The Rome Prophecy

3

I lie in the dirt of the square.

The last of my blood drips slowly like warm red butter oozing from my butchered wrist.

My life is ebbing away.

Perhaps I will even die before the sun reappears from the grey, melancholic clouds above me.

I hope not.

I pray to see the great god’s face one final time before I pass.

Voices swirl above me.

They are not those of the soldiers – they are all gone now and are no doubt drawing rewards for their public chore. Some will already be bedding whores in the Aventine while telling stories of my demise.

No matter.

My dignity is preserved for eternity. I have a place in history.

One day, when my secret is out, I will be respected and honoured for both my silence and my sacrifice.

Without the guards, I am at the mercy of the mob, and they have no compassion. I see the plebs staring down their noses at me. Some scoff and spit in my face. Others loot the last of my jewellery and cloth. The hands of crude boys explore my cooling flesh.

I feel nothing.

Certainly no pain.

The agony engendered by the sword is thankfully too great for my mind to interpret. I do not scream. Nor do I cry or whimper. I cloak my suffering in a blanket of noble silence.

In the haze of faces above me there are none I recognise. No sign of my brutish husband. No tears from my shamed parents. Not even a last farewell from my friends.

But I am not alone.

My sisters are gathering. They are reaching out from the afterlife and wrapping their arms around me. I am ready to join them and to rejoice.

I am ready to be reborn in the spirit of another sister.

Ready to live beyond the grave.