Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena.
Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader
Word Count: 5.9 K
Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena.
A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic.
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist
The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.
You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.
In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.
Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago.
You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore.
Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both.
“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone.
The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away.
Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard.
You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.
“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”
His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench.
“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.
“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.
You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.
He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands.
You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides.
Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator.
“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure.
After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water.
“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly.
It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.
"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state.
Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.
"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.
He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.
–
The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting.
You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done.
“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.
“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.
“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.
“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head.
You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.
“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”
Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.
Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.
“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.
“She is not needed. I alone will attend.”
His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile.
The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern.
“You should not challenge him.”
Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”
You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you.
He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.
“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.
“I know,” you say quietly.
So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena.
–
The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort.
The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.
“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.
Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely.
“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.
As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says.
“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.
“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”
Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare.
“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.
Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.
“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”
“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.
Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”
Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood.
You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control.
There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him.
“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table.
You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.
Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”
His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens.
When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”
The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.
The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do.
“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.
“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."
The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.
Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.
You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist.
Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.
There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.
"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”
“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest.
You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him.
He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.
"Only us," he replies, strained.
You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention.
“Oh,” you gasp.
Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?
Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you.
“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”
His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters.
“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.
The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.
His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear.
He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan.
He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone.
Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.
“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.
A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile.
“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”
There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear.
“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”
This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.
You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look.
Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks.
"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."
He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent.
"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”
“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”
“What has changed?”
“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.
You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.
“You," he says simply.
It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.
“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.
“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel.
The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.
"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing."
And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.
"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."
“What will you do?” You ask.
"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."
You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.
“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.
You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace.
When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you.
“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands.
He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop.
“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”
You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body.
“You’re beautiful,” he praises.
He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan.
“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises.
You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.
“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.
Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.
"Stay with me like this,” he asks.
You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness.
You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.
Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need.
♡
Also part of this series:
Ab Initio
Finis
Protego te
My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.
Ubi Amor Ibi Fides (Where there's love, there's faith) // Lucius Verus x f!reader
summary: When he saw you that day, surrounded by a gaggle of children who begged you to tell them a story, he had no idea that the Fates had their own epic tale in mind of everlasting devotion. OR, contrasting vignettes of the past and the present through the eyes of Hanno and his wife.
word count: 13.2k
warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE!! 18+, war, blood, death, allusions to rape and what happens to female prisoners of war, allusion to desecration of a corpse, historical inaccuracy (if Ridley Scott can do it, so can I!), smut, Lucius being Down Bad for this wife, mythology and religion (with inaccuracies), discussion of suicide, suicide attempt, grief, throwing up, Roman culture???, period-typical misogyny but like, make it feminist
“Tell me a story.”
Exhaustion clouded his voice and you turned away from your weaving to find him leaning against the roughshod mudbrick door frame. It was days like today that you cursed his stubborn nature. While he had been willing to let you help in breaking in the ground for the coming harvest, your husband sent you inside by midday when the sun was at its highest. Now, you were rested and chilled by the wind that eased its way through the small house, and he was completely depleted.
“Come.” You beckoned him with an outstretched hand. “Rest beside me and then I will tell you.”
He didn’t argue, for once, and took your hand in his. You drew him down to sit beside you, his head settling in your lap. Your fingers curled into the soft, downy hair at his temples and he relaxed with a sigh. While you wished you could continue stroking his hair, the weaving in front of you wouldn’t be completed without two hands. As you went back to your work, you began to speak.
“There were once two lovers by the name of Pyramus and Thisbe…” He huffed out a quiet laugh. You smiled at him, delighted that it made him relax even further. Most of your stories were the ones he had told you about from his childhood and you weren’t really in the right mind to come up with a fresh story.
“The parents of our two lovers refused to let them marry, but their love reigned strong through the thin crack in the stone wall that divided their property.” As you spoke, you embellished the story with extraneous details and dramatic gasps, eliciting quiet chuckles from your husband. He looked weary these days and not just from the labor in the fields. The Romans were creeping closer, and it would only be a matter of time before they came to your city. You woke up last night to a cold bed and found him standing at the doorway, staring out towards the sea. He knew what was coming. You both did.
“The gods looked favorably upon their sacrifice and changed the tree to its dark appearance to signify the devotion between them.” You ended the tale and stopped your weaving for a moment to gently trace your fingers along the edge of his features. You loved the sharp crest of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the bright blue of his eyes. His lashes were so long that they left shadows across his cheeks when he shut his eyes.
“I understand why he did it,” he said softly.
“Hmm?” Your hand stroked over his curls once more as you thought through everything you needed to get done tomorrow. You paused, however, when you felt his face turn to see you better and his lips brushed against your palm.
“I understand why Pyramus ended his life.” His calloused palm covered your own and he turned your hand over, his fingers sliding along yours and intertwining. “One can only imagine the pain he must have felt.”
A painful squeeze built in your throat and you felt an awful burning sensation behind your eyes. He sat up and gently cupped your face in one of his large hands, drawing your gaze up to meet his.
“Hanno,” you breathed. He smiled softly and leaned in to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. He was never one for words, always more inclined to act. Breaking apart, you pressed your forehead against his and breathed in the masculine scent of him tinged with soil, sweat, and something purely him.
“When death claims us, we go as one,” he vowed. “I cannot exist in this world without you.”
“As the gods see fit,” you assured him. “I will follow you wherever you lead.”
You wished this was a story.
It had been an easy day in the fields. You were sprinkling seeds in the ditches that Hanno dug earlier. The chickens clucked at you from their pen, begging for a bit more food as if they hadn’t been fed a hearty amount of grain earlier. After you planted these, Hanno would place the earth back over it while you worked on your herb garden.
You were capable of doing the hard, manual labor. Growing up, you would always help your parents through the entire process of planting, but Hanno was insistent on keeping his precious wife away from the heavy work. Rather, he encouraged your herb collecting and training with some of the city healers. You were grateful for him, truly. Most men would sequester their wives in their homes and work them to their deaths from labor, both of earth and child.
But Hanno was different.
He taught you to read, speak, and write in Latin. He would easily switch between Numidian, Phoenician, and Latin until you could respond perfectly. When he took breaks from tilling, plowing, and managing the harder tasks with the animals, he sat next to you at your garden and asked about the different plants. He was never cruel, never struck you or screamed at you the way you had heard other wives whisper to one another. In fact, Hanno was exceedingly kind to you and to anyone he didn’t view as a threat.
Which is why you thought this was a nightmare at first.
The horns of war sounded and you stood up straight to watch as the beacons erupted with fire at the top of the wall. Fear seized your heart and you stood frozen, transfixed, by the flames that licked the sky. Smoke curled off the top of them and the smell burned at your nose. You might have stood there all day if it hadn’t been for Hanno rushing out of the small house to your side.
“Come,” your husband instructed you. “We must get ready.”
He grasped your arm gently and it snapped you out of your reverie. Swallowing down your panic, you followed him into the house and to the small trunk he had made to hold your armor. The two of you silently donned your gear and were nearly finished when Jugurtha came to your door.
“My lord,” you greeted him with a slight bow. The chieftain’s face betrayed nothing, but you could see the worry in his eyes. Hanno and Jugurtha would be in the heat of the battle, directly in the path of the oncoming Roman fury. Would the gods listen if you sent them a prayer now? It felt as though they had decided to abandon you.
“The healers are gathering at Taklit’s house.” Jugurtha looked at the two of you, a hidden regret in his gaze. “We will come retrieve you once we have claimed victory.”
“Yes, my lord.” Your voice had softened as you realized how quickly this was all happening.
“I will join you soon,” Hanno replied. Jugurtha nodded and left, his imposing figure leaving an empty space in the doorway and in your heart. Needing a distraction, you turned and focused your attention on securing Hanno’s armor. As your trembling fingers finished tightening his armor, his hand enfolded around yours and he drew your fingers up to his lips. Hanno placed a delicate kiss on the tips of each finger. You searched his face to memorize every last detail, from the crinkles beside his eyes to the slight curve of his lip. Only the gods knew how this battle would end and the anxiety felt like it was going to swallow you alive.
“We go as one,” he reminded you. “I will not lose you.”
“Nor I, you.” His lips ghosted over yours and you leaned up, capturing him in a searing kiss. You poured every ounce of your devotion, fear, and worry into the kiss and he took it all onto his broad shoulders, shielding you from this world. His hand fisted in your hair and he pulled you impossibly closer so he could sink the weight of his devotion into every fiber of your being.
The gods had granted you this man as your husband. Perhaps they had not abandoned you yet.
“Be brave, my Hanno,” you whispered once you broke apart. He pressed his brow to yours and you breathed him in. “Be strong and be brave. And come back to me.”
The warm metal of his betrothal ring pressed into the skin of your cheek as he cradled your face between his hands. He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your clammy skin. You savored the ring, this physical reminder of his tie to you, and touched the one that rested on your hand as a reminder of your tie to him.
“I will see you soon, my love.”
How bittersweet endings are, you thought to yourself as the walls of the city were seized by Romans. Men and women fell left and right from the parapets and you knew there was no help you could give them once their bodies hit the ground. Instead, you watched in horror as Roman soldiers grew closer and closer to where you were stationed and awaiting the wounded. You could see Hanno at the top of the wall fighting for his very life and your heart beat wildly in your chest at the sight of so many men around him falling in battle. Would he be next?
A cry of pain nearby alerted you to someone needing help. One of your people had been caught within the crosshairs of an archer and you rushed out of the house to grab them and drag them to safety. The child, only a mere babe, shrieked in agony as you dove to cover his little body when another arrow went sailing over your head. Even over the din of war, you heard Hanno scream your name.
A Roman soldier grabbed you by your hair and yanked you up off the ground, forcing your back to bend sharply and a shout to emerge from your lips. He drew his sword, placing it to your throat with the intention of drawing your blood, your life, out of you with one swift pull. Despite knowing it wouldn’t help, you shouted your status in Latin.
“Healer! I’m a healer!” Perhaps he would be merciful. Perhaps he would let you go. Your eyes sought out the top of the wall and you saw Hanno desperately fighting to get to you, but he was too far away. The blade knicked the soft skin of your throat.
Two things happened simultaneously. One, a general pointed at you from the crowd and yelled at his man to stop. Two, Hanno was shoved off the wall and into the sea, right where huge rocks clashed with the waves.
A scream escaped you. A wail. War makes widows, your mother had said. And here you were, one of them.
The soldier removed his blade and forced you up to your feet, shoving you back in the direction of the house. You scrambled to scoop up the child in your arms. If you could not save your love, maybe you could at least save a mother from grief.
The child died in your arms by the time you stepped into the healer house.
Numidia fell. Rome claimed victory and dominion over the land. Hanno was dead.
You busied yourself with tending to the wounded in hopes that you wouldn’t think about the fact that you were now under Rome’s control, a widow, and possibly homeless. What would happen next? Would they let you retrieve his body? Or would they throw him into a pile and burn it all along with the city itself?
A shadow fell over you as you tended to one of your own. You looked up to find the general gazing down at you. All at once, you were filled with hot rage and the deepest sorrow. You stood quickly, your hand reaching for a stray knife on the ground but he merely raised a brow. Right. What skill do you have against a Roman general?
“You’re a healer,” he said, not as a question. “And you speak Latin. How?”
“How do I heal or how do I speak Latin?” you spat. He remained stoic and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion. You would never reveal Hanno’s secrets. Not even under the threat of death.
“My husband is-” You stopped yourself and swallowed hard. “Was a merchant. He taught me so I could help him sell.”
“But you are a healer.”
You shrugged. “We do what we must.”
He studied you carefully and then nodded at one of his soldiers. A sudden bolt of terror struck you. Was this your future? To be a general’s plaything? A concubine? Some kind of bed warmer until he got back to Rome and disposed of you into the nearest brothel?
No. You were the wife of Hanno, a kind man and a good soldier.
“If you expect me to lay with you, I ask that you let me slit my wrists first so that I can die knowing I never let you take more from me than you already have,” you hissed. The soldier went to unsheathe his sword, but the general raised a hand to stop him. He took in your figure and the way you trembled with rage and grief.
“I need a healer,” he explained. “For my men. I will not touch you, for I am a married man, and you are a widow.”
He turned to the soldier once again. “Place her in chains and then put her in my room. Do not lay a finger on her, nor let anyone else.”
What choice did you have? If you defied them, you would be dead. If you went with them, you would have a chance to avenge Hanno before you died. Either way, you would join your husband in the afterlife. Going meant you had a chance to drag another life with you on the journey.
You dropped the blade and let the soldier lead you to the ships, not daring to look at the mass of bodies being piled up on the sand. Tears blurred your vision as you were hauled onto the ship. The keening wails of mourners raised above the fractured walls and you watched as smoke started to envelope the city. Just this morning, you had been thinking about spring planting and now you were a Roman slave.
What fresh hell was this?
The soldier clamped the heavy irons onto your wrists, connecting them together, and then attached two to your feet as well, forcing you into a shuffle as he then moved further below deck to a room. He tossed a thin blanket onto the wooden floor and pointed at it. You needed no words to explain that it would be your new bed.
When the door shut behind him, you fell to your knees over the chamber pot and promptly threw up everything in your stomach. An agonized sob tore from your lungs and you grit your teeth to silence the wail that threatened to emerge. You beat your fists on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor and wept silent tears, rocking back and forth in time to the crests and waves of the wailing mourners outside. Your people were subjugated. Your home was destroyed.
Your Hanno was dead.
Oh Thisbe, you thought as hot tears coursed down your cheeks. I understand. I understand. I understand. If I cannot shoulder this burden, then let the gods strike me down so that I may join him in peace.
“Tell us a story!”
