Jacta Alea Est

Jacta alea est

“In the night on which the day of his murder dawned, he dreamt that he was soaring above the clouds…”---Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars

The sunlight was bright, sharp in his eyes as Evan Rosier stood against the ancient stone walls of the Roman forum. The crumbling evidence of the once-powerful Empire distressed him; there was nothing quite so horrifying as the evidence of grandeur lying broken in the afternoon sun.

He had been moody ever since he’d arrived in the city, because of that very reason. Rome seemed to be split in too many different ways—the Muggle city, the Wizarding one, and the remnants of the former glory of the ancient Empire, comprised of both. If Evan recalled his Wizarding history correctly, the Roman Empire had been ruled by ruthless wizards who did not hesitate to use brutal force to control the population.

They were the most feared and respected civilization of all time, and they were taken down by a horde of barbarian Muggles.

When he’d learned of it in Professor Binns’ class at Hogwarts, it had made his blood boil. To think the mighty Roman Empire had been demolished by unwashed hordes of filthy Muggles. Evan remembered sitting in the classroom with the hot, late afternoon sun pouring in on him, as he dug his palms into the wood of his desk so he wouldn’t voice the rage that had overtaken him during the lesson. He hardly paid attention in the man’s class, this was one of the only times the lesson had been sufficiently compelling enough to hold his interest.

It was civilized! There were roads, and hot and cold running water, and beauty and art. Those disgusting creatures invaded and what happened? Civilization descended into darkness and they burned us on the pyres.

Evan smiled slightly at the two Muggles who passed him as he stood there, face benign, appearing to be nothing more than an innocent tourist taking in the sights.

I would kill you all if I could. Every last, miserable one of you.

His hand rubbed the Dark Mark on his left forearm, and he sighed in contentment. When the Dark Lord was victorious, his Empire would be more terrible and more powerful than even the one the Romans had created.

“Rosier!”

Evan’s content smile faded, and his amber eyes narrowed behind the sunglasses. Rabastan Lestrange was stalking across the centuries-old stone without sparing a glance for the history that surrounded them.

He has no vision, Rabastan. His brother is in thrall to that madwoman Bellatrix, and Rabastan is floundering without an anchor.

“What is it, Lestrange?”

The other man was panting slightly as he approached. Evan sighed warily at the sight, wondering if Rabastan was aware it took more than the ability to cast Crucio to make a successful Death Eater. It took a subtlety of mind and a vigorous attention to one’s physical condition. Dark Magic was like a poison, and the way to build one’s immunity without losing one’s mind to insanity involved a careful cultivation of both physical and mental powers. Rabastan had burning eyes and an attitude more suited to a follower, and both of these things would either lead him to an early grave or insure he would be eminently successful.

The oddities of the game they played, all of Voldemort’s Death Eaters, in their search for purity had always been a source of endless fascination to Evan.

“Don’t you think we ought to be getting back?” Rabastan looked around nervously, as if the crowd was going to turn, en masse, and rush at them after somehow figuring out the two men were bent on the destruction of their race.

“You know, you have no appreciation of the history of this place, Rabastan,” Evan murmured, removing his sunglasses and fixing the other man with a piercing look. “Are you certain you attended the same school I did?”

Rabastan looked at him, his light brown eyes a tad wary as he met Evan’s gaze. A woman on a train had once looked into Evan Rosier’s eyes and screamed, rushing backwards and muttering that he had no soul as she scrambled away from him. He remembered the stares of the other passengers burning on his neck as they had watched, entranced by the surreal encounter. He’d merely slipped his sunglasses on and stared out of the window at the rolling countryside so there would not be a repeat of the experience.

The woman had fallen on the tracks in the dark of night, her neck broken. Evan detested dramatic scenes.

Not to mention the fact that he did not need some second-rate witch to tell him what the gypsies had told him long ago. It was hardly a revelation. He’d been without a soul since he was born, to hear his mother tell it.

He’s just…not natural.

“Not natural” had been a phrase that had haunted him throughout his childhood and into his schooling. Always too quiet, too emotionally remote, and yet too pleasant, he was fairly certain his entire family had been horrified he’d been sorted into Slytherin—horrified, but not surprised, though they were all traditionally Ravenclaws. He was a pureblood, but it hardly mattered—his family was poor, the coffers of the Rosier fortune long since drained. Obviously, something else put him in Slytherin, whatever it was that made him “not natural.”

When the headmaster had brought word that his mother had taken her own life, thirteen year old Evan had merely stared at the man with his curious golden gaze and asked if he might have a pasty. They had sent him to the nurse, and finally he’d transfigured a paperclip from his bag into a shard of glass and cut himself so that he could cry. That seemed to be enough for them; they’d let him go back to his room soon afterwards and had excused him from class.

He had climbed up to the top of the Astronomy Tower and thrown rocks down at the other students, first-years having flying lessons on the grass below.

Evan’s mind snapped back to the present from the murky din of past memories when he heard a decidedly irritated note in Rabastan’s voice.

“I think we better get back,” Rabastan said, his voice indicating that he’d had to repeat himself before Evan answered.

