No. How could they have let it happen.

I am stumbling in the corridor to my apartments, wailing, barely seeing where I’m going through the curtains of tears covering my eyes. I trip and almost fall - I don’t feel it. Hands trying to help me up, push me forward, hold me back - I don’t feel them either. I can’t hear it, and I won’t hear it. Just a few more steps to the main door.

I slam it shut behind me and stand, trying to remember how to breathe. Everything feels heavy. Slowly, I slide down to the ground, because whatever energy was holding me together is pouring out through my every pore.

Horatian killed him. The scream that rips through my throat now does so little to soothe me. My brother killed the man I love.

I had told them. I had told them all, that this fight was inept, stupid, and destructive. That this was the only possible outcome and it ended up signing my death as well. I had warned Curiatius, I knew he and his brothers would be outdone by Horatius - dense proto-warrior that he is, relying on his dumb little sword to establish his worth and impress his pears. Curiatius was too kind-hearted, too sensitive, and they should never have sent him to war.

Rome can fall. I could not care any less. It gave me the choice to take either my brother or my lover, no, it didn’t even give me a choice, it made me watch them leave knowing one of them would die. The gods, the people of this city, Horatius himself - they burned me for honour, for their entertainment, for settling ancient quarrels that I did not start.

My eyes stop on a shelf near my bed. A small statue my brother made for me when we were children. A delicate wooden horse he had carved himself. Its simple presence disgusts me now. I stand, wobbly, on my dead legs. Use my meagre strengths to throw it on the marble floor, use my feet to reduce it to dust. It doesn’t alleviate much.

I turn to the wardrobe. Still making guttural sounds, I feverishly open it and take out what I am looking for: my wedding gown. I had dreamed of that day. I had imagined it the pinnacle of harmony, the solution to the war, my way of honouring Rome. The small dagger under my pillow shone bright In my hands. The precious fabric ripped with faint sounds that echoed my screams.

I curse them all. I curse my brother, I curse the gods, and above all, I curse Rome. In the reflection of my copper mirror, I appear as I am: puffy eyes, ragged breath, tears-covered cheeks, dishevelled, emerging from a pile of priceless linen rags, the dagger sparkling in my hands.