Chapter Text
193 CE: The Home of Senator Quintin Valerius, Rome
For the Glory of Rome.
The celebration of conquest was a lavish affair, as always.
The atrium of Senator Quintin’s Valerius’ domus gleamed with the wealth of Rome. Marble columns stood like the sentinels who guarded the doors, watchful eyes monitoring those who slumbered through the streets. The sprawling villa seemed to glow as it was washed in the light of the evening. Rich tapestries, paintings, art hung on the walls. Servants in crisp tunics bustled about, balancing trays laden with golden goblets brimming with wine and platters piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and honey-glazed figs. The air was heavy with the mingling of incense, oils, and the faint tang of iron from the soldiers who still wore their armor underneath their ceremonial robes.
And lounging in a plush chair, one hand draped over the arm as you sipped wine from a golden goblet in the other, you sat. On either side of you were other young socialites sipping on wine and eating grapes, flanked by handmaidens on either side. You sat poised, the perfect image of Romance grace and indulgence.
You hated it.
The gentle murmur of conversation was interlaced with music chiming through the air, smiles and laughter flitting about freely. And it was all for conquest , to celebrate war , to celebrate death .
The conversation around you stilled as the sound of distant trumpets echoed through the atrium. All heads turned towards the grand entrance, mere feet from where you sat with your entourage. And through the open doors strode two soldiers, the gold adorning their white tunics gleaming under the setting sun.
The soldier closest to you was new, or at least, you surmised as much. You had not seen this Optio, junior officer, before. He strode forward with confidence, steps deliberate. His hair was a rich brown, swooping in soft waves that had been tamed to be polished enough for such an occasion. Among the brown, a few rare streaks of gray caught the light. His beard was patchy but rugged, a contrast to the meticulously clean-shaven faces of many other officers.
His shoulders were broad and powerful, and the way he moved spoke of strength. His arms, bare beneath his tunic, rippled with muscles that carved through the bronzed skin of his arms, melding beautifully with the gold adornments of the tunic.
Though intrigued, it was the man next to him that clawed at your attention. A man you knew well. The Centurion , General, of Rome’s greatest legion, the centerpiece of tonight’s celebration. He stalked across the hall, soaking in the eyes like a sponge. He wore the golden garland on his head with a practiced air, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his beard trimmed daily by the slaves shuffling along behind him.
General Quintus Laetus was a man who carried Rome’s brutal legacy in every movement.
It had been over a year since you’d last laid eyes on him, but time did not change this man. His warm smile could shift to the cold sneer of death in but an instant. The tone was set by the icy steeliness of his eyes, a blue so cold it felt as though it had come from the bitter winters in the north. They seemed to bore into everyone they landed on, stripping away pretense and leaving nothing but raw vulnerability in their wake. Yet, when the moment demanded, those same eyes feigned with twinkled warmth. It was a duality you knew well.
As they crossed the atrium, the crowd rose as one, thunderous applause reverberating throughout the area. Draped in white robes and golden adornments, he raised a hand, shoulders broad from the welcome. The man who smiled while razing cities, laughed when he heard tortured screams from his enemies.
He plucked a grape off of a servant’s plate and popped it into his mouth as he waved.
This man had killed your mother and her unborn child. You had cleansed her cold body, washed the blood off of the bruises and scrapes as you wept, wrapped her unborn child in cloth.
He turned to you, now, as a dribble of grape juice ran through his stubble.
“Daughter,” he purred, his voice a rich baritone. He stepped towards your perch, arms outstretched. You knew it not to be a request, but a demand.
You rose from your seat, golden gown shimmering in the dying light.
He took your hands firmly, almost possessive, like iron bands around yours.
“How radiant you look tonight,” he said, his words laced with pride. His eyes flicked to the Optio standing at the side. “Doesn’t she shine brighter than the evening star, Acacius?”
The younger guard hesitated for a fraction of a second before bowing his head. “She does, General,” Acacius replied, his tone respectful. His brown eyes flicked to you, briefly, unreadable.
