The latest scroll from the Nocturnal Observer, posted at dawn on the Rostra in the Forum Romanum:
Citizens of Rome,
While you slumbered in your beds, I walked among you. I observed the great and grieving house of Valerius as it prepared to lay its eldest son to rest. I watched the senators gather, their faces solemn, their minds calculating. I noted which families sent only slaves with offerings, and which sent their heirs.
But most of all, dear readers, I observed young Marcus Valerius Rufus.
The second son, now the only son. The soldier, now the heir. The free man, soon to be bound.
For even as his brother's body was prepared for the tomb, certain fathers—wise, practical fathers—were preparing a different sort of union. A marriage, dear readers. A political necessity dressed in wedding silk.
They say the young Valerius dreams of Dacia, of glory under Trajan's eagles. But it seems his fate lies not on the frontier, but in the marriage bed. Not conquest abroad, but duty at home.
And the bride? Ah, but that would be telling too much, too soon.
Watch carefully, dear readers. This funeral may yet give birth to something far more interesting than grief.
—Your Nocturnal Observer
The scroll was still damp with morning dew when the first patrician found it, pinned to the speakers' platform in the Forum. By the time the sun cleared the Palatine Hill, half of Rome had read it—or heard it read aloud by those who could decipher the elegant script.
Marcus Valerius Rufus, standing in the cold shadow of his family's tomb on the Via Appia, knew nothing of the Observer's latest proclamation. He had more immediate concerns.
The cypress trees stood like dark sentinels along the ancient road, their branches cutting sharp lines against the pale spring sky. Marcus watched the slaves arrange the final offerings at his brother's tomb—wine, honey cakes, flowers that would wilt before sunset. Everything about this day had been choreographed down to the smallest gesture: the procession, the eulogies, the precise angle at which mourners should bow their heads. Even his own grief seemed rehearsed, performed for an audience of senators and their calculating wives.
Thirty days had passed since Lucius had died. Thirty days of ritual mourning, of receiving condolences from men who barely knew his brother's name. Thirty days of watching his father's face harden into something carved from marble, impenetrable and cold.
And now, this. The final ceremony. The moment when they would seal Lucius away forever and pretend that life could simply continue.
"Marcus."
His father's voice cut through the morning air like a blade. Gaius Valerius Severus stood beside the tomb, his toga pristine white against the dark stone. His face revealed nothing—not grief, not weariness, nothing but the stern dignity expected of a man of his rank. He had worn that same expression through all thirty days of mourning, as if emotion itself were a weakness to be disciplined out of existence.
"It's time," his father said.
Marcus nodded and took his place beside him. The mourners arranged themselves in careful hierarchy: family closest to the tomb, then clients and freedmen, then the curious crowd that always gathered for a great family's funeral. Marcus recognized most of the faces—senators draped in togas, their wives in dark stolas, children fidgeting under stern parental gazes. The Cassii were there, he noted distantly. Senator Longinus with his daughter beside him, both maintaining the proper expression of respectful sorrow.
He had seen the girl before, of course. Livia Cassia. Everyone knew of her—the senator's eldest daughter, educated, beautiful, and utterly wasted on the marriage market because Longinus was too cautious to commit her to any alliance. Marcus had never paid her much attention. Why would he? He had been a second son, free to focus on matters that actually interested him. Marriage had been Lucius's burden to bear.
Now everything that had been Lucius's burden was his.
The funeral rites began. A priest—hired for the occasion, since the Valerii maintained their ancestral skepticism toward excessive religious display—intoned the traditional prayers. Marcus spoke the words required of him, his voice steady and emotionless. He had always been good at that, at presenting the face others expected to see. It was a skill learned young in a household where weakness was noted and exploited.
When his turn came to speak, his father stepped forward.
"Lucius Valerius Maximus," Gaius began, his voice carrying across the assembled crowd, "was the finest son a father could hope for. From his youth, he understood duty. He understood what it meant to bear the name Valerius, to uphold the traditions of our house. He was wise beyond his years, dedicated to his family, prepared to lead us into a prosperous future."
Marcus listened to the words pile up like stones on his chest. Each virtue praised in Lucius was an implicit indictment of his own failings. Where Lucius had been wise, Marcus was impulsive. Where Lucius had been dedicated, Marcus was restless. Where Lucius had been prepared, Marcus was—what? Lost? Inadequate? Unwilling?
"His loss," his father continued, "diminishes not only our family but Rome itself. Yet we must honor his memory not with tears, but with action. The Valerii do not crumble in the face of tragedy. We endure. We adapt. We continue."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Marcus felt the weight of dozens of eyes upon him. Everyone knew what those words meant. We continue. Through him. The replacement heir. The son who had never been meant to inherit.
The ceremony concluded with the final offerings. Marcus poured wine onto the earth, watching it seep into the ground, staining the dirt dark. Beside him, his father did the same, his movements precise and controlled.
Then it was over. The crowd began to disperse, some heading directly back toward Rome, others lingering to offer final condolences. Marcus stood motionless, staring at the tomb that now held his brother's ashes. Somewhere inside that stone monument was the only person who had ever understood what it meant to be the spare, the one who didn't quite fit the mold their father had created.
"Marcus."
He turned to find Gaius Antonius approaching, carefully navigating through the crowd. His friend looked uncomfortable in his toga—Gaius always looked uncomfortable in civilian dress, as if the fabric itself chafed against his soldier's instincts. They had served together in Germania, a brief posting that had been more education than actual combat, but enough to forge the kind of friendship that only shared hardship could create.
"Gaius." Marcus clasped his friend's forearm in greeting. "Thank you for coming."
"I wouldn't miss it." Gaius glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Walk with me?"
They moved away from the tomb, toward the edge of the gathering where the cypress trees provided some illusion of privacy. Marcus saw his father notice their departure, saw the brief flash of disapproval before Gaius Valerius Severus returned his attention to Senator Longinus, who had approached with his daughter in tow.
"I'm sorry about Lucius," Gaius said once they were out of earshot. "I know you two weren't—well, you had your differences, but still. A brother is a brother."
Marcus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The truth was complicated. He had never hated Lucius. How could you hate someone who had been molded into the perfect heir since birth? But he had never quite liked him either. Lucius had been their father's creation, a son shaped to specification, and Marcus had always felt like the rough draft by comparison.
"Listen," Gaius continued, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. "I have news. The legion postings are being finalized. Tribune positions for the Dacian campaign. The list will be announced next week."
Marcus's heart seized. He had been waiting for this news for months, ever since the emperor had first announced his intention to subdue Dacia once and for all. This was the opportunity he had been dreaming of—a chance to prove himself on his own merits, not as a Valerius, not as someone's son, but as a soldier and a leader.
"Your name could still be on it," Gaius said carefully. "Before—before everything happened, you had submitted your application. Tribune Quintus told me they were considering you seriously. You served well in Germania, your Latin is excellent, your tactical knowledge—"
"Before," Marcus interrupted quietly. "Before Lucius died."
Gaius fell silent. They both understood what had changed. A second son could pursue military glory. An only son, an heir, had different obligations.
"It's not official yet," Gaius said after a moment. "Nothing has been decided. Maybe—"
"Marcus."
His father's voice again, closer this time. Marcus turned to see Gaius Valerius Severus approaching, with Senator Longinus and his daughter following a respectful few paces behind. His father's expression was neutral, but Marcus knew that look. It was the expression he wore when he had made a decision and expected no argument.