The Deepest Wounds

The Deepest Wounds
By Misha

Disclaimer- Not mine.
Author’s Notes- Another Courtesan of Rome fanfic already. I have all these HCs about Portia, Cassius and Antony and need to thank LizEBoredom for indulging me and listening to them and helping me flesh out. My Antony and Cassius are fictional, but I borrow a little from history here. While doing my notes, I read about Cassius’s death and how he killed himself with the same night he used on Caesar and thus this was born.

Rating- M
Pairing- Antony/Portia, hints of Cassius/Portia
Summary- After the death of Cassius, Antony seeks the retrieval of his knife, opening old wounds in the process.

“General Antony, we retrieved the item you requested,” the soldier told him, handing Marc Antony the item, wrapped in cloth, “Straight from Cassius’s camp.”

Antony nodded stiffly. “Very good.” It was a dismissal and the soldier took it as such, making a hasty retreat.

Antony held the package in his hand, testing its weight before pulling off the cloth. He let out a sharp intake of breath. So it was the same dagger, the one that Cassius had used to pull the ultimate betrayal when he’d killed Caesar. Antony supposed there was a poetry to that, to use the instrument of triumph in your final defeat and Cassius had always enjoyed poetry.

But he knew it was more than that. The knife had far more significance than its role in Caesar’s death, and it was the knife’s origins, not the connection to Caesar, that had motivated Antony to order it brought to him now.

He held it in his hand, turning it over and remembering the last time this particular knife had been in his possession.

“Most patrons give me jewels,” Portia teased as she removed the cloth to reveal a silver dagger. She was sitting up in the bed, her long dark curls covering her bare breasts as she examined his gift.

“I am not most men,” Antony reminded her, stiffening at the reference to her other patrons. He did not want to think of anyone else touching her, and at this moment, as she lounged naked in his bed, he didn’t have to. He could pretend she was his alone. “As much as jewels suit you, I felt like this would suit you more.”

Jewels were far too common a gift for this woman. Jewels were what men gave beautiful women to win their favor for a brief time and to lure them into their bed. With a woman like Portia, the goal was not just simply to bed her but to truly win her over. After all, Rome was full of beautiful women, even a few who could legitimately rival Portia, but none could match her spirit.

A look of surprise crossed her face before she instantly covered it. Portia was an expert at hiding her emotions, so it was a rare victory when he could catch her off guard.

“Most men wouldn’t trust me with a knife,” she said slightly, setting the knife aside. “But then, as you said, you are not most men.”

“No,” Antony agreed, pulling her towards him, “I am not.” He flipped her under him with ease, his face hovering just above hers. “Rome is a dangerous city, and someone as beautiful as you should have a means of defending yourself if the need arises.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll use it on you?” She asked, looking up at him with those big eyes, her arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer.

Was he? Did he think Portia would stick that knife in his back if it would help her fulfill her goal? Perhaps, but that too was part of the appeal of Portia. With her, it was always a game to see who would come out on top.

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” He assured her before his mouth covered hers and his hands gripped her hips, aligning their bodies and then entering her swiftly, effectively ending the conversation as actions replaced the need for words…

Antony’s grip on the knife tightened as the memory of Portia overwhelmed him, so fresh that he swore he could still feel her flesh against his and yet, so long ago now. Long enough that the pain should have faded. After all, who mourned a courtesan for years? But… As much he wanted to deny it, there was still grief, as sharp as a cut from that knife would be.

The knife… He had asked for it after her death, had searched her villa, but no one could give him an answer as to its whereabouts. It had seemingly vanished, with no clue of its whereabouts.

Until the death of Caesar.

He hadn’t seen the knife himself, but the description… There had been too many similarities, especially knowing it was in Cassius’s possession. Somehow it had gone from Portia to Cassius. Had she given his gift away? Had she turned to Cassius in the end, despite choosing him? Or had Cassius taken it after her death, robbing Antony of even that last token? He’d never know, but he preferred to think it was the latter.

Portia had been his at last, her last moments had been in the villa he had bought her, but her death had come when he was away, her last moments, her motivations still a mystery to him… Had she loved him to the last or had Cassius finally succeeded in stealing her affections, just too late? Who’s name had she whispered at the moment of her death?

Antony shook his head, clearing his thoughts. There was no time for them. No time for lingering on the past, searching for answer he’d never get. He needed to focus on the present.  There was a victory to be celebrated. Plans to be made.

He’d send the knife back to Rome, proof of Cassius’s final downfall, and evidence to all of Rome that betrayal and uprising only lead to bitter defeat. It would be recognized as the weapon of a coward, no one but Antony knowing its history and that was how it should be.

This was not the time for sentimentality.

Portia was gone. Now Cassius as well. Whatever anger, or other emotion, had remained, it belonged in the past.

Antony dropped the knife on a nearby table, resolving to have it sent to Rome in the morning.

He never wanted to set eyes on it again.

• End