LOBHA (लोभ) | GENERAL MARCUS ACACIUS
PART I of SITA UNTOLD
LOBHA: GREED, AVARICE, MATERIAL DESIRE, HOARDING.
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SUM -> The Kushan dynasty of India is under threat from Rome's formidable general.
W.C -> 7K+
C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, third-person POV (as historic retelling), Sanjay-Leela-Bhansali-esque, polyamory, court politics, misogyny.
PROLOGUE
The tragic tale of the battle-scarred Roman general and his especially younger, foreign-born bride was never meant to be written into history. The scrolls do not speak of her, save in rumour of the ignorant. Some often say Marcus Acacius never once laid his gaze upon the Indian princess who came to him, abhorred the so-called vicious viper and her nest, and kept faith only with his first wife, Lucilla. Others whisper that she enchanted him, and that it was for her sake he raised the gleaming sanctuary of Lotus Hall, a glory of marble and gilt, shrouded in Rome’s shadow. What is certain is this: the princess perished within two years, by her own hand, swallowing a vial of datura, thornapple. Of what passed between them—far from our eyes, within the fragrant halls where history leaves no ink—none can say.
The chronicles end here. Yet to informally speak of Acacius and Sita, one must return to the day their fates first crossed.
It was the tenth night of Navratri, the festival of triumph, the swell of Dusshera. As with every corner of the kingdom, the Kushan court was irradiated with vermilion rangoli and garlands of champa, jasmine and marigold; the floor resounded with the clash of dandiya sticks, the swirl of red-and-gold lehengas in a spin of garba dance, the thunder of dhol, shehnai and nagadas.
The young Rajkumari was seen dancing with the visiting prince of the Pandiyan dynasty, her dresses and jewellery jangling as she circled with him, her laughter gilding the air. The prince seemed to be taken by her, but who would not? If all went well, they would be wedded by the end of the month.
In the midst of this sacred revel, with gods invoked and demons conquered in dance, Rome came.
General Marcus Justus Acacius laid siege to the capital at dusk, astride his bloody stallion, his iron phalanx and river of steel surging through the gates. Women screamed, men drew their swords in like, priests scattered with their conches dropped mid-blast, drums whistled, and great horses tracked gore across floors, their hooves crushing offerings. Smoke ribboned where torches were flung, eating through the banners and jasmines, and the arrows struck.
At the threshold of the court, the Rome incarnate, Acacius, raised his sword and levelled its point at the Kushan Maharaja. A hush fell, broken only by the distant wails of frightened children.
“So falls India,” the chroniclers say he declared. “And so begins Rome.”
His soldiers spread in a circle, shields braced, blades gnashing, spears glinting. The king’s courtiers shrank into shades, but one figure stood her ground.
Sita Devi, her anklets chiming as she faltered back into the arms of the rushing Pandiyan prince, eyes unflinching though her skirt quavered in the rising wind. The general’s horse whinnied at her presence, and in that pause, timber met fire: their gazes locked, and a juncture unspoken—recognition, defiance—passed between them.
Acacius turned to the court, his voice carrying, merciless. “Terms were offered...” he said. His gaze returned to Sita, lingering upon her with the faintest curl of interest, as though the gods themselves had marked her out. “...and refused. I have twenty thousand men at my helm; I claim this city for the glory of Rome.”
To her alone, he murmured, “Woe to the conquered.” Then, raising his voice to echo against stone and banners alike, he hollered, “Vae victis!”
And thus the Navratri of victory ended in destruction, and the story of Acacius and Sita began, with no vows or coronation, whereas with blood on the temple steps.
No man was more feared within Swarna Mahal, stronghold of the Kushans, than Marcus Acacius during his three-day sojourn. The Roman general walked the golden mirror halls because they did belong to him now, and the courtiers whispered that even the marble floors seemed to quiver beneath his tread.
And no king was more imperilled than Maharaja Devansh, king of the Kushan throne, who sat between his three sons in his council chamber—each ravenous in his own way.
It was past midnight when the sons of the throne gathered in the king’s quarters, voices hushed. There, with the sound of foxes keening in the distance, they debated the matter of Rome and its effects.
Prince Mahveer, the eldest, spoke first, iron-voiced, if not wise. He poured from a pitcher of wine. “Better that we send one of our own to watch them, study their ways. Our Raju has been taught the Dharmasastra and Jyotisha since boyhood. Rome respects augury; let him serve, and thus serve us.”
