[b]The Villa of Marcus Cornelius Falco, roughly half a mile north from Rome[/b]

When you grow old there is no need for needless shows of courage on the battlefield, no need for marching in rows with other men that too have a head full of hair and delusions of grandeur to come. There is no need to bother with politics - unless of course they dare to bother you first, then it's a completely different matter. Not that he was bothered by politics at this point. However on this particular morning Marcus Cornelius Falco felt old - not needlessly so, but old nonetheless. He had slept till noon and woken with a rather nasty pain in his right shoulder. He had dreamed of his youth, his time in the legions - more exciting times. Begrudgingly he had gotten out of bed, done his morning routines and gotten dressed.

It had been well past midday when he had finally managed to make his way to the garden of his villa - if you could really call it a garden with it's very few trees and slightly unkempt flowerbeds. Even the fountain at the back of the garden seemed somehow bleak today. Marcus yawned as he sat down with a jug of wine and some bread. His stomach grumbled - not for the lack of food, but more for the amounts of wine he had devoured last night while gambling with some old friends of his. Silently the former consul began going over his schedule of the day - there wouldn't be much work for him, mostly because he adamantly refused meeting too many a people during one day. He remarked to himself that there would indeed be much more work for him if he'd allow more people in, but no... That just wouldn't do.

Marcus Falco paused his writing to glance up at the sky. The days were getting colder. He sighed and shook his head. "I wonder if there are any news from Rome?"