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It was time for a Vestal to die. All the signs pointed towards it. Rome festered with sickness, poverty, desperation and death. It lingered, Death, like a stink that refuses to dissipate; it tittered in the corners with the rats— laughing at the hubris of man. Death circled the air, like the sharks in the Colosseum, looking for its next meal. You wondered who would be caught within its jaws.

There was Aquilia, she had a lover waiting for her— one who had also made a vow of chastity, taking no other woman except her. They were to marry as soon as she had finished her service to Vesta, so she could not die. There were Junia and Marcia, two women who had spent the last two decades arguing whether chastity was only violated by a man’s phallus or also by… whatever they did in the dark of night, hidden from the eyes of others. They were dearly beloved and stupidly in love— so they could not die. Then, there was Licinia who had hands blessed by Edesia and could make the humblest of ingredients into the most delicious of meals. The world would be bereft without her patina cotidiana so she could not die. Tuccia, of course, could not die because she was your best friend. Which left… you. As it should be.

Publius hoped that none of the Vestals died, poor man— his tenure as the Pontifex Maximus was pushing him to an early grave. The six of you were not the most biddable of women. But he remained kind and fatherly unlike the previous chief high priest who had a taste for little girls and had died an unfortunate and untimely death— that had nothing to do with the vial of poison your brother had gifted you.

Publius had ordered the priestesses to recede from the public eye; tend to the fire of Vesta, perform the ceremonial rites and do nothing else in hopes that the murderous winds of change blowing through Rome spared them. But you had begged him for one last outing, not wanting to miss the Naumachia— they were living on borrowed time anyway, it would be a waste to miss the biggest spectacle.

Acacius’ victory at Numidia ensured a brief moment of respite, just a bit more time, a few extra breaths. The Emperors were insatiable, they dreamed of conquering India and Persia— a pipe dream and a symbolic expression of imperial power while Rome crumbled under its own weight. Another defeat, another military loss, very well could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The discontent and anger that was only simmering and stewing would finally boil over. And instead of the greed, tyranny, and madness of those in power; the death, destruction and ruin will be pinned on an innocent woman and her chastity. Such was the way of the world.

The ship swiftly spun around and you slipped to the edge of your seat, it forged ahead and rammed the other ship. Hanno, you brilliant bastard. No… not Hanno. Lucius. Lucius Verus Aurelius. Lucilla’s son and the heir to the throne of Rome. The smoke obscured your view of him while he fought his way down the second ship, pushing his opponents into shark-infested waters. You watched Lucius pick up a crossbow, staring at the raised box where the Emperors sat. Would he dare take an aim at them? The arrow released just as another soldier grappled with him. It lodged itself into Geta’s seat, narrowly missing… Acacius. How dare he?

A hand gripped your arm, preventing you from following when Acacius helped Lucila, bracing his arm around her to pull her away from danger. Desperately, you watched their forms disappear, and with it your well-laid plans. They would fail. Just this morning, their servant Leta had informed Thraex of their plans, who was bound to tell someone— most likely Macrinus. He would trade the information about their plans to rescue Lucius, and their plot to arrest the Emperors to erase some of his debt. And Macrinus would use this information, you didn’t know exactly how just yet, but he had ambitions— big ones. He could trade this information with the Emperors for a seat in the senate.

Regardless, this would mean certain death for Acacius. They must not be caught tonight. You had hoped to speak with him and Lucilla today, tell them how they had been discovered, and to exercise caution, perhaps, even delay the rescue; Lucius seemed to do just fine in the arena. You would have even offered to rescue Lucius yourself if Lucilla refused to take your advice. But you had missed your opportunity, and you couldn’t very well show up at their home— you had never even spoken to them before. It would be too suspicious, raise too many brows. You could only mutter a whispered prayer to Vesta that at least Ravi found Acacius with the information before he was surrounded by the Praetorian guard tonight.

You were locked in your room. A maelstrom of dread churned in your gut. It made you nauseous, your throat hurt from bottling up the roiling emotions threatening to rise, and your mouth felt dry as if someone had shoved a large piece of linen in there. Publius had not appreciated your attempts at contacting Lucilla and Acacius yesterday, locking you in your chambers for ‘your safety and that of your sisters’ as he had put it. Of course, you knew he was right. But Acacius was caught. And you had no idea what had become of him.

You lowered the knotted sheets down your window, there was no other way. The height made your head spin which did not bode well for your descent. You would brave this, you had to— Acacius’ life depended on it. You clutched a purse full of a few dinarii to bribe the stablehand for your horse, stuffing it into your bosom, before swinging one leg out of the window.

Your family was one to believe that women should be educated just as men were. Even with your initiation into the Temple of Vesta, they had bribed the temple to send you tutors to teach you the art of fighting, horseriding and politics in addition to your languages and household management. While you had abhorred anything that required excess physical labour, the stamina and muscles you had built supported you as you slid down the sheets.

The people weren’t rioting in the streets, that was always a good sign. It meant Acacius was not dead yet, nor was he being taken to the gallows to be executed. You strolled for a while, keeping close to your horse so it would conceal your form, listening to the whisperings and murmurs on the streets. They had imprisoned Acacius at the Colosseum. What were they thinking? It posed far too much risk for the Emperors. Should the Gods look kindly on him, and he survived whatever cruel, gruesome game the editors had devised for the arena, the Emperors would never be able to turn their thumbs down to kill him— it would turn the people against them.

Frustration, and what felt very much like desperation, prickled under your skin. There were far too many people, you could not spur your horse any faster without hurting them. You took several deep breaths, hoping to stave off the flood of panic at the thought of being too late. But all your mind could picture was Acacius— dead on the grounds of the arena.

By the time you reached an entrance by the side of the Colosseum, tears stung your eyes and your breath came in short jagged gasps. The horse echoed its owner’s anxiety as he stomped his foot and trembled under your legs. A hand reached out to take his reins, another gently soothed him with wide comforting strokes along his neck. Ravi.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Tell me what is happening, please. Is Acacius still alive? Is he fighting? What are they doing to him?” You refused to dismount the horse, in case you had to rush onto the arena. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was your only plan.

“He fought a few of his own Centurions. But they are putting him against Hanno, from Numidia, to allow him a chance at revenge.” No. They were putting him against Lucius, son of Lucilla, and Acacius was going to give his own life for them.

“Pick it up,” Lucius demanded. Acacius stood unarmed, refusing to attack him, only fending off his blows. He reached for the staff, instead of the sword. Him and his stupid honour. Both men grappled as Lucius attacked relentlessly. You knew Acacius could win this fight, it was evident in the way he only had to push Lucius away for him to fall to the ground. The wars had shaped him into a powerful warrior who had fought and survived worse. Yet he refused to fight.

“I’m sorry I could not reach him last night, the Praetorian Guards had already killed Acacius’ men by the time I arrived,” Ravi explained, but you could not focus on his words because Acacius had raised his hand in surrender— kneeling on the ground. Fury and anguish engulfed you, and you tightened your grip on the reins of your horse, waiting for the judgement. He was a soldier, a General, you would not allow him to die on his knees like a criminal.

Geta raised his arms to the sky, languidly bringing his arms forward to… turn his thumb down, “The Gods have rendered their judgement.” NO. No, no, no.

Acacius took deep, heaving breaths; blood and gravel smeared on his wounds and bruises formed against his face and arms. He was speaking to Lucius, you were too far away to hear the words but the Colosseum was shrouded in a silence of shock and disbelief. The wind carried parts of his words and you read his lips to know the rest.

“... you have to know, I love your mother Lucilla… and your father Maximus. I would have died for him.” You could feel your heart shatter, it bled out in the form of tears. Of course, of course, he loved her. She was his wife. He belonged to her. You weren’t doing this so he might turn to you. How could he? Acacius had never seen you.

Lucius dropped his sword and joined Acacius to kneel— an act of mercy, of forgiveness. But Rome was not merciful, it did not forgive, it only plundered and killed. Geta turned to the captain of the Praetorian Guard as your own horse reared back on its hind legs before shooting forward into the arena. The guards had notched their arrows at Acacius. And you flipped your veil while you circled the ground, allowing everyone to see who you were.

“Kill him.” Caracalla insisted impatiently. But none would dare to launch an arrow while you stood in their way. Spilling the blood of a Vestal was sacrilege and an act against the Gods, it could ruin Rome. Because so long as your bodies remained unpenetrated, the walls of Rome would remain intact. You brought your horse closer to Acacius— shielding him from the arrows, the Emperors, the spectators, and the very sun itself that inflicted its scorching heat onto his wounds. You would shield him from the Gods if you had to, he will not die today. You gently patted your horse, the wonderful friend that he was, understood your gesture and brought his neck to the side of the ground, curling around Acacius to further cover him in safety and shade.