The voices of children bubbled up over the crowd and Hanno looked up from sharpening his sword to find a woman surrounded. The kids eagerly mobbed her, their little heads bobbing up and down as they pleaded for her to tell them a tale. A basket balanced precariously on her head, but she seemed as though there was no worry about it falling.
But the thing that Hanno noticed the most was that she was completely and utterly beautiful.
“Who is that?” Jugurtha smiled at the young soldier’s question. He saw the way the woman captured his gaze. He knew that look in his eyes.
Jugurtha said your name quietly and explained how your family used to live on the outskirts of the city so they could accommodate a larger farm, but recent skirmishes in the area had wounded your father and drew you behind the walls of the city. Hanno had met your father before and made a mental note to visit the man and see how he was healing. Perhaps he would bring some fresh fruits from the merchants.
Jugurtha must have caught onto his train of thought because he called you over. The gaggle of children followed closely behind and you laughed, a sound that Hanno delighted in hearing.
“Are you interested in a story too, my lord?” You said in greeting. Jugurtha grinned and gestured for you to sit.
“You’ve been hard at work. Take a moment to rest and tell the children a story.”
With careful hands, you reached up and lowered the basket to the ground. Hanno could see it was full of various types of plants and fabrics. He had a million questions swirling around in his head. What did you do to pass the time? Where were you staying? Did you like it here? He stayed silent, however, as you slowly lowered yourself onto the ground. Your dress pooled around your legs and the coins on your shawl clinked against each other. What would you look like bare? He banished the thought as soon as it appeared.
“Come.” You beckoned the children to sit around you and gathered one of the youngest into your lap. The child reached up and played with the ends of your veil and you smiled down at her before beginning your story.
“Long ago, there was a queen of Numidia by the name of Kahina. When invaders came to Numidia to conquer us, she stood strong and fought them off with all of her might. Kahina was brave and smart, using both her strength and her mind to push the invaders back.” You launched into a tale filled with drama, some comedy, and even a bit of romance that had the kids shouting and cheering with glee. Hanno even stopped cleaning his weapons to sit and listen. He was enraptured by the way you kept the kids engaged as you weave your tale. The child in your lap started to drift off and you didn’t even hesitate before drawing her closer into your arms and cradling her.
“Queen Kahina is a reminder to all of us,” you declared. “That each of us has the power to stand up for ourselves, to do what’s right, and to be proud of who we are.” You gazed out onto the sea of little heads bobbing their agreement and then looked up to lock gazes with Hanno. For a brief moment, it felt like everything in the world went still. He scarcely knew he was breathing until Jugurtha nudged him. You tore your gaze away and offered a brilliant smile to the children. Clapping your hands together, you shooed them back towards the gathering of homes.
“Your mothers are probably wondering where you’ve gone off to. Now, go home and do some chores to help her out.”
“Oh, but we want another story!” One boy cried out. You huffed out a laugh and shook your head, your veils moving like buttery silk across your skin.
“Only if you finish your chores for the day. I will ask your mother and you know I will. Now, off with you!”
The children dashed off, leaving you with the sleeping babe in your arms. You slowly started to rise, intent on not waking her, when Hanno spoke.
“Here, let me carry your basket.” He stood and took the wicker basket from the ground so you wouldn’t have to worry about carrying both child and items. You regarded him warily at first and Jugurtha had to hide his smile behind his hands.
Truth be told, you were one of the most desired women in the city. You were also one of the least trusting. Your mother desperately tried to set you up with suitor after suitor, but none met your standards. Your father laughed off your mother’s attempts and said that the gods would lead the right man to you. You were older than most women to be unmarried, but you remained steadfast in your belief that the right man would come someday.
And perhaps today was that day.
Jugurtha offered you a short nod to express his approval of Hanno and your suspicious expression melted somewhat. You turned and started to walk towards the village. When you realized that the handsome man with blue eyes wasn’t following, you glanced back at him.
“Are you coming or not?”
Hanno scrambled to catch up and quickly joined your steps, a smile cresting on his face as he asked you about how you were settling into the city.
Hanno cried when his mother sent him away. He sobbed when he fled his hiding place, cried on the boat crossing, and sniffled away into his sleep the first few days of living in Numidia. But he had never wept like he did when they tossed him into the hold of the ship with a Roman brand on his shoulder and a ring that felt infinitely heavy on his finger.
The last thing he saw before plunging into the sea was the blade sliding across your neck. Stuck between the two worlds of consciousness, he saw flickers of a wheatfield stretched before him and, for a moment, saw the outline of your body amongst the stalks. He reached out, his hand passing through where you stood, and then you disappeared from his grasp.
Coming to, he rushed from the sea and towards the city, but two Romans stopped him. He needed to find your body. He needed to see that you were buried properly. He was never as devoted to the gods as you were. You kept idols on the hearth and prayed regularly, but he only found himself turning to the gods at a time like this. But, right now, he found himself praying to Viduus, Libitina, and Proserpina.
Let her soul cross, Mercury. Bring her to the Fields of Elysium. Please. Tell her I will meet her on the other side.
He was forced to kneel next to Jugurtha, stripped of his armor and weapons, and watched as they loaded body after body into a pit. Jugurtha’s gaze never left the growing pile, even as he asked the question that Hanno dreaded.
“She’s gone,” he said, his throat raw from screaming your name across the battlefield. Did it hurt? He wondered. Was it instant? Did you feel pain? His sweet wife who dedicated her life to healing and helping died in such a brutal manner. His hands curled into fists as rage filled his veins. You were supposed to die at an old age, tucked in his arms and surrounded by your children. That’s what he planned that day so long ago when he walked you home, basket in his arms and a babe in yours. You dropped the child off with her mother and he refused to let you take your basket back, instead carrying it to your small house where he checked in on your father, met your mother, and charmed your whole family.
He craned his neck to see the dead lying a few feet away in hopes of catching a glimpse of any sign of you but there were too many dead. Too many lost. He saw the man he had bought silk from two days earlier. The midwife in the village. So many of the soldiers he had helped train.
Hanno glanced beside him and saw a fellow healer who was weeping openly. He leaned closer and asked if she knew anything about what happened to you.
“They took her,” she wailed. “They took her.”
Any grief that remained calcified into pure, hot rage. They took your body? For what sick purpose? To desecrate your corpse? To taint you with their hatred and their delusions of power, even when you were already dead? He started to rise, intent on seeking out your corpse and draping himself over it so that he would still be holding you when they killed him. Jugurtha stopped him with a shaking hand around his wrist.
“I’m sorry,” the leader lamented. “But not like this. This is not how you will die.”
Hanno’s eyes fixed on the man standing in front of the soldiers, in front of the keening mothers and children, in front of the men he had defeated and stripped of their armor to expose their humiliation. Hanno remembered the way he pointed directly at you, encouraging the soldier to keep the bloodshed continuing, and knew what Jugurtha meant.
He was going to kill him, and then he would reunite with you in the afterlife.
“Tell me a story,” Lulit encouraged as the two of you picked herbs from outside the city. The two of you rode out early this morning to gather herbs not grown in the village gardens. Lulit was with child and Jugurtha insisted on a guard coming with you and you glanced over at the man asleep at the base of the tree that the horses were tied to.
You paused for a moment to consider which tale you should tell. Recently, the only stories that came to mind were romances. Your face burned at the thought, but you knew why they were the only things that floated to your memory. A certain blue-eyed man had consumed every waking thought of yours and it was driving you mad.
He was a consummate gentleman and always found ways to visit your family. He started helping your father get his new trading business up and running in the city. He brought your mother fresh wheat to bake bread. He carved toys from wood and willow reeds for your siblings.
Hanno was the man of your dreams. He was exceedingly kind, handsome, and funny. He was sincere and wasn’t putting on some kind of face to impress you. He was just truly nice to everyone he met. You saw him once helping one of the elders bundle their wheat harvest and carry it into their house. Jugurtha had already come by and assured your parents of Hanno’s good nature.
He had started to teach you Latin and how to read and write Phoenician and Numidian. He told you stories from other empires and listened intently when you told him tales your grandmother had told you. The gods had indeed brought the right man, the perfect man.
“Psyche was one of three daughters of a king and a queen of a far away land. She was renowned for her beauty and praised among the land as the second coming of the goddess of beauty. Her admirers would bring offerings and gifts to her, angering the goddess, who decided that Psyche must be punished.”
A thorn caught on your finger and you let out a hiss of pain as you brought your finger to your lips, sucking the blood away. You began to continue your work and your story when a horn trumpeted across the sky.
The sounds of war.
Your heart leapt into your throat and you immediately looked to Lulit. Her face had drained of color and she traded a worried glance with you. In the time you had lived here, the horns had never sounded.
“We need to move.” Despite being asleep moments earlier, Hanno was already leading the horses to the two of you.
“Who is it?” You knew better than to stall, especially when he wore such a serious expression. He helped you climb onto the back of your horse and paused for only a moment, one of his warm palms resting on your skirt-covered thigh.
“A small war party, by the looks of it. Nothing the defense can’t handle. But we need to get out of the way before they attack. There’s a forest just a few paces away, but we need to get moving.” He ensured that you and Lulit were secured before he climbed onto his own horse. Dust grew in the east and you felt your worry build with it. Hanno tugged at the reins of your horse, urging you to follow. You urged your horse into a gallop and kept close to him, but you still looked over your shoulder to gauge how close the marauders were.
“Hanno.” Your voice carried a warning and he looked back to see a rider closing in on them. He let out an expletive and pointed to the trees that were nearing with every step.
“Go! I’ll find you.” He slowed his horse and fell in line with you, his bright eyes meeting yours. “I swear to you.”
You swallowed against your rising panic and he sent you a reassuring smile before he turned his horse around and rode off in the direction of your pursuer. You looked back to watch as he drew his sword with expert ease.
Focus, you chastised yourself. You need to focus.
Lulit silently followed you as you led the way to the forest. Once the trees began to cloud your vision, you looked back and saw nothing but dirt and sky. He would be okay. He had to be.
Dismounting, you grabbed the reins of your horse and led her further into the forest until you came to a clearing with a good underbrush. You tied the horses and instructed Lulit to dig out some of the underbrush so she could lay down and rest while you brushed out the horses.
“Are we in danger?” she asked. Were you? You had no clue. But you set your shoulders and covered her with the blanket she kept on her saddle.
“Hanno would never let anything happen to us,” you told her. You settled down onto the soft grass next to her. “Let me continue my story. While Psyche’s sisters married, she found herself still unmarried and that worried her father who consulted a seer. The seer predicted an awful outcome for the beautiful daughter, one of a brutish husband in the form of a dragon who came to claim her and whom the gods feared. But truthfully, the goddess of beauty had been so enraged by the people’s devotion to Psyche that she sent her son to enchant her with a hideous creature, but instead found himself falling in love with her.”
Lulit curled up onto her side, cradling her growing belly with her hands as she listened raptly to your story. You spoke of the trials the lovers endured in their pursuit of one another, but as you began to wrap up the story, you found that she had drifted off to sleep.
A branch cracked nearby and you flinched. There was a small knife in your saddlebags that you used for foraging and silently, you crept over to your horse and retrieved it. The leaves rustled and you spun to face whatever beast dared to come close. You held your knife aloft and pointed it in the direction of where the noise was coming from. Oh, you were not brave. You were a farmer’s daughter and a healer. The most you knew with a knife was how to butcher an animal.
“You need to adjust your thumb to the other side,” Hanno said in greeting as he stepped through the forest and into the clearing. “It will give you better control.”
With a ragged sigh of relief, your shoulders fell from their tensed position and you dropped the knife onto the grass below. He stooped to catch it and studied the small blade with a hint of a smile. Droplets of blood stained his face and you carefully examined him for any sign of injuries.
“I am unharmed, my little warrior,” he teased. He rose and handed you the knife once more. “And I will make sure to teach you how to use that.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” He could easily be lying. Father always brushed off your mother’s worries so as to not incite her own anxieties. Hanno raised his arms from his sides and slowly turned so you could see that he was indeed unharmed. His sword hung from its scabbard and you could see that blood still lingered on its surface.
“Are we safe?”
His eyes darkened and he stepped closer, his hands hovering over your waist. He searched your face for something, you weren’t sure, but dipped his head into a nod. “Aye. I would never let anything happen to you. To you or Lulit.”
“Then rest, soldier. Let me clean your sword.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue, but determination furrowed your brows and Hanno reluctantly unstrapped his sword from his side and handed it to you. This was a task you had witnessed your mother perform before when your father took on anyone trying to attack the farm. Blood was not a foreign thing to you, even if Hanno appeared to want to protect you from it.
You took a rag from your saddle pack and sat down by a tree. Hanno joined you, his back against the bark and his eyes studying the treeline for any disturbance. Slowly and methodically, you ran the rag over his blade and ensured that every last drop of blood and gore was cleaned from it. He searched your face for any sign of fear. Fear of what? Of him? A man who so willingly charged into danger to protect you engendered no fear from you.
“There,” you declared. “Good as new.”
He gratefully accepted the blade from you and placed it back in his scabbard. The sun was starting to set and the glow between the trees created a halo of light around you. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair out of your face before curling his knuckles against your jaw and stroking his thumb over your cheek. You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his palm, savoring the rough drag of his calloused fingers against your soft skin.
You loved him. Oh, the thought made your heart race and you surged forward. He caught your waist in his calloused hands and let his lips meet yours in a breathless kiss. Hanno groaned against your touch and you pulled away, thinking he was hurt with some injury you hadn’t seen, but he merely cupped your face and pulled you back in so he could nip at your lips and soothe the slight sting with his tongue. You whimpered at his touch and kissed him once again, moving your hands down to trace along the hard lines of his chest. Your hand moved lower and Hanno quickly pulled away from you, one of his hands catching yours and tangling your fingers with his.