Quintus’s smile widened, his hands tightening slightly around yours as he turned back to the crowd. “Let us raise our goblets,” he boomed, “to Rome’s glory, to our triumphs in Persia, and to the gods for granting us strength!”
A chorus of cheers erupted, goblets clinking and spilling wine like blood. Quintus released your hands and locked his eyes onto Acacius. The Optio stood at attention, his broad shoulders squared, the golden laurels in his dark, wavy hair catching the last rays of evening suns slipping in.
“Acacius,” Quintus said, his voice sharp. “You have proven yourself a worthy soldier. It is only right that you are introduced to my daughter.”
Something glittered in Quintus’s eyes.
Acacius inclined his head slightly. “I am honored, General.”
Quintus’s hand gestured toward you as he was handed a goblet of rich wine, the faintest flicker of something unspoken crossing his face as he did. “My daughter, the jewel of my house.”
You felt the weight of both men’s gazes and forced yourself to lift your chin.
“Marcus Acacius,” the Optio greeted, a fist rising to his chest as he bowed and rose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. It was then that you were struck by something odd: his eyes. They were brown, warm and earthy, a peculiar softness within their depths that seemed at odds with his imposing figure. Despite the celebrations around him, there was no glint of triumph in his gaze, no smugness or arrogance – only a quiet, unreadable calm. Your name slipped from his lips, rolling over his tongue as it reached your ears. “It is an honor to meet such a gem of Rome.”
The words lingered in the air. A gem of Rome. It wasn’t the first time you’d been described this way, nor would it be the last, but this felt deliberate, measured – like he was testing the words as they left his mouth.
He gingerly took your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles.
“The honor is mine,” you replied, voice steady but guarded as you pulled your hand back to your side.. You forced a polite smile and inclined your head slightly. “What happened to Calidus?” you asked, the name slipping from your lips before you could stop it. You had known the previous First Optio well – or at least, you thought you had. Calidus had been a familiar face at your father’s side for years.
Quintus’s expression darkened, his smile fading. “Calidus served Rome with honor,” he said. “But the siege of Charax Spasinu was not without its price. A stray arrow found its mark on the first day of battle. He fell defending the standard.”
He reached over and put a hand on Acacius’s shoulder, squeezing as he spoke. “Acacius,” Quintus continued, his tone shifting to one of pride, “stepped forward in the heart of battle, rallying the men. He proved himself a leader worthy of Rome’s trust and my own.”
Acacius remained silent. He did not bask in the praise as others might, not did he deny it. He simply stood there, a man made of iron, his brown eyes meeting yours again, calm and steady. “I am sorry for Calidus,” you said softly, not taking your gaze from Acacius. “But it seems Rome has found a worthy successor.”
Quintus laughed. “Worthy indeed!” He turned to Acacius, raising his goblet. “To Rome, and to those who give everything for her glory.”
Acacius inclined his head, acknowledging the praise without a word, his fist once more touching his chest in salute.
“Come, my friend,” Quintus said, steering Acacius towards the throngs of Romans, senators mingling through the midst, the Emperor perched on a throne between several young women. “We have much to tend to.”
As they stalked through the crowd, your gaze lingered on Acacius. He was different, but you weren’t sure why.
The festivities wore on. Goblets clinked, spilling rivulets of deep red that streaked the marble floors like trails of blood. Guests danced, argued, or collapsed into dramatic conversations. Somewhere, Quintus roared with laughter, the sound carrying above it all as he leaned heavily on a senator’s shoulder, gesturing grandly with his goblet.
You stifled a sigh, sitting among your usual crowd of socialites. They prattled on about their latest conquests in love and status, their words blurring into background noise. The air felt stifling, and the sweetness of perfume mingling with wine was suffocating. You drained the last of your drink, the warmth doing little to dull the gnawing feeling in your stomach.
It was too much. Rising, you excused yourself with a polite smile, murmuring something about needing air. Nobody batted an eye as you slipped away, the muted click of your sandals on marble lost in the din.
The hallways of the domus stretched ahead, quieter but still alive with the distant echo of revelry. Shadows flickered against the walls from oil lamps, their flames swaying in the breeze. You walked without purpose.