Acacius was tired. He had been weary for a very long time, from the wars, the bloodshed, the devastation. The cries of the bereaved mothers, wives and children as they mourned their loved ones echoed in his mind, ringing in his ears until he could not sleep. Admittedly, he was terrified when they had been caught last night, but only for Lucilla and her fate— not for his. He felt an odd sense of relief at being discovered. It would mean no more fighting, no more wars— in death he would be freed from this burden of guilt and duty.

Alas, death never came easy. It had pained him to fight the four centurions. He remembered them as boys when they had joined the legions— he had trained them himself. They had protected him through countless wars, threw themselves in front of swords for him; they had ensured he returned home safe. He had vowed to not sacrifice another generation of men for the greed and vanity of the Emperors. Yet, he had been forced to take their lives himself.

So the sight of his saviour was a little unwelcome. He had prepared for his end when he agreed to rescue Lucius. She was one of the Vestals judging by the red bands that adorned her hair and fell over her shoulders. One of the most powerful women in Rome was interceding on his behalf. Why?

He glanced at her feet in the stirrup of her saddle, wrapped in elaborate swirls of leather with a soft sole; clean toes then a delicate arch and a smooth heel— the feet of someone unused to the harshness of the elements, of poverty and hard work. Her stola modestly fell over her legs in soft lavender folds, and a deep red woollen palla, embroidered with gold flowers and leaves, draped her form. Wealthy, very wealthy. She openly flouted the convention of priestesses being dressed simply— which meant a powerful family backed her. Despite all the wealth he had accumulated as the General of Rome, he would not be able to dress Lucilla in these clothes.

Acacius reached up to pat the head of her horse that was nosing around his thighs. It wasn’t a superior breed, as he had expected, not flashy like the ones used for chariot racing, nor was it powerful like the horses provided to the military. A local breed— strong, dependable, loyal. Why was a woman like her standing between him and the Emperors? Ideals? Some romantic notion of heroism? Did she believe herself to be impervious to their rage?

“You accuse him of being an enemy of the state and threaten the lives of its Emperors. But the people have yet to see a trial! He is a Roman hero… guided by the spirit of Vesta to watch over Rome from its furthest corners, fighting your wars. After over thirty years of his unflinching loyalty and abiding service to Rome and its people… you would label him a traitor?”— There was a moment of stillness, as everyone stood nervous and unsure of how the situation would proceed. Acacius also felt the knots of tension tighten in his stomach—“In the name of Vesta, the patron Goddess of Rome, the one who watches and presides over all our homes. I pardon Justus Acacius for any of his imagined crimes.” Her voice carried through the Colosseum, open and light but betraying the underlying fury in her words.

A murmur arose swiftly morphing into a roar. The people chanted his name, begged for mercy on his behalf. And above all those voices rose the voice of the priestess, “THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN.”

The arrows changed direction to face the agitated crowd, the spectators of his near-death raged against the Praetorian guards. Acacius prayed they would not fire their arrows into the crowd of people. He glanced at Lucilla, chained to her seat next to the Emperors who looked alarmed at the reaction and anger of the citizens.

“Furthermore. I free this slave, Hanno of Numidia. For his honour and strength. And for his refusal to harm those Vesta holds dear— Rome and its General.” Most in the Colosseum did not hear this declaration, but Macrinus flew to the ledge of his box staring at the woman as she dismounted her horse. Suspicion curled in his gut. There was no reason to pardon Hanno— unless she was aware that he was Lucius. There was a conspiracy afoot and this woman was at the centre of it.

She reached out and pulled Lucius up by his arm, pulling him behind her and offered her hand to help him stand. He eschewed touching her to take the reins of her horse instead before leading them all out of the arena. She stumbled over the front of her dress as soon as they were out of the public eye. Lucius steadied her, and Acacius considered pulling the man away from her. She had saved them, but her safety was not guaranteed for too long.

Vestals had the power to free slaves and rescue condemned men from execution. But the privilege was so rarely used out of fear of retaliation. The most powerful women in Rome had an Achilles’ heel so easy to pierce that a whisper of rumour could destroy them— as it often did. Their chastity and virginity were synonymous with the safety and welfare of Rome, and they could be killed for violating their vows.

She had challenged the Emperors, they would blame the woeful state of Rome on the failing of the Vestals and insist one of them had violated her vows. Then find this woman guilty of unchastity. And she would be killed for it. She had rescued them, and should one of them be groundlessly accused of being her paramour they would be publicly flogged to death by the Pontifex Maximus. He was grateful for her aid, truly, he was but she was a danger to them.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” came a shout as someone rushed towards her fuming with anger. She flinched at the shout and leaned against the wall, barely standing on her shaky legs. Acacius drew himself up to full height and stood between him and the lady. It was the Pontifex Maximus; this man held the right to discipline and beat a priestess for a violation of etiquette or rules. He stood alert, with hands rolled into loose fists, waiting to jump into action if the chief high priest dared to lay a hand on her.

She had curled her hand around her heart, struggling to breathe; he recognised these signs, had seen them before in the soldiers who returned from war— had suffered from them himself. Contrary to his expectation, and even the fury that still painted the senator’s reddened face, he handled her gently and tentatively like one would hold a child.

“It is worse, Publius. So much worse than I imagined.” She whispered. Acacius struggled to make sense of their conversation.

“It is done. Nothing we can do about it now. You’ve… just, why?” Publius asked, anguish evident in his tone. He had the same question, why save them?

“I’m going to die.” She said it much more calmly and he had to appreciate the strength that coated her voice even when she was breathing unevenly, the grace with which she faced her future. His heart ached for her, she would lose her life for trying to save his. He owed her a debt he could not repay.

“No, no, the Pontiffs are meeting to discuss your actions, we will make sure nothing happens to you for this. We will figure out a way.” Publius insisted.

“No, don’t make promises you cannot keep, it is done, nothing we can do about it now.” She echoed his words back at him.

The priestess turned to him, “Acacius—”

“I need to find my wife, Lucilla, she’s—” She gave him a hurried dismissive nod before turning away from him.

“Hanno, you will follow me.” No, the boy should come with him.

He needs to take Lucilla and her son out of the city and reunite with his men in Ostia. His plans to arrest the Emperors had been discovered and the Praetorian Guards were alert. They had lost their element of surprise and would have to plan another attack. But Lucilla and Lucius’ safety came foremost. They were the future of Rome. He tried to signal Lucius to decline her offer. But he was too busy staring up at the priestess, helping her mount her horse again. Acacius had to hold back his sigh of irritation. Not the right time, not the right woman.

“I was hoping Hanno could help me…” All three of them turned to look at him as if he had grown a second head “I might need to—”

“Rescue Lady Lucilla? And flee to your troops in Ostia I suppose? She is under house arrest in your home, kept under continuous surveillance. They will let you in easy enough but they will not let you leave. Even if you managed to escape with her, that army of yours has not reached Ostia. Leave Hanno out of your mess.” Acacius felt his blood run cold. Just how much did she know, and more importantly, who else knew of their plans? Did Hanno and her know each other beforehand? Was that why they were rescued?

It was his turn to feel that tightness in his chest, his wounds burned, his bones ached and the exhaustion was catching up to him now that he was no longer fighting. He looked at her for the first time, studying her features, looking for a sign of… anything. She wore a mask that concealed every emotion, even the trembling in he limbs had subsided. He had no idea what she was planning and how they all factored into it. There was a game being played, but he was unaware of the rules, or the moves of his opponents. And the sight of her tugged at his mind, she was so familiar, he knew her from somewhere. A whisper of a memory lurked in the back of his mind, yet the image remained unclear.

“You will make sure to go straight to the Temple, all the other girls are to be confined to their rooms. Ravi, make sure she and the gladiator reach there safely.” The senator issued terse orders.

“I am free, am I not?” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, Lucius, you are free to go as you please.” Was her parting reply before she rode out of the Colosseum refusing to wait for her escort. Was nothing a secret from her? Her knowledge could have Lucius killed, he was the only living heir to the throne.

“But I suggest you follow her, my friend,” Ravi counselled Lucius, “Macrinus knows who you are. He will not let you go. But he will also not be able to pull you out of the Temple easily.”

Macrinus? Macrinus knew of Lucius’ identity and had not told the Emperors. But he had informed them of his plans of treason… What game was he playing?

“Forgive me, General, she had asked me to pass on the information that Thraex had betrayed you to Macrinus. But I was too late last night…” He silenced the man with a hand on his shoulder. At least for now, the priestess seemed to be on their side.