Evan smiled at him as the sun sparkled down on the ruins of the Roman forum. “We should,” he agreed and began to walk away. Tonight they would work, and some family of Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers would die on Voldemort’s command.

Tomorrow, Evan wanted to see the Pantheon.

******

Later that night, he stood in his robe and his mask in the hotel room, waiting for Rabastan to join him. He looked out the balcony at the lights of the city below him, and his mind was blank.

Rabastan entered, wearing a robe but his face was not yet covered. His fingers were curled around the edges of the mask as he held it to his chest, almost protectively. It was his first mission for their Lord in such a populous location, with only one other Death Eater for company.

“I’m nervous,” he said unnecessarily to Evan, who turned in an elegant swirl of black robe and swishing darkness to gaze at him unblinkingly.

“Why? You’ve killed before.” A curiously blank voice, cold and without concern. Evan did not understand why Rabastan was not excited—to kill in Rome, with the moon swollen and full…were there better things than this?

“I know, but—” Rabastan took a deep breath and walked closer to him. “Before, it’s been in the some cottage in the middle of nowhere.” He waved to indicate the city below them. “This place is crowded with people, and I feel so strange that we’re just going to walk out there and…” another wave of his hand, as if a human life was so easily dismissed by the simple gesture.

To Evan, it was. He walked up to the younger man and caught him by the hair, pulling sharply. “Don’t feel at all, Rabastan,” he hissed, amber eyes glittering in the white sea of his mask. “You’re not here to do anything but kill.”

Rabastan made a sound that might have been a whimper, but nodded as best as he could with Evan’s hand twined in the dark thickness of his hair. “I know,” he said softly.

“Good.”

Evan released him and stalked past him to the center of the room, his back to the younger Death Eater. He bowed his head and raised his wand in a gesture that was exaggerated in its slowness, as if he were an executioner signaling for the fall of the headsman’s axe.

“We’re going. Get over here.”

Rabastan moved as if possessed; there was little else he could do. His soul was sworn, and he had nothing left but compliance. He walked to Evan’s side and grabbed his cloak as they Apparated away. Evan noted that he looked as if he was hanging onto his mother’s robes to shop in Diagon Alley.

****
They arrived in a quiet street off of the Piazza Cavour, their boots clicking on the cobblestones. Evan pulled Rabastan into the shadows.

“We stay out of the light, Rabastan,” he hissed before falling as quiet as the night around them.

Evan stopped before they went into the house, marked with the number 315, and laughed low in his throat. He turned to look at Rabastan; the moonlight cutting down on his companion’s face and glancing off the white mask. His eyes looked like dark black pools, the color obscured by shadows.

“What’s so funny?” Rabastan asked, voice rough, as he twined his hands in his cloak and tugged on them. He looked up at the stark black numbers on the door above the house, but it was obvious to Evan he found nothing amusing about them.

Evan sighed, the sound a slight caress in the darkness. “Like I said, you clearly have no idea of the history of this place. There are two reasons I laughed,” he began as he tried the door. It was locked, so he pulled out his wand and muttered a charm. A lock. How provincial. Gloved hand on the doorknob, he turned back to gaze with those fathomless eyes. “Besides the irony of the house address, we are but a block away from the Ara Pacis…altar of peace,” he said, a sharp amusement evident in his tone. “Don’t you find that ironic, considering what we are here to do?”

He pushed the door open and motioned for Rabastan to follow him. Before he stepped into the house, he laughed and murmured “Jacta alea est.” When Rabastan looked at him strangely, he laughed softly again. “Never mind, Rabastan. I’ll explain it later.”

He moved as silent as a specter into the darkened house and up the steps. He was annoyed with the fact that Rabastan paused for a moment at the bottom of the curved staircase. He stopped at the top of the stairs in the hallway, casting the silencing spell before proceeding into the first bedroom.

The rooms were lovely; open and airy, with large windows. The moonlight spilled through the sheer drapes, and he took a moment to appreciate them as Rabastan joined him.

“I cast a silencing charm,” he said, “You can make them scream as long as you like. We’re in no hurry.”

He proceeded through the room, humming softly, the funereal black cloak swirling around him. The craftsmanship of the building was superb, and he liked the mosaics in the master bath. It was a nice touch of authenticity that he appreciated.

It really was a beautiful house. It was a shame they were ordered to burn it when they were done.

****

Later that night, Evan walked through the door connecting his room with Rabastan’s. The other man was obviously in the shower as Evan could hear the water running. Sighing, he pushed the door to the bathroom open and walked into the center of the room.

Rabastan was standing against the wall in the shower, water running down his lean body, shaking and shivering. It could not have been the temperature; the water was burning hot, steam rolled off his body and poured into the tiled bathroom.

Evan was dressed in his trousers and white linen shirt, and he leaned casually against the wall. Rabastan was so far gone in the dark trap of his mind that he hardly noticed the other wizard stood there watching him with hooded eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” Evan asked in a quiet tone, eyes going to the Dark Mark burned on Rabastan’s forearm. It was newly done, the skin was still red in places. It would fade to black soon enough, just like Evan’s.