Dharmasastra, which was the study of law, order, duty and restraint, and Jyotisha, sacred astrology, the study of stars and their alignments. Roman elites were famously obsessed with omens and celestial signs, and the oldest prince saw this as an opportunity.
Prince Rajveer, the second son, leaned forward, eager, uncertain. He took the offered cup of wine from Mahveer. “If Rome holds me close, they hold Kushan close as well. To bend the fate of Rome is to bend the world.”
“Then bind them with counsel,” Mahveer hissed.
The youngest, Prince Ranveer, laughed bitterly, who would rather serve as a master than a servant. “Bind them? Bhai, you would rather bend the knee. Better a prisoner here than a prince in their cage.”
The king said nothing, simply stroking his beard as his thoughts were cloaked in silent judgment.
Yet in another chamber, at another hour, within the Antahpura, the princess’s quarters, his young daughter had already seen further than her tedious brothers. At rising dawn, Sita Devi knelt before her father, her head on his lap, her voice soft.
“You would send a son to Rome, pitaji?”
“I see no other path to our reprieve,” murmured the Maharaja, stroking her hair with a heavy hand. “Having a Kushan prince so close to the Senate...”
“A son in their court is no diplomat,” she said. “A prince bowing his head is dishonour. Yeh adharma he.” (This is an injustice.)
The king sighed, burdened. “Your brothers will not hear tell anymore. And I am too exhausted to row with them.”
“They speak of dharma,” she spurred on, “but that is not sealed by words, nor are the stars strong enough to sway the emperors. What Rome respects—what Rome obeys—is blood.” (Justice.)
“Blood?” he echoed, frowning. “We answer with war?”
“Marriage,” Sita whispered.
The king’s voice grew sharp. “Bas, Sita. Tum mere aradhyon ka apman karoge?” (Enough, Sita. You would disgrace my revered gods this way?)
“Pitaji, sunhiye. Shaanth raho,” she gently urged. (Father, listen to me. Please be calm.)
He continued to bluster. “Yeh kaise ho saktha hai, ammu? An Indian princess, my daughter, sent to a faithless land, to a man such as that, as old and bound—” (How can this be, darling?)
“Is still sanctified,” she cut across him, her eyes unflinching.
“Meri jaan,” he said, his voice faltering, his hand cupping her cheek as if to hold her still, “I cannot part with you this way, nor will your mother. Such rare a jewel should not be cast upon foreign crowns. You will summon generous kings in time, ammu—men of power who would keep you protected, cherished, exalted.” (My life.)
But she only leaned closer, her anklets whispering over marble. “A daughter binds what sons cannot. Houses. Faith. Empires. If you would make peace, do not send a son to serve.”
“Beti,” he tried.
She rose to her feet, towering over her father in his seat. “Offer a princess, Maharaj, and let Rome see our sovereignty. That is dharma.”
The Maharaja looked upon her then, a daughter speaking out of turn, as daughters often did, but his gaze wavered too long, as though he glimpsed, for the first time, not a child but a sovereign in waiting—a jewel, yes, but one honed to a spear.
And so, where the sons spoke of treaties and service, the daughter spoke of dominion. History remembers which counsel the king heeded, and the princes did not take it kindly.
“That cunning bitch has poured her honey into Pitaji’s ears!” Mahveer spat as he stormed from the council chamber, his sandals striking the stone.
Acacius passed them at that very moment, cloak sweeping, his cold gaze grazing the prince. The doors groaned shut behind him, locking in the silence of the Maharaja’s court.
Ranveer caught up to his oldest brother, glancing at the council doors, hot on his heels. “Sita? What has she done?”
Mahveer was heard to condemn her; his words were softened in later retellings.
“What whores will always do best,” he said, lips curling. “Open her legs and snare the general in her royal cunt.”
Ranveer blinked, half-relieved. “Then at least she is removed from us, bhai. We are finally rid of that snake.”
“Moodh!” Mahveer spat, eyes blazing, turning on him. “One step beneath the emperor is all she needs. We’ve handed her the knife and pointed her to the throne, now count the days till she buries it in our backs.” (Fool.)
Rajveer, the gentler of the three, more affectionate toward their sister, sought to soothe them. “Sita is but a child. She cannot know the price of being chosen. This reeks of Acacius’ scheme, not hers.”
“Why,” Mahveer snapped, “would a Roman general, husband to Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, sully himself with a foreign princess?”
Rajveer sighed. “Because she is our sister. And her title is of advantage to the general if he vies for the throne.”
Ranveer groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Hai Ram… will we never be free of her mischiefs? Even now, she plots to rise higher!”
