Where the tangled roots burrow into the earth and the dark water throws itself against the cavern walls, Martius plays his game with death.
The little colony of Rome sits on the shores of Death, struggling to blossom amongst the murky swamp. Years ago they had come, daring to try and save those lost to them, hoping to cheat death with the strength of the living. Now life has deserted them and they merely exist, but the thought of retreat fills them with too much shame. The very thought of surrender would probably have driven Martius into the depths of the river Styx. Volumnia would be all too glad to hold him under.
He had never known a father, and the shore was thick with whispers that he was hers alone, born from the blood shed on the flowers at the base of the oaks. But even if you drowned them out, as he always did, it was true at the core: he was hers alone, to command and to destroy. A reality that Volumnia fiercely demanded from her son from his earliest days.
It had been a game at first, throwing toys into the river and standing stoic as his face was streaked with tears. "You're already wet," she had sneered, ignoring his dismayed cries and turning to return to the world above, disgusted by his tears. "So I see no issue with you jumping in to get it." He could live without the toy, but her denied gaze made his stomach clench in rage, and he leapt into the murky water. When he'd eventually relented, carrying it back to shore, she had shoved him under. When he had spluttered in confusion and rage, her pale eyes had gleamed as she congratulated him – each trek into Death's waters would make him stronger. He doesn't return her savage smile, as the stale water of death had already befouled his love, if not his devotion. She could deny him her affection, but she could never deny the pride that surged through the blood they shared. But his own pride rises as he looks back into the water, daring it too take him. He is not afraid of drowning, and in his savage innocence he thinks he might be able to dare against the monsters who want to drag him to his death. No, he knows he can dare against them, and he will.
And so came the day that the game began and Death took his rightful place beside Volumnia as Martius' master and keeper.
No-one remembers whose idea it had been to attempt to recover the lost souls on their journey downriver. It certainly hadn't been Martius', and even as he struck the water before him, gliding towards the rusty boat with an equally rusty blade between his teeth, he cursed them in their helpless weakness. If he had been a thoughtful man he would have dwelled on it and turned around. But he is not a thoughtful man, so he continues to swim forward and lets loyalty and disgust unite to urge him on.
It was not love that drove him again and again to the rusty skiff in the river, not love for the people aboard. Their frantic howls sabotaged any attempt at retrieving them secretly, and as he tore them from the deck they clutched at him, threatening to drag him down to the Styx's depths. He looks at their desperate faces, contorted with desperation and terror, and feels nothing but disgust. These wretches had already fallen prey to death once before, and in Martius' iron-clad heart that denied them of any deserving in life. But the senate had said they must be saved, that they needed their numbers to survive, and Martius would not risk the senate even in his disgust.
At first the boatman had been apathetic, driven only by duty to rid himself of the intruder who stole what was his. But as eternity marched on and the bruises from his oar did nothing to deter Martius, he could fell the bearded man growing angry. The blows grew harder, lacerations replacing bruises, and the bitter taste of the water flooding his mouth as he was forced underwater became more familiar than air. He no longer needed to seek the boatman – he would find him. In robbing him of his usual fare-payers, he'd become his greatest prize.
He wasn't sure when or why he had started calling him Aufidius, but the mortal name only aggravated the creature more. He never had to fight for Aufidius' gaze – it was always there, searching for him and as eager for his attention as he was for his blood. It is easier than it is with his mother, and even as he howls threats at the disappearing boat he realises that he yearns for the venom of his gaze more than the cheers of the crowd. And from the sight of the shadowy figure watching him across the river, waiting for his approach, the savage devotion had consumed the boatman too.
And so the game took another.
The raids continue, braving deep into Death's domain as they regain more souls for Rome. His son tries to follow him sometimes, venturing out as far as he dares. Menenius and Volumnia always laugh, daring him to see how deep he is willing to go. He is already a cruel boy, all too willing to push other panicked children into the depths, but he is not yet brave. His grandmother scoffs at his hesitation, eagerly waiting for the day it dies with the last of his kindness, but his mother clings to his dying innocence.