“Not yet,” he panted against your cheek. “Not yet.”
Dawn was breaking when you awoke. Your head rested on a blanket that you recognized as Hanno’s while your own draped over you, protecting you from the bitterly cold nights of Numidia. Your soldier sat wide awake and alert beside you and you could tell, from the fatigue weighing down his eyes, that he hadn’t slept a wink through the night. A silent sentry, guarding you and Lulit from any unseen danger.
The blanket fell from your shoulder as you began to sit up and he instinctively reached over to drag it back up your shoulder, bathing you in warmth from both the outside and surging through your insides at his tenderness.
You woke Lulit and the three of you rode back to the city, barely making it in time before a search party headed by Lulit’s husband went out. He wept when he saw his wife and swept her into his arms. Two men offered to take your horses to the stables to care for them and you graciously accepted. Hanno refused to leave your side until he deposited you at your doorstep.
It was still early but you knew your parents would be awake, both from their anxiety and their history as farmers. Your mother let out a shriek when she saw you approach and ran from the doorway to hug you. Hanno squeezed your hand once and made to step away, but you kept your fingers tightly entwined with his.
“I believe you have something to ask of my father,” you explained. His brows raised in surprise and you offered him a shy smile. As your mother ran back to the house to exclaim of your return, you raised your clasped hands so you could press a kiss to his dirt-stained skin.
“Are you sure?” His hesitation had nothing to do with you, but rather in his belief that he was not good enough for you. You laughed and started to drag him in the direction of the house.
“You foolish man.” A boyish grin lit up his face and he followed you inside.
“What happens to me once we reach Rome?”
General Acacius looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face you. The floor barely made a comfortable place to lay your head, but he had at least given you blankets and removed the chains from your legs. They only went back on when you were on the deck, thanks in part to your failed attempt to jump overboard and sink into the sea.
“My wife will find a place for you in her house,” he explained. You scoffed and picked at the dried blood under your fingernails. You spent your days stitching up and tending to the wounds of Roman soldiers and spent your nights curled up on the floor of this room, dreaming of bright blue eyes and a crooked smile.
“Why? Couldn’t you just drop me off at the nearest brothel and let them rip me apart?” His compassion, minimal at best but still present, confused you. To him, you were barbarian scum. A conquered people. Prisoner of war, spoils, an artifact of his military prowess. He winced at your accusation, knowing that it was true for many military campaigns that the women were subjugated into the slave trade and forced into prostitution. The general refused to meet your eyes and you savored what little bit of power you held over him.
You could picture it now. You would demure yourself and behave in his wife’s house until you found a chance to slit her throat and leave him with the same raw, empty feeling that consumed you.
“You have skills that would be useful,” he muttered. “Your husban-”
“Don’t you dare speak of him,” you hissed. “My husband was a good and kind man. You do not deserve to speak of him.”
“He taught you well,” he continued on. “Lucilla could use someone with your skill set.”
The name made you pause and you tilted your head to the side, brows furrowing as you mentally ran through your memories. “Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius?”
He regarded you with suspicion. “Aye. How do you know of her?”
“Everyone knows of Marcus Aurelius,” you retorted. “I’d be a fool not to.”
A sudden knock on the door drew his attention away from you and he rose to answer it. General Acacius left the room to sort out some sort of issue and left you alone with your thoughts. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your cheek against your folded arms. If you shut your eyes, you could see his face. If you thought hard enough, you could feel him in your dreams. The rough stubble of his beard. The high plains of his cheekbones. The crooked smile he gave you when he made you laugh.
Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius, you ran the words over and over in your head. Aurelius. Aurelius.
You could only hope that Hanno would forgive you if you delayed your joining with him in the afterlife for a little bit longer.
He slept fitfully on the ship and in the cages. He dreams of your eyes, your laugh, your smile, and wakes with your name on his lips in a strangled cry that he buries into his bicep and lets only a few tears leak out onto his battered skin.
He has nightmares most nights and the lack of sleep fuels his rage. Dark circles take hold under his eyes and weariness leaves red rims around his blue pupils, making him appear as the wild barbarian they purport him to be. His muscles ache and scream and bruises litter his torso. He bites a monkey back and savors the burning anger that courses through his veins. The crowds cheer and shout and applaud his fury, but he pays them no mind. All he focuses on is going back to his cell and dreaming of you once more.
Killing men has never been an issue for him. He was raised a fighter, even in Numidia where he helped Jugurtha lead their forces. He fought in skirmishes and battles. When he met you, it brought another reason to keep the fight going. He refused to let a single person pass into the gates of the city when you were seeking protection inside. He had failed you, and every new scar on his body was merely penance.
Ravi chastises him for the way that he seeks out injury, but the man doesn’t refuse to help him. In an opium-fueled haze, Hanno tells him quietly that his wife was a healer. She was exceedingly kind and gentle. Too gentle for him. He was scared he would break her with his brutish nature, but she was also enduringly strong. A stray tear slips down his cheek and he tosses the opium aside in favor of feeling the pain and knowing that it pales in comparison to the ache in his chest. His grief builds and compounds into this sickening version of him that he cannot recognize. The blood of other men stains his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs in the baths. Even when the iron-thick substance is gone, he can still see it.
Macrinus brought the finest courtesans by his cell, but he refused them everytime. Once, the girl shared a similar hair color as you and he invited her into his cell, but merely let her rest on his cot while he sat at his desk and sketched what he could remember of your face on thin papyrus.
When he looked into the stands and saw your murderer seated with his mother, his rage calcified into his heart. With every kill, he pictured your pale face crying out for him. With every breath, he reminded himself of his failure to protect you. His mother had the audacity to reason with him.
“Do you have a family?” Lucilla asked.
He says your name with the reverence afforded to the gods and then hisses out that you were dead and taken from him by her husband. How dare she try to call her son home when she shares a bed with that monster? Ferality consumed him and his thirst for revenge. He meant what he said to Macrinus. Only Acacius’ head will quench this fire in his blood. For a sickening moment, he wants his mother to feel the way he does.
There are times when the night is darkest that his mind descends into the throes of the deepest depression and he wonders about how you would feel if you saw him like this. There is one nightmare that plays over and over again in his mind. He is in the Colosseum and the crowd is cheering in their bloodlust. The gates open and he steps out to face his next opponent, only to find you standing in the sand with your hands outstretched towards him. In this dream, he can’t stop himself from raising his blade an-
He woke up screaming.
Hanno doesn’t trust Macrinus within an inch of his life, but he trusts that he’ll bring him Acacius and that…that will be enough.
“Can I tell you a story?” Hanno whispered into your hair.
The wedding was an all-day event. You looked resplendent with flowers woven in your hair and layers of colorful fabric adorning your body. It felt as though the whole city came out to celebrate your union and the dancing, food, and music flowed for hours. Jugurtha clapped his hands on Hanno’s shoulders and congratulated him. A knowing glint flashed in the older man’s eyes and Hanno was eternally grateful for the man’s meddling.
Your father had tears in his eyes when he took your hand from his and placed it into Hanno’s, but they were tears of joy. When discussing the marriage negotiations and dowry, your father declared that there was no one greater for his daughter. In his vows, Hanno promised to protect and provide for you until his very last breath, one that he would take with you in his arms at an old age, with your children around you.
As the night grew longer, the crowds began to thin out. Parents took sleeping children home and the elders slipped away so they could rise early and start their daily chores. The fires began to burn low and Hanno looked over to you, only to have his breath catch in his throat at the realization.
His wife. His wife. Your lovely face was now his to wake up to every morning and your sweet laughter was his to elicit. Izim was telling some tall tale about his adventures as a sentry, but Hanno didn’t hear a single word. He ignored the hoots and hollers of his fellow soldiers and friends as he left their group and strode towards you.
The women around you tittered and giggled as he approached and it drew your attention away from whatever Seble was telling you. You barely had time to react when he suddenly scooped you into his arms. Hanno easily cradled you to him, your long veils swirling around the two of you, and he made his way towards the new house he had built with the help of your father and a few friends. The party cheered and you hid your laughter into the crook of his neck.
Hanno stopped in the doorway and set you gently onto your feet so you could examine your new home. Someone, your mother, you presumed, had already set some lanterns alight in the house and a clay jar of flowers sat on the small wooden table in the center of the room. It was a small house with the bed on one side and a small kitchen on the other. You traced your hand along the furniture that you knew he constructed himself. Your dowry chest laid at the foot of the bed already and a loom was on the wall. Your husband had done all of this.
The word made your throat squeeze with a level of affection you had never experienced before. He watched you carefully from the doorway, but you could see tension in the line of his shoulders and how his hands fidgeted until he clasped them behind his back. The flames from the lanterns made his eyes glow and heightened the smooth planes of his face. You reached up and unclasped your veils, letting them pool at your feet before you took a step forward.
He met you halfway, his hands going to settle on your waist as you nestled into his strong arms. Your hands came up to rest on the rough fabric of his tunic and you could feel his heart beat wildly under the tips of your fingers.
“My husband,” you breathed to the heavens. You wanted the gods to know that this man was yours. He had placed an iron ring on your finger and you savored the weight of it, the press of it against your skin. Hanno’s lips lifted in the barest hint of a grin, but his eyes took on almost burning intensity.
With nimble fingers, you released the clasps of his tunic yet kept your gaze locked on his as the fabric pooled to the ground. Hanno’s breaths grew ragged as you settled your hands back onto the chiseled muscle of his chest. For a moment, nothing happened. You just stared at one another as the air electrified with palpable energy. You had no idea where this boldness emerged from, but you slid your hand down his bicep, along his arm, and then to his wrist where you clasped it and raised his hand to rest on your breast. He swallowed so hard you could see his throat bob and just the simple evidence of his arousal made your skin burn.
“My wife,” he said hoarsely and untied your dress.
Hanno sucked in a shuddering breath as the fabric fell away from your body and joined his on the floor. He stroked his hands over your quivering flesh and stepped forward so that his body pressed against the length of yours. You felt him harden against your thigh as he leaned down to capture your lips in his. The two of you had kissed plenty of times, from small chaste pecks to that heated moment in the forest, but this felt entirely new and you welcomed it. He nibbled at your lips and explored your mouth with the desperation of a dying man searching for water. You moaned your approval which encouraged him and he let one of his hands drift down to cup your breast.
Hanno’s touch made your skin light on fire with every simple brush. How were you supposed to act when the man strutted around shirtless most of the time and built your house? Some of the older women in the city gossiped about their husbands. They told you about how it hurt, about the way he took without giving, and how they hated it.
From the delicate way Hanno touched you and the tender press of his lips against your pulse point, you knew that this would be different. He bent down and hauled you up against him, your legs wrapping around his waist for security, but you knew he would never drop you. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling your chest flush with his and he let his head fall back with a sinful groan, exposing the column of his throat. Eagerly, you licked a stripe up against his sweat-tinged skin and savored the taste of salt, musk, and man.
“By the gods, you will be the end of me, my little wife.” His teeth enclosed around the hinge of your jaw and you let your head fall to the side with a little sigh. Hanno nipped at the skin of your neck and you jolted against him, causing his throbbing cock to brush against you. Hanno squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation that wracked his body and you turned your head so he was facing you. Running your thumb along his jaw, you pulled your husband into another kiss and then pulled his bottom lip between your teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath and his hold tightened on you, sending a zing of pain mixed with pleasure down your spine.
“Take me to bed, husband,” you panted against his mouth. “Claim me as yours.”
Furs and silk lined the bed and softened your fall. You marveled at the way he prepared everything for you, even bringing over the blankets you wove for your marriage chest and setting them on the bed. He planted himself over you, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath he took and you stole a glance down his broad chest to the heavy manhood that stood proud between his thighs. Your body pulsed with want even as your mind protested the idea of taking his length. He sensed your apprehension and leaned down to place a gentle kiss against your temple, your brow, both eyelids, and then your lips once more.
“I cannot promise it to be painless,” he said. “But I will do everything in my power to make sure you find bliss too.”
One of his hands snaked down to your most intimate place and your eyes widened with shock as he brushed the pad of his finger along the seam of your cunt. Your legs spread further apart instinctively and he kissed you in thanks for your invitation. A gasp escaped you as one of his fingers slid past your entrance and he kissed away your shock, even as you felt the rough and calloused pad of his finger slide up and press against some part of you that had you seeing stars. A little whimper from you had him pausing and he immediately pulled his hand away, eliciting a low whine from his wife. Hanno couldn’t stop his cocky smile that spread across his face before he touched that part of you again. His finger drew a circle over your flesh and your hips canted up, a mewl spilling past your lips and your breath catching. He stole a kiss, then another as he sent electricity up your spine and shocks scattered through your bones.
“You are magnificent,” he murmured just as he slipped another finger into your aching cunt. For a moment, you felt a hint of discomfort and bit your lip to refrain from making a sound. Hanno frowned and pulled your lip out from between your teeth. Some small part of you whispered ugly words and lies into your mind in an attempt to push his affection away. He only wanted you because other men did. You were merely a token to conquer. He needed a wife before he could get a concubine.
“Let me hear those pretty sounds.” He kissed the corner of your lips and you turned your head to see him properly once more. His eyes burned with a hunger you had seen before like in the forest or when he saw you carry one of the village babes on your hip. Hanno cheek pressed against your own and he whispered into your ear as he sank one finger into you and then two. He told you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, how precious you were, as he pulled little cries of pleasure from you. You tightened around his fingers and he leaned back and watched your face as your body twitched and seized with the electric shocks of pleasure. A proud smile captured his face and he craned his head down to kiss you again and again and again. You climbed higher, higher, higher but then he abruptly pulled his hand from you, leaving you empty and aching.