“Don’t we all,” Rajveer muttered to himself.
And so the princes quarrelled, each fearing her in his own way—Mahveer with hatred, Rajveer with doubt, Ranveer with weary dread. Yet all three knew the truth rumoured in the halls of Swarna Mahal: their sister had spoken, and the king had followed suit.
Thus it was that Maharaja Devansh reached out to General Acacius, offering his only daughter in marriage, with the lands that stretched along the sacred Ganges and tributaries as her dowry, and with it, the promise of Kushan autonomy. When this proved too meagre for Rome’s appetite, he added every precious jewel in his treasury, a host of six thousand, each handpicked for valour and skill, the gift of secure trade routes and iron weapons forged in his own foundries for as long as his line persists.
But the Roman remained unmoved.
“I have a wife, your grace,” Acacius said in bored disdain. “I have no need of a second. And as for this one so...”
His gaze turned to the princess, veiled by her dupatta at her father’s side. Though her head was bowed, her eyes strayed to him—curious, watchful, bold.
“Callow,” he said at last, testing the word.
The Maharaja lifted his chin. “Callow she may be, but unwise she is not. My Sita commands seven tongues, including Latin. She has been schooled by the greatest of my sages, versed in the laws of kings, skilled with sword and stratagem. She is most adored by her people for her poetry—”
Acacius’ mouth quirked in biting amusement. “A rare yield indeed.”
“She is also untouched,” the king amended, with pointed gravity.
At that, the general gave a deep, rough laugh, a sound more mocking than mirthful. “Do you mean to bestow her upon me as a broodmare?”
“I seek to grant you a legacy,” the Maharaja replied firmly. “What good is power, if it dies with its bearer?”
Acacius’ granite jaw tightened. “Power alone keeps my hand steady.”
“But strong seeds cast on barren soil do not take root, General,” His eyes gleamed with cruel mirth. “You need a greener earth—and I offer you fertile ground.”
At his side, Sita’s hand curled into her skirts, her composure shaken. The general’s gaze flicked toward her and lingered—for he had seen it, the disquiet flashing across that otherwise tranquil face.
It is to be noted that accounts vary on what happened next. Some record that Sita Devi herself requested a private audience with the General not long after the Maharaja’s discussion, though what transpired within those walls belonged to none but the two.
Allegedly, she held her tongue in the beginning, while Acacius rose from his seat, the iron of his armour creaking like a beast roused from slumber. He stood before her—tall, weathered, striking, handsome, towering—attempting, as was his way, to cow her into submission.
“The king’s dowries persuade me, though you ought to understand,” he said, “that even if I agree to wed you, it shall be in name only. My heart lies with Lucilla.”
Sita lifted her dupatta, arranging it over her brow, and aimed a dazzling smile. “Your heart is of no consequence to me, General.”
The sight of her face arrested him; her familiarity unsettled him. “Then what is it you want?” he asked.
“I want you.”
“Want me from afar. That is all I’ll allow.”
She ignored him, alight with conviction. “And yet, one day you will admit differently. That sweet wife of yours will wither in time, but I—” she raised her eyes—“I am evergreen.”
Acacius studied her, torn between amusement and ire. “Your silver tongue begs taming...”
His hand rose to her chin, tilting it upwards, as if needing to see her entirely.
“O, mira res,” he breathed, eyes drinking her in. (Oh, you marvellous thing.)
By now, it must be apprehended that Sita Devi was as much an enigma to her own people as she would prove to the daunting Roman. She bore every hallmark of a high-born princess of the Kushans: dusky skin, long hair black as polished obsidian, eyes darkened with kohl until they gleamed onyx. Hers was a beauty that seared, harsh and fierce, that people feared to look upon her too long. Yet beauty was not her only inheritance; those who knew her best claimed she was pious to her gods, as constant in prayer as she was bold in argument. She delighted in small amusements, a clutch of bangles or a stray rabbit, laughed easily, and, in secret, composed verses that were said to rival the courtly poets. There was in her a strange marriage of gravity and mirth, austerity and indulgence, as though the goddess and courtesan dwelt in one body.
Whilst no one had ever questioned her virginity, the whispers were invariable, and some swear she kept close a young Persian scholar, a man of quick wit and soft features, and that she pleasured him often in her chambers. This claim has been dismissed in the later scrolls as a fallacy.
Thus was Sita Devi: devout and a dilemma, a princess who could be sung as saint or damned as sorceress, depending on whose quill told the tale.
“This untamed tongue,” Sita answered him, resolute, “has conditions for you before I am yours.”