Turning a corner, you paused. Ahead, in a secluded alcove framed by marble pillars, stood Acacius. He was alone, his broad back turned to you, a goblet in one hand as he gazed out over the gardens beyond the atrium. The soft light of the torches caught in the waves of his hair, turning them to bronze.
His seasoned senses must have heard your footsteps because he turned, his expression neutral but alert. When he recognized you, his stance relaxed, though his face remained unreadable.
“Lady,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. His voice was low.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said, hesitating.
“You’re not,” he replied. He gestured lightly with his goblet. “It seems I am not the only one seeking reprieve.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips. “The noise grows tiresome after too much of it. Though I didn’t expect to find you here. Shouldn’t you be in the heart of the celebration? Reveling in your victory?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ve seen enough revelry for the night. And victory is… complicated.”
The words surprised you. “Complicated?”
He took a sip of his wine, his gaze shifting briefly to the gardens before returning to you. “Men cheer for what they do not see – the blood, the screams, the cost. We celebrate as if conquest is pure. But those who fight know better.”
His honesty disarmed you. There was no false humility, no posturing. Just the quiet truth.
“That is a bold claim for a soldier,” you said, searching his face. “Most would not dare voice such thoughts, even in the shadows. Especially to the daughter of a general.”
Acacius’s lips slipped into a faint, fleeting smile. “Most soldiers do not have the luxury of saying what they truly think.” He glanced down into his goblet.
The flickering torchlight danced across his features, casting sharp shadows along the curve of his jaw and the furrow of his brow.
You stepped closer.
“And yet, you still fought. Surely, that must mean something to you.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. “It means I did what was necessary. Not for praise.” His eyes met yours, steady and unwavering. “But for the men who follow me. For those who cannot afford to hesitate. For Rome, even when she asks too much.”
The weight of the words settled heavily between you. It was odd, hearing someone speak the words you had felt for so long. You had never seen the wrath Rome brought upon the conquered with your own eyes, but you had seen the remnants left behind. The slaves and gladiators in the arena, the slaves that prattled about behind the senators like mice, the broken spirits and souls of handmaidens who had been forced to serve.
“I question why my father took a liking to you,” you said. “His values do not rise to meet yours.”
Acacius’s faint smile returned, though there was no joy in it. “Your father is a strong man,” he said carefully, his words measured. “He values strength, loyalty, and victory above all else. And I have given him those things.”
Did he know what your father did to your mother, to your unborn sister, to you? Did he know he followed a monster that stretched beyond the normal cruelty bred by Rome?
You hesitated. Your father was a monster, and those who blindly followed him were no better in your eyes. Yet here Acacius stood, spouting words that your father would have never dreamed of. But what was there to say? Acacius was unreadable, in the end. Perhaps he was yet another lapdog to curl up in the lap of your father.
You drew a quiet breath. “It was nice to meet you, Marcus Acacius,” you said. “I hope your fate is kinder than Calidus’s.”
He inclined his head, the gesture slow and deliberate. “Thank you, Lady. That is a hope we both share.”
The simplicity in his response felt strangely profound, as though he understood the layers beneath your words. For a moment, you lingered, the flickering torches casting golden light across the stillness between you. Then, without another word, you turned and walked away, the noise of the celebration growing as you rejoined the throng of Rome’s elite. But even as the din surrounded you once more, you couldn’t help but glance back. Acacius remained where you had left him, a solitary figure in the shadow of Rome’s triumphs.
193 CE: The Home of General Quintus Laetus, Rome
The sun hung high over the sprawling villa, casting its golden rays onto the polished marble floors of the inner courtyard. The scent of blooming jasmine wafted through the air, mingling with the distant hum of conversation drifting from the atrium where your father entertained yet another group of senators, vying for more funding for his legion. For the past week, the villa had been alive with the comings and goings of Rome’s most powerful men. The city and the empire were fruitful, but no business was more essential and more profitable than war.
