The Curious Incident at the Border Farm

XII Septemberis, Anno LII a.C.n.

September 12, 52 BCE

The order had come in at dawn, the kind that made every soldier groan — a detachment to investigate some trivial incident at the very fringe of Roman civilization. A handful of soldiers from the Twelfth Legion had been assigned, none too pleased to be sent traipsing through the backwoods of the empire to handle what they assumed was a squabble between farmers. Marcus Fabius, ever the reluctant hero, found himself among them, along with three others: Lucius, Decimus, and Quintus. Together they trudged along the dirt path that led from the town’s outpost, through rocky fields and scrub, to a tiny cluster of dilapidated farms huddled on the empire’s edge.

“Why do we get all the best assignments?” Lucius muttered, his gladiusclinking against his worn leather armor as they walked.

“Because the gods hate us,” Decimus answered flatly, swatting away a buzzing insect.

“Or because we drank all of the legate’s wine,” Quintus added with a snort.

Marcus, leading the group, sighed and adjusted his cloak. The air here was colder, and the looming trees cast long shadows over the path. They were far from the comforts of Rome, or even the meager amenities of the nearby garrison. Here, Rome’s grasp was tenuous, at best — a fact made all too clear by the grim faces of the farmers who watched them approach, their eyes filled with suspicion and resentment.

The farm in question was little more than a shack, surrounded by a few scrawny chickens and a patch of sad-looking vegetables. The farmer, a man named Gaius, met them at the gate, his face drawn and pale.

“You found something, Gaius?” Marcus asked, not bothering to hide his boredom.

Gaius nodded, his eyes darting nervously towards the barn. “In there,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

Marcus exchanged a glance with Lucius, who rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” Marcus muttered, gesturing for the others to follow as Gaius led them towards the barn.

The doors creaked open, revealing the dim interior, and the stench hit them first — something metallic and sickly sweet. Flies buzzed in lazy circles, drawn to the heap of farm equipment piled in the corner.

“What in Jupiter’s name is that?” Decimus asked, his nose wrinkling.

Gaius pointed with a shaking hand. “It’s… well, it’s my neighbor,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

And there, tangled among the blades of a what , was indeed a body. Or what was left of one. A mess of limbs and mangled flesh, as if someone had tossed the poor soul into the reaping machine and then thought better of it halfway through.

“By the gods,” Lucius muttered, covering his mouth. “What kind of idiot gets themselves stuck in that?”

“Looks like he tried to use it as a bed,” Quintus offered, a twisted grin playing on his lips.

Marcus sighed, stepping closer, squinting at the grisly sight. “He’s definitely dead,” he said flatly.

“Thanks for that, Marcus,” Lucius muttered. “We’d never have guessed.”

After managing to disentangle what remained of the unfortunate neighbor from the reaper, the soldiers decided they should probably ask a few questions. The nearest farm, just a stone’s throw away, belonged to an elderly couple who seemed less than pleased at their arrival.

“It’s almost harvesting season,” the old man said, his tone accusatory as he squinted up at Marcus. “And now you’ve come stomping about, scaring the goats.”

“We’re investigating a murder,” Marcus said, trying to keep his patience. “Your neighbor — “

“Aye, I know the one,” the old man interrupted, nodding sagely. “Lazy bastard, always complaining about his back.”

His wife, a hunched figure with a face like crumpled parchment, chimed in. “He borrowed our plow last spring and never returned it,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Good riddance, I say.”

Decimus cleared his throat. “Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone coming or going from his farm?”

The old man scratched his head, his brow furrowing. “Well, there was that cloaked fellow,” he said slowly. “Came through a few days ago, asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Marcus asked, leaning in.

The old man shrugged. “Don’t remember. Something about the forest. Or maybe the goats.”

“Very helpful,” Lucius muttered under his breath.

The soldiers continued their questioning, moving from farm to farm, but the answers were always the same — vague, disinterested, and occasionally outright hostile. It seemed that no one particularly cared that their neighbor had met an unfortunate end. If anything, they seemed annoyed that it was interrupting their work.

“It’s almost harvesting season,” one of them repeated, as if that explained everything.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, Marcus had had enough. They weren’t getting any answers here, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he cared enough to keep trying. He glanced at Lucius, who gave him a tired nod.

“Tavern?” Lucius suggested.

Marcus sighed, a weary smile tugging at his lips. “Tavern,” he agreed.

The tavern was a shabby affair, little more than a wooden hut with a thatched roof, but it served its purpose. The soldiers crowded around a table, mugs of sour wine in hand, the events of the day already beginning to blur in the haze of alcohol.

“So, who do we think did it?” Decimus asked, his words slurred. “The old man? Maybe his wife?”

“Does it matter?” Quintus replied, raising his mug. “To the dead bastard! May he rest in pieces.”

They laughed, the sound harsh and grating in the dimly lit room. Marcus took a long sip of his wine, his eyes drifting to the corner of the tavern, where a figure sat alone, hunched over a mug of his own. A cloak obscured his face, the hood pulled low, but something about him caught Marcus’s attention.

The man seemed to be listening, his head tilted ever so slightly towards their table. When he noticed Marcus’s gaze, he stiffened, setting down his mug and rising from his seat. He moved quickly, slipping out of the tavern without a word, the door creaking shut behind him.

“Who was that?” Marcus muttered, frowning.

Lucius glanced over his shoulder, but the man was already gone. “Who cares?” he said, shrugging. “Probably just some local who doesn’t like soldiers.”

But Marcus couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. The way the man had listened, the way he had left so abruptly — it didn’t sit right with him.

He set down his mug, a sense of unease settling in his chest. But then Decimus clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him back into the conversation, and the moment passed. The laughter and the wine flowed, and soon the strange cloaked figure was forgotten.

But out in the night, beyond the glow of the tavern, the cloaked man moved with purpose, his steps swift and silent as he made his way towards the edge of the village, towards the dark line of the forest that loomed beyond the fields. He paused for a moment, glancing back towards the flickering lights of the tavern, before disappearing into the shadows, the night swallowing him whole.

The soldiers, drunk and weary, would never know who had killed the farmer, nor would they realize just how close they had come to understanding the secrets that lay hidden in the wild lands beyond Rome’s reach. For them, it was just another night, another drink, another story to laugh about. But for the cloaked figure, it was the beginning of something far more dangerous, far more mysterious — a story that would play out in the darkness, beyond the edge of civilization.