“I know, I know,” he groaned in that deep timbre bass that wracked through your body. Hanno rubbed a gentle circle into your outer thigh and shifted himself until he was kneeling between your spread legs. He grasped his cock in one hand and pressed his other hand to your hip, holding you in place under his heavy gaze. You squirmed as his eyes raked down your naked body and the little thoughts began to creep in once more, but he silenced them with one word.
“Divine.” Hanno leaned down and laid the flat of his tongue along your cunt. Your back arched off the bed with a choked out gasp and for a moment, you thought you died and entered the afterlife. He chuckled against your inner thigh and pressed a kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his heels. He stroked his thick length twice before moving closer to you. He nestled his face against your hair and inhaled the sweet scent of rose petals. His cheek rested on your temple, and he shocked you with his question.
“Can I tell you a story?”
You choked back a laugh and kissed the shell of his ear. “I suppose.” While you were the typical storyteller, you would always accept whatever he gave you.
“There was a king of the island of Ithaca by the name of Ulysses*. He was sent to fight in the Trojan War and on the way home, was blown off course. The journey home took over ten years and was filled with countless obstacles and dangers.” You gasped as the blunt head of his cock slid past your entrance and Hanno inhaled deeply. “Odysseus had a wife, the queen of Ithaca, named Penelope. A hundred suitors from the various lands and tribes came in an attempt to woo her and take her hand in marriage. Everyone thought Odysseus to be dead.”
He rocked his hips and his thick length began to split you open and your lips parted in a silent moan. Any air that was in your lungs seemed to evaporate as he filled you fully. Hanno swallowed your shaky whimper with a sweet kiss. You clawed for purchase against his chest, your limbs liquifying when he pulled out. Hanno caught your hand in his and flipped your hand over so he could pepper kisses along the inside of your wrist.
“Penelope was a devoted wife and ever faithful. She never doubted that Odysseus was alive and would come back to her. She lied to the suitors and told them that she would marry them when she finished weaving a funeral shroud. But she undid her work each night.” This time, his intrusion didn’t have the burn like the last thrust. Instead, his cock dragged against your walls in such a way that had your eyes rolling back into your head.
Hanno groaned as he started a steady thrust of his hips. He moved your hands above your head and entangled his fingers with yours, squeezing them in assurance as he fucked you. The pleasure burned so hot in your stomach and consumed your entire being. Everytime he thrust in, it felt like he was carving you out and branding you with his claim and oh, how you wanted this. He built this house for you and your future and even though he put a roof over your head, you saw stars with every touch against your skin.
“Ha-Hann…” You whined as he hit a certain spot that made your head spin. “Hanno.”
He frowned and slowed his thrusts and he touched your cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tear that you didn’t realize slipped down. “Does it hurt?”
You yanked him closer until his nose was touching yours. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he bottomed out in surprise.
“Don’t you dare stop.” He grinned that reckless, crooked smile of his and swept your lips into a bruising kiss as he fucked every last thought out of your head. His name became a prayer that you chanted to the skies as he took you higher and higher until that coil that wrapped in your stomach snapped. You clenched around his cock and your body seized up as your orgasm washed over you. Hanno let out a guttural, animalistic groan and he spilled his seed into you, flooding you with warmth.
Silence enveloped the two of you, only the heavy exhales from exertion permeating the bubble that surrounded you. Hanno’s body relaxed and he caught himself before he put all of his weight on you. Rolling to the side, his arm came up to curl around your front, and he pulled you to his chest. Nose to nose, you met his gaze and let your breath mingle with his.
“Penelope didn’t falter in her devotion,” you said hoarsely. “Did she?”
His hand drifted up and down the raised gooseflesh on your arm and he reached over to draw one of the furs over you. “Aye, she didn’t.”
You tossed the edge of the fur over him and kissed him once again. “I will always remain steadfast.”
His lips met your temple and he tucked your head under his chin. “And I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.”
Acacius lead you into the villa, the shackles and a new plate around your neck indicating your designation as slave. Lucilla immediately greeted him with an embrace and you looked away, your heart shattering at the sight. Quiet words were exchanged between the two before Acacius paused and stepped back to display you.
“She is from Numidia,” he explained. “She has skills in healing and I felt she would be a good addition to the household.”
Lucilla approached you and took in your sorry state. You felt bile rise in your throat as you bowed your head to the woman, but she stopped you with a raised hand.
“What is your name?” she asked you in Phoenician. You paused before answering her in your second tongue. That’s when you saw her eyes and realized, with a jolt, that she was indeed the woman you had heard of.
“Leta,” Lucilla called for another slave. “Come. Show her to the baths and give her a fresh chiton. Acacius, unchain her.”
He obeyed his wife’s command, but the slate remained. Perhaps you would wear it for the rest of your, hopefully short, life. Leta, an older woman, silently beckoned you to follow her deeper into the villa where a few slave women were gathered together over a pool of warm water.
“Who is this?” one of them asked in Latin.
“A Barbarian whore for the general, I presume,” Leta replied. “He brought her from Numidia. Thing hasn’t had a bath in her whole life.”
You remained silent, hands clasped before you, even as Leta pointed towards the bath. “You. Wash.” You pretended not to understand and she huffed out an annoyed breath and marched off, leaving you to strip out of your ruined and bloody dress from home and step into the water. You didn’t want to wash the gore off of your skin. Not when it was your last reminder of home. Of him.
Taking a moment to look around, you tried to picture what it was like living here in all its splendor. Leta returned and tossed a dress for you onto the edge of the tile and you stared at it blankly. She turned her back to you and started to gossip with the other girls. Your hands scrubbed at your skin, but your ears picked up all that they were saying. Gladiator games, senators, the emperors, it was all banal and boring.
But you found it all invaluable.
When night fell, you slipped out from the tiny cot you had been given in the slave quarters and silently made your way through the halls. Mosaics lined the walls and depicted everything from myths to actual battles. You stopped at the bust of Marcus Aurelius and stared at it for a moment. Shaking your head, you moved on to the hall that everyone had pointedly walked past and Leta explained was off-limits. Or as she said, “no touch”, because she thought that your supposed inability to speak Latin was also an indication of your idiocy.
You pushed open the doors and entered the chambers. Dust covered every inch of the place, as if no one had been in here for years. You carefully made your way over a broken tile and into the bedchamber where the sheets were still unmade and a book lay open on the desk. Turning slowly, you took in the whole of the room with an unsteady inhale.
“The gates of hell are open night and day,” you whispered under your breath. The words were etched onto the top of the wall. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.” As you spoke, you could almost feel the presence of him at your back, his rough and low voice breathing the words into your ear.
You fled from the room, unable to bear it.
You almost made it back across the atrium when Lucilla emerged from seemingly out of nowhere. The two of you paused and you quickly lowered your head in deference.
“I hope you weren’t trying to escape,” she said gently. “Acacius told me that you were recently made a widow.”
The wince on your face was visible even in the moonlight and she stepped forward, her hands clasping over yours in comfort. She spoke her next words in Latin. “I am sorry. These meaningless deaths are foolish emperors playing war without considering the human cost of it.” The older woman patted your hand and made to leave, but your voice stopped her.
“Your slaves do not respect you,” you spoke in Latin. “Leta spreads vicious rumors about you and she said she has ties with some of the senators. Your allies are playing you and your plan is shaky at best.”
She whirled around to face you and you jutted your chin out in defiance, your eyes flashing with something dangerous. “In Numidia, my husband was the soldier, Domina. But I was the politician.”
Macrinus delivered on his promise. Acacius faced off with four soldiers in the Colosseum before Hanno was given a taste of vengeance and oh, did he savor it. Acacius ordered your death. Now, Hanno had the chance to ensure you were honored properly.
But Acacius stood across from him, sword on the ground, and accepted his death with a stoicism that Hanno only dreamed of possessing. The crowd roared and swelled with indignation after Hanno demanded to know their morals, but he was ushered away before he joined his father in dying in this ring.
He was granted the chance to see his mother one last time before her execution for treason and his slaughter in the arena. Lucilla told him of his father and he remembered meeting Maximus and how kind he was, even in the jaws of death. When his mother meets him for the last time, his only thought is how much Lucilla would like you.
She gave him two gifts in parting.
One, his grandfather’s ring.
Two, a lock of hair. And not just any…
Lucilla smiled sadly. “Acacius took her from Numidia to be a healer and didn’t realize she was your wife. She is safe, Lucius, and under the care of my household. I’m afraid I put it together too late, and she isn’t aware that you are here.”
For a moment, the rage subsided and he heard only a shrill ringing in his ears, as though he took a heavy blow to the head. Lucius turned the hair over in his hand and raised it to his nose, smelling a faint hint of rose petals.
I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.
His mother was taken back to his cell and he took a moment to curl his palm around this fragment of you and press it to his chest to guard it from the world.
And then he called for Ravi.
Your hands remained steady when you slit Leta’s throat. You did so quietly, in the darkness of an alleyway. Blood never fazed you before, and the taking of a life was no different now. As far as you were concerned, this woman was one of the reasons why your Hanno was dead. Was it a rational thought? Perhaps not. But rationality would come another day.
The Colosseum roared with fury and you tried not to flinch at the deafening sound as you slipped in through the gates below, into the pens with the animals and gladiators. Chaos reigned above and below the world’s largest stadium so it was easy to blend in with others. The cloak you stole from Leta made you appear to be a fellow slave working amongst the masses. It never failed to amaze you how they called you a barbarian when they fought men to the death for their entertainment.
Your fingers skated over the smooth wood that curved over your spine and you felt a little better knowing that it was on you. The games were already underway with a few prisoners being devoured by Barbary lions as the crowd screamed for their blood to spill. You slipped around a few courtesans that lingered in the hall and passed the raised dais where three maidens were chained. Pushing on, you found a small corridor that was unoccupied and slipped in between the stones to hide from any roaming eyes.
The noise increased and you knew what was coming. Lucilla would be executed and Macrinus was to blame. The lanista was the mastermind of all of this, and you knew firsthand what war could do to people. You refused to let Lucilla die and, as much as you hated the Romans for what they took from you, the innocent children in the streets would die.
After this, you promised yourself, you would join Hanno.
Footsteps rushed past your hiding spot and when it quieted down in the hallway, you took that as a chance to peek out and see if you had an opening. You slipped out into the hall and darted towards one of the gates that was partly open. A bloodbath was the only word to describe what was happening in the Colosseum. You blanched at the sight of Lucilla tied to the dais, but it seemed as though the gladiators had it well in hand.
Removing the bow from your back, you notched an arrow onto the string and inhaled deeply. Macrinus was not hard to stop, thanks to his place behind Emperor Caracalla, but you didn’t have a clear shot. The crowd was turning on the Praetors and more soldiers entered the Colosseum on horseback. One Praetor nearly took the head off of a gladiator and you turned your bow in that direction.
Breathe in, aim, fire as you breathe out, Jugurtha had instructed. Keep your arm steady, your aim true, and your mind clear. There is no time to panic, just shoot.
The arrow sailed through the air and straight through the Praetor’s shoulder, knocking him off his horse and to the ground. You drew another arrow and started to aim towards Macrinus once more, but this time he was standing up. Caracalla was slumped over dead in front of him and Macrinus had his own bow in his hand.
Numidians were excellent horsemen and archers. Before you ever met Hanno, before you even bled for the first time, you were trained in the art of horsemanship and archery. Indeed your husband vowed his protection, but you were not one to go down without a fight. He taught you how to manipulate a knife, where to aim on the body, but Hanno never came close to your familiarity with a bow.
Your next arrow arched through the air and collided with Macrinus’ shot. The wood splintered midair and you loaded a third, but the lanista fled the stands before you could take another shot. It gave a gladiator the chance to free Lucilla and pass her to another gladiator, a hulking beast of a man. The gladiator gave chase to Macrinus and you focused your attention on your subject at hand.
There had to have been a reason the gods kept you alive and took Hanno. Clearly, it was to protect your husband’s mother.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re hiding from me?”
His hand stilled from where it had been absentmindedly stroking your thigh. Hanno came home from the field and immediately drew you into his lap, inhaling your sweet smell and letting his hands roam all over your body. You savored his touch, but marriage had sharpened your mind regarding his mannerisms. Something was bothering him.
Hanno sighed and he nuzzled his nose against your shoulder. You let him have this moment, but you would weasel the truth out of him, someway or another.
“Is it another woman? A concubine?” you asked, your voice hushed and wounded. He laid a kiss against your skin and shook his head.
“Rome is moving closer,” he finally said. You turned so you could see his face and cupped his chin, drawing his head up to meet your gaze. He blinked up at you with those sky blue eyes of his and nestled into your palm until he could lay a gentle kiss there.
“My name, my real name,” he whispered, “is Lucius Verus Aurelius and I am the prince of Rome.”
The first thing he did after ascending his rightful place as Emperor of Rome was go to his mother’s villa.
Lucilla was fine, a small gash on her bicep and shaken up, but fine. He tried to be a good son, but she could tell his focus was on anywhere but her. Lucilla directed him to the gardens and that is where he found you.
The Roman dress was different from what he was used to seeing, but you still covered your head with a veil when praying to your gods. Head tilted towards the heavens, hands outstretched, you made a beautiful image of devotion.
Your feet inched closer to the edge of the cliff.
“Forgive me, my love, for being so weak that I could not do this sooner,” you said. Tears coursed down your cheeks and stained the fabric of your chiton with damp tracks. You muttered a mixture of prayer and apology and he strained to hear it.
“Give me the strength to commit this final act, oh gods, grant me this. I have protected his mother and granted her the life he was not spared. Please, oh Hanno, let me see you in the afterlife. I am tired, so tired of only seeing you in my dreams.”
“Step back from the edge, my heart.” His voice came out in a tremble.
“Hanno,” you whispered. “Forgive me for being so weak. Forgive me for failing you. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been nothing but strong.” A ferocity claims his words. “Step back from the edge.”