The general arched his brows. “By all means, princess. Enlighten me.”
“First,” she said, “I will not abandon my gods. Rome shall have my service, but I shall keep my faith, carry my murti and worship as I have been taught.”
Acacius tilted his head, amused. “A saintly bride. I can tolerate as much.”
“Second,” she prompted, “I will not be quartered with your Lucilla. I will not be your concubine in all but name. I am to be your wife, and you will treat me as such. Give me my own hall, my own court, far from hers. Do not shame me, nor her, before your people.”
He laughed darkly. “We Romans mind little enough whose bed a man keeps, or how many halls his wives possess.”
“But I will mind,” Sita cut across, “and I will not stand for it.”
Here, too, the accounts diverge. Some say Acacius laughed outright, struck by her audacity; others whisper that he only stared, his jaw flexing, as though she had named aloud the terms of a war. A reckless girl, perhaps, or the fire of a queen.
“All this, only for you to take a lover later?” he asked, mocking her.
Her eyes flared, enraged. “By my gods, I will bind myself to one man, and one alone, until death takes me.”
His large thumb rose to her mouth, pushing lightly against her lower lip, tracing the softness as though mapping forbidden terrain. He would if he could chart continents there—oceans in the curves, valleys in the dimples, an empire in the arc.
“Then these sweet breaths,” he murmured, his quiet exhale grazing her cheek, “they belong to me now? To take, to tame, to taste?”
Her gaze flickered, drawn inexorably to his mouth. “Yours.”
Silence fell, taut as a drawn bowstring, neither daring to loose it first.
“And if I desire nothing of you?” he asked.
The corner of her lips curved beneath his touch. “You will, General. In time, you will.”
He studied her a moment longer as one might study a worthy opponent. He let out a soft huff, equal parts laugh and exhale.
“So this is the famed Indian pride—sharp-tongued and unyielding.” His fingers lingered at her jaw. “Exquisite. You wear it well.”
Her lashes lowered as she leaned into his touch. “You accept my terms, then?”
“I’ve taken many kingdoms by force.” His eyes held hers. “This I will take with pleasure.”
No words of the Maharaj’s sons could salve the wound their sister’s hasty nuptials carved into Kushan pride. The lords of the dynasty, devout and indignant, condemned the union and spoke forthrightly of the princess, styling her “Acacius’s whore”—though later scribes would soften the epithet into “mistress.”
Yet Sita Devi stood unwavering. When the high priest refused to preside, she summoned her cousin—young shishya, pliant, and pious—to invoke the Saptapadi. Thus, on the third day following Dusshera, while the embers of victory processions yet cooled, she and the Roman general circled the sacred fire seven times, binding themselves for seven lifetimes. The gods were called to witness the Agniyajna, a promise upon flames, alongside her brooding brothers, her weeping parents, and a court divided between outrage and awe.
Saptasaptaya visnuh, they promised, unwittingly or otherwise, a sacred invocation to be united under the witness of Vishnu, the Protector, affirming—I bind my life to yours, in this world and the next.
Around her neck was looped the mangalya sutra, a thread holier and heavier than all the emeralds and sapphires that adorned her that day. Draped in silks, crimson and gold, she bore the poundage of a noose disguised as an ornament.
For his part, Acacius seemed content to abide by these exotic rites. The tilak was smeared upon her widow’s peak, her hands reached down to her parents’ feet for their aashirvaadh, and though the customs clashed and the tongues faltered, neither bride nor groom voiced objection. Some say both had long anticipated the moment; others rumour it was the inevitability of politics that chained them together, not choice.
On their wedding night, the marriage lay unconsummated. Acacius withdrew to solitude, while Sita’s mother, Maharani Ruhi Devi, kept vigil at her daughter’s side. Together, in silence broken only by muffled sobs, they gathered what could be borne across an ocean: her Krishna murti, a handful of treasured silks, her swords, her books, her poetry, her quill, her dowry gemstones bulky as grief itself. Even her favourite sweetmeats and spiced confections were packed to last the cruel voyage to Ostia.
Thus was the princess prepared, one last time—as a bride embarking upon exile under the pall of Rome.
“Meri jaan,” she had quietly sobbed into her daughter's shoulder, “why must it come to this? Why must my light cross the sea?”
“Ma,” Sita soothed, stroking her back. “I will come visit you soon. I am merely an ocean away.”
“Nahin,” she sniffled, and wiped her eyes. “I would sooner have you here, beside me, than see you sail away with him. Let the General rot with his old wife in his court—why must you bear this exile?” (No.)