Acacius reached a decision, “Go to the temple. Keep in the public areas, always be within sight of somebody else. Do not, listen to me carefully, do not be seen alone with any of the priestesses… Your mother and I will join you there.”

You stoked the fire on the altar, seemingly deep in thought but the dread had settled so deeply into your bones that none of your thoughts registered in your mind. You had abandoned Lucius somewhere in another part of the temple, but somehow he had followed you here, you can still feel his eyes on you.

There was a rush of footsteps, you would know them anywhere, Marcus. Another figure flew into the room with him, Lucilla. You were overwhelmed, on edge and agitated— you had no patience for her today. It wasn’t fair to her, especially because your frustration with her stemmed from a deeply personal issue; it wasn’t her fault that Acacius loved her. The very thought of it tightened your chest with misery and grief. You had loved him for so long that the emotion had receded like an old wound that only ached and twinged when one was overworked, or when the seasons changed. And today, you were exhausted from the physical and mental strain, and a storm was on the horizon that ominously heralded death.

You watched her embrace her son, refusing to look at Acacius still standing by the entrance of the room. Lucilla turned to you, gaze heavy with weariness and tears of gratitude, the years after her father’s death had not been kind to her.

“Thank you, so much, you cannot know—” You stayed her with your palm outstretched, taking a step back to prevent her from touching you.

“Please, you do not need to thank me. If you will excuse me… Marcia watch the flame.” You did not want her gratitude. After all, you hadn’t wanted to save her husband, you had only wanted to save the man you loved. You moved to leave the room— just needing time alone.

“I remember you.” You abruptly halted. These were the words you had wanted to hear all day. But… the voice was wrong. The person was wrong. You turned to face Lucius anyway.

“You were there the day I was sent away from Rome”—he pulled a ring off his finger—“You gave me this ring…”

You remembered the day incredibly well, and you had given him the ring, “Yes, it was my mother’s.”

“I gave it to my wife when we were married… It must have meant a lot to you. This ring. You told me that it would be alright… that going away wasn’t scary at all. And that I was only being sent away for my own protection and to make me stronger. You assured me that my family would miss me just as much as I missed them… said you knew because your family missed you just as much as you missed them… you also promised to miss me too.” He finished with a mischievous grin.

You huffed a broken laugh, you hadn’t kept that promise. All thoughts of that little boy had left your mind that very day when you were beaten for speaking to him. You had only been twelve. But as someone who had been training in the temple for six years by then, you should have known better than to talk to a boy, it was immodest. It had not been a selfless act to comfort Lucius for being ripped away from his home, you had only lingered because he was being watched over by Acacius— hoping to spend more time in his presence.

“Would you… like the ring back?” You met his eyes, he was very different from the boy you remembered. You wondered if he saw how different you were from that innocent girl of twelve.

“No, once we give away something, we do not take it back. The ring means far more to you now.”

You hadn’t wanted to reminisce about the past, but Lucius’ words had taken you back to that day. Death lingered in the air even then, but you had been too young to notice it. History was in the making, winds of change had uprooted what was in place to make space for something new, an Emperor and a hero had died in the arena; and you only had eyes on Marcus.

He had been Marcus to you then, just Marcus, not Acacius, not Justus, and not General. He was just a young man, your brother’s best friend. They had both trained under Maximus when your eldest brother served as a Centurion. Your brother had been elected by the Senate to the post of Centurion because yours had been a military family; while Marcus had been promoted from the ranks of common soldiers for his valour.

You had loved him from the day your brother had brought him home as a guest; at your tender age of five, you had not known what love is, but you loved him anyway without rhyme or reason. Or perhaps there had been a reason. You had been a demon as a child, climbing trees and walls, chasing after your brothers, breaking priceless decorations, and hiding from your wetnurse and tutors. Marcus, your senior by a decade, had been unfailingly kind and endlessly patient. No matter how busy he was, he always had a smile for you, gently rubbing his knuckle over your plump cheeks in greeting.

When you were too afraid to descend from a tree you had climbed, it was only him you trusted to catch you. He could entertain you for hours, seating you atop his shoulders while he walked around the gardens with your brother. He took the blame when you had broken your mother’s priceless vase. He could find you no matter where you ran to hide.

You had been all of six when you were told that you would be joining the temple of Vesta. Commodus had demanded your hand in marriage to command your father’s loyalty. And when your father had denied him, staying true to Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Commodus had conspired to steal military funding and rations and accused your father of this crime. While your father was proven innocent, his career never recovered and it was safest for the family to retreat from political life.

Your father had been a general who commanded the loyalty and trust of the entire army— not unlike Marcus who he had adored. The family had far too much military influence and wealth, it would have been a threat to any reigning monarch. Men would covet you, their only daughter, as a way to force your family to do their bidding. So it was safest for you in the temple, where you symbolised Rome itself; any man who touched you had assaulted the very embodiment of Rome and would be killed with impunity.

But you hadn’t understood all that at six and had chosen to run away from home to your dear Marcus. You had followed him all the way to his insula— apartment blocks made out of wood and mud, unlike your palatial domus. He had lived on the highest floor, you would later learn these were the ones with the cheapest rent, sharing a home with countless other men also learning their trade.

It was the first and only time he had been angry with you— out of fear for your safety. He had never raised his voice, but you could tell he was angry by the furrow in his brows, his pursed lips and the clench of his jaw… just like today at the Colosseum. The disappointment rolling off him in waves had caused you to burst into tears, much like it made you want to do today. But today, he would not have comforted you as he had then. Marcus had gently washed your soot-covered feet and dirty cheeks before carrying you home in his arms. It was only a day after this tantrum that the chief high priest had taken you away to the temple.

For years you were sequestered in the temple, learning how to be a priestess, that day at the Colosseum was the first time you had been allowed to attend a public event. You remembered fluttering with excitement at the idea of seeing Marcus again. He had looked beautiful and just as you had remembered him; kind, protective, strong.

You had watched him comfort Lucius and help him onto the horse before sending him away to the safety of distant lands. You had waited, patiently, for him to turn around and notice you. Your training would not allow you to call out to him first. There had been a large grin on your face when he had finally turned around; but he had glanced at you, bowed his face in deference and walked away from you. He did not remember you. He had left you standing there with tears washing away that beam. You could not remember ever having smiled that way again. Which had not been Marcus’ fault, no, that was because of the beating that had come after.

Twelve had been the age you were finally, and unfortunately, to the previous chief high priest’s tastes. And while he may not have touched you out of fear of the consequences, there were ways a grown man could terrify a child. The temple hadn’t been the refuge your family had hoped it would be. You had killed him. It was a fact you didn’t regret to this day.

You were not built for the temple, it was the truth no matter how hard you had tried to carve a place for yourself here. But you had endured. You had endured the training, the rites, and the ceremonies. You had endured the beatings and the whippings when you made mistakes. You had endured having to lower your gaze demurely and not look around at the world around you. You endured when your mother passed away in the countryside but you couldn’t see her because Vestals could not leave the city. You had endured losing Marcus. Never even receiving the chance to attain him. You had endured until he could no longer recognise you. Worse, you had endured until you could no longer recognise yourself. But this was the last of your endurance. You were exhausted.

Loud banging was heard on the doors of the temple, your judgement was here. You smoothed the folds of your stola, and gathered your palla around you. Instead of pulling it over your head like a veil as was expected, you draped it over your left shoulder, under your right arm and then folded it over your left arm in neat pleats just like your mother would have worn it. You allowed it to cloak you in her courage, and called forth your father’s strength that resided in your bones before walking out to face the Praetorian Guard.

The courtyard was filled with people as you descended the stairs. The lamps had been lit, the guards had brought torches and the altar blazed with heat behind you. Vesta was watching. Your sisters glared down at the guards, the younger initiates were standing by the columns looking afraid. Marcus, Lucilla and Lucius were noticeably absent.

“Flavia, escort the young ones to their rooms, please.” You requested the maidservant, they did not need to see you be sentenced to death.

“What brings the guards to the temple this evening?” You finally asked once the girls had disappeared down the corridor.

“Vestal, you have been found guilty of unchastity. You have angered the Gods and endangered the lives of the people. You will be punished for your crimes against Rome—”

“Found guilty? I have served this temple for almost thirty years. Will there be no trial?” You addressed Publius, the Pontifex Maximus stood deflated, shoulders hunched and head bowed in defeat beside the head guard. You knew there would be no trial.

“We have many witnesses who have seen you with that foreign barbarian, Hanno.”

Lucius materialised from the shadow, summoned by both his name and accusation, “I have not touched her!” None of them acknowledged his outburst.

“Who are your witnesses?”