Shuddering, Rabastan moved to look at him, eyes wild. Briefly, his eyes went down to his cock, which was pressed hard and rigid against his stomach. He could not say a word, just closed his eyes and moaned slightly.

Understanding lit Evan’s eyes. “Ahh,” he said, fingers pulling at his shirt. He tossed it to the floor, stepping out of his trousers until he too was naked, the marble cold beneath his bare feet. “Kai tu paidon?” he whispered, knowing Rabastan would not understand the reference.

He stepped into the shower, wincing at the heat of the water, but not bothering to adjust it. His hands came up to rest on the other man’s slick, wet shoulders. He shook him slightly. “Rabastan. Look at me.”

There was enough quiet command in his voice that the other man obeyed, water clinging to his lashes like diamonds.

Evan pressed himself against the other wizard, his own cock stirring at the contact of flesh-on-flesh. He leaned forward, water streaming down his face, to speak quietly into Rabastan’s ear as his hand traveled down the muscled contours of his chest, slick with water, to grasp his straining flesh.

“You’re ashamed, aren’t you?” he whispered, moving his hand up and down the hard shaft slowly. Rabastan made a sound that might have been a moan—either of protest or assent was unclear, although he made no move to free himself from Evan’s grasp. “Because it aroused you, made you hard, didn’t it? What we did to them.”

His fingers spread over the other man’s flesh, his touch rougher now, and Rabastan moaned. Evan did not think it was from pain, and he smiled against his neck. “I know,” he crooned, in a soft, almost comforting voice. “I know what you think, that it’s monstrous, wrong.” He shoved the other man back against the tile of the shower, the water beating down on them like a benediction.

“Yes,” Rabastan gasped, hands rising to clutch at Evan’s shoulders, digging into his skin. “Yes, I think it’s monstrous.”

Evan laughed, the sound manic. “Of course it is,” he agreed. “We’re monsters, you and I.” He ran his tongue down Rabastan’s throat, and bit hard enough to leave the imprint of his teeth in the soft skin. He stared at the mark in fascination as blood rushed to purple the flesh.

Rabastan grabbed him harder and laughed wildly, the sound echoing off the tile. “I suppose we are,” he said breathlessly, as he started to thrash under Evan’s caress.

“Let there be no doubt,” Evan whispered. He let go of Rabastan’s cock and pushed the other man down. His own head fell back against the shower with a crack as Rabastan’s mouth eagerly devoured him.

Evan’s hands fisted in the short brown hair as the water from the shower ran into his eyes. Rabastan’s tongue was frantic and wild on his flesh, and Evan could feel Rabastan’s hands grasping his thighs as his cock went deeper into the wizard’s mouth. The silence clung as Rabastan pleasured him, as if doing so were atonement for what he had done—what they had done—in the darkened Roman villa.

The memories of torture and pain danced in his fevered mind, and Evan came in a scalding rush, white lights sparking behind eyelids clenched shut in pleasure.

“Enough,” Evan bit out finally and stared down at Rabastan who was still on his knees, His strong hands still rested on Evan’s thighs, and his face looked beautiful as the water caressed his flush skin. “Up,” Evan ordered.

Rabastan moved smoothly, gracefully, and Evan turned Rabastan until he was facing the shower wall. Evan ran his hands over the slick, wet skin of Rabastan’s back, and reached out of the shower to his wand, which lay on the floor. Tracing the skin with the smooth wood, he murmured an incantation and closed his eyes in bliss as Rabastan’s muscles trembled in pain beneath him as the spell sliced deep, red welts into his flesh.

The water was scalding and would hurt the cuts, but Evan liked the way the water washed the blood down Rabastan’s skin. His hand snaked around to caress Rabastan’s cock; it pressed hard against the other man’s stomach, and his hand curled around it as he pulled, rough and hard. He leaned forward to wrap an arm around Rabastan’s neck, pulling him back until their bodies were flush.

“You liked their screams, didn’t you?” he whispered, hand alternating between slow and fast, and rough and soft. “Answer me,” he said quietly when no response came. “Or would you prefer I leave?”

“I—I already said that I did,” Rabastan gasped out. His eyes were closed, face screwed up in either agony or ecstasy, or perhaps both.

“I like to hear it again,” Evan said, voice dark. He was speaking in the other wizard’s ear, and he quickened his movements, smiling dangerously. His left arm was around Rabastan’s neck, the Dark Mark burned black and sharp against the pale skin. “Open your eyes,” he said, pressing so Rabastan’s head was facing his forearm.

Rabastan did, seeing the skull and snake next to him as he opened his eyes. He whimpered softly, and Evan moved the Mark closer to his face. “I want you to bite it when you come.”

Rabastan groaned, loud and long, and his teeth speared into the skin of Evan’s flesh as he came.When he pulled back, there was blood on the mouth of the skull and smeared on the skin of the snake.

The water was still hot, and as he stood there, Evan remembered history class, how they had Roman baths and hot water eons before the Muggles figured out such things. He thought of the doors of the Temple of Janus being thrown open, and the sounds of legions marching filled his head as the water cascaded down. He smiled, content.

Rabastan Lestrange leaned against the wall of the shower and sobbed.