“‘Tis not exile,” she whispered.
The Maharani gripped her hand tight. “Your brothers are plotting, my child. Do you not see? They will not forgive this slight.”
She giggled through a thin sheen of tears. “Ajeeb hai, ma. I always thought brothers were meant to be guardians of their sisters.” (This is strange.)
Her mother’s face hardened through grief. “They fear you; that is why they wound you. A daughter who shines brighter than sons is a curse to weak men.”
It was not hatred she had earned, but burned colder. Her father had schooled her as he had her brothers—tutored her in statecraft, stratagem, and the blade—and she had risen as high as any of them. Higher, perhaps.
They had answered not with rivalry, but rejection. When she came of age, maidenhood became her; they ceased to treat her as an equal and cast her aside. To them, she was no longer a sister, but a pawn. A mere political headache, which they would tolerate till it was time to deliver her to another lineage. Not much had deviated from their predictions.
“Write to me,” her mother urged. “As often as you can. May the gods grant you peace of mind, wherever you are sent.”
Sita nodded, though her throat had closed.
The Maharani hesitated, her voice lowering to a whisper sharp with fear. “And if he violates your virtue…”
Sita stiffened, concealing the tremor in her breath. “That will not happen.”
But her mother pressed a cold object into her palm—a vial wrought of gold, small enough to vanish in her fist. Within, the deadly extract of datura, thorn-apple, bitter as gall and quicker than any sword. The one poison Sita was yet to build an immunity against.
“If that Roman, or anyone, takes from you what is not theirs,” the Maharani insisted in a whisper, tears glistening on her lashes, “remember what I taught you.”
Sita sobbed aloud now, “Death is swifter than dishonour.”
It was said that Sita wept then, clinging to her mother as a child would, knowing this would be the last she would ever get to do this, while chroniclers swear she merely closed her hand around the vial and bowed her head, accepting the gift as one queen to another: a weapon and a reprieve, ultimately foreshadowing the legend of her death.
Nigh on a month later, Acacius and Sita descended upon Rome with their fleets—ironclad warships and timbered longboats, sails billowing as wings of carrion birds. Twenty-six thousand soldiers in total, scarred from desert, most born of Kushan forces, returned across the wine-dark sea. And with them came one princess, swathed in foreign silks, as if to mock the Roman eagle itself.
So they hove to in the azure waters of Ostia, the salt spray kissing their prows, the mouth of the Tiber stretched, leading to the beating heart of the empire.
Rome was calling.
And it called with two voices: one of conquest, another of fear.
For the Roman crowds lined the banks not only to welcome their general but to gape at the dusky princess by his side. To some, she was his trophy, to others, his curse. Whispers ran through the crowd—but none could deny the spectacle.
Acacius had gone east as Rome’s hammer and returned with a bride who was no Roman, no Greek, not even of the provinces. An Indian princess, blooded in unorthodox rites, crowned beneath gods Rome did not worship, and bringing with her unions bound by fire.
The Senate bristled. The Emperors Geta and Caracalla seethed. The lords of Rome muttered that Acacius returned as sovereign in his own right, his army too loyal, his bride too dangerous, his glory too great. And dutiful Lucilla, his first wife, was nowhere to be found.
As for Sita Devi, the scrolls divide, though often it is documented that she walked on, chin raised, grin wide, her kohl-dark eyes glittering, as though she had come to Rome to claim it as her dowry.
The city certainly trembled upon their arrival. Rome had braved Parthian princes, Numidian queens, and barbarian chieftains—but never before an Indian princess, arm-in-arm with a general who commanded both her hand and now thirty thousand swords.
Thus began what some call the marriage of empires, and others the sowing of Rome’s undoing.
guys, i think i am actually the irl steven grant. because you know how he can't go to sleep in the show. well, i also stay up super late. it is currently 2:07 a.m., and i do this basically every day.
Jake would 100% get your kids one of those drivable kid cars. You know the ones. It doesn’t matter if you agreed to buy it because he just buys it one day. No special occasion or anything. If it’s Jake’s child then best believe he’s buying his kid the most bitchen children’s car.
There is a store near my office where we would go to stress buy toys (yes, there is sparkly slime stuck to our ceiling, i kid you not). We do it to piss off our boss. This store has a bunch of these drivable kid cars and istg we are so close to buying one of those to race with actual cars 😭😭😭😭
So yes, if Jake is buying my kid a car, he might as well buy me one of it first 😭😭😭