“Senator Thraex, Senator Gaius, Senator Dalius…” The names of senators kept on being read. And it was telling, so telling of the move Macrinus had played.

“... General Justus Acacius.” The world stilled around you. Marcus Acacius? A witness to your unchastity? A hollow broken laugh left your mouth. The sound was jarring to your own ears, it rankled in the silent and oppressive air.

“Did the General witness me in a compromised position before or after his fight in the Colosseum?” Your words were accompanied by a derisive sneer. There was a twitch in your cheek and a tremble in your hand from your barely contained rage. How dare they use him against you?

“He witnessed it after we had escorted Lady Lucilla to her home.” The guard leered. The threat in his words was clear. Lucilla was under house arrest, should Marcus Acacius stand in your defence, Lucilla would suffer. They did not know that Marcus and Lucilla had escaped their watch and taken refuge within the temple.

The announcement of death had brought new clarity. It was in this very courtyard, before the fires of Vesta, that Maximus had made Marcus take an oath to protect Lucilla and her son. You had watched them then not understanding the weight of that oath. Marcus, protective and honourable, would keep that vow to his dying breath.

Even though Lucilla was not within their grasp, Marcus would not reveal himself and come to your defence; they would know she had escaped and where to find her— it was a threat to her safety. Silence once again shrouded the courtyard. Heartbreakingly, and to your expectation, Marcus was not forthcoming in denying his addition to the list of witnesses.

Had he not made a similar promise to your brother of protecting you? You know your brother had asked him to watch over you, fearing that you would be alone and helpless in the city without your family. But Marcus had not kept this vow. Why was an oath for you inherently less important than an oath for Lucilla? Because you weren’t the woman he loved? Because you weren’t the future of Rome?

Very well, Marcus. You had chosen to trade your life for his; there was no retreating now. It was not an act you would ever regret because it was the truest you had been to yourself. All your past endurances had been for your family, friends, Vesta, and for Rome itself. But this last act of endurance was solely for yourself, and the love you had sowed and nurtured into a towering tree that shaded you in times of loneliness.

You would give your life and then nothing more to him. Perhaps in the afterlife, you would ask the Gods to sever your ties with him, to never allow you to love him again in another world. You could not spend another moment, let alone an entire new lifetime, begging for the scraps of his affection and attention. These last few hours of your life you would spend with those who loved you, who saw you.

Marcus was ashamed. He never considered himself an honourable man. He had committed far too many atrocities, and killed too many people in pointless wars to ever lay a claim on honour. He had sworn to protect Lucilla, had made his choice and he could live with it. But that did not mean the chain of his oath did not weigh heavily on his soul; it did not mean every life he took did not weigh down his conscience like boulders on his chest. The life of this Vestal on his conscience might just be the thing that breaks him.

He had stopped believing in the Gods a very long time ago. Because had they existed they would have put an end to him and the destruction he had brought. And if they existed then they were just as vengeful and hateful as the Rome they watched over. But if there was ever a God who was honourable, gracious and compassionate then they would take her image. Strength and tenacity clung to her form, her chin proud and resolute as she stared down at those who would kill her. She faced death with more grace and dignity than any soldier he had ever seen— himself included.

“I accept the edict. Tell me how have they decided to punish me?” Her voice was light and steady.

“He has decided you will be sealed in the crypts near the Porta Collina with some bread, water and a lamp as the ancient tradition demands. You will be left to the mercy of the Goddess you betrayed, you will live should she spare you.” There was no goddess who would come to her rescue.

“So, I am to be buried alive then? How kind.” She spoke the words through a barely contained smile. He felt tears sting in his eyes.

“Your funeral will take place tomorrow.” A jagged sob pierced the air, one of the other priestesses was sobbing into the palm of her hands. Another priestess embraced the crying one with tears in her own eyes.

“As they wish. Escort the guards out, please.” She turned to Lucius with a brilliant smile and large, lustrous eyes— shining under the light of the lit torches. That smile tugged at his heart, he had seen it before somewhere. Who was she?

“I have been a terrible host, haven’t I? Come it’s time for dinner.”—she turned to the healer from the Colosseum—“Ravi you will join us tonight?”

“I cannot, it is not pro—”

“I’m sure I can afford a few breaches of propriety tonight. If anything, I intend to be entirely immodest.”

She tugged him along to their dining room, “I hope there’s honey cakes, the kind with hazelnuts and figs. Can’t have a last meal without them.” Her last few words were interrupted by another gasping cry.

She turned around with a mildly concerned but teasing look, “Too soon?” Far too soon.

Dinner was laid out across a long table, it was a meal fit for the Emperors. The Vestals preferred to take their meals sitting at the table rather than lounging on the couch and being served by their servants. The priestess sat at the head of the table furtively and tentatively glancing at the others around the room who were somberly submerged in various levels of shock, anger and grief. The senator had already helped himself to several cups of wine as he stared into the hearth. Ravi sat to her right, serving her food on her plate, and Lucius to her left. But nobody touched their plates.

“You are selfish, you always do this.” One of the Vestals accused her.

“I—”

“Who told you to go off to be a hero? Didn’t we agree to stay out of this mess? We would have hidden until this all played out. We would not have been killed.”

“Yes, we would have—”

“No! We didn’t know for sure.” Her voice grew louder, angrier.

“The senators were already discussing the idea after the rebellions in the western empire. There is famine and poverty. The people are angry and we are convenient scapegoats.” His priestess still answered gently. Acacius paused… she wasn’t his anything— except his saviour.

“Yes, but General Acacius’ victory at Numidia bought us time. We only have six more months of service left. We could have avoided this.”

“And then what? One of the little girls we trained dies?” The question was entirely rhetorical and for a moment Acacius believed the other Vestal would not argue further.

But she continued through a burst of tears, her voice wobbling, “Then we should have talked about this? Any one of us would have rather given up our lives instead of you!”

His priestess blinked back several tears and looked away to take a few deep breaths. He felt a sliver of compassion as Acacius finally had a few answers, she had been trying to rescue her sisters, give up her own life instead of theirs. But why rescue him?

“I know…” His priestess smiled through her tears before quickly wiping them away, “In six months, darling, you will be free to marry that man who has been waiting for you for the last thirty years… He even took a vow in front of Vesta to take no other woman but you. You have to live, all of you do.”

“You deserve to live, too. They should have given you a trial, at least.”

“Nothing short of a miracle would save me now.”

“You can carry water in a sieve from the sacred springs to the temple. I’ve seen you do it before.” Acacius raised his eyebrows in disbelief. A miracle.

“It’s candlewax.”— she huffed a laugh—“you rub candlewax on the sieve.” The secret of the trick broke through the strained air as some of the priestesses shared an affronted laugh.

“I cannot believe I let you convince me you could perform miracles.”

“Yes, yes, now let me be entirely selfish and request that you postpone your grief until after I am dead and let me enjoy a meal with friends.” She turned to Ravi, “And can I have some food that is not laced with opium?”

Acacius keenly watched their exchange, how did a highborn wealthy woman know a Freedmen like him? There was an ease and familial affection between them.

“No, I promised your mother that if you were ever in real danger I would help you. Eat, and you will wake up on a ship headed for your mother’s homeland. You have family there, they will be very happy to have you home.”

“How did you know her mother?” Lucius interrupted, receiving a mischievous smile from his saviour.

“Yes, Ravi, how did you know my mother?” Her words were coloured with a teasing lilt.

“I worked for her. She bought me from my previous master and then freed me.” Ravi sounded resigned to the ribbing coming his way.

“He was in love with her.” She excitedly informed Lucius, eyes glinting with mirth.

“Yes, that is why I will keep my vow. You will be sent away, willingly or unwillingly.”

“Ravi—”

“He is right.”— The high priest interrupted—“your father has also made arrangements for an event like this. You probably already guessed but it was the only reason I was given the Pontifex Maximus post, he bought it for me.” Just which family was she from?

“I will not run away. It would be a testament to my guilt.”

“Better guilty than dead.” A vestal offered, and he wholly agreed.

“This was my life’s work. I worked hard to be a good Vestal. I will not have that hard work be wiped away by aspersions on my character. I would prefer to be remembered in history as an innocent woman killed for the political agenda of men rather than having broken my oath. And if I ran away, what would happen to my family’s honour? To their lives? I have made my bed, I shall lie in it.”

“You could join us,”— Lucilla spoke beside him—“We have plans to arrest the Emperors and hand over the administration of Rome to the senate, then you could argue your innocence and be cleared of your charges.”

She gave a scornful scoff, “Oh? Defend myself in front of the very senators who saw me lose my virginity on the senate floor it seems, while eating… what was it Thraex had? Ethiopian bull heads.”

