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The Praetorian Camp in Campania
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The Praetorians had been tightening their security around Brutus lately. They had been tightening their grip on him. He knew that mutiny would eventually come, but didn’t expect it to come so soon. It was assumed by the Consular that the men were going to make a deal with one of the other maybe Emperors. It was a curious situation for Brutus.

He now had an enormous amount of Praetorians outside his tent every day and every night. He would sit there in the tent, whispering to his wife and dear friend Felix. Brutus felt that that former slave was the only man that he could truly trust these days.

It was as though the Consular was a prisoner of the Praetorians, but no one would admit it. All of his dispatches had to be screened, and, with the exception of the news that his nephew had been executed and his piers destroyed, he hadn’t received a single message for some time. Brutus was cut off from the world that he had once been so active in.

He was now in his tent, pacing. Sleep had eluded him lately, and he was growing weaker by the day. Brutus was in a decline. He approached a bowl of warm water that was sitting on a table, and dipped his cupped hands into the warm liquid. Slowly, he brought the water to his face. After he cleaned his face and rinsed his hands, the Consular laid down on his bedding and closed his eyes. For now, he would wait.

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Two Weeks Later
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A fever had struck Brutus, and he didn’t feel like he could fight it. His decline was now affecting him, despite his fairly young age. The physicians of the camp had done what they could, but it seemed like a useless task to try and treat him.

Isadria, who had been at his bedside the entire time, was hiding the worry that consumed her. It was now midday and the usual amount of Praetorians were waiting outside of the tent. Brutus called Felix to his side, and gathered the strength to speak with the man.

“Felix, dear friend… It has come down to this now,” Brutus said, managing a smile.

“I don’t wish to die like this, I do not wish to wait and die one way or another,” He said, Felix refused to look Brutus directly in the eyes, dreading the outcome of this conversation.

“I understand, but you do not know that you are to die soon. You will live through this illness; I am arranging another sacrifice to the gods to plead for your health. You mustn’t worry like this,” Felix paused, offering a smile, “Where there is life, there is hope.”

“No. I want you to secure enough sectercii from my estate for Isadria to live comfortably for the rest of her days. She must go to live in Sicily, or Greece,” Brutus said.

“I will do what I can, in the event of your death, sir,” Felix replied, standing.

“Sit back down, Felix. I have one more request for you,” Brutus said, looking over at his desk.

Scrolls were packed up on the desk. Memoirs, letters, and documents concerning the Consular’s holdings had piled up since he had left Rome; but the object that drew Brutus’ gaze was a small knife that he would use to cut hard bread.

Brutus switched his gaze to his wife, who was sitting at the end of his bedding.

“Isadria, please go from the tent for a moment. I wish to speak with Felix, alone, concerning my business holdings,” He said.

“Brutus, I wish to stay here with yo-,” Her words were interrupted by a more demanding voice.

“Isadria, please,” He spoke in a stern tone.

His wife stood up hesitantly and looked at Felix. The aid gave her a reassuring nod, and so she left the two to talk about their business.

“Felix, I wish for you to take my life now. It is a decision that I have thought about over the last week, and I want you to do it,” Brutus said, without hesitation or weakness in his voice.

“Sir, I cannot. No, I will not,” Felix said.

“Yes, you will. You have obeyed me far to long to stop now,” Brutus began to laugh, but it only strained him more, “I doubt you wish to see me suffer, to see me cut off from the world. Just do this one last task for me.”

Felix paused; a man whom he knew since he was a slave in the house of Tullius Quinus Vitellius was now asking him to take his life. He finally looked into the eyes of the, once mighty, Brutus Disius and then knew that he had to obey him. He went to the desk and picked up the small knife, then solemnly returned to Brutus.

There he stood, holding a bread cutting knife over one of the most well known men in the Empire. Brutus could only sit there, watching his friend make the final decision. Felix did notice it, but tears began to run down his cheek. He wiped them with his hand, and let out a sigh.

“Make it count,” Brutus said.

Tears were welling up in Brutus’ eyes as Felix made the final, swift, blow. He had struck the knife into Brutus’ heart, delivering the deadly strike that would allow his employer a quick death. Brutus let out a gasp when the searing pain struck him, but he soon felt nothing.

When the blood had drained from the statesman’s face, Felix fell to the ground and wept. Isadria looked through the flap when she heard weeping come from inside, and let out a scream. She rushed into the tent to see her husband’s lifeless body lying on the bed. Isadria fell at the foot of the bed and let out a stream of tears. Never, since the death of her father, had she cried like this. Antoninus Brutus Disius, a Consular of Rome and perhaps one of the most well known politicians of his age, was now dead.

A funeral pyre was constructed by the private guards of Brutus, and he was cremated before his wife and friend. His remains were placed in an urn and given to his wife. Brutus Disius was now a memory.

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By: Antoninus Brutus Disius

AD 89