Upon these shores by Lyra

Exiles

In the Roman province of Macedonia, two exiles meet.

Written for the SWG August 2017 challenge, Song of Exile.
Warning for a half-hearted attempt at and a discussion of suicide.

According to the calendar, summer was over, but the heat continued to be oppressive. The air was thick and heavy, and the steady nighttime noise of cicadas and midges was grating on Maglor's nerves. Yet, the relative quietude of his house was equally unappealing: The clay walls stored the day's warmth, making it even more stifling inside than outside. So, in spite of the restless buzzing and whining, he remained in the garden. Of course, it was not much of a garden at this time of the year. The water basin was gasping dry, and all but the hardiest shrubs had died and shrivelled; the remains of his chamomile lawn were crunching under his feet as he paced under the dark cloudless sky.

In retrospect, he could not say what had made him raise his eyes to the hills that overlooked the town of Thessalonica. Perhaps he had tried to avoid the torches, flickering and shrouded by expiring moths, that had been lit in some of the neighbouring gardens where other people took refuge from the heat of their houses. Perhaps his subconscious had picked up on some movement, some shadow shifting on the uttermost fringe of his vision. Whatever the cause, he had looked away from the gardens and up to the hills.
In early spring, when the melting snow from the northern mountains and the heavy rains of the new year had made their turbulent way down to the sea, there had been violent landslides, leaving the hillsides steep and perilous to walk. On the very edge of one such slope, near the villa of the Roman quaestor, Maglor saw a man.

Even if the lonesome figure was merely hoping to catch a whiff of the cooling sea breeze or escape the smell of the sweating city, Maglor felt that it was his duty to investigate. He told himself that it was an entirely rational decision. Rumour had it that the quaestor was housing a grieving friend who needed to recover from some great loss. The sheer amount of guards posted around the perimeter, even now that the quaestor himself was touring the province, suggested that there was more to it. Either way, if a Roman citizen and guest of the quaestor took a tumble off a ragged hillside in Thessalonica, there could be dire consequences for the city, innocent or not. That surely was reason enough. But if Maglor was honest with himself, his feet had begun to carry him out of the withered garden and into the silent streets before he had given the matter a second thought. He was acting purely on instinct, evading the legionaries in the streets and around the estate without thinking. Even though he was no longer a practiced hunter and warrior, he could still move silently and efficiently, and he reached the hilltop without delay.

As yet, the man was standing a foot's length away from the edge, his head bowed as he pondered the next step. He had clearly not reached a decision, but he did have the air of a desperate man, and he was swaying in the heat. It was all too easy to see him stumble and disappear down the slope even should he not wish to jump after all.
Maglor shuddered at the thought; he had acquired an abhorrence of people standing too close to cliffs or chasms. He knew he had to intervene, allowing his feet to make some sound so the other would not be alarmed by his sudden presence, but moved slowly to suggest that he was no threat. Maglor was now fairly confident that the man must be the quaestor's mysterious guest - he had not bothered to put on a toga on this hot night, but he was wearing a Roman-style tunic, though dark and unembellished. Maglor spoke out in Latin, "Greetings, friend. Please do not be alarmed; I mean you no harm."
The man froze, but did not turn or reply.
"I hope you do not truly mean to step off that edge," Maglor said pleasantly.
He had not expected an answer, but this time he got one, in the hoarse voice of a man who had long kept silent, "Probably not. I am rather afraid of death, you see."
"I am glad to hear it," Maglor said. "Would you mind coming back here, then? Slopes like that can be very dangerous. The ground could give way at any time, or you might misjudge the distance in the dark."
"To be honest, I am rather hoping for that. I do not have the courage to kill myself, but if the hill simply broke away beneath my feet, it would take no courage on my part. Once I am falling, I cannot shy back, after all."
"Ah," Maglor said, trying to maintain his calm."But you might realise that it was a mistake to fall, and then you cannot reverse it."
The man made a noise somewhere between annoyance and acknowledgement. "Damn you. Do you belong to Plancius' household?"
Maglor hesitated, but decided to stick to the truth - as far as that was possible, anyway. "No. I live in the neighbourhood. I could not sleep, and I happened to see you standing there all by yourself. It made me worry."
"What business of yours is it what I do?" In spite of the man's gruff words, Maglor was relieved to hear that his voice was regaining strength, if only in an attempt at self-assertion. He kept his own voice deliberately friendly in spite of the lump that had risen in his throat.
"None. But I have lost my brother in this manner. It is a grief I do not wish on anyone."