Her thumb and finger came up to press between her brows, “Forgive me, I do not mean to… Most of the senior senators had signed to be a witness to my unchastity. The only reason the junior ones haven’t signed, I’m sure, is because they ran out of paper. They will never admit they were coerced or manipulated into signing.”

“I have heard your father’s dream of Rome. It is not a bad one. Certainly better than what we are living now… But the highest echelons of Rome have rotted to their core. It was a senator that betrayed you. They will all only look after their own interests and their own wealth. Even in a republic… if you held new elections, whose vote will actually count? It will not be your average Roman who barely has a roof over their head or food in their stomach. Their fate will still be decided by a few hundred Patricians.”

Acacius didn’t know what emotions she had read on Lucilla’s face, but she leaned forward to gently grasp Lucilla’s hand with a soft, comforting smile, “Although it might not be perfect, it is a good ideal, a worthy goal to strive for. Ideals make life easier to live. Perhaps, in the future when we are all long gone, the world will be a more fair and just place because of it. It will be a step in the right direction for Rome.”

A servant entered carrying several scrolls and handed them over to her, “But ideals cannot help you survive the present. So, I have written wills.”

The declaration brought forth more tears, “We do not want to read your will.” one of the Vestals exclaimed in a fit of temper.

“I see…”—she raised an exaggerated, mocking brow—“So none of you want my enormous amounts of wealth?”

“I have made three wills. This one”—she pointed the scroll towards Lucilla—“is in case Rome is declared a republic.”

She picked up another scroll, “This one, you will open if there is a civil war.” Civil war?

Then she moved to the last scroll, “This one, has instructions on how to move forward should Macrinus become Emperor.”

Acacius felt momentarily speechless, and so did every other person in the room. Macrinus?

“Macrinus?” Lucius voiced.

“Macrinus.” She confirmed.

“He is a former slave…” Publius trailed off.

“Yes, I feel ashamed for having underestimated him.” An odd fervour gripped her voice.

“I had grossly miscalculated, you see. We thought that Macrinus wanted a seat in the Senate. But that was not the case. I only realised when I was in the Colosseum. He was the man behind the Emperors, leading their strings like a puppeteer. He doesn’t want a Senate seat, he wants the throne.”

“I do not follow,” Publius confessed.

“Well, we know that Macrinus has been in business with many of the senators until they are riddled with debts— he took over Thraex’s domus just yesterday morning. I had assumed he would leverage these debts to be elected into the Senate. But he made no move, he was waiting for the right opportunity.”

She stood to pace across the length of the table, “And then the opportunity came when Acacius and Lucilla shared their plans to arrest the Emperors with the senators”— she turned to face him—“terrible move, by the way. A secret that has left your mouth is no longer a secret, even if it is only whispered in an empty room. I knew of your plans by dawn.” How did she know?

She plucked a grape from the table, popping it into her mouth, “Macrinus did not know then, but he encountered an obstacle in Lucius—”

“Who is Lucius?”

She turned to face the Vestal who had interrupted and gestured towards Lucius, “Hanno is Lucilla’s son Lucius. Macrinus noticed Lucilla’s reaction to him on the first day of the games. I noticed as well. So he paid you a visit the next day, do you remember?” Lucilla could only softly gasp in acknowledgement.

“It was probably that bust of Marcus Aurelius that gave him away, I am told Lucius looks very similar to his grandfather. But then you went to meet him secretly that night, so our suspicions were confirmed— Hanno was your lost son.”

“You know far too much about what happens in other people’s homes.” Acacius felt vexed, she had spies in his home.

“Your servant Leta has grown expensive tastes that Thraex cannot afford with his debts, I merely supplement her income. She overheard your plans to rescue him from the Colosseum, and passed it onto Thraex the next morning. I knew Thraex would tell Macrinus everything… the rescue, the troops at Ostia, everything… to erase his debt and prevent his home from being seized.”

“Is that why you wanted to speak to them at the Naumachia?” Publius asked.

“Yes, but they left before I could, all because Lucius wanted a shot at Acacius.” She levelled an accusing stare at Lucius. “Just after that battle, Macrinus came to know of the plans. I had sent Ravi to intercept the General and his men before they were caught. But it didn’t work as planned.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why you think Macrinus could be king.” Ravi urged.

“Aah, this is where things get exciting”—there was an excited gleam in her eyes, her hands grew more animated as she explained—“at the Colosseum. Geta would look to Macrinus before he issued any orders. I knew he had sway over the Emperors, but I believed anybody could misguide them, they are quite easy to manipulate. But it was the first time I glimpsed the naked ambition in his eyes. He was instigating Geta to kill Acacius.”

“Killing Acacius would leave us without support,” Lucilla admitted, “It would weaken the dream of a Roman Republic.”

“Well— yes. It was killing two birds with one stone. Killing the General would instigate the people against the Emperors. The people are tired of their madness and tyranny, but most people are too busy trying to survive, feed their families. His death would enrage the public enough to riot in the streets. There is already an uproar in a few parts of the city because the Praetorian Guards turned their weapons on the crowd.”

“Macrinus would then act as the saviour of the people and get rid of the Emperors. But that would not mean he would get to be the Emperor. He is still a former slave, the Romans would never accept him as Emperor.” Publius countered.

“No, it’s worse, Publius. This story is not about Macrinus becoming the Emperor at all…” The vestal looked accusingly at his priestess, and an undercurrent of agitation rippled through the room.

“General Acacius’ death was supposed to spark a revolution which did not happen. Without the revolution, Macrinus does not have the final leverage over the Emperors. Change demands blood. If it is not Acacius, it will be you.”

His priestess adorned a resigned, heartbreaking smile, “And if I run, then it will be one of you…” Acacius did not understand what her words implied, would the people truly care about an innocent Vestal’s life?

A far more likely victim would be Lucilla. If Macrinus killed Lucilla, who was beloved by the people, and blamed the Emperors, then he would have the uproar he required. But would he have the resources to pull off such a conspiracy? He and Lucilla had already escaped house arrest, would he be looking for them? Could he trust the Vestals to not hand them over to the Guards to save one of their own?

“But to answer your question Publius, the Romans wouldn’t have a choice.” He watched her once more.

“If I was Macrinus, I would kill Geta.” The admission stunned the room. Acacius was astounded. This woman was not suited to the staid temple life, her family had done her a disservice. A mind like hers could change the political landscape of Rome.

“It would leave Caracalla alone, who is not always in a present state of mind so he would naturally appoint Macrinus onto the Senate. Ideally, Lucilla and Lucius would die in the arena in some spectacle supposedly ordered by Caracalla. But since Macrinus no longer owns Lucius, and Lucilla is not under house arrest that plan is foiled. Nevertheless, once the riots start, the Senate will allow him control of the Praetorian Guards in hopes that he can calm the public. The Guards are already loyal to him because the Captain earns a heavy purse of dinarii every month from Macrinus. Somewhere in the chaos, both Lucilla and Lucius would need to be assassinated. And once the dust settles, Macrinus is Emperor with the Praetorian Guards for his personal army, and a Senate deeply in financial debt with him.”

She lathered a layer of cheese on a piece of bread, dipping it into honey before guiding it to her mouth. Acacius faltered when she let out a satisfied hum, did she not realise the enormity of her words? He had spent years planning his rebellion against the Emperors, and she was making it sound so easy. A guest burst into the room in a shock of red, gasping for air.

“He has killed him… Killed the Emperor.” The newcomer exclaimed. He reeled with the declaration, the situation was spinning out of his control.

“Fortuna… dinner?” His priestess offered.

Their new addition slumped in the seat his priestess had emptied at the head of the table, “He has killed Emperor Geta… just… sliced his head off…” She still looked shocked, her gaze went to the meat on the table before her face took on a sickly, green pallor. And she turned to vomit all over Lucius’ feet.

“I suppose he sent you to keep watch over me?”

The woman looked up from the floor to give a distracted nod.

“He probably knows you are here, Acacius, but I don’t believe he will do anything until my funeral tomorrow. He needs me to die without a hitch.” He faced her with the alertness of a soldier taking commands.

“Stay here, rest. He cannot reach you in the temple tonight. You can try and escape now, but your troops have still not reached Ostia, it only means that Macrinus will be able to hunt you down. Darius and his men will probably arrive tomorrow afternoon, we will have my funeral in the evening…”

She gestured for a servant to fetch her a cloak before turning to him once more, “You will be attacked after my funeral, Macrinus will not care whether you die in the public eye or not, either way, he will scapegoat Caracalla. But I think you should be part of my funeral procession because Lucilla would be safest with the Vestals. The temple will be empty during my funeral procession so she will be left defenceless, it is best if she joins us. None would dare to harm one of us to reach her—”

“How can I trust that they will not hand her over to the Guards out of fear or to protect themselves?”