He had taken to assigning Acacius to the training pits as he opted to rest in the sprawling villa that you had inhabited alone for the past year. Your father had spoken of Acacius often during his fatherings, praising his discipline and leadership to anyone who would listen. “A soldier’s soldier,” he called him, with the kind of pride reserved for one of his greatest assets. He was busy honing raw recruits into the next wave of legionaries.
You had only ever half-listened as your father described the grueling regimen Acacius imposed, your thoughts wandering elsewhere. Anywhere to get away from the brutality of your people, from the destruction they wrought upon so many. You had taken up painting of late. It seemed to dull the aching guilt. And, the scratching fear. Though the feeling was a familiar friend to your body, it had surged with a vengeance since your father’s return.
Every time you closed your eyes, you could only see his hands, covered in your mother’s blood.
And when you opened them, you occasionally heard the whispered sound of your name floating through the hallways. Young, fertile, single. She must be betrothed, political advantages.
Give her hand to someone.
You had known this day was coming. It was the fate of many women. The thought of marriage settled over you like a shroud. It was inevitable, of course. Your father, ever the calculating strategist, had likely been considering it for years. Now, with his recent triumphs on the battlefield and his rising influence, the time was ripe to turn his only daughter into a political pawn. He could only fight for so long. Once he was no longer able-bodied, he needed to remain in power.
You could almost hear his voice, cold and commanding, discussing alliances with the same dispassion he reserved for troop movements and supply chains.
You wondered who he would choose. Perhaps an aging senator with wealth but no heirs. Or perhaps a young patrician eager to climb the ladder of power, someone who would view you as no more than a stepping stone. Either way, you knew your wishes would not be consulted.
The whispers had grown louder since your father’s return. Snatches of conversation between servants and socialites, sly remarks from senators’ wives – always veiled, but clear enough. They all spoke of your duty, as if the sum of your existence was to bear children and cement alliances.
Rome did not care for the dreams of women.
Your mother had dreamed once. And for that, she had been crushed under the hands of your father tightening around her neck.
Now, nearly a week since his return, you roamed through the halls. You had little care for your father’s political discussions. It was all the same to you, and you could not change anything, anyways.
Turning a corner, you nearly collided with someone. A strong hand caught your arm instinctively, steadying you before you stumbled. “Careful, Lady,” a familiar voice rumbled.
You looked up and found yourself face-to-face with Acacius. He was clad in a deep crimson tunic, hugging his body in ways that you had to pry your eyes from. Still, the scent of leather and the faint tang of iron clung to him, a stark contrast to the carefully perfumed air of the villa.
“Optio Acacius,” you said, stepping back slightly. “I didn’t see you.”
He released your arm. “My apologies, Lady. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” you said, quickly straightening yourself. “I was… distracted.”
His lips quirked into a faint smile, though his posture remained respectful. “It seems we both were. I’m on my way to see your father.”
“What for?”
“Your father summoned me here. I presume it is for updates on the new recruits to the legion.”
You nodded, though your mind was not on the new recruits or the legion. It was still tangled with the thought of the whispers and the looming, suffocating fate awaiting you. You glanced at Acacius, noting the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set. There was something about him, something that made him stand apart from the men who mingled with your father.
“Perhaps I should not keep you,” you said, a small, polite smile tugging at your lips. “I am certain my father is eager to hear from you.”
Acacius studied you for a moment. “I am not in any great rush,” he replied. “This is my first visit to your home. Perhaps you could spare a moment and guide me to your father, Lady?”
His tone was careful, not pressing, but there was a quiet insistence in it that made you hesitate.
“I suppose I can spare a few moments,” you said, yielding to the unanticipated familiarness you seemed to feel in his presence.
Acacius inclined his head in acknowledgment, a respectful gesture that mirrored the distance between you, though there was something almost imperceptible in the way his gaze lingered. The two of you began to walk side-by-side, his arms clasped behind his back, yours clasped in front of you as you strolled.
“How is the training progressing?” you asked, more out of politeness than true curiosity.
Acacius’s smile faded slightly as he considered your question. “The recruits are… raw,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Our pursuits in Persia robbed Rome of many great men, and more yet have been sent north and east to defend from the tribes. The recruits lack cohesion. But that is to be expected. Discipline takes time, and Rome’s finest soldiers are forged in the fire of battle. If we are to push further into Parthia, as your father wishes, they must be tested."