Virgilia always sits at the shore – if he'd ever turned back, he'd be able to see her. In the fringes of the orchard, fighting to rise amongst the dark and damp, she weaves river-reeds into thick, misshapen cloth that could almost be called clothing. She knows he will never wear it, barely staying ashore long enough for his tattered uniform to dry, but it gives her something to look at other than the churning water that threatens to swallow her husband.
But Volumnia is always looking. He sees her without needing to look, waist-deep in water as they journey into the depths, her faded goat-skin cloak floating around her, head upraised in song as she dares the gods to deny him victory. He sees her even when her proud figure fades into the dreary coastline and his eyes sting with spray. As the boatman's oar slams into his skull and pushes him down, down into the eager river bed and his vision darkens he sees her most clearly of all, shaking her head and turning her back. So he thrashes and kicks against the water's hungry embrace and emerges, form dripping but eyes ablaze as he brings life to the dead and death to the living. All for a mother's glance.
As their successes grow, so do the numbers that follow them, though he dismisses each incoming hoard as more useless, gutless and mindless than the last. The freshest soldiers are too young, too inexperienced, driven on purely by the fierce need to rescue those Death has taken. But there is only so much they are willing to dare, and they shrink back against the deck when confronted with the reality of their promise. Martius gives them a look of withering disgust and throws himself overboard, and they continue to cower as they listen to the fierce crack of oars slamming into the water, the crunch of them hitting bone. Reinforcements arrive and they dare to peep out into the wreckage before them. Death's boat floats upturned, and the waters foam with the thrashing of hundreds of Romans attempting to flee. Martius' head doesn't emerge among the frantic crowd, and Titus gives an enraged cry of grief. But one of them spots the water near the boat churning, and Titus looks out to see Martius and Aufidius thrashing in the water, lips pulled back in snarls of hate. Aufidius knows he has lost as he glimpses the escaped Romans in between his view of Martius' fists or teeth, but refuses to stop, refuses to yield. It is only as their heads crack against the side of the boat and they both sink down that his few loyal souls are able to untangle his clenched fingers from Martius' jacket as Cominius and Titus pull his enemy back above the waves. His vision shakes and blurs in the marriage of the murky water and his own throbbing head, and he sees only shadows as he most desired prize is wrenched out of his grip. By the time Aufidius emerges to gaze at the pathetic wreckage around him, the Romans are far beyond his reach and his screams are heard by no-one but the empty earthen walls.
The people call him Coriolanus, and the echo of their joyous shouts off the cavern walls makes his head throb with frustration. If he can not return to dare against Death yet, then he needs to rest. But the careless celebration of soldier and saved alike causes the boat to rock mercilessly and denies him any chance of sleep. He asks them for silence, first to Cominius with all the politeness he can muster, but it only spurs them on.
"CORIOLANUS!"
He tries to draw away from the crowd, but the boat is suffocatingly small and he is too tired to swim the rest of the way home.
"CORIOLANUS!"
His shouts and screams only remind them of the glory of this commander, their commander, the man who defies death, and the renewed roar of their praise drowns his protest.
"CAIUS MARTIUS, CORIOLANUS!"
He returns to cheers and trumpets that echo through the darkened cavern, but either his hearing or his heart has been dulled in the long days abroad, and the hollow ringing sickens him to the core. But as Volumnia breaks away from the waiting crowd, braving the depths to welcome her champion, he bows into her embrace, holding his mother's gaze as she greedily looks over the fresh wounds. Virgilia lingers in the shadows, watching them through the distorted limbs of the orchard. She sometimes thinks she could swim out to them, tear her husband from his mother's clutches and take him and their son far away to the land above, safe from the monsters that thirst for his blood. But she'd seen the dullness in his eyes as they went further inland, remembered the almost pitiful emptiness of his gaze, and the vision of the man she loved reduced to an empty shell banishes her strength. It is only after his mother leads him ashore that Volumnia's dismissive nod gives her permission to approach, but even then she can feel he is far away, still engulfed in the swell of war. He'd become so used to the river's never-ending assault on his clothes and skin that he barely notices her tears drenching his clothes, and here free from the hounding water he can't bring himself to understand her choked gasps.