His priestess shared a deep look with another Vestal who turned to him and proclaimed, “Because it is the last thing our sister has asked of us.”

“Lucilla will return safely to the temple with the other vestals. The burial grounds are just south of the city gate. If you and Lucius fought your way over there, the Praetorian Guards would be forced to follow instead of controlling the crowd because their instructions would be to kill the both of you. You should send someone you trust with a message for Darius, and ask him to meet you at the city gate. This way, the Guards will be faced with your troops in the front and blocked off by the angry mob behind them.”

Acacius could admit it was a brilliant strategy, pulling the guards away from the crowd and drawing them to the city gates would also minimise civilian deaths. And it would also leave an opening for the public to dissipate should things get too bloody.

“Ravi, go to the Colosseum and recruit a few of the gladiators, see if they would like to help their good friend Lucius. Have them follow the funeral procession. That city gate has an iron grating, the gatekeepers could lower that grating and crush the people under it. Take a few of those men, quietly and discreetly, replace the gatekeepers. Do not let anybody discover you. But also do not kill the guards, tie them up and lock them somewhere. Use your opium if you must, grant them a nice, healing rest.”

It seems his priestess was well educated in the art of battle and warfare, her strategy was prudent and detailed. He was amazed she had deliberated over their attack in such a short time. The iron grating was their biggest danger, had the gatekeepers seen them leading the skirmish towards the gate, they would have lowered it and blocked off his access to the troops. He and Lucius would have been crushed against the gates— and died. Respect and gratitude filled his chest.

She donned her cloak, pulling its hood over her head.

“Where are you going?”

She gave a dazzling and roguish smile, “To find someone, or perhaps multiple someone’s, who will show me what I have been missing with this whole chastity thing.” She strutted out with a playful kiss to Publius’ bald head who only sighed at her audacity.

Acacius could not hold in the laugh that broke free from his chest.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He followed her as she strolled down the dark streets of the city. She wasn’t trying to hide, and it seemed like she had walked this path many times before; the people paused to greet her, not with the reverence the red and white ribbons woven into her hair demanded, but with affection and friendliness. Acacius had not planned to follow her, but soon after she had left, he noticed at least three other Vestals also leave the temple. It was in his nature to be suspicious of any irregular movements, and this was highly unusual. Only she had returned briefly to collect food before leaving again, and he had tailed her.

Streets gave way to darker tunnels and then dirtier alleys; the smell grew worse and he didn’t want to think about the brown lump he almost stepped into because he could not see. The rats skittered out of her path as Acacius grew worried, this was no place for a woman, especially not her. He could hear the wild carousing of men around the corner, there was a tavern he would never even allow any of his soldiers to frequent out of fear of cut-throats and thieves— he didn’t want them to die under a chipped blade in some squalor after surviving the battlefield.

Acacius picked up his pace to reach her, as she thankfully turned away from the tavern. He turned the corner and halted at the feeling of a sharp blade pressing into his neck. The short dagger bit into the small wound the Emperors had sliced into the base of his neck, causing a rivulet of blood to stain the fresh piece of cloth wrapping around his neck. His priestess hastily removed her dagger with a whispered, appeasing apology.

“Why follow when you could have just joined me?”

“And watch you pay a man for…” Acacius searched for an appropriate term to describe relations with a man that wouldn’t offend her virgin sensibilities. He didn’t need to complete that sentence, however, when her tinkling laugh rang out like chimes in the small alley and Acacius instinctively looked around to ensure nobody had seen or heard them. He followed behind her, the path was too small to accommodate them both side by side, it barely accommodated her frame alone, and they both had to turn sideways to get through a particularly narrow opening.

They paused in front of a small shack, while it had walls made of mud bricks, Acacius would not call it anything more than a shack, the place didn’t even have a proper roof. There was a small torch by the door, he stared at it in distaste, that thing wasn’t safe, it could burn the place down. Just as his priestess was about to knock on the door, noises were heard from within that stayed her hand in the air— copulating noises. She considered her next actions with a small pout while eyeing the little bench laid out by the side of the door under the torch, presumably for the next customer to wait their turn. Dear Gods was she about to really pay the man inside making those guttural sounds?

He wiped the bench with the end of his cloak before allowing her to take a seat, he sat between her and the door, in case the man inside did not find their presence desirable. Acacius eased the strain of his limbs by leaning his back on the wall, only one of his thighs rested on the perch so he could give her enough space to sit comfortably with the parcel on her lap. It probably contained food and drink, his priestess had decided to spend her last night performing charity for the less fortunate. A stone lodged in his throat, and his nose burned at the distress coursing through his veins.

She sat with a straight spine, a dignified tilt to her chin, shoulders drawn back, and a veil of indifference masked her features. He could not read her thoughts. She held herself like she was making a formal, public appearance at the Senate or a festival, and not as if she was sitting in front of a whore’s house facing a decaying wall with dry stains of urine. Acacius briefly wondered if she even knew what was happening behind the doors, Vestals had notoriously shielded upbringings and were never without escort. But then again, his priestess had surprised him by manoeuvring around the dirtiest streets of Rome with ease and familiarity.

It was a warm night, which made the stink of Rome worse; every decaying thing had stewed in the heat to release a fetid, putrid sort of odour mixed with the smell of ashes. Acaius had lost his tolerance for it after years on the battlefront where one could escape the smell of blood, sweat and death by riding away into the nearest forest, valleys, or rivers. A gentle breeze brought him relief in the form of a cool, sweet scent and he unconsciously leaned into it, taking a deep breath to cleanse his lungs.

It was the smell of fresh rain falling on dry earth. Saffron. Slightly sweet and cool scent of fennel, and roses. Not fresh roses, but more sweet like… rose petal jam. Acacius tried to recollect where he had tasted rose petal jam.

“Do you like it?”

His eyes flashed open, the words breaking him out of his reverie. Acacius found his nose almost touching her earlobe, his beard grazed the top of her shoulder. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. She turned to face him; the brush of her earring against his skin made him abruptly rear back his head. For a moment, he found it difficult to breathe, his lips and his cheeks tingled with a current where the cool metal of her earring had trailed across his face. He watched it sway from her ears, hardly taking in its delicate design before awkwardly clearing his throat and tearing his eyes away from her form.

Loud grunting noises emerged from the house signaling the man’s release followed by rustling sounds of their encounter coming to an end. Was she asking him if he liked… listening to the act?

His priestess tapped her nose, asking again, “Do you like it?” Her scent, you idiot.

“Yes, it is lovely—”

His words were interrupted by the door swinging open beside him and two figures fell out. Acacius diverted his gaze as the man gave a loud, parting smack against the woman’s arse along with a lecherous clasp of her bosom. His priestess scowled in distaste as the man lowered his underpants to urinate all over the wall. His lips twitched with wry amusement as he noticed a small line of blooming flowers at the base of the wall that would be watered.

A sharp pointy gladius poked into the man’s exposed backside, enough to prick but not draw blood, its handle firmly grasped by the vestal beside him who issued terse commands, “Hold it in. Take it somewhere else.” Acacius sat alert, ready to pounce should the man act against the priestess in his drunken stupor. But he swayed away without a fight.

He watched the two women embrace and exchange soft, whispered greetings before they were ushered into the house. There was a rumpled bed, a small table and a cupboard in the otherwise bare room. Acacius hesitated at the doorstep, the place was too small, and all three of them would need to huddle together. He doubtfully looked at the wooden stairs as the women made their way up, those would not be able to take his weight. And surely, they creaked and moaned under him as he followed.

His priestess bowed to hold a thin, ageing woman, with white hair that was shorn close to her head forming a silvery halo, and pressed kisses to both her cheeks before sitting on the bed. The roof was so low that he stood hunched over; he studied the floor before deciding that it seemed clean enough to sit. The only other chair was occupied by the woman from downstairs who was unpacking their parcel.

“Carissima, who have you bought with you?” He leaned away from the light so the old woman would not recognize him.

“This is my friend, I met him on my way here.” Acacius offered a murmured greeting, as the old woman sniffed the bottle of wine and took a long drink.

His priestess procured a small, white cloth lined with thin lace and wet it with the wine. He hissed as she pressed it to the cut at his neck, more from the unexpectedness of her movement than from the burning sting.

“You will use the expensive, Greek stuff on this friend for yours?” The old woman teased.

“She has used more than just the expensive Greek stuff”—the other woman sent him a hateful, withering glare—“we heard of what you did at the Colosseum this morning. You should have stayed out of it. Whatever games they play in those palaces have nothing to do with us.”