You tilted your head, watching him closely. “And what do you make of the men you train?”
His eyes flickered briefly to the distance, but then, he shifted his gaze back to you. “They are eager. It is a good thing, Lady. But eagerness alone is no substitute for skill or experience. They will learn… in time.”
“Eager for what?” You ask, voice tinged with disdain, or perhaps it’s simply sorrow.
“Eager to serve,” he responded simply. “To find purpose. To fight for the glory of Rome.”
You scoffed lightly. “Glory,” you repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. It was the notion that every Roman seemed to suckle upon. “An empty promise for those who will never live to see it.”
Acacius’s gaze studied you for a moment as you walked. Instead of continuing to engage in your borderline-treasonous cynicism, he pivoted, tone shifting. “And you, Lady?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “What is it you seek?”
The question caught you off guard. “Me?” you frowned. “I am not afforded the luxury of seeking many things.”
“Indulge me,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you were, what would you seek?”
You hesitated, the question foreign and intrusive.
“Peace,” you said at last, though the word felt fragile as you spoke it. “For myself. For others.” Your face twisted in thought for a few moments. “A peaceful existence, sitting overtop the sea with a canvas and paints.”
Acacius chuckled. “A noble pursuit,” he said, his tone lighter now. “I would like to see you with canvas in hand.”
You found yourself able to smile now, glancing a this face to search for mockery, but finding none.
“And you?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “What would you do, if Rome did not demand so much of you?”
Acacius’s brow furrowed slightly, as though the question unsettled him. He glanced away, his gaze drifting to a patch of sunlight drifting through the corridor’s arches. “I’m not certain,” he admitted. “Perhaps I’d find a place far from the city, where the clamor of war cannot reach.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Not the answer I expected from a soldier so close to General.”
“I’ve worn this armor for so long, I sometimes forget who I am without it,” he said, voice low. “But even soldiers dream, Lady.”
“And dreams are all some of us have,” you said softly.
When you reached the courtyard, the scene unfolded as it often did: your father seated at the head of a table laden with wine, fruit, and roasted meats, his voice carrying over the low murmur of the senators and nobles flanking him. Their laughter was calculated, their smiles sharp. Power moved subtly here.
Your father looked up as you entered, his dark eyes narrowing briefly at the sight of you before shifting to Acacius. “Ah, there he is,” your father said, gesturing for Acacius to approach. “The man who makes soldiers out of farmers. Come, sit. We’ve much to discuss.”
Acacius gave you a brief nod of thanks before striding forward, his posture straight as he joined your father’s company. You lingered at the edge of the courtyard, the senators’ voices fading into the background as you watched. For a moment, you wondered how Acacius fit into this world of politics and ambition. He seemed too genuine for the scheming and bloodlust that surrounded your father. And yet, here he was, playing his part as the dutiful soldier. Your shoulders sagged slightly. It had crossed your mind that perhaps Acacius was different than the rest of him, but he was not.
As the conversation shifted to matters of war and strategy, you turned away, the courtyard suddenly feeling too small, too stifling. You needed space to breathe, to think.
And so, you left Acacius to the wolves, retreating to the quiet sanctuary of the gardens, where the whispers of leaves and the distant chirping of birds offered a reprieve.
As you passed by the courtyard hours later, something made you pause.
Through the dappled light of the sun, you caught your father and Acacius standing at the table. You ducked behind a marble column, hands against the cool stone as you watched. Their gestures were unmistakable — your father extending his hand, and Acacius gripping it firmly.
A deal.
Your chest tightened as Acacius nodded once, his expression serious, before stepping back and saluting. He turned swiftly, eyes skittering across yours for a few fleeting moments. His gaze lingered on you, half-hidden behind your column, before he turned and departed. Your father watched him go, his face a mask of satisfaction.
Whatever agreement had been struck, it unsettled you deeply.
The evening descended slowly. You stayed hidden from your father for some time, lounging in isolated rooms, painting and conversing with some handmaidens.