Virgilia continues to sob into his neck and Volumnia and Menenius smile, all thanking the gods for returning their son and saviour to them. But as he forces himself to tear his eyes from the lake, he realises their prayers are wasted. Death had taken him long ago, and now had only to wait to reclaim what was his. The peace of the shore denies itself to him; the water is too still here, barely drawing breath, and its tranquillity makes him not of serenity but of the breathless men floating away as they are denied even death. As even as his family cling to him, the murky green glow of the river has already banished them into the shadows. Their joyful tears confuse him and he is tired, too tired to even try and earn more of Volumnia's attention.
The people too are tired, tired from these long years at Death's shores. The bitter stench of the water befouls the sweetness of their rescued loved ones embraces, but though they long for the world above those in power insist they remain, and they dare not defy them. Their exhausted hate finds a name and purpose in Caius Martius, the man who seems to treasure Death's blows over his family's embraces and rewards their frenzied thanks with blank, uncaring stares. But their bitterness remains silent, lurking under the tranquil waters of the shore, until two men give voices to their rage.
Amidst the people's growing confidence and hate Volumnia and Menenius try to reform him into the hero they feel they now need, hoping to cover steel beneath layers of mud. But the mask they form for him cracks at first impact. He's so used to fighting for his mother's gaze that the sea of eyes twists his stomach, and he meets them with an iron glare. His keepers insist that he can turn their spite into adoration, but he'd rather they just stopped looking. Because when a few of them regard him with something other than disgusted suspicion he can see the possessiveness he's so used in Volumnia's eyes as the crowd searches eagerly for the scars escaping the shade of his collar. Magnified amongst these people whose love he is repulsed by he realises he hates that look from Volumnia too. But he still needs the validation of her gaze, so when she shouts and scorns him he returns to the masses' clutches.
He meets the surging, enraged crowd on the shore, and the shrieking masses force him back, and his rage at the tribunes' glowering sneers of triumph could have boiled the river dry. The people form a living sea, surging forwards as one and drowning his enraged shouts with a roar as they push him back into the river. He splutters in rage, all lectures on control forgotten as he howls at the masses, now silent in awe at their own power to defy him. Part of his rails against them in savage fury, urging him to fight, to die against them, to prove them wrong with blood and steel. But the other is too proud to even play against them in this game of Death, and it is that part that leads him out.
He doesn't know how long he'd wanders. The shaggy hair on his scalp and jaw is as unfamiliar to him as the wasteland he travels through, and his parched throat burns with curses saved for Rome. Exhaustion begins to rake at his body, but he feels no fear for the Death so close he can almost feel it. But he will not wait for it to consume him – he'll seek it out, one way or another. Eventually he finds another small village, its foundations all but eroded away. While the people seem content his eyes whirl frantically between them and he creeps away from them. It is only as a funeral bell tolls that he emerges from his corner to look through the crowd at the water, waiting for Death to arrive. But even as the blood-coloured skiff hits the shore and the boatman strides into the village he sees none of the fear and hatred he'd come to expect from grateful Romans. They watch Aufidius with solemn respect, and some even call out and smile. Even as he moves to collect the fallen souls a few children creep towards him. Some are barely older than Coriolanus' little son, so he is not surprised to see they don't fear death. What does surprise him is the friendly smile Aufidius gives them in return, briefly clutching their hands before continuing on his way. Coriolanus excuses his confusion at the gentleness shown by Death as his own exhaustion and pushes it away. As he creeps onto the boat and huddles amongst the other lost souls he doesn't dare expect a similar reception.
While he half-expected him to drag him down below the water immediately, he half hoped Aufidius would want to savour his kill. One night was all he wanted – to bask in their mutual hate, to hear the savage joy of hands beating against the skiff as they embraced victory, to sink into the dark waters and allow himself to be consumed by the deadly river of his enemy's eyes. So when he feels trembling hands clutching at his neck it is not his enemy but his own primal instinct of life he fights against, waiting for the Styx's tepid water to flood his lungs.