For a while, there was silence, and Maglor feared that the man would step over the edge out of sheer defiance. Then, to his endless relief, the other turned away from the slope. He did look like a man tired of life. Although he was clearly Roman, he was unshaven. His hair had grown long and straggly, and he had the unhealthy look of a well-fed man who had suddenly stopped to care about eating. "Damn you," he said again, though without much force. "Very well; for your sake, if not for mine, I shall stand away."
"Thank you," said Maglor, forcing the corners of his mouth into a polite smile. The quaestor's guest approached, giving him a disgruntled look as he stopped an arm's length away. "Thank you, I suppose. Or maybe not. Time will tell."
"It doubtlessly will," Maglor agreed, maintaining his smile. "Well. I have achieved my purpose, and now that I am satisfied that you will not take a sudden step into thin air, I can leave you in peace and bid you a good night."
"Thin air? There is no thin air to be had in this place," retorted the man. "Nor peace, nor a good night."
"I am sorry that you feel this way, but perhaps tomorrow will be kinder."
There was a dismissive snort in response. "So this is it? First you interfere in my business, and then you just... go? Are these the customs of these sad times?"
Maglor raised an eyebrow. "I did not have the impression that you cared for company."
"Well, since you have already forced it upon me, you might as well stay." The man paused. "How else will you know that I do not turn back and jump?"
"You will do no such thing. But if you wish to talk, I can stay."
"Then you better come back to the house."

Aside from a guard and the steward, both shocked to see that the quaestor's guest had left the premises without anyone noticing and surprised that he had brought a guest of his own, the household was fast asleep. They silently made their way through the tiled, pleasantly cool corridors until they reached the guest quarters.
"I should have known that you are not part of Plancius' house," the man said as they sat down. "They would not have dared to approach me. I carry a smell of doom about me. I hope it does not rub off on you."
A small laugh escaped Maglor. "You need not worry on my account - I am accustomed to doom."
"Really?" Now the man's eyes, previously dulled with grief, gained an inquisitive gleam. "What kind of doom?"
Maglor shrugged, affecting equanimity. "Exile, and the loss of all that I have loved." It was a reality that he had long since come to term with; nonetheless, it stung more than expected to hear it spoken.
The other man sighed. "Ah.Then you should know the soul-eating despair of being banished from one's family, one's native land, one's very purpose in life..."
"Oh yes. But as you can see, I have not given in to that despair. Mind you, I've had a long time to get used to it."
"I will never get used to it," the other man said with passion. "I cannot. It is destroying everything that I am." Abruptly, he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.
The weary-looking steward appeared to bring two cups and a decanter of diluted wine. Maglor thanked him, and the steward left as quickly as she had come. The silence lengthened. Maglor waited.

Eventually, the man let his hands sink and shook his head. "I do apologise," he said. "I need to get a grip on myself. I just don't see how. My life is such a mess that it no longer has a point."
Maglor gave another smile. "Life feels like that, sometimes," he said diplomatically. "I suppose it must be harder since you have nobody to confide in..."
The man waved his hand. "It's not as bad as that," he said. "I write a lot of letters. Plancius has proven to be a true friend. And normally, I have my secretary by my side - he above all is a great consolation. He wouldn't have let me get too close to that edge, either." He shook his head again, wistfully. "But Plancius is upcountry right now, and Tiro is off to Gaul to negotiate the terms of my return with Caesar. Damn Caesar! Everything depends on him these days!"
Maglor grimaced sympathetically, but could not help pointing out, "There seems to be some hope, then, that your exile may be rescinded."
"Perhaps. I dare not hope, but I am told that it might happen. But at what cost? My enemies have only grown stronger. And I will be beholden to Caesar, which is precisely what I wanted to avoid. That is why I ended up in this forsaken hellhole in the first place, not wanting to be Caesar's creature! My life would have been a lot easier if I had not tried to resist him!" He buried his face in his hands once more. "I could have joined his stupid little circle when he asked me. I could have been the fourth man! But it would have felt like betraying the republic. I had to protect the republic, hadn't I? But to what point? Here I am, impotent, ruined, an exile, and the republic has betrayed me." He let his hands sink and gave Maglor a rueful stare. "What hubris, you must think. To assume that the republic depends on me, and me alone. I suppose that is why the gods are punishing me in this manner."

