.

"I wouldn't be able to say."

That there's some reason is easily enough assumed, for all that it might not be right. But if there is a purpose to show Gaius a brief flash of his own home, it's not a purpose that Picard can guess at. Not when it has been so brief besides - it's hardly as if any of them need any reminders of their own homes, and though he doesn't quite know how long the brief glimpse of Gaius' home had been for him, it doesn't sound like it would have been long enough to either impart some new information or give him the time to actually do anything. Or at least, not anything of great significance.

"If we knew where to find them, we might be able to ask, but as it is...."

His voice trails off into a shrug. Whatever they'd had in mind might, regrettably, forever remain a mystery.

† mihi aqua et igni interdirectur

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