But Death denies him even this. He waits for the end, but knife against his neck is joined by the strong arms of his enemy's embrace. Aufidius seems confused in his own mercy, shaking his head in confusion and awe even through whispered oaths of loyalty. But through in his exhaustion, Martius felt a sense of silent understanding; he's long been familiar with that intense, savage devotion blurring love and hate. But as hours wear on and Aufidius has ridded him of the last of his mattered hair, he returns to find a reality more blurred than the razor at his scalp refusing to strike. His years of trouble and torment to the boatman are punished with embraces and cheers where his service to Rome was rewarded with stones and snarls, and he is given a fleet surpassing even the number of souls he is able to steal from Aufidius' clutches. Aufidius' eager charity confuses him more than his wife's gentle tears and the peoples' ingratitude combined, and he watches the boatman out of the corner of his eyes, preparing for his vengeance to return. But Aufidius remains consistent in his contradictions and Martius' doubt shames himself, so he pushes his thoughts aside and returns to his natural state of action.
When the boat silently glides into the shallows, the Romans ashore don't hear it over the ruckus of their own celebrations. The joyous melodies of clarinets and lutes swirl within the crowd, dancing and laughing and boasting of how together they managed to expel their enemy without even spilling the blood he was so fixated on. Sicinius and Brutus flitter through the crowd, accepting clasped hands and slurred thanks. They've grown cautious since Martius' family had snatched them from the crowd, screeching at them in rage and grief and hate. But tonight it seems the grieving matrons are content to limit their loathing to glaring out from the orchards in an attempt to ease their spite. So when a rusty skiff softly churns the murky shallows, no one is watching for its deathly commanders.
The people have become so used to Death as a temporary thing, a bothersome issue to be overcome, that they can barely believe their eyes when it anchors at their shore. For a moment there is silence, and they regard the silent boatman watching them from the skiff with victory in his eyes with confusion. But then Martius emerges from the depths, and songs turn into shrieks of terror as Death's sword hunts them down. The raft soon groans under the weight of Roman souls denied the chance of another life. They plead with the man who once returned their loved ones to them, praying for his heart to return to the mercy they believed he once possessed, but it is as loveless as the first day he first saved them. He drags their lifeless bodies through the shallows and tosses them unceremoniously onto the boat, and as they revive he watches their frenzied panic with pure indifference. Aufidius' gaze never leaves Martius swirling figure, and as their conquests pile up his green eyes flash with envy.
A few survivors remain clustered on the shore, and from the anchored boat Coriolanus can hear arguing; they've grown frantic in their desperation. Mere hours ago a pack of citizens had dragged a screaming Brutus to the shoreline, and raised their voices in pleading to Coriolanus, swearing their loyalty even as they held the man who was once their voice below water until his writhing stopped. Now Sicinius sat cowering amongst the survivors, slinking even closer to the ground as the senate dared to propose another sacrifice. How quickly he turned on himself, insisting that his life was worth as little to their cause as Brutus had been. They needed someone could reason with their fallen hero, who would surrender their life in the knowledge that their bond and eloquence could save them all. Their chosen victim slumps back against the cavern wall, and forces his own doubt down, down, as he leaves the mock safety of the pack for the lonely shore.
And so the boatmen find Menenius face-down in the shallows, his blood already fading into the murky waters. The boat erupts with jeers as he awakens in its clutches, laughing at the man who thought his bond with their newfound leader would save him from Death itself. He brushes them away, creeping to the prow of the boat where Coriolanus lounges. He forces a smile and drops to his knees, cradling the still raw gashes on his wrist, but as he stares into the eyes of the boy he helped raise he feels his hope draining away as fast as his blood in the merciless water. They are pale and hollow beneath layers of blood and grime, and they spare him no more pity than they did to the wailing citizens. When he refuses to move, anchoring his knees to the deck, Coriolanus merely scowls and shoves several bronze coins into his trembling hands. "This is height of my mercy, Menenius," he murmurs, continuing to glower. "You surrendered yourself to death. Now take your fee and accept your fate." Menenius sees nothing, feels nothing, as he stumbles through the crowded boat onto the underworld's shores. Here noble and common, hero and coward alike are pressed together in a churning mass of hopeless despair, but Martius' own stubbornness stops him from turning to glance at even Menenius, let alone the millions who fell prey to Death's clutches.
