Havok Publishing

X Must Die

By Rosemarie DiCristo

“Our band of brothers must be the right age,” I told the three men gathered around me in the quiet darkness of my house—dark save for the single candle. We dared not light the lamp on the table between us, nor any lamp at all. “But then, you already know the truth of this.”

“Indeed,” said A. “They can be neither reckless youth, nor feeble elders. Our conspirators must be close to age forty, as are we.”

Conspirators. Yes, that’s what we were, and we were many. All of us, throughout the city, began meeting in groups like this, four or less, to minimize the risk of discovery. Just as we referred to each other by letter, not name, in case we were overheard.

“It would be best,” C said, “if they are as like us as possible.”

And D added, “Wealthy. Educated. Leaders. Respected among the common people as well as our peers. Isn’t this true, B?”

“Aye,” I agreed. “For only then will the world know we are doing this for the sake of our country. It is politics, not murder.” I expected a protest, for them to declare that our act would undeniably be murder and not politics. There was not even a murmur. Had they persuaded themselves, as I had, that this wrong was now right?

The flickering light of the lone candle nearly obscured A’s rueful smile. He was the oldest of us, and the most cautious. “Let us hope history agrees.”

“How could it not?” C thundered, as brash as ever, and we immediately hushed him. Even though the walls were thick, and we were far from the street, the fear of discovery hung over us, darker than the shadows. He continued quietly but forcefully, “X is trying to make himself king.”

“And for that, he must die?” A shifted in the darkness. “I ask, would he be such a terrible king? He’s a good man, a hero, whose reforms have greatly helped our country. Perhaps it is we who are jealous, both of his popularity and his reforms.”

D, the wisest of us, responded quickly. “Nay, while many of his reforms are indeed beneficial to all, it is his unchecked ambition that must be stopped.”

Was I cautious? Brash? Wise? Perhaps all three. Or simply a liberator, whose duty was to stop one man from destroying a country. Duty? Duty trumps love, but it does not mend a shattered heart, for betrayal torments the soul.

A was slowly shaking his head, so I asked him the question we’d been pondering for months. “Often, truly good men do bad things in their quest for power. Do we want a dictatorship or a republic?”

A didn’t have to answer. The fact that we were meeting was answer enough.

Or was it? X was more than “a good man.” He was a compatriot, a friend to the people. A friend to us all, particularly to me.

After a tense moment had passed, C asked, “Then how will we kill him?”

I’d thought about this so often, I answered without hesitation. “It must be done publicly, so it will be seen as what it is: an assassination. Anything else, an ambush in the dark, will be thought of as murder.”

The other three glanced warily at each other as if no one dared speak first.

“Perhaps at the Games,” D suggested. “Who would be suspicious of armed men there?”

A’s smile was weary. “Alas, X travels everywhere with his friends, a mean-looking lot who may very well fight back.”

“Shall not a man put himself into danger to overcome evil?” D countered.

“Aye, but within reason.”

“I say while he is crossing one of our many footbridges,” C said. “Topple him into the water.”

“Drown him?” Now A chuckled. “I believe X is so full of himself, he may very well float.”

“A band of our brothers,” sarcasm took any fraternity out of C’s words, “will be waiting in the stream, daggers drawn.”

“No,” I said, frustration sharpening my voice. “That will still seem like an attack, a murder. It must be perceived as a noble act, done to save our land.” Was it possible to “perceive” this unholy act as just? Aye, if I explained to them exactly what and where I had in mind. A public place, yes, but one where no outsiders were allowed, eliminating the danger of X’s guardians fighting back.

“My friends,” A said, when I was done, “it seems we cannot disagree.”

We arrived on the day of execution well in advance of our target. Many factors delayed him, including his wife’s silly dream. But does a man of X’s stature listen to dreams and omens? Another one of us—I’ll call him E—convinced X that such a man does not.

All told, there were over sixty of us involved in the plot, each of us a leading citizen. Proof, we believed, of the justness of our cause. Would those not involved see our transgression as a necessary evil for the greater good, a way of keeping our freedoms from crumbling? Would we gain the full approbation of the people? Surely, they would realize the necessity of preserving our glorious country, with its majestic language, incomparable legal system, and magnificent buildings. We were ensuring the eternal glory of Rome!

As X made his way to the Senate house, he caught sight of Spurinna, the seer. “The Ides of March have come,” he called out with a crooked grin.

“Aye, they have come,” she agreed, “but they are not yet gone.”

X waved her comment away and entered, where we waited, daggers drawn.

I still remember the surprise in his eyes when my dagger pierced his flesh, and he said, “You as well, Brutus?”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rosemarie DiCristo has a childhood memory of watching Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra on WOR’s “Million Dollar Movie,” which showed the same film Monday through Friday, meaning Rosemarie saw the movie five times in one week. Cleopatra is considered one of the worst movies ever. Having not seen it since, Rosemarie is uncertain if that’s true. (She’s also long-forgotten the Julius Caesar assassination scene). But she thinks Havok stories are brilliant and is humbled to find hers among them.


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