“We made a promise,” you pleaded. “We go as one. Let me join you, please.”
You raise one foot over the rocky cliff and he lashed out before he could think. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back so hard that the both of you tumbled to the ground. Quickly, Lucius kneeled by your side to search for any injury.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered. This was the afterlife. It must be. You obeyed his command to find those bright blue eyes that haunted your dreams.
“Am I finally dead?”
“Not for a long, long time.”
No, this wasn’t the afterlife. Blood caked his skin and scars littered his bare arms. He had been muscular before but now he appeared to be only thick, corded muscle. Your hands came up to rest on his neck and you examined his face. The same freckles. Same lines by his eyes. Same long eyelashes.
Trailing your hands down along his arms, you skirted around the obvious injuries he had until your fingers brushed something new, something entirely foreign to you that resided on his shoulder.
A brand.
And with that, the dam within you shattered. The wails of a widow finally escaped your chest and you let out an agonized scream as you curled in on yourself. Hanno gathered you into his arms and buried his face into the crook of your neck. Hot tears slid down his cheeks and onto your skin. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on the armor that still adorned his body and you eventually settled on cradling the back of his head with one hand and grasping his forearm with the other.
“I am so sorry,” he wept. “If I had known you were alive, I would have come for you sooner.” He wrenched the slave plate from your neck and kissed the places where the chain had rubbed your skin raw.
All the agony of grief and rage and terror from the last month spilled out of him in broken, gasping sobs. His precious wife was alive and in his arms. Numidia had fallen, but now he had the chance to protect her with all the power and might of Rome. He could now have armies at his beck and call, coffers of coins brought to him, and enemies assassinated but the true power laid in his arms.
His little wife was right. He was the soldier, the muscle, the physical strength. But the reason he fought and killed, the reason he kept going even when every part of his body screamed to give up, was because of her. As far as he was concerned, she had the power to raze cities and command armies. All she had to do was ask him.
“Is this real?” you breathed once your sobs and trembling ceased. He pulled you into his lap and almost began crying once again at the feel of your supple body against his.
“It’s real,” he assured you before he bent down and kissed you. Despite the blood that coated his skin, you savored the taste of him. You never thought you would get this again. Maybe the gods did bless you.
He kept you pressed against his side as you made your way back into the villa. One of the slaves nearly dropped her tray at the sight before her and ran to grab Lucilla. The stately woman swept into the courtyard and met you both there.
“Lucius,” she exclaimed. “I take it that this is your wife.”
“Yes.” His gaze never strayed from your face. “This is her.”
You instinctively went to bow to Lucilla but she stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm.
“You are not my slave any longer,” she assured you. “Not only did you save my life, but you are now my daughter and also Augusta.”
Hanno, Lucius, you reminded yourself, stood in all his resplendent glory, covered in dirt and blood with his gladius hanging from his sheath. How different the two of you were now, yet still fit like the gods made you for each other. Your small house was gone. Your home was subjugated. Your family and friends in the afterlife. But Lucius was still here and still breathing. That made it all worth it.
He might be the Emperor of Rome now and you, the Empress, but he was still your charming soldier, your devoted husband. This, you decided, would make an excellent story someday.
Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.
Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)
Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II
I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.
I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.
Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)
Word Count: 16.1k
It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.
How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.
Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.
Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.
If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.
Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.
The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.
Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.
You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.
“What is your name, girl?”
You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.
He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”
You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”
“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”
“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”
“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”
“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.
A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”
And he kissed you.
You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.
It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.
You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…
Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.
All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.
You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.
“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”
You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”
Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”
You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.
“Can you read them?”
A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.
Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.
“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.
Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.
Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”
He laid his head in your lap without another word.
Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.
There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.
The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.
You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.
Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.
General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.
The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.
Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.
The first was at Senator Thraex's home.
“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”
You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”
He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.
One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.
When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.
Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.
“I’m sorry.” You apologized.
He said nothing; you tried again.
“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.
The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.
“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”
“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.
You nodded. “I speak five languages.”
“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”
Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”
“I did.”
“So why not say anything?”
“What am I to say to your pity?”
You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”
He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”
“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.
The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”
“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”
He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”
“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.
He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”
You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”
“But that is not your name.”
It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…
“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.
“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”
You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.
“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”
You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”
“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”
All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.
You could pretend you were royalty for a day.
Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.
You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.
Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.
“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”
The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.
The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.
A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.
“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”
“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”
Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”
The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.
“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.
You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.
Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.
“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”
The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.
He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”
“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”
Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”
You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”
“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”
Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.
You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.
In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.
He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”
“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.
Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”
Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.
“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”
He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”
…What?
“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”
“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.
Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”
“How?”
He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”
“Yes.”
“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”
They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.
“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.
He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”
“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”
“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”
You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”
“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”
“And how will that dethrone them?
He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”
You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”
“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”
“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”
Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”
You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”
“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”
“Then where shall-?”
“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”
Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”
He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“For what, child?”
You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”
Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”
With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.
You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.
Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.
There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.
In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.
Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.
When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.
The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.
You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.
Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.
He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.
Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.
“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”
Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”
As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.
“No, no mercy.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”
“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”
Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.
Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.
Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.
He had certainly thought through every little detail.
Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.
You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.
An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.
“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”
You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”
“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”
“What?”
“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”
Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.
When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.
It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.
Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).
You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.
How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.
Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.
You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”
She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…
But you felt safer.
Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.
“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.
You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”
“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”
“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”
She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”
You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”
“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”
Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?
“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”
She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”
“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”
“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”
Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.
“Lucius…”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”
“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”
“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”
“No.” She answered right away.
You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”
“-No. I…I love talking about him.”
You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”
“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”
You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”
“It’s hard to judge.”
Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”
Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.
“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”
Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.
There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.
“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”
She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”
Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”
You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”
“My child-.”
“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”
She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”
Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”
Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”
All you could do was believe her.
There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).
It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.
Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.
You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.
Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.
“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.
Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”
“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”
“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”
“Of course, lady Julia.”
Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.
“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”
“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”
He hummed. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”
“-Please.” Was all you said.
He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”
“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.
Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”
“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”
“I certainly am, why do you ask?”
“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”
Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”
“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”
“A sheltered girl?”
“Ashamedly so.”
“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”
You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”
“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”
Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”
“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”
You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”
“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”
Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.
“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”
He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”
You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.
You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.
“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”
Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”
He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”
“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”
You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.
That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What is it, what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.
“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.
You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”
“-Now, Julia!”
Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.
“I do not understand.”
You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”
The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.
“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”
He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”
It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”
“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”
As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).
You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”
“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.
Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress
But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.
You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.
It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.
“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”
“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”
He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”
You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.
“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.
“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.
He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.
“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"
An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.
He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.
Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.
It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?
As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.
Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.
You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.
Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.
You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.
The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.
“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”
Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.
“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.
“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.
Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”
Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.
One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.
“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”
“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”
“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.
You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.
Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.
“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”
How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.
You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.
Of course, that would be too peaceful.
You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”
“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”
You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.
“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.
Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.
Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”
“-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”
Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”
“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”
Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”
Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”
“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”
“No!”
All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”
Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”
His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”
“No-!”
“-Then which is it?!”
Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.
“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’
He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”
“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.
The emperor scoffed. “What?”
“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”
Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”
“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.
You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…
It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.
“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.
You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”
“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”
“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.
Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”
You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”
“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”
You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”
That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.
“What is it that you want?” You asked.
“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”
You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”
“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”
“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”
You blinked. “Hanno?”
“Correct.”
“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”
“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”
You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.
Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.
“I will go.”
You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.
Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.
“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.
Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”
Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”
That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”
“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”
“Why should I?”
Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.
“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”
The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”
You only nodded.
He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”
“What are you doing?” You hissed.
“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”
“I will give you anything you desire.”
Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”
You gawked as he walked away. “What have I ever done to you?”
“What?”
“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”
The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.
“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”
“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.
“What is your question, my empress?”
“Why did you shoot me?!”
“The arrow was not meant for you!”
You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.
“Then who?” You asked.
He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”
“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”
“-He murdered my wife.”
Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.
And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?
“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”
“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.
“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”
“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”
When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.
Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.
“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”
Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.
“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”
Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.
He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”
Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”
“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”
“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”
“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”
Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”
“I wish for you to show mercy.”
“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”
“I too am a slave and-.”
“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”
You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”
“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”
The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.
“A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”
Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”
You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”
Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”
You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”
He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.
“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.
“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”
The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.
She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.
“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.
A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”
He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”
“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”
He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”
Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.
“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”
You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”
Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”
The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”
You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”
The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.
You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.
Than, the roles would be reversed.
Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.
He yielded.
The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”
In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.
“The gods have rendered their judgement.”
His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.
He tossed his sword to the side.
You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.
“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”
Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”
From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.
“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”
The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.
“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”
Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.
“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.
The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.
It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.
With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.
You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.
The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”
“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”
You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.
The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.
“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.
Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”
“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”
“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”
“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”
“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”
Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”
“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.
“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”
Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.
“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”
This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.
“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.
“I am as well.” Was all he could say.
You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”
He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.
You spat. “What do you want?”
“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”
“How could you possibly?”
From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”
“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”
“Caracalla? He is senile.”
“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”
You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”
“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”
It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.
You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”
He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”
An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.
There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.
“Caracalla?” You whispered.
He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.
“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”
“He did?”
“Certainly, one cannot forget.”
You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”
“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”
“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”
“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.
“He’s very persuasive.”
“What will they do to me?”
“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”
His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"
You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”
“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”
Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'
He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”
“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”
You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.
Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”
And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.
“I will need a third.” He settled.
You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”
“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”
Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”
“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…
Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.
No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.
“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”
You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.
“My love, my love, please help me!”
There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.
The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.
There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.
Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.
Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?
You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.
Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.
“You have done well.” He said softly.
You smiled. “Only because of you.”
Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.
“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”
The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.
Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”
He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”
Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”
You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.
Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”
Macrinus took one step forward.
“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”
All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.
Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.
“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”
Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.
“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”
“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.
The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.
You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.
“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”
They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.
You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”
Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.
“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”
Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.
“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”
“-Shall live.”
You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.
“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”
A few of the senators chuckled.
“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.
You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”
“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”
“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.
He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.
“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”
Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.
Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.
Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”
One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.
Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.
“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.
Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.
This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.
After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.
No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.
As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.
“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”
You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."
“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."
The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.
Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.
You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”
He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”
“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”
“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”
Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”
“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."
“-Her father enslaved me.”
“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"
Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”
You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”
He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”
Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.
The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.
“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.
You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.
“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.
Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”
“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”
“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.
You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”
“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”
Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”
“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”
“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”
“Hanno is my son.”
You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?
“What?” You uttered.
“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”
“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to!”
She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”
“Anything.”
Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”
You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”
She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”
It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”
“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”
“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”
Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”
You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”
“I trust you.” You nodded.
She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”
“I…I know.”
“Now go before I beg you to stay.”
You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.
“Leaving so soon?” He asked.
Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”
Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”
It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.
The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.
Perhaps the gods were on your side.
“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.
The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”
He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”
“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”
His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”
Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.
“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”
“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”
“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”
“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”
Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”
“More than anything.”
“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”
Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”
“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”
Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.
“There is no shame if you are unable to.”
“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”
Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."
You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."
"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."
A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.
“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.
You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”
“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”
Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”
As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”
“She died before she could hold me.”
“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”
Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.
“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”
“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”
You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…
But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.
If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.
“It’s a kind name.”
It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”
He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”
A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”
You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.
You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.
“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.
A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”
“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”
“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”
That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.
It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.
“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.
You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.
“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”
Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.
“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”
Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.
You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.
When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.
The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.
You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.
Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.
You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.
He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.
Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.
The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.
Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.
When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.
Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.
“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”
“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.
“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.
“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.
“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”
She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”
“Mother-!”
“-You will look after him, won’t you?”
You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”
“He shall.” Was all she said.
“You will live, just please stop talking.”
“I love you.”
“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.
“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.
Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.
You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.
The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.
You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.
There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.
When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.
Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.
“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”
He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”
You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.
“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”
“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”
“Okay.” Was all you managed.
And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.
Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds | Lucius Verus Aurelius
SUMMARY: "Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind. “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?"
PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader (arranged marriage for political reasons)
WORD COUNT: 2.4K
WARNINGS: canon-typical things, not much, mentions of alcohol, old-timey language, Google-accurate Roman empire things, dancing, arranged marriage, talks of lineage, angsty-ish, quotes from various people like Nina Simone and Octavia Butler sprinkled into dialogue, etc.
A/N: I quickly wrote this in a few days with the amazing help of @astrd00. This is just sort of an introduction to my fic idea so apologies if it's a little boring. Arranged marriage trope sort of colleagues to friends to lovers. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment it really helps me to keep going! More to come, enjoy!
The Latin translates to: a water drop hollows a stone, not by force but by frequent falling.
Everyone clung to the fog of death in the air with stiff fingers, unwilling to let their proof of newly promised freedom go. They celebrated in the streets, disregarding the savagery that occurred only months ago. The public enjoyed the amnesia, looking to Lucius not solely for responsibility but as a new object to place culpability.
Yet, the heaviness permeated Lucius’ marrow. He hid it well behind the mask of authority. Even a sharp eye would miss the way it restrained him, intentionally ignorant of a flaw in their new leader.
It might have even been seen as a strategic move, a way to humanize the gladiator who seemed to defy the Gods. Strategy outside the arena was new, different from the portrayed brute that dusted his hands with sand. What lay in his palms now was similar to that of a child’s heart, beating rapidly with a not-yet-known burden of life. It was heavy and warm, begging for unwavering loyalty from its possessor.
Lucius remained delicate with his hold, but the heart wanted more from him. Strength and honor would soon no longer suffice. It needed sustenance worthy of devotion and destruction. His eyes were steady on this phantom heart until those around him required his attention.
“Emperor—” A magistrate repeated, voice raising enough to tease an echo. The new title sat heavily on Lucius’ shoulders, contorting his body into a position that mimicked Atlas. “Our suggestion should not be taken lightly, it is for the prosperity of your Rome.”