It is only later, when he meets the intensity of Aufidius' murky gaze that he dares to glance at the huddled mass of dark rags kneeling on the floor of the skiff. He had sworn that Menenius was the peoples' final, desperate attempt to try his pity. But he was a man of absolutes, and hadn't dared to imagine a situation that could test his new loyalties.
Because now his own family is cowering beneath him on their journey to the underworld and he is unable to tear his eyes away.
Shrill whistles and hoots ring throughout the cavern, but it is not Volumnia who is the first to stand and stride towards him. It is Virgilia, gentle, quiet, kind Virgilia, who fights through her fear and grasps his face. But the voice emerging from his lips is flat and empty, and he returns her love and pleads with a calmness that makes her blood run cold. As he turns away from her, locking eyes with Volumnia and lounging back against the creaking boards, his wife stands frozen. Unwilling to step towards the man who has betrayed her, but caught as if in a rip, too shocked to move away. Beyond hope and beyond tears.
Volumnia too is unwilling to waste sobs on her son. Death surrounds her, but there is nothing but exasperation in her eyes as she stares him down. Coriolanus feels himself shrinking in her gaze, once again a small boy whose tears shame her. He's spent a life fighting against cowardice, against any fragment of mercy or kindness within himself, and now she scorns the machine she has created. He realises he can not kill her, and even if he could he can not win against her.
For the first time in his life he truly needs to flee, pacing to the edge of the boat like a caged beast and staring into the churning waters. Aufidius watches from a distance, leaning against the railings and letting his eyes track Coriolanus' hopeless attempts to escape his mother's lashing tongue. She snatches an oar and stands shoulder to shoulder with Virgilia, keeping him at bay.
Their boat jerks as it hits the river bed, and they glance up at the crowded island beyond. Volumnia turns to him one last time in disgust, then lets her savage shouts assault the cavern walls, ringing through his ears. Then she turns her back, gathering his wife and son close to her as together they march towards the shores of the afterlife. She faces her true death with the courage and pride his own name boasts of, and admiration of her bravery breaks him faster than any begging or tears. His own reflection marches away with the empty courage that led him to Aufidius' lair mere months ago and scorns his own feeble attempts to mirror her. His first broken plead barely escapes his throat, and as he crumbles at her feet he lets himself be consumed by sobs. The tears she's banned and scorned through the years that save her, drenching her mourning clothing as she looks down in shock. Struggling to banish his misery he looks over to Aufidius, and could swear his eyes are glistening with tears. And he knows for certain he is doomed.
But he is too tired to fight anymore. Let it come.
The return home is dead silent, the lapping of waves louder than a scream. They watch Coriolanus, barely daring to breathe, still unwilling to hope that his mercy will persist. Virgilia clings to their son, and Coriolanus in turn keeps his distance. They leave the group in a little rowboat, and through the quiet of his family he can hear Aufidius' companions erupt in frantic whispers.
She accepts her glory with a silence that is somehow both smug and dignified. He watches her silently, absorbing the mask she'd tried so hard to fashion over him resting on the face where it belongs. Then without a word he turns silently from the shores of life and returns to the vessel of Death, the only place he can now belong. He doesn't look back to see if she's watching him. Now, with his body finally free of the tears he's held back for so long, he's not sure if he cares anymore.
Or maybe it's that he's ready for the unyielding glares that greet him when he returns to the boat. He eagerly embraces the swelling hatred of the crowd, comforted in his own warped validation that he was right in his judgement. But he refuses to lie down and let them take him on a whim to Death's door – he fights like a dying animal as he thrashes against them, and the boat sways violently as his attackers collapse with a thud. But as the boatman approaches he can see that much of the blood that drenches the deck is his own.
He feels a sense of sick relief as he drinks in the savage fury of Aufidius' expression. This is the Death Volumnia had taught him to understand, dare and fight; the resentful monster who would stop at nothing to drag him into the depths, not the man willing to smile and take his hand. But the two merge as Aufidius tenderly holds him even as he feels the knife twist in his gut. It seems even Death defies his absolutes.
Even as his vision of Aufidius blurs as he lets the river consume him, he's not sure who has won.