Aventicum, Civitas Helvetiorum, the sanctuary by the northeastern gate, in the year of the consul Lucius Cassius Longinus [30 CE]

An owl's cry tore through the night, the eerie note the only sound disrupting the silence of the fields beyond the city walls.

Cinna covered the tiny flame of her lamp with her palm and looked up, searching the sky for the source of the noise. Over the eastern hills, the first light of a new day tinted the sky a deep purple, but it was still too dark to spot the bird. A light breeze carried the smell of the nearby marshes, a mixture of rotting wood and sweet grasses. She let it fill her nose and inhaled it, enjoying the contrast to the suffocating stenches of the city.

Accompanied by another huh-uh-uh and the draft from an invisible wing beat ruffled the girl's hair. She shivered and pulled her palla tight around her narrow shoulders. Was the owl a messenger sent by the gods? If yes, it might be a good omen, a sign she was a welcome guest out here on the open plain at this early hour. But a cold draft carrying the stench of decay squelched the glimmer of hope and she hurried on, shielding her light with her palm.

In the distance, a dark shadow loomed. This would be the spire of the great memoria, her destination. The worry and dread sloshing in her empty stomach like an icy liquid dissolved into fierce determination and warm hope while Cinna hustled along the road until she reached the wall of the enclosure of the imposing monument. For a treasured moment, she stopped at the gate and craned her neck, taking in the familiar mass of the limestone spire towering high into the night sky.

Relieved she reached the safe shelter the holy place offered, Cinna let her shoulders sag. She had visited this funeral site almost every day last year, but not since that fateful summer day a few months ago. To come here at all, she had sneaked out of her home in the middle of the night, crossed the sleeping city like a thief, and bribed her way out of the gate. She had been lucky. No one had seen or stopped her. The worst part had been the city gate. The guard had laughed at her, telling her to get lost or he'd teach her manners.

Cinna knew exactly what the man thought and planned when he consumed her with his eyes. If it hadn't been for Marius' old friend who came to investigate what the clamour was about and recognised her, the gate would have remained closed for a defenceless lone woman on a nightly errand.

Another pang of loss reverberated through her chest. If only her Marius had been there at the guard post himself. If only she knew where he was and could reach out to him, tell him about the troubles that darkened her mind. He would tell her that everything would be alright, that they could be together in a bright tomorrow. He always found the words to comfort her when Cinna worried about the future.

She fought back the tears, entered the memoria's enclosure, and placed her oil lamp on the monument's dais. For a moment her gaze rested on the small picture of a prancing lion decorating the lamp, the proud animal reminding her of Marius. Cinna sighed and readjusted the shawl over her head like her mother had taught her. To face the almighty ones bareheaded would call for severe misfortune. Only when she was satisfied with her attire, she knelt down, the uneven flagstones cold against her shins and knees through the fabric of her linen tunic.

Her open palms held up, Cinna spoke the opening words of the prayer, finding comfort in the familiarity of the ancient ritual. "Revered Vesta, keeper of the holy flame, please accept my humble prayer in grace."

With stiff fingers, she picked a piece of the precious incense from her pouch and used her lamp to set it aflame in the soot-blackened cup reserved for this purpose. Before she continued, she took a deep breath to calm herself, remembering her mother's teachings. The stern woman had always insisted the gods had no time or patience for a hesitant or flustered attitude. If mortals wanted to be heard, they had to play by the gods' rules. And never had Cinna needed to be heard as much as today.

"Janus, gatekeeper, opener of the way, may this offering find your favour." The pungent incense fumes tickled her nose and obscured the comforting smells of the nearby marshlands. Cinna placed the lamp back on the dais and presented her open palms again.

"Dear father and beloved mother, please look down kindly on your only daughter." Another piece of incense. If her parents, the ancestors, and the gods didn't accept her offering, she was doomed for sure.

"Divine Apollo, protector of the faithful , may you be well, may you guide my steps and shine your light on me, give me strength, guard my troubled mind, and heal my broken heart. Please help me in these dire times. Beware me from harm headed my way, from hatred, and from violence. Show me a way to carry my unwanted burden, or lift it from me if it is your will. Mighty Apollo, please take this offering as a sign of my sincerity, my honesty, my desperation."

She bowed her head and placed an apple beside the cup. The fruit wasn't a splendid gift, but the god might know how hard it had been to come by in her new home and appreciate it for the effort. Tears obscured her vision when she continued in a small voice. "And please, oh mighty god and generous protector, keep my beloved Marius safe."

To underline her plea, Cinna dropped another small piece of incense into the cup, the last one. Time to close the prayer. "Revered Vesta, may you look favourably upon me. If I did anything to violate this rite, forgive me and take this incense in your honour."

She glanced over her shoulder. Thick wafts of mist shrouded the plains, tricking her to see movement where there was none. The fact she could see the mist told her it was getting late, that the mighty sun god would soon ride his chariot across the sky. But the rule demanded from her to wait until the flames consumed the last offering. Cinna shivered in the crisp morning air and slung her arms around herself while she hoped for a sign the gods heeded her plea. Another owl's cry, perhaps, or a mouse scurrying by? None came.

Finally, the last scrap of incense sizzled in a cold draft, glowed like an orange eye, and faded away. Her prayer was complete, and she was free to leave the holy place. She hoped the gods were not too preoccupied with their own quarrels to listen to a girl in need. They had ignored her requests before. Maybe this time was different, though, as she couldn't remember a time as devastating as this one. Not even when her parents passed away.

She sighed, aware she took a chance with her forbidden prayer. Now her precarious plan was completed, the risk of venturing out here alone weighed her down. In her situation, the grave of her parents had been the only place offering consolation. If only...

The tiny flame of the oil lamp sitting on the dais of the funerary monument flickered and sputtered as she picked it up and held it aloft to illuminate the carved limestone of the great memoria. It was a sight to behold from the road and, in the daytime, a well-known landmark. She had always loved the stone carvings, especially the relief of Triton. But today, from down here and in the mellow light, the sharp features of his bearded figure appeared cold and menacing. To Cinna's troubled mind, the Nereid he pulled into his lap seemed to resent his touch as much as she did the caresses of her husband of these last few weeks.

Her husband. She had to hurry now and sneak back into his house and her room before sunrise—and before someone missed her, or she would run into more trouble than she was in already. Her uncle wouldn't take it well if he learned she fled from her assigned home, and neither would the man she was now married to.

Stifling another deep sigh, she stood and turned back towards the town, her thoughts on the best way to sneak in unseen with the early morning traffic.

The first thrust of the dagger struck her in the right upper arm.

Cinna gasped, torrid pain flashing through her limb, and dropped the lamp. It shattered on the flagstones, a drop of the spilled oil burning her ankle, and left her in obscure twilight. A freezing wave of panic flooded her brain. She clutched her arm—the blood spurting hot from between her fingers—and turned to run. But her unseen tormentor yanked away her palla and grasped her braided hair from behind, pulling her backwards.

The second stab found her heart. Cinna crumpled to the ground with an unheard whimper, her vision already fading while her blood and life gushed from the wound. The receding footfalls of her murderer rang in her ears as she reached a pale hand towards her parents' memoria in a final plea, her cold fingers fumbling with a piece of the shattered lamp until it fell into the crack between two flagstones and all sensation dwindled away.

Silence returned to the plain while a fine tendril of mist curled over the dark puddle of blood around the dead girl. It danced over her body in a light breeze until a thicker waft of fog covered the scene like a moist blanket.

High from the top of the monument, the hoarse caw of a raven tore through the early dawn, the bird the only witness, a lonesome mourner of a lost life.