Scrutiny wasn’t found in his tone or bitterness behind the remark but rather in genuine regard. However, there was an intention behind the ownership of Rome, a hint at the generational promise.
“The public can wonder, speculate, but they do not see beyond the issue.” He continued, watching the twitch on Lucius’ face. “You may not like the mere thought, but gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed saepe cadendo.” The magistrate paused, his words lingering. “How much longer until Rome is hollow once again?”
“This order is a fallacy.” Lucius finally made contact, eyes surveying those around him. “There is a need for trust, yes. And yet, you ask for deception?”
“You misunderstand us, Emperor.” Another member of the senate spoke, hoping to alleviate tension. “There would be no deception in this union, only fortification of the reigning; an image for the people to find themselves in.”
“Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind. “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?”
—
You smiled through the wine-fueled chattering of the ceremony, appeasing those who had just witnessed your union, but your focus moved beyond the conversation and revelry. Above you was a darkened sky that mimicked night. Rain poured down, tempting you to fall prey to its numbing hold.
The Gods are favoring your union, you were told when the sky opened. Divine intervention.
But you knew the Gods were fickle, always testing your will against temptation. It was a test sent for you, one that an elaborate wedding and an emperor declaring your shared existence hid well.
So you ignored the call of the humidity, being dutiful to your new role as empress. People bowed to you and nearly cried at how beautifully you paired with your new counterpart. Even as you sat on the marble throne beside Lucius you couldn’t deny their exactness.
“Don’t worry, they’ll soon pass out from the wine.” You spoke softly, eyes ahead at your guests as you spoke to your husband. His grip on your hand fidgeted exposing his anxiety.
Lucius paused, determining if honesty was worthwhile. His self-awareness was enough to remind him how unfamiliar he was with the environment that consumed his senses.
“It is for them.” You nodded ahead to the crowd. The room was hot from the amount of bodies swirling around. “Remind yourself of this when their faith falters.”
Lucius looked at you, attention trained on your profile. Even with a soft veil over your features, you were so absolute.
“I know my purpose here. You are still learning yours.” You continued. “All I ask of you is that when they falter you place your trust in our bond.”
“I will place it where it is due.” There was your gladiator. The defiance comforted you.
“Those around you are untroubled by that; all they crave is to spit on the fallen. It doesn’t matter if you are one of them, they are quick to turn.” You sharpened. “Be careful; join the sinful and you will be remembered with spite and desperation.”
You spoke of hidden things, of politics that lingered like venom in the bloodstream of the empire. Lucius knew not to mistake your words for ulterior motives. You were direct in your vows to further his image of a new Rome, it was why you were chosen to be by his side. Your mind was clear. You read the room perfectly, unraveling every detail of what was inherited.
“My legacy does not motivate me,” Lucius stated. His ears attuned to you and you only, enraptured in how deeply you spoke as if it was a common thought. “I will not look to them for fame.”
“You will, conscious or not. And once you do, you will not be able to look away.” You smiled pitifully as though you knew something he didn’t. “Just as they watched you fight, you misunderstand the impact of what is before you.”
“You believe that little of me?” There was a swirl of censure in his chest despite the small smile pulling at his lips.
“There is opportunity to win, but that is a fool’s goal—
“To win?” Lucius scoffed. “Even you have been mislead, then. Thinking that there is a conquest waiting to happen.”
“I do not wish to insult you.” Your thumb adjusted against his fingers. It was in your nature to be candid, but at times you placed your frustrations unfairly. You softened. “Your promise of growth will help amend this.”
Lucius wished to pull away from you. He needed to think, to be separated from the feigned festivities adjoined to love. This was love; love created not between two people, but shared by you and him for Rome.
That was not to say you were birds of a feather.
Your strengths were found in your experience. Although young, you were no novice to how to hold your chin high while delivering truths to the senate. You learned from your uncle, an official who raised you on the true meaning of government. You were clever. The public viewed you as such. You were of noble status and fit to stand before them.
What you lacked was a specific connection that Lucius brought to the people. He was one of them, raised humbly, hands worn from the earth’s harvest and war forced upon him. Lucius spoke well to them, building comradery with every way of life.
“I would never ask you to compromise your beliefs. I know better than to think you’d behave.” You teased at his rebellion, hoping the guard that was up would calm. “Besides, a well-mannered lover is an offense.”
“We are not lovers.” It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried.
“And we are not enemies.” You were quick, reading between his words to find the insult.
“My lord!” A raspy voice begged for attention. “My lady!”
You stood, bowing politely to the affluent man before you. He took advantage of the night; jewels adorned every finger that pulled at the elaborate fabric of his outfit.
“It is time.” The rasp withered when he lowered to speak to you directly. His arms went wide as if inviting a hug, but he spun skillfully to face the audience.
“Time?” Lucius looked to you.
The man boomed over the forgotten rain. ““It is time!”
Standing, you didn’t release Lucius’ hand. There was resistance on his end, wanting to remain sedentary and silent to wait out the rest of the night.
“Our dance.” You answered to his wide eyes. Your guests cheered, clearing space. “It is customary to rise together and move as one. It will complete the ceremony.”
He rose at your words, not much of a choice otherwise than to follow.
The fabric of your dress swam behind you, kissing the floor with each step toward the middle of the marble floor. The dress looked like water cascading down your body, hiding each bend and swell of your body. Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.
“May the rain create a river to fertility.” The man held a contagious grin that spread around the room.
Prosperity and posterity. This is what they wanted. Lucius alone was not enough. The bloodline was more important than a single figure. It hadn’t needed to be discussed as it was the obvious forethought for your unification.
The officials of the republic were more concerned about your fecundity and frame than the knowledge you held. It was a typical belief, one that you expected. Your fingers itched to bring your willingness to support the new decree to play and if this was your path to it, so be it.
You remained clinical at the thought. It was a means to an end rather than something to be meditated on. The way Lucius hardened at the man’s words told a story from another perspective where the political became personal. You did not miss the ring on his pinky that rubbed against a new gold one.
“Does the great gladiator know how to dance?” Your voice flowed to Lucius only knowing the opportunity rarely presented itself.
The music shifted from something fast-paced to something more melodic that would encourage you both to move swiftly but attractively. You knew your words would hit a nerve, but it was strategic to motivate Lucius’ hesitant hands.
“It is a back and forth. A push and pull.” You guided your hand to press against his palm, meeting together as if you were to pray. “Just like the arena, no?”
Lucius’ eyebrows pinched together. Not out of curiosity or frustration. He was genuine in his response.
“Rarely is a touch this…subdued.” Soft.
“Shall I spin you in circles, then?” Your painted lips were easier to see now that Lucius was close. He saw as they rose through your veil with the quip. “Disorientate you to the point of submission?”
Your arms weaved behind your back still connected to Lucius’. The dance was simple, one practiced as children. There were very few steps and wistful gestures that even the familiar still enjoyed.
“Those are my only options? Coercion or blind fealty.”
It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise. You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset.
It was odd to see Lucius so close, your memory had failed to cast such a strong light on him. Once overgrown hair had been trimmed to only curl at the nape of his neck. Dirt was cleared from every line of his face. He was still rugged, but you saw through the exterior to find a boy.
A boy who had been stripped of child-like wonderment and care. Instead, he held his broad shoulders high and an expression that lingered from his exile. Lucius’ skin perked every time your dress acted as a barrier between the two of you, a warning that whatever you offered had to be earned.
“I do not ask much of you, Emperor...” You put it simply, knowing your worth and wisdom. You needed to be promised his word that against anything you would be beside each other. “...so I will not ask again.”
“You are not satisfied with the trust of the marriage alone,” Lucius stated his question like an observation. “You wish I promise myself to you in ways which I may not be able to provide.”
“Able or willing?”
Your faces were close, noses mirroring each other as you turned on beat. You could feel the warmth of your frustration start in your chest, only to spread across your skin as goosebumps.
“The past and the future press so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” You spoke again before he could answer. “You must decide where you belong.”
The music returned to Lucius’ ears. Its melody weighed down your words, letting them settle deeply in his mind. His head spun with thoughts busy on reasoning. Perhaps he was too guarded for his own good, but he’d gotten himself this far relying only on himself. He had held in a great deal. Often he felt he couldn't speak until the waters overflowed their banks and broke through the dam.
Those around him garnered support, but this was different. You understood what freedom was; it meant no fear. Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.
The music slowed coming to an end. Lucius removed his hands from your body but didn’t venture far. His calloused fingertips followed the seam of your soft veil to meet the laced end. Once there, he gently revealed your true manner.
Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze, it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. What Lucius found was someone gifted. It was a marvel he hadn’t heard of you until you presented yourself as the wise option for him to marry.
Although you ran in many circles, your name wasn’t whispered among the council. They didn’t believe beauty and wit could fit within the reach of a woman. Yet, here you stood. A new challenge to be accepted. Lucius resisted the urge to swallow quick breaths as if he were going to endure a blow from Viggo. His body agitated in preparation, but looking at you so wholly all he could muster was concession.
Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.
Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)
A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 3.5k
The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.
But here, above it all, it’s quiet.
You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.
Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.
He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.
You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.
“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.
You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”
His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.
“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.
You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.
“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.
You sigh, resting your hands over his.
You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”
His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”
There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.
You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”
He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”
“You’re biased.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”
The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.
You don’t stop him.
His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.
The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.
He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.
His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.
You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.
He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.
You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.
“Say something,” you whisper.
He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”
“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.
His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”
You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”
But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.
His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”
You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.
You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.
When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”
His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”
You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”
He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”
You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.
He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.
Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.
Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.
The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.
But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.
You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.
“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.
“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”
You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.
“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”
You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.
Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.
A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.
He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.
He doesn’t see Lucius.
Lucius sees him.
Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.
When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.
The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.
Lucius exhales.
You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.
The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.
“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”
You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”
His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”
You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”
He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”
You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.
Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”
“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”
He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”
“Because you’re pretty.”
He arches a brow. “Pretty?”
“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”
“Moodier?” He feigns offence.
You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”
“I prefer commanding.”
“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”
You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.
You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.
The silence stretches, but something shifts.
It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.
You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.
Lucius’s head snaps toward you.
You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.
Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.
Lucius roars for the guards.
There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.
You hear your name. Over and over again.
“Stay with me. Stay with me.”
Then darkness.
A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.
His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.
Lucius has not moved from your side.
You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.
“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”
Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.
Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.
“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.
Ravi looks up.
Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”
The guards bow and vanish like shadows.
Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.
“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”
The palace is hushed.
Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.
Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.
He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.
They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.
Fool.
Lucius opens the door himself.
Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.
Of course he doesn’t.
“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”
Lucius says nothing.
He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.
Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”
“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”
A pause.
Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”
Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.
“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”
“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”
“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”
“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”
Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.
“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”
“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”
Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”
Lucius stills.
Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.
He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.
Severan doesn’t move.
Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.
“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”
His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”
The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”
He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.
“You deserve to bleed.”
“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”
“No.”
Lucius cuts.
The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.
Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.
Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.
His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.
Then he stands.
Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”
Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.
Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.
He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.
And left death in his wake.
You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.
Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.
There’s a hand in yours.
Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.
Lucius.
You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.
His head jerks up.
He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.
Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.
“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.
He’s already moving.
He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.
“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”
You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”
He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.
Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.
“You shouldn’t move-”
“I need to touch you,” you whisper.
Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.
“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”
Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.
“How long?” you ask.
“Three days.”
You blink. “You haven’t slept.”
“No,” he says, without shame.
Silence falls.
Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”
You smile, weak but real.
You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”
His jaw clenches.
“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”
You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.
But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”
You close your eyes.
There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.
“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”
You swallow. “Lucius-”
“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”
“You think there are more?”
“There are always more.”
You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.
He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.
But he’s still yours.
“Come here,” you say softly.
Lucius hesitates, just for a second.
He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.
You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”
“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”
He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”
“I want the dress with the pearls.”
“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”
For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.
And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.
But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.
Still yours.
I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3
Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."
Part II Is Up Now!
This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!
warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.
word count: 6.7k
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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.
“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”
The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.
Lucius.
The boy who had once been your entire world.
Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.
Lucius.
He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.
You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.
“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.
You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.
Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”
Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.
He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.
That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.
Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.
You couldn’t look away.
As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.
When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.
He knew you.
Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.
“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.
You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
It was him.
Lucius.
And you would find him again. No matter what it took.
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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.
Another victory. Another step toward survival.
He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.
Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.
And he saw her.
At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.
It was her.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.
She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.
The girl he had loved.
Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.
His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.
And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.
Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.
The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.
But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.
She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.
Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
Hope.
His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.
And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.
She was here. She had found him.
And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.
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The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.
He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.
He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.
But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.
“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”
Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”
Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”
Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.
“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”
Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”
“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”
Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”
Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”
“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”
Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.
“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.
Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.
Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”
Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.
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The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.
Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.
The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.
He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.
He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.
“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.
Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”
“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”
Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”
“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”
Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.
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It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.
“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.
Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”
Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”
“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”
Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”
Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.
Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”
“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“
Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”
Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.
Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”
“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars.
Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.
Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.
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The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.
The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?
It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.
He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.
When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.
“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.
“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.
Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”
Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”
Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”
Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”
Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.
“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.
“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”
There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”
Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”
The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.
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The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.
The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.
Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.
It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.
He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.
When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.
His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.
“Iris.”
Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.
Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.
“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.
“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”
Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.
“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.
Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.
As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.
This was far from over.
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The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.
Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.
There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.
Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.
Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.
“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.
“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”
“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.
Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”
“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.
She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.
Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.
But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.
She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.
She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.
Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.
The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.
He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.
She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.
Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.
“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”
Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.
“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”
Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.
“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”
Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.
He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.
“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”
He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”
“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!”
He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.
The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?
“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”
He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”
The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.
“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”
His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”
There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.
"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”
Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.
Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.
But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.
But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”
And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.
