They had traced a semi-circle to the front of the theatre and found themselves beside the former Curia, a squat unassuming annex to the larger edifice. Once Seneca had shown Baecr inside, pointing out the spot where the first of the Caesar's had been brutally murdered. Legend had it the dictator's spirit lingered still, and even though he did not believe in ghosts, Baecr was grateful to pass on by towards a tall iron gate set within a high wall. To Marcus's consternation the gate hung slightly ajar, certain that he had pulled it shut behind him earlier that evening. Had someone else passed through the gate between then and now was the unspoken question. Beyond the wall lay an open garden. Even in the darkness the layout was familiar to Baecr, knowing that shrub-lined paths stretched a hundred or so paces to a flight of steps leading into the theatre-proper. On past summer days he had visited the garden with Vetelia, sheltering together beneath shaded porticos, watching her name and admire the varicoloured flowers arranged in tidy borders: red and yellow rosa, golden cartha and hyathincus, purple lavendula, pink acanthus. Back then it had been a place of promenades, parties and grape-fueled laughter, of other people’s jokes and families with young children—Phoebe included—a prelude to plays and festivals, music and dance. Even he had enjoyed some uncommon happiness there. Now it was sombre and empty, drained of life except their own, its frosted path leading more towards a mausoleum than to any place of entertainment.

    Baecr paused in his tracks and Marcus stopped beside him. Small flakes of snow drifted slowly down from the dark sky, and all was soundless but for their steady breathing. Taking the lantern from Marcus, Baecr lowered its light towards the shallow snow, revealing where a series of footprints had disturbed the whitened ground. 

  'These marks go in opposite directions,'  Baecr said quietly, using a finger to trace one of the impressions in the snow. 'See you can make out a heel. Curious, some are smaller than the others. Perhaps from a child, or a woman?'

  Marcus bent at his side. 'Or the light playing tricks', he offered. 

  'I don't think so. See, those prints there are larger and have pressed down further into the snow. Most likely a man's. Yours?'

  'Whose else could they be?'

  Baecr turned his gaze towards the theatre. 'Possibly the murderer’s. Unless he’s still inside.'

  'Well that’s worrying if he is,' Marcus added. 

  'Or she. Women can murder as well,' Baecr stated. He straightened his back again before contining towards to the theatre, then up the short flight of steps to a covered corridor where their footsteps struck a hollow echo.  Denser darkness wrapped closely around them. In his hand Baecr's feeble light glazed over more statues, eerie marble faces with impassive looks, muted witnesses to whoever or whatever had passed before, alive or dead, adding a chilling effect to an already cold evening. Fortunately it did not take long for them to emerge into the vast, circular interior, roofless and open to the sky. This was the cavea, the usually noise-filled heart of Pompey's theatre but now as still and silent as a forgotten grave. Whereas broken clouds had obscured the moon before, a white, ethereal glow from above had replaced the need for the lantern, its flame dying in any event to a redundant flicker. Before them rows of stone seats climbed upwards on three sides of the cavea. On the fourth side rose the proscenium, a wooden stage for actors to strut upon, giving voice to comedy or tragedy. Behind the proscenium, at first barely visible in the low light stood the scaena frons, a three-story vertical backdrop with columns, doorways, windows, and pilasters. Once closer, the brothers could make out several figures set within niches; lunar-lit gods, male and female, then nymphs, centaurs and other mythical beasts, some majestic, others in grotesque form, all seemingly gazing down at something unnaturally shaped lying in the centre of the stage. At first appearance it looked to be a length of crumpled sacking left by a careless hand but nearer inspection revealed a strip of faded yellow curtain flecked with a dusting of pale white powder. A darker stain haloed what Baecr assumed was the unfortunate actor’s shrouded body lying lifeless within a ring of violent red. Caesar possibly had new company.

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