If We Were Villains: A Novel

Richard’s face haunted me for the rest of the week, but his wasn’t the only one. Posters of James had also appeared—his done in royal blue, bearing the slogan Soul of Rome. Other publicity photos—featuring Alexander; Wren and Meredith; and then me, Colin, and our Lepidus together—appeared in the lobby of the FAB and the school newspaper. Campus began to hum again with anticipation for an upcoming production.

On opening night, there wasn’t a single empty seat in the house. Dellecher’s production quality was legendary, and the prospect of seeing the next big actor, artist, or virtuoso before fame snatched them away attracted more than the obvious collection of students and faculty. The house was packed with local Bardolators, students on field trips, and season ticket holders. (In the spring, the best seats would be reserved for a troop of agents invited from New York to watch us perform.) The lights came up on a group of excitable second-years, the common Romans, giddy at the idea of being onstage at Dellecher for the first time. The rest of us, more experienced and only half as agitated, waited in the wings.

The play climbed through the first two acts until the tension was so great that the whole auditorium seemed to be holding its breath. The assassination was swift and violent, and as soon as James directed the conspirators to disperse, I stumbled offstage, ears ringing.

“Fuck!” I blundered into the heavy black curtains on stage left. Someone caught me by the shoulders and guided me out of the tabs as the secondary conspirators shuffled past on their way back to the dressing rooms. The house rang with Antony’s impassioned soliloquy over Caesar’s body.

Colin: “O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,

That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

Thou art the ruins of the noblest man

That ever livèd in the tide of times.

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!”

I groped toward the wall in the dark, one hand over my ear. The same someone turned me around so I didn’t fall face-first into the fly lines.

“Are you all right?” Alexander whispered. “What happened?”

“He hit me right in the ear!”

“When?” James’s voice.

“When I stabbed him, he turned around and smashed me with his elbow!” A bolt of pain so acute it felt solid had lodged in my skull like a railroad spike. I perched on the locking rail, leaning forward on my knees. A warm hand landed on the back of my neck; I didn’t know whose.

“That’s not the blocking,” Alexander said.

“Of course it fucking isn’t,” James said. “Breathe, Oliver.”

I unclenched my jaw and inhaled. James’s hand slid to my shoulder. “Did he try to snap your wrists again?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He glanced toward the light slanting in between the downstage legs. Colin had finished his speech and was conversing with a servant.

“Is he doing this shit on purpose?” Alexander said. “He about took my head off when I stabbed him but I thought he’d just gotten carried away again.”

“Have you seen James’s arms?”

James hushed me but unfastened his left cuff button and peeled his sleeve back. Even in the gloom of the wings we could see blotches of blue and purple on his skin. Alexander let out a string of obscenities all in one breath.

James shook his cuff back down. “Exactly.”

“James,” I said, “we have to do something.”

He turned, the light from the stage turning his face a sickly malarial yellow. It was nearly time for intermission. “All right,” he said. “But we leave Frederick and Gwendolyn out of it.”

“How?”

There was a growl in Alexander’s voice as he said, “If he wants a fight, let’s give him a fight.”

I tugged at my earlobe. A faint, shrill ringing pestered me like a fly. “Alexander,” I said, “that’s suicide.”

“I don’t see why.”

“He’s bigger than all of us.”

“No, Oliver, idiot. He’s bigger than each of us.” He gave me a very pointed look.

The lights onstage were suddenly doused, and the audience erupted into applause. All at once people were rushing by. In the darkness it was impossible to tell who was who, but we knew one of them must be Richard. Alexander pushed me and James both back against the line sets, and the heavy ropes wobbled and groaned behind us like a ship’s rigging. His hand was a vise on my shoulder, the audience thundering in my ears. “Listen,” he said, “Richard can’t fight off all three of us at once. Tomorrow, if he tries anything, instead of assassination we give him a righteous ass-kicking.”

“Here is my hand,” James said, after a split second’s hesitation. “The deed is worthy doing.”

I hesitated also, a split second longer. “And so say I.”

Alexander squeezed my arm. “And I and now we three have spoke it, let the stupid bastard do his worst.”

He let go of us abruptly as the house lights came up and the audience all rattled to their feet on the other side of the curtain. A few first-year technicians in black had already hurried onstage and were cleaning up the mess left after the assassination. The three of us shared a grim look, and said nothing else, but went single file to the dressing room. I trailed after James, limbs tingling with the same restless feeling from the week before, both eager and uneasy.