The grand marble halls of the Palatine Hill glowed golden under the setting Roman sun. Empress Y/N gazed out over the sprawling Forum, her silk stola cascading around her like water, the fine fabric embroidered with golden laurels befitting her station. A servant entered quietly, bowing low.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the servant said softly, head bowed, “the Emperor awaits you in the gardens.”
Y/N smiled faintly, already knowing what this would mean. Lucius Verus Aurelius, her husband and the newly crowned ruler of the Roman Empire, often found peace among the blooming flora of their private sanctuary, far removed from the relentless politics of the Senate and the demands of the people. She dismissed the servant with a wave and made her way to him.
She found Lucius standing beneath an olive tree, his golden-brown curls illuminated by the dying light of day. He wore his imperial toga loosely, the purple of royalty draped casually over his powerful shoulders. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile reserved only for her.
“Y/N,” he said warmly, closing the distance between them. His hands found hers, calloused from years of training with the sword, yet gentle as they enveloped her smaller ones. “You’ve been hiding from me today.”
“I’ve been thoughtful,” she replied, her tone teasing but her gaze searching his. “Your Senate meetings are as tedious for me to hear about as they are for you to attend.”
Lucius chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “You’ve no idea. If I could abandon them all and spend my days here with you, I would.”
“You’d miss the thrill of the arena,” she countered, raising a brow. “And the glory of Rome.”
His expression softened. “Rome is nothing without you by my side, Y/N. I meant every word I said when we wed. You are my equal in all things.”
Her heart swelled at his words, though a shadow of uncertainty flickered within her. What she had to tell him now would change their lives forever.
“Lucius,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “there’s something I must tell you.”
His brow furrowed, concern flashing in his amber eyes. “What is it, my love?”
She took his hand and placed it over her abdomen, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am with child.”
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Lucius stared at her, uncomprehending, before the realization dawned. His eyes widened, and a joyous laugh escaped his lips.
“By the gods!” he exclaimed, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and spinning her around. “An heir! Y/N, you’ve given me the greatest gift of all.”
His exuberance was contagious, and she found herself laughing as well, her worries momentarily forgotten. He set her down gently but kept his hands on her waist, his expression turning serious.
“Are you well? Have you seen the physicians? You must take no risks. Tell me what you need, and it shall be done.”
“I am well,” she assured him, touched by his concern. “And I have already consulted with the palace medics. They say all is as it should be.”
He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze fierce and tender. “You must promise me, Y/N. No more long walks in the heat, no late nights with the advisors. I will not have anything threaten you or our child.”
“I promise,” she said softly, placing a hand over his. “But you must promise me something in return.”
“Anything.”
“You will not let the weight of Rome crush you, Lucius. You are a warrior, but even warriors need rest.”
He smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “As long as I have you, I will never falter.”
---
Months passed, and as Y/N’s belly swelled, Lucius grew more protective. He personally oversaw her safety, ensuring no harm could come to her. Their nights were filled with quiet moments of intimacy, his hands resting on her abdomen as they spoke of the future.
Finally, the day arrived. The palace was thrown into a flurry of activity as Y/N went into labor. Lucius refused to leave her side, despite the protests of the midwives.
“Stay with me,” Y/N whispered, her face pale but determined.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, his voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart.
Hours passed, each moment stretching into eternity. Y/N’s cries of pain tore at Lucius, but he held her hand, whispering words of encouragement and love.
At last, a sharp cry filled the room, and the midwife held up a squirming, red-faced infant.
“It’s a girl,” she announced, her voice reverent.
Lucius stared in awe as the child was placed in Y/N’s arms. Her tiny features were delicate, yet she cried with the force of a storm, filling the room with her presence.
Lucius knelt beside Y/N, tears streaming down his face as he touched the soft cheek of his daughter.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Our daughter. Our future Empress.”
Y/N smiled weakly, her exhaustion evident, but her joy radiant. “She will rule Rome one day, Lucius. And she will do so with strength and wisdom.”
Lucius pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, his heart overflowing. “She will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever known. Just like her mother.”
He held his daughter in his arms, marveling at her tiny fingers curling around his. “You have my heart already, little one,” he murmured. “I will protect you and your mother with my life.”
The room was quiet now, save for the soft cooing of their newborn daughter nestled against Y/N’s chest. The midwives had retreated to give the imperial family a moment of privacy, leaving Lucius, Y/N, and their child surrounded by the glow of flickering oil lamps.
Lucius knelt beside the bed, his fingers brushing against the baby’s cheek in awe. Her tiny features were a perfect blend of them both—Y/N’s delicate nose and soft lips, framed by the faintest wisp of golden-brown hair, like his own.
“She’s so small,” Lucius whispered, his voice filled with reverence. “And yet, she already feels like the strongest part of me.”
Y/N smiled through her exhaustion, cradling the baby close. “She’s already taken your heart, hasn’t she?”
“Completely,” Lucius admitted, his amber eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the top of his daughter’s head with infinite tenderness. “I’ve never known love like this, Y/N. Not until you, and now her.”
He straightened, his expression shifting to one of solemnity as he looked between his wife and child. “She deserves a name worthy of her destiny. She will not just be our daughter; she will be a symbol of hope for Rome, a future Empress who will rule with wisdom and grace.”
Y/N tilted her head, her tired eyes soft with curiosity. “Have you chosen a name, my love?”
Lucius nodded, a small smile breaking through his seriousness. “Aurelia. For the golden light she brings into our lives and the strength she will carry as our heir. Aurelia Verina.”
“Aurelia,” Y/N repeated, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked down at their daughter. “It’s perfect, Lucius.”
Their daughter stirred in her arms, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around Y/N’s thumb. Lucius watched the interaction with awe before gently taking one of the baby’s hands in his own, marveling at her fragility.
“She will be loved, cherished,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “And she will know the strength of her mother’s heart.”
Y/N reached for Lucius’ hand, entwining their fingers as they gazed down at Aurelia together. “And she will know the courage of her father,” Y/N added softly. “With us, she will never lack for love.”
Lucius settled onto the edge of the bed beside Y/N, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, the weight of Rome seemed distant, unimportant compared to the warmth of his wife and daughter in his arms.
Aurelia shifted again, letting out a small cry. Y/N chuckled, adjusting the blanket around the baby. “She already has your spirit, Lucius. Fierce and demanding attention.”
Lucius laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. “If she has your patience, she’ll balance it well. Together, she’ll be unstoppable.”
As the baby quieted, Lucius leaned his head against Y/N’s, his lips brushing her temple. “This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, Y/N. A family. A future.”
“And Rome will be stronger for it,” Y/N murmured, resting her head against his shoulder.
For the first time in what felt like years, Lucius allowed himself to relax, to be not just Emperor, but a husband and father. As Aurelia drifted into sleep, Y/N leaned into Lucius’ embrace, and the three of them shared a quiet moment of peace, wrapped in love and the promise of tomorrow.
In the stillness, Lucius whispered to his daughter, “Sleep well, Aurelia. You are the light of our lives and the hope of Rome. I will protect you with every breath I have.”
And with that, Lucius tightened his hold on his family, feeling an unshakable sense of purpose. Rome’s future was no longer an abstraction—it was here, in his arms. And he would ensure it would flourish.
coins and sapphires, swords and sandals // lucius verus x reader
-`♡´- pairing : lucius verus x reader (fem)
-`♡´- summary : when readers first betrothed unwillingly finds his way back to Rome as a gladiator, things go differently than he had expected.
-`♡´- warnings : violence, gladiator 2 spoilers, and 1 too i guess, kiss kiss mwahmwah. acacius as readers daddy. reader is about 25, lucius 27ish to make the timeline in my head work lol.
-`♡´- extra : for more updates on more parts or lack of, check my other blog @jorra3lagon !!
-`♡´- notes : i guess this can count as a summary, or introduction to a whole fanfic ill write soon cause i cant get enough of paul mescal as lucius hihihhihi
-`♡´- word count : 4538
dont translate, modify or repost my work. you do not have permission. not my gif
211 AD
As the farewells came to an end and the halls of the Acacius villa emptied, silence returned once more.
Ever since her father returned from his conquest in Numidia [Name] her life felt like a sick joke. From her black clothing, to the tear stains on her cheeks, to the constant visits of important people. Her second husband was dead. Her third love had left her alone in this world. The gods had damned her.
As she sipped the wine from her cup she stared at the fish in the water. So carefree, swimming endless circles in the pool, not having to worry for a second of losing their loved ones. They looked stunning, the fire from the lanterns reflecting on their colorful scales as they let out small air bubbles.
“Dear,” Lady Lucilla stood behind her, speaking to her softly as she moved to sit at [Name]'s side, also admiring the colorful fish. Now the two were connected by her father, Marcus Acacius, but before that their connection would’ve laid with [Name] her first betrothed. Lucius Verus. It had been nearly twenty years since his disappearance, and as time went, it became evident he would not be returning. He was presumed dead.
[Name] had gone on to marry a high lord as was expected of her. The lord who died of illness that took him away quickly, not too long after their marriage. She knew his interests lay not with women, they had an understanding and he was a good man. Had he lived longer, she knew her life would have been well with him, for he would never have hurt her, but alas, the good never live long.
Two years later, she remarried. As a lady of her status and bloodline, it was her duty. This time she married one of her fathers trusted advisers. A man, not older than thirty. With him, she had carried one child, who never lived to take his first breath. Two and a half years later, her second husband followed their child to the next world.
Now she had returned home once again, sharing a roof with her father and stepmother once more. The house that once kept Lucius safe and warm too.
“I feel for you, daughter.” Lucilla spoke again softly. Her hand comes up to caress [Name]s in a sense of comfort. The younger of the two women looked up, the tears in her reddened eyes reflecting in the red of the fire. Unlike the beautifully reflecting fish, her tears were angry, full of grief, shame. They fell with no shame. Tear after tear, grieving all that she had lost, and seemed to continue losing.
“As the daughter of our beloved General Acacius we mourn with you, Lady [Name]. It brought us much regret to hear of the passing of your late husband.” Much to her surprise, Emperor Geta spoke as he looked at her when she bowed before him in greeting. She was invited to one of their parties, where they would allegedly show one of the barbarians they captured in Numidia.
“Thank you, sire.” [Name] bowed her head at the Emperors again. They intimidated her, as they did with almost the whole of Rome. In the few times she had the absolute pleasure of being in their presence, she had always stuck close to her father, later on husbands, when they’d approach. The looks in their eyes scared her, they were like lions, able to snap and attack at any moment.
“Ah, you’re the girl who was betrothed to Lady Lucilla’s boy?” Emperor Caracalla spoke up as he looked at [Name] with funny eyes. She froze before nodding,
“Yes, sire, may the gods be with him.”
Emperor Geta gave his brother a look, seemingly confused as to how his brother would remember that given his… situation. He waved her away with a small half smile before returning his attention back to one of his concubines.
Giving one last bow, she moved to the sidelines, her once black dresses now back in their usual colorful state. Jewellery adorning her neck, hands, arms, waist, and ears clicking like a soft jingle as she walked among lords and ladies. Eventually her eyes laid on one of her friends. “Fortuna,” she smiled as she approached the woman. “I’m so glad to see you.”
The woman returned her greeting, pulling the other woman in for an embrace. “I’m also glad to see you here, out of your mourning clothes with that.” She spoke as she linked their arms together and moved back through the crowd. “Father says he’s getting the fiercest of the barbarians your father captured here to fight one of the Emperors their own champion.” smiles were exchanged as they politely pushed through the people. “Here look, he’s sitting right there.” Fortuna pointed to an exit, there on a bench sat a young man, looking down at the ground.
His dark blonde hair shone brightly from beneath the dirt that coated it. Cuts covered his face and arms, and probably the rest of his body too. She couldn’t see much more than that as Fortuna kept talking and walking to the front of the crowd to get a better view at the fight that was to happen soon.
“I saw him fight in the arena where my father bought him. He was biting away at some of the apes they fought. They call him the ape-eater.”
The guests cheered as the Emperors their champion was brought in. He bowed before the red haired rulers and they offered him a nod. [Name] her gaze wasn’t laid on either the Emperors or their champion. It was laid on the barbarian from Numidia who was being brought in. His shackles were undone when he stood in front of the Emperors as well. Up close she could see his bright blue eyes as they reflected in the sunlight that entered the big room. His facial features were sharp and he looked exactly like the statues of Roman heroes. [Name] her mouth slightly hung open as only one thought ran through her mind.
Lucius
As the name ran through her mind like a mantra the barbarian looked at her, and his eyes grew a tiny bit. His gaze was fierce and his beautiful blue eyes were filled with rage and anger as he studied her own eyes.
Lucius
His gaze swept over her face, down her body before snapping back to her eyes. His gaze now hardened as he looked at her again before turning his head away as a sword was thrusted into his hands.
Emperor Caracalla’s giggles and the screeches of his monkey echoed through the room as they fought, but [Name] her gaze was stuck on the same spot on the wall where the barbarian stood seconds ago.
Yelps and screams snapped her out of her trance and her eyes looked around, breathing out in relief when she saw the barbarian unharmed, impaling the Emperor's gladiator with his sword. The crowd cheered and clapped as the fallen champion was dragged out. [Name] continued to stare at the barbarian, who resembled so much more than he realized, as he refused to speak to the emperor.
His laugh echoed through the room as he finally opened his mouth after Marcrinus made up a lie. He stared at the Emperor intensely as he took a step toward him. The former took a small staggering step back as fear crossed his face for a split second, unknowing what the barbarian in front of him might do if he stayed within arms length of him.
“The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way. But…” [Name] her mouth fell open in shock of hearing Virgil, poetry coming out of his mouth, “...to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”
The edges of [Name] her vision began to go dark as she held onto Fortuna for support. The woman glanced down at her and upon seeing her pale face she brought her to a place to sit. The dark haired woman searched the others' eyes, not being able to find anything.