“Hush, it is done.”

“What will they do to you?”

“Nothing unexpected.”

Acacius felt his chest tighten again, she was brave. As the women ate from the parcel, his priestess passed him a piece of flatbread. It was still warm, layered with cheese and herbs, but he could hardly swallow it when he realised this was no last-moment charity. She was saying her goodbyes.

“Did you save the man because you loved him?”—He felt his heart lurch at the question—“Run away with him either way.” The old woman suggested.

His priestess answered with a carefree laugh, “He is Emperor Marcus Aurelius’ son-in-law, Lady Lucilla’s husband. Do you remember her?”

“Is that why you saved him? Politics?”

“No…” Then why? Why save him?

The only reasonable explanation Acacius could decipher was that his priestess believed death was imminent for a Vestal and had wanted to be remembered for doing the right thing. Although, he would not argue that saving him was the right thing— he had helped Rome ravage entire cities, and destroy countless lives. History would not remember him kindly.

“Does it matter why? What matters now is that you run. We will help you… whatever you need. Just say the word.”

“I can’t, it’s done. I do not like to despair over things I cannot change.” She handed him a fig.

“So, imminent death has made a liar of you? You do nothing else but despair over things you cannot change.”

“I do many things, like asking people to come fix your roof. Someone will be here tomorrow… But I have left the house in Puteoli to the both of you.” There was a moment of silence.

“We cannot accept that, carissima.”

“You must, think of it as me repaying a debt. And it is entirely selfish, I assure you, there was some business of mine that I wanted you to see finished.” She handed the younger woman a scroll.

“You owe us no debts, I cannot thank you enough for what you did for me.” The old woman assured her.

Acacius was itching to know more, his priestess was an unravelled mystery. First Ravi, and then these women. How did she come to know so many people below her social rank? Did Publius allow her to roam the streets of Rome at night? That wasn’t safe.

“Your friend looks very curious.”

He gave a sheepish grin at having been read so easily, “I did not know Vestals lead such exciting lives.”

“Come, my son, let me look at you.”

Acacius leaned forward to allow the woman to hold his face to the light; shaky, wrinkled fingers held his jaw.

“Handsome, very handsome”—his priestess chuckled—“strong jaw, noble nose, most importantly, kind eyes… I like him.” The old woman declared.

Her rough fingers pinched into his skin, and an odd fog overtook her eyes, she pleaded with him, “You protect her from that monster in the Temple.” His stomach twisted with worry.

His priestess gently removed the old woman’s hand from his face, holding it between her own, “The monster is dead, I killed him, remember?”

The old woman looked confused, almost scared, “Yes… yes, our brave little girl vanquished the monster… poisoned his wine.”

“I thought the stew was poisoned.” The other woman quipped.

“Well, to be fair, I poured a bit of poison into everything… just to make sure it takes.”

Acacius was overcome with an insensible sort of rage at the idea that his priestess was harmed. The old woman looked down at him, frowning with distaste.

“You are far too old for our carissima. Handsome, but old. She will grow into a great beauty and you will be nothing but withering bones by then.”

His priestess huffed out a laugh, “I’m all grown and pretty now.” she pressed a kiss to the old woman’s cheek. She stood to leave but lingered to embrace the two women once more.

“If she forgets me, it might be best not to remind her.”

Acacius was shaken— a bit out of sorts. He didn’t think he could stomach watching her say any more goodbyes. It should not affect him so, he had seen people younger than her die— killed many of them himself. He had seen his men say goodbye to their families; sure, many of them did so with the expectation that they would return, never with the finality as his priestess was doing now. Perhaps, it was because he had come to think of her as his priestess.

He briefly considered asking for her name, but once girls were taken into the Temple of Vesta, they renounced their familial ties and the names of their families. Should he ask for her name now, she might give him an intimate name used by those closest to her. It would make it worse to know her name— it would be far too personal then— when she died.

He agonised further over the little detail of the poisoning; it was not his place to ask her, and she had not mentioned it again since they had left that home. Perhaps, it was best if he didn’t know what happened, he feared if he knew he would want to resurrect the bastard and kill him again.

He was also growing furious with every step they took, because it seemed that his priestess had a habit of walking around Roman streets in the dead of the night with no escort and a blade that would turn against her if she didn’t know how to use it properly. She led him sure-footed and purposefully, meandering around quiet neighbourhoods, crossing clamorous taverns until they reached a domus in the farther part of the city.

Acacius was instantly struck by the smell of food, he had not been able to eat with the Vestals who had promptly left after a few bites out of courtesy. The entrance of the domus opened to a large courtyard bustling with action. The sight astounded him; there were more than forty hearths lined up on the ground with large iron and pewter cauldrons bubbling away, ovens were built into the walls of the courtyard each filled with loaves of bread, the flames from the ovens rose to heat several more pots lined on the top. There were people noisily labouring over the pots. The room was sweltering even with all the smoke rising through the open roof.

“We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come tonight.” A vestal called out, throwing a piece of cloth at his priestess who then shoved it into his chest commanding him to get to work.

He had barely tied the apron over his tunic when a man gestured for him to hold two long pieces of logs. He notched the wood on either side of the cauldron’s neck before heaving the simmering pot off the flaming hearth. They carried the pot between them through a large door at the rear which opened into a sprawling well-lit garden. There was a buzz of conversation as people sat in clusters on the grass feeding on the stew and bread. A vestal stood by the side serving some sweet concoction of baked fruits and nuts.

Once the cauldrons were cooled enough, they were loaded into carts waiting behind the home. Acacius spent several hours transporting the hot and cool pots to where they were needed. He spotted another familiar face leaning by the carts. Ravi nodded at him with a raised hand in greeting.

“Seems like she put you to work too.”

Acacius wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm, still a bit tongue-tied at what was happening around him, “Where do these carts go?” he asked.

“In all different directions, to some of the poorest parts of the city.” His priestess seemed to be feeding the most impoverished subjects of Rome without cost. It was a behemoth of a task, yet he had noticed her command the entire place into operating smoothly. She materialised behind him as if summoned by his thoughts.

“Ravi. You found what we needed?” She handed him a portable stove to place into the carts.

“Lucius is quite popular with the gladiators, we were hoping to take a cart…”

“You know I do not—”

“We will feed people tonight by the city gate, once it is dawn the carts will have to leave the city. We will take the last of the food to the guards as an offering, lace it with a small amount of opium and replace them.”

She thoughtfully chewed on a small piece of bread before retrieving a clean spoon to taste some of the stew.

“And if they do not eat the food?” She questioned.

“Then we fight very, very quietly.”

“Alright, Ravi, warm up the food before serving it, and taste it, alright? Make sure the people see you trying some.”

“You have been feeding them for decades, they will not suddenly become suspicious of you poisoning their food.”

“Taste the food in front of them anyway, it is courtesy. We eat what we serve, we do not want them to think our food makes them sick.”

Ravi turned to him, “I will be riding this cart out of the city by morning, would you like me to take that message to your man in Ostia?”

Acacius had considered asking one of his men, but if Macrinus controlled the Praetorian Guard then most of them would be under watch. Perhaps they were being watched right now as well, they would know Ravi was riding to the troops and they could eliminate him before he even left the city gates.

She seemingly read his thoughts, “If the guards were watching us, then I would have known by now. Some have their eyes on the temple, and most of them are patrolling the streets. Ravi would seem the least suspicious, they will not let a soldier walk around freely tonight.”

Acacius handed him his ring, “Tell Darius that both Marcus Acacius and Lucius Verus Aurelius have sent for him.”

She wordlessly guided him to a corner, before pouring a pitcher of water over his hands to clean them.

“Come, eat.” She said as they joined three other Vestals, and a few of the workers, at the side of the garden.

This time the women ate voraciously. The stew was still steaming, the smell made his stomach grumble with hunger. It was a stew made of lentils, barley, and some other mix of millets, with sparing pieces of meat, flavoured by a plethora of spices he could not name. The meal was hearty and filling— he could not say the same about the conversation.

The idle gossip of aristocratic families, their wives, and children turned into vital information about spies and plots. A young wife of a senator who has been in an affair with her husband’s son recently visited a local physician whose healing hands are just as efficient with poison. Another woman in a Patrician family had claimed her pregnancy had been lengthened by the Gods, but she carried no babe in her stomach and lines it with pillows; she has been looking to buy a newborn who would share features similar to her husband, preferably a son. Acacius also learned that several bolts of fabric that had been ruined at sea were sold at their original price to make sails for the naval army.