When you finally dared to venture into a well-trodden hallway, the guests were long-gone, replaced by the chill of night. The halls were dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting shadows in the walls. Your stomach growled.
A servant appeared as if from nowhere, bowing slightly before speaking. “Your father requests your presence in the dining hall,” he said, eyes darting away from yours rather quickly.
The dining hall loomed ahead, its massive double doors slightly ajar. Golden light spilled into the corridor, warm and inviting, but you knew better than to be deceived.
You stepped inside, the heavy doors groaning as they swung shut behind you. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace. Your father sat at the head of a marble table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a plate of untouched food before him.
He turned that icy, steel gaze to you. “Come,” he said, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Join me.”
You hesitated for only a moment before making your way to the table. As you sat, a servant appeared to place a plate before you, but your appetite had already fled. “Father,” you greeted cautiously.
“We have matters to discuss,” he said, voice even as he set his goblet down on the marble. Your heart pounded at the flippant nature in his voice. It was rare the two of you broke bread together ever since he killed your mother; rarer so that you had any sort of discussion he deemed important.
“Such as?” You asked, voice trailing off, your hands still folded in your lap.
“I’ve been patient,” he began, his tone calm but firm, as though he were addressing one of his officers. “But the time has come for you to fulfill your duty to this family.”
The words sent a chill through you. “My duty?” you repeated, though you already had a feeling where this was headed.
“As my only child,” he continued, “your marriage must strengthen our house. It is long overdue. I’ve made the arrangements.”
The words hit you like a blow. Your breath caught, and you stared at him, stunned. An inevitable fate you had run from for so long, one you knew would catch up to you, but to finally stare it in the face… you could not breathe.
“What?” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve known this day would come,” he said, dismissing your shock with a wave of his hand. “It is time for you to fulfill your duty to this family.”
A bubbling fountain of fury began to ebb into your veins, shocking your body. Why could you not be like women who fell in love with someone of their own volition? Why must you only be wed to serve a purpose like breeding stock? You had grown accustomed to the lavish lifestyle that your family’s generational wealth had granted you, but sometimes, you wondered if the paupers on the street were truly happier.
“No,” you said, standing abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “No, I won’t. Not if I have no say in who I shall be sent to.”
He sighed, as though you were still a child refusing a simple command. Rising from his seat, he moved around the table with measured steps. You backed away instinctively, pulse quickening as he closed the distance between you.”
“You will,” he said, his voice low and cold. When you pressed your back against the wall, he was already there, his hand braced beside your head. His other hand reached up to brush his thumb across your lips, his touch invasive and cruel. You shut your eyes, attempting to jerk your head to the side, but he caught your cheek in hand and forced you back to him, hands gripping your chin.
“Just like your mother,” he murmured, his breath hot against your face. The words were a knife, twisting deep into a wound you’d carried for years. “So futile, fighting against my whims. But oh , so beautiful.”
Fury surged through you, and before you could think better of it, you spat at him. “Do not speak of my mother.”
His eyes narrowed, and the calm mask he wore cracked ever so slightly. His grip on your chin tightened, the pressure sharp against your jaw. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “You forget who holds your future in his hands.”
Your stomach churned. “My future is not yours,” you spat again, the fire in your voice returning. “You have no right – no right – to invoke her name. You gave that up.”
He released your chin, stepping back just enough to regard you with a look of contempt. “No right?” he echoed, his tone mocking. “You are her legacy, my gem. Everything she was is written into you – her spirit, her beauty, her defiance.” He leaned closer, his smile cruel. “But she learned too late that such defiance is futile.”
“You killed her,” you said, the words trembling with rage as they left your lips. “You–”
He slapped you then, hard enough to blur your vision and send a ringing through your ears. Pain blossomed in your cheeks as a stream of blood flowed forth from a ravine cracked open in your lips.
“Enough of this foolishness,” he snapped, towering over you. “You will be wed, and you will do so without further protest.”
"To whom?" You hissed, voice flickering between pleading and fear. He stared down at you, steel eyes piercing deep, deep into your soul.
"Marcus Acacius."