“What is the matter, friend?”
[Name] held a hand to her sweating forehead as she closed her eyes. Trying to get rid of her false hope and get herself together before anyone noticed that she was acting off.
“I suppose my stomach can not handle violence and bloodshed from this close up.” she lied with a small laugh, hoping she didn’t act too out of character for herself. “It felt like I was about to have a fainting spell.”
The other woman smiled as she offered her her drink. “I’ll have someone call for your carriage to get back home.”
The ride home was a blur. It must have been nothing more than a coincidence. It couldn’t have been anything else. She was greeted by a servant who accompanied her to her rooms and helped her change. The summer heat peaked these days and even the lightest clothes seemed suffocating if you wore them too long.
She kept silent for hours. The servants assumed she was still mourning her late husband, which would make sense. Supper went the same, any questions were just answered with a nod or shake of her head, eyes cast down at the food on her plate or the wine in her cup.
Lucilla and Acacius exchanged looks, and Acacius couldn’t help but see his daughter as herself from a decade ago. Rebellious in her teen years, maturing into a young woman, looking more and more like her biological mother who had left the world too soon. He could see past her facade, he could see the clockworks rotating in her head, focussed, thinking, lost somewhere deep in her own world up in her head.
After dinner she had quickly excused herself before returning to her quarters. She stood in front of the collection of crystals, rocks, gems, and other small trinkets that laid on the desk. They had collected dust over the years that they had laid there. Their price value wouldn’t be that high, but their emotional value lay high. Higher than any money could ever buy.
Back when Lucius and she were betrothed, she was no older than six summers, Lucius not a full moon above eight. Lady Lucilla had a big part in the betrothal, knowing the girl’s mother as a childhood friend from court and believing they would make a strong couple. The daughter of a general, and the Prince of Rome. When Lucius had found out, he saw it not as a betrothal but as a friendship, after all, they were both children, they wouldn’t understand until at least a little later in life.
So always if Lucius found out [Name] would be in the city, he’d have his guards find her so he could give her small gifts. They were young but the pair grew oddly fond of each other and soon, a whole shelf of crystals and other precious shining items came to be in her rooms.
The years after Lucius’ disappearance she understood more and more how much he had meant to her, what would’ve been if he was still here, how different her life would have been. The items meant everything to her, for they were her last real connection to Lucius.
“You know, I would always be missing some items from my jewellery boxes when Lucius went out into the city. Or sometimes it was servants who reported missing items from the halls.” Lucilla said as she stood in the doorframe, admiring the young woman who had a bright green gemstone pressed against her chest. “It didn’t take long before I found out it was Lucius who took them. I followed him into the city, to the markets where I saw him giving you something. I watched as you took out a gold butterfly and smiled brightly. I never said a thing about the missing items, and often I laid out things for him to find and take.” Slowly she walked into the room and stood beside [Name] “He really loved you.”
The young girl nodded.
“What is bothering you, daughter?” Lucilla took one of her hands, holding it tightly as she searched her stepdaughter's eyes. They were filled with sorrow, her whole face portrayed it. She felt [Name] grip her hand as she stared at her.
“The Numidian barbarian I watched fight at the Emperors’ gathering…” she shook her head, looking down at the green stone in her hand.
Even when all hope seems lost, know it will return. Little wise Lucius Verus’ words from when he gave her this stone rang through her head.
“Curls as blonde as your own, eyes as blue as the heavens.” Lucilla’s eyes were still on her, “The only thing I could think of when I saw him was Lucius. He recited Virgil; The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way… Lucilla, you mustn't think of me as crazy.”
She felt the elder woman tighten her grip on her hand as she slowly pulled her along. They walked through the halls, crossed the courtyard, and entered the secret door that led to Lucius his former chambers. [Name] had only been there once or twice, years and years ago.
Lucilla stood still as she looked up, where drawings and words decorated the walls. [Name] followed her gaze, eyes widening upon realization. The words laid right in front of her, the exact words the blue eyed barbarian had recited.
The gates of hell are open night and day, smooth is the descent, and easy is the way. But to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.
“General Justus Acacius, and with him his daughter [Name] and his wife, Lucilla! The daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius!
[Name] entered the Emperor's box in the Colosseum behind her father and Lucilla, hearing the people cheer for her father as they were introduced. It would forever surprise her how loud, and how massive the place was. She did not attend the games often, for it was known the bloodshed often fell bad on her stomach, but now, she felt like she needed to attend.
She took her seat next to Lucilla as her father spoke to the citizens. His voice rang through the crowd as they chanted his name. She saw Emperor Geta look in her direction, smiling wickedly when he caught her eyes before turning back around.
As the announcer spoke up again, the doors opened and the first gladiators came out. [Name] held her breath in fear as she looked among them. Her hand was interlinked with Lucilla’s, who saw him before she did and tightened her hand so hard her knuckles turned white. She followed her stepmother's gaze, and her eyes landed on the blue eyed barbarian once again and she returned the grasp on her stepmother's hand. The gladiator's eyes shifted to hers, and his gaze held familiarity, but before she could react, he had already looked away.
The south doors opened and in came the Emperor's prized champion.
“Hail Caesars!” he bellowed and the crowd followed with cheers and chants.
The two women up in the Emperor's box held their breath as they exchanged a knowing look. A mutual understanding.
Boo’s echoed through the stadium, cheers encouraged the gladiators, excitement buzzed and the emperors grew more blood thirsty every time a gladiator dodged the massive rhino.
When the blue eyed barbarian thrusted his sword down into the sand, and bent down to grab two fistfuls of sand she heard Lucilla breathe out a shuddering breath as she looked at him in curiosity and confusion.
The rhino crashed into the wall of the arena, causing a stir in the crowd and the Emperors rushed to the railing to see what happened like two little boys. A fight broke loose, the rider of the rhino and the barbarian fought. The upper hand going to the rider of the rhino, he kicked and threw the barbarian around and Emperor Geta spoke up.
“Brother, it’s that poet, is it not?” he spoke as he watched his brother sit back down with the excuse of not knowing. “The gates of hell are open night and day… Smooth is… I forgot… Smooth the…”
“Smooth is the descent, easy is the way.”
Below, the fight was still going, clouds of dust rising up in the arena as the crowds chanted for mercy. The chants turned into roars of excitement as the Emperor granted mercy in the name of the Gods.
“No mercy!” the barbarian yelled, looking up to the box as he rested on one knee. “I would rather face your blade, than accept Roman mercy!” With that he stood up as the rhino rider charged for him again.
It happened in the blink of an eye as he rolled around and sliced his sword into his chest, watching how he fell to his knees as he cradled the wound. Now the crowds chanted for the kill, and the barbarian complied. The crowds were loud before, but now they went ballistic, and [Name] was certain all of Rome could hear them chant the gladiator's name.
“Hanno! Hanno! Hanno!”
The name continued to ring through [Name] her head as they made their way home. Lucilla had seen for herself what [Name] had told her days prior, and she too knew this was her son. Two decades had gone by since she had sent him off for his own safety. Two decades of wondering if her son was still alive, and now he had stood below her, captured in Numidia, fighting on the same ground where his father died.
Marcus Acacius was now looking at two distressed women. The two women he held closest to his heart, seeming in utter despair as they held their silence.
“Alright, what is the matter?” he spoke up once they reached the safety of their home, he couldn’t pretend any longer. He watched as the two women exchanged a glance, then stared confused as Lucilla ordered the servants out of the room.
“Lucius is alive,” [Name] started and her father looked at her with widened eyes. Her eyes were cast down on the stones at their feet, hand wrapped around the golden necklace at her neck.
Acacius looked at his wife who nodded, “He’s alive.”
He closed his eyes, his memories instantly snapping back to the young prince he once knew as his future son-in-law. The small, blonde boy with eyes as bright as the heavens.
“You are certain?”
“Yes, I know my son.”
[Name] her father sat down, looking at her. The tears were gathering in her eyes, she had mourned that boy greatly for many years. For a while she had refused to marry her first husband, saying it felt wrong, knowing she was still promised to another. She had prayed to the gods, prayed for his safety, prayed for his safe return to Rome, and now it seemed it had become reality.
“Father, I knew it was him when I watched him fight at the Emperors’ gathering. His reaction to seeing me was enough to prove my suspicions.” she met her fathers eyes, walking toward him and taking one of his hands in hers. “I know of your plans. I overheard the conversations with the senators. The dream of Marcus Aurelius. With Lucius alive, those two ginger maniacs have less claim to the empire. Please allow me to speak to him, get him to work with us. Fortuna won’t tell a soul if I ask her, she is like a sister to me and she owes me a favor.”
If Lucius Verus was truly alive, and back in Rome, that would change everything. Their plans to overthrow the Emperors would be easier with a male heir, the heir of Emperor Commodus, Lucilla knew that too. So Acacius nodded at his daughter, whose teary eyes turned into a smile as she embraced her father.
“Thank you, father.”
Once she stopped in front of the gates to the place Marcinius kept his gladiators, she slipped off her horse. Her fathers personal guard stood at a distance, ensuring her safety on the road. She walked to one of the sides, looking for the window she knew too well and when she did she called out.
“Fortuna!” It was soft, but loud enough for the other woman to poke her head out of the window. She nodded and disappeared again before appearing at the side gate leading to her and her fathers house.
“I want to see the gladiator Hanno.”
Her friend looked at her in shock but grinned as she took her hand and led her through the now dark courtyard. She was never more thankful for her friend as she opened the cell and let her in, standing on the lookout not far away.
“So, you’re the barbarian from Numidia.” [Name] spoke as she looked at the gladiators back. He wore no shirt and she could see the scars and wounds on his toned back. “Hanno, no?”
He turned around when she called his name, eyes once more growing in surprise as he saw her.
“My lady, yes.” he said, eyes tracing her whole form. From her dark blue dress to her dark robe, and the singular gold necklace, it was different as opposed to the light colors and many jewellery items she wore when he had first seen her. “What do you need from me?”
She studied his eyes, he was much closer now than he’d been in the last few days. The moon light shone in through the high barred window and fell on his face.
She took off her necklace and she held it up in front of his face. “Do you know who this is?” she spoke as the coin shimmered in the moonlight, illuminating the face on it.
LUCIUS VERUS II it read around the face.
“Lucius Verus the second?” Hanno spoke, reading it off the coin.
“You can read, you know Virgil, I’ve been informed you know Roman history, you fight like-” fought exactly like the boy she used to watch as he parred with his guards. “Like a trained Roman swordsman. You are no Numidian, so don’t pretend to be one, Lucius.”
He raised his brows at her, at her choice of words, at the name she called him. A cocky smile adorned his face as he took a daring step forward, his smile widening when she didn’t move back, instead only straightening her back and raising her chin to look at him.
“Whoever you think I am, you are wrong.” Hanno bent down a little, towering over her as she held his fierce gaze.
She reached into the pocket of her cloak, her fingers wrapping around the cold stone as she brought it out.
“Nineteen summers ago, I got this sapphire from my betrothed, the young prince Lucius Verus. When he gave it to me he said the words; even when all hope seems lost, know it will return. Not long later after that he disappeared. Whether he knew it then or not, he would be our hope in the future. He is our hope now. Not only to save Rome from the rule it is now under, but also to bring the dream of Marcus Aurelius to reality.”
Hanno looked at her, something in his gaze changed as he stood straight again. His gaze fell to the small treasures in her hand.
“You carry the face of a missing prince around your neck? How your husband must like that.” he scoffed as he turned his back to her once more.
“He was a dear friend, and a great loss not only to me, but his mother too. I loved the prince, with my entire heart. I still do.”
That had Hanno turning his head around, looking at her as she turned to leave the cell before turning her own face back to him.
“Lucius Verus is our last hope. Stay alive gladiator.”
“Wait,” Hanno turned back around and took a big step forward, she could feel his warm breath on her neck. “Why? Why do you think I am your precious prince.”
[Name] turned around to face him, her brows furrowed at his choice of words, his arrogant, nearly mocking tone. She looked at the necklace that was dangling between them.
“The gods have damned me, but that does not mean I forget the ones I love. Some things do not change, can not change. You have three birthmarks on the left side of your neck. Along with a scar covering both of your calves from the same sword strike from when you insisted on practicing with real swords with your uncle, Emperor Commodus.” She reached a hand up to his neck, lightly touching the three birthmarks before trailing behind him, and sure enough, the white lines covering his calves stood out among his toned skin. “The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth is the descent and easy is the way. Those are the lines written on the walls of your childhood bedroom. I can go on, but I knew it was you from the first moment we made eye contact at the Emperors’ gathering.” she finished as she circled back in front of him.
Hanno looked at her with wide eyes, his breathing heavy. He had not counted on being recognised that easily. Hell, he had not even counted on seeing her. His eyes darted between hers before they fell on her soft, plush lips. All those years and she still remembered the smallest things about him, carrying his face around her neck, close to her heart. Kept the trinkets he had gifted her all those years ago. She risked her life coming here just to seek confirmation of what she already knew.
“We-”
He pressed his lips against her own, his worn and scarred hands coming up to cup her face as she returned the kiss. Her hands moved to his chest, one pulling him closer by the back of his neck as the other felt his heart go crazy below his skin. The kiss was slow but rough as one of his hands travelled to her lower back and pulled her body closer to his.
They broke apart when they heard soft footsteps approaching. They looked to the door of the cell to see Fortuna motioning it was time for [Name] to go.
[Name], who still held the gold necklace in her hand, looked up at the man before her. She reached for the necklace with her other hand before moving them around Hanno’s neck and locking it.
“Remember who you are, and remember what is rightfully yours.” she cupped his cheek and he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. “Stay alive, Lucius.”