Maglor took his time to reply. "As far as I know, the gods no longer directly intervene in the business of mortals," he eventually said. "They watch on occasion, perhaps, but they do not punish or reward."
The other made a surprised sound half-way between a sob and a chortle. "You make it sound as if you were on intimate terms with the gods! Have they sent you?"
Now it was Maglor's turn to chortle. "Not at all. I cannot claim to know the minds of the gods, but if one thing is certain, it's that they would not trust me to do their bidding."
"Pity," the man said, sobering again. "I could have used an emissary of the gods to advise me, for I really do not know how to go on. I fear that I must either remain an exile and watch the republic be torn apart, or I must submit to Caesar and help him do it. Both thoughts are unbearable - life itself is unbearable."
"Well, emissary or not, I would still advise you not to give up hope. Maybe your fears are unfounded, and maybe they are not. But either way, do not give up. Should the republic truly depend on you, do you not need to keep yourself alive? Surely you have not fled into exile in order to die there, unknown and unmourned. And surely you have not sent your great consolation all the way to Gaul if you did not hope for him to succeed. You have gone on until now; you can go on further, even if you do not know where you are headed. There is always hope."
"Damn you!" said the man, clenching his eyes shut. His breath was coming fast in agitation, and it took him a while to recover. At last he said, "But thank you. You are telling me what I need to hear, or at the very least, what I want to hear. Yes; I can go on further. As long as I breathe, I can find hope." Smiling wistfully, he added, "In all honesty, whether or not Rome needs me, I need Rome. If only I can go back soon." He heaved a long, drawn-out sigh. "Do you miss home?"
Maglor had to swallow hard before he could reply. "Of course. I miss it so much that the pain sometimes seems to consume me. Though in truth, I miss my brothers more than I miss any particular place."
"Brothers? You spoke only of one, earlier."
"Only one killed himself. The others had been killed much earlier. Objectively, one might say that they deserved it, but that makes nothing easier." Again, he had to swallow the lump that wanted to rise in his throat. "So you see, I am no stranger to loss. And I was tempted to give in to despair, too. I did not know how to go on. But I did. And I think it was the right choice, even though I no longer have a sense of purpose like you do." It was true - it had been the right choice - but nonetheless, speaking of his brothers hurt almost too much to bear.
"I am sorry to hear it," the man said. "And I am sorry to have been such an inattentive host. I did not even ask your name!"
"Marcus Aureus," Maglor replied automatically, still struggling to maintain his composure.
"A Roman citizen?"
"Oh yes. That is a good thing to be these days, isn't it?"
If the man was puzzled by this somewhat enigmatic response, he did not show it; he merely nodded. "Marcus Tullius," he introduced himself.
Despite himself, Maglor could not help but smile. "Yes," he said mildly. "I guessed as much."

"Really?" A confusing mix of emotions seemed to be wrestling behind the man's eyes: satisfaction, even a sort of grim joy at having been recognised, but also a trace of fear. "How?"
Maglor upturned his palms as if presenting the evidence. "Although I am living in, as you called it, this forsaken hellhole, I do pay attention to events in Rome, as well as that is possible. And I assure you that your case has caused quite a stir," he said. "I did not know that you had taken refuge here, but once we were talking, something about your speech seemed familiar. Something about your face, too. And I remembered that the current quaestor's family hails from Arpinum. I drew my conclusions."
The man gave a somewhat embarrassed chuckle. "And you have gotten a terrible impression of my hospitality, I fear," he said. "I must apologise. I am so consumed by my tribulations that I have quite forgotten how to behave around friends." He reached for the decanter and began to pour the wine. "What was his name?"
Maglor tilted his head, frowning. "Whose name?"
"Your brother's - the one who killed himself. Since I might owe him my life, or at least a night's solace, I feel that we should drink to his memory."
"Tertius. His name was Tertius."
The man handed him his cup, and raised his own. "To Tertius, then. May he have found peace."
"May he have found peace," Maglor echoed, closing his eyes to hold back tears. "And may we continue to find hope."
"Yes," Cicero said. "To hope."

Chapter End Notes

"Marcus Aureus" is a bad personal pun, for which I apologise. Marcus can be rendered as "devotee of Mars" = warrior, and aureus means "golden (one)", so it's pretty much a direct translation of Macalaurë.

"Tertius", of course, means "third".