The poor were everywhere in Rome, naturally, they saw everything and would share the interesting tales over their meals. There was a wealth of information being traded for food; his priestess knew the schedules of the Senators, where they went, who they met, what they ate, and why they met. His own plans of arresting the Emperors had been similarly discovered when a few beggars on the street had seen them gather in secret and listened to the senators discuss their plans as they returned to their homes.

The revelation had incensed him because even then they had known Macrinus’ ambitions and had not thought to share them with him or Lucilla. Moreover, they had underestimated him; the senators believed he would want a seat in the Senate, and they would have to do his bidding as they owed him money. They did not realise he would be reaching for the throne instead.

Whores were also a big source of information. His priestess knew the orders the Praetorian Guards were issued for tomorrow from the whores they employed. She knew the movement of the army from the ones who followed the troops for work. They knew Darius and his men will reach Ostia by late morning from the group of whores who had already left for the ports, expecting the ship’s arrival, in search of new clients.

“Men always talk, whether they boast about their actions or cry into the bosom of their whores, they always tell stories. And it is an ancient tradition for women to share stories over their meals. Especially about the men they see.” His priestess kindly informed him.

“Do you run this from the earnings from the temple?” He could not imagine the Emperors caring to fund the Temple of Vesta; those two were not the spiritual sort.

“No, there is very little public revenue that isn’t gorged upon by the wealthiest of Rome. Our state funding has steadily declined since the twins became Emperors. They are lost in their revelries while the choice few they had foisted the administration of the country on have robbed the people blind. All this is courtesy of this one.” A vestal nodded at his priestess.

“I had a wealthy mother”—there was a hint of pride to her voice—“she was a tradesman by profession. Travelled the whole world until eventually, the silk route brought her to Rome. And she lived out the rest of her life here. I inherited her business upon her death as was the custom of her homeland.”

“To see the whole world and to settle down in the stink of Rome of all place.” An employee laughed.

“There are better places in the world but… this is where my father was. So this is where her heart was.” Once again the curiosity over her identity burned at him, this was not a common story but he had heard it before somewhere.

Acacius had given in and asked about her family to a few of the people who worked here, hoping to glean some information about her identity. There was a clamouring voice in the back of his mind that was insisting that it was important. He decided it was possibly due to the life debt he owed her, one he would repay her family after she had passed. There was much others knew of her, except for the most important things— names, addresses, occupations— as if they were purposefully concealed.

Her father had been a soldier who went to war and fell in love with a foreign woman, he then left the army for retirement in the countryside and had several children with the woman he loved. Her father was a Patrician, and while he could not claim to know all the aristocrats of Rome, Acacius was familiar with the ones who had served in the military; especially because as a member of the ruling class he could have only occupied the highest positions in the military— which would have made him Acacius’ superior at some point.

Her mother traded silks, cotton and spices; she had expanded the trade to perfumes, precious stones, olive oil, and most recently, salt. Acacius guessed she might just be the wealthiest woman in Rome. He was surprised that others in the higher echelons of society had not discovered her wealth. While the varied trade helped her avoid detection, the reason for her relative anonymity lay in loyalty.

Vestals were restricted to the boundaries of the city, her business was handled by her mother’s vassals. They were formerly slaves her mother had freed from harsh owners, much like Ravi, who had then stayed steadfast in her employ. His priestess had incentivised her mother’s vassals by offering them a percentage of the profits they earned and secured their loyalty.

She also owned several parcels of land and storefronts within Rome that were operated similarly by freedmen. This was not her only charitable endeavour, she also owned several baths around the city that were available to the public for very little to no cost. Additionally, the domus beside this one was open during the day for children; there they were taught how to read and write, and free meals were provided for them to encourage participation. His priestess often sponsored children who desired to be further educated.

She did not personally conduct any of her trade dealings, and should she be spotted speaking to any of her trustees or vassal, Acacius was certain the Romans would never believe a woman to be capable of business and they would be more worried about her chastity.

Acacius felt further beholden to her. He had sworn to protect Lucilla, and with her the dream of Rome that was harboured by both Marcus Aurelius and Maximus. But the lengths he had gone to keep that oath had harmed Rome as well— its subjects and people. He could have never imagined there was a woman here, working hard under the cover of the night, to ensure that Romans lived to see the day that dream of a republic was realised.

Just several hours ago, he had not believed her when she had claimed that there would be protests on the streets. She was correct in thinking that the Roman people were too occupied with surviving and feeding their families— he believed they would not have rioted over his death, and mistakenly believed that applied to her too. However, her strategy had been good, hence he had even sent for some of his soldiers to stage and incite an unrest in the people tomorrow. But now he feared that there would be no controlling the public if she died, she had done more for them than anybody else.

“You know, it is wonderful, what you have done here.” His words were far too low and gruff, but he found he couldn’t speak over the overwhelming, unsettling feeling that tightened his chest. There had to be a way for her to live.

“Thank you, but I can’t take any credit for it. It was my mother’s idea, where she comes from those who are wealthy, the temples, and kings would feed more than tens of thousands of people at a time for blessings.”— He joined her in sweeping the courtyard, taking the broom from her hand—“I… wasn’t able to see her when she died, she was in the countryside. So I started this in her honour, to accumulate blessings for her afterlife. I had guidance and a lot of help to continue feeding people. And I’m sure it will continue long after I am gone. I have willed for a portion of my earnings to be sent to the temple as a donation on the condition that they continue this endeavour… And if that money runs out then I am sure someone else will continue the practice.”

Many of the people had left for their homes after cleaning, the Vestals too were returning to the temple. His priestess found the cloak he had abandoned in some corner, offering it to him after he had washed the sweat, soot and other signs of work off his hands and face.

“I am going to go watch the sun rise”—she hesitated before continuing—“would you like to join me?”

“Yes, it is not safe for you to go alone in the dark.”

“You know I’m quite good with a blade, I am sure I will be alright. I do not need you to join me for my protection. Get some rest, Acacius. You have a long day ahead.” Her tone was strained and she turned to leave without him. He hadn’t meant to cause offence, and he wondered how to appease her as he followed.

It was the most peaceful Acacius had ever felt. The ground was cool and damp against his back from the fresh dew that had formed on the grass. The mountaintop was layered in a blanket of mist, but there was a warmth that permeated through his body that was sustained by nothing but contentment. He had never felt so untroubled and at ease before a battle, and he knew that the one he fought today could define history.

He also felt unburdened, just as the darkness had receded from the skies, his own mind had cleared to offer solutions. The birds were twittering and chirping before the sun had risen. Gentle hues of lavender and pink had given way to vibrant oranges, reds and gold that reminded him of the folds of her stola and the drapes of her palla when she had ridden her horse to rescue him in the Colosseum. The sun rose steadily and brilliantly, encasing everything it touched in warmth. It rose with certain promise, and he allowed the first rays to engulf him in hope. He had a plan to rescue the priestess.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, her voice just above a whisper struggling to be heard even though she lay next to him. He considered telling her the plan, but there were many things that could go wrong. Acacius wondered whether he should give her hope or not. Her rescue depended upon him staying alive in battle today.

“I am thinking that priesthood is not for you. It must have been stifling for a woman like you.”

She hummed in response, “I had thought so too. But now that I think about it, it wasn’t so bad. I liked the routine and the calm. And it was much better after Publius became the Pontifex Maximus because he gave us more freedom… I think the only real difficulty was”—she paused as if to consider her words—“I am not a woman formed for solitude.”

Her words unfurled in him like the first gasping breath after drowning. His chest ached as his lungs painfully expanded to accommodate the unfolding realisation that somewhere under the weight of all the guilt, and the burden of shame, he had forgotten how deeply he had sunk into loneliness. There was an aching relief of finally having named an emotion that overwhelmed and anguished him.

He had offered to marry Lucilla after multiple attempts on her life in the palace so she could leave to establish her own household away from the daily fear of being poisoned or worse. The Emperors had found the idea of degrading a princess to marry a common soldier highly amusing and had gladly given their permission.

Over the years, it was not that they had not tried to make more of their marriage. But every attempt had left them both hollow and miserable because come morning she would realise that despite searching for Maximus through him, he was not him. And Acacius would have to grapple with the guilt of taking advantage of a grieving woman who was only trying to be his wife because she felt indebted to him. They had kept different rooms so he would not have to lay awake and listen to her sigh Maximus’ name in her sleep, and that she would not have to wake up to his fearful screams after dreaming of the battlefields.

As Acacius climbed the ranks to be the General, Lucilla eventually grew to resent their marriage. He reminded her too much of Maximus— both hailed as people’s heroes who were lower in social rank than her. Their marriage reminded her too much of a future that could have been had she not let Maximus leave. She had broken both their hearts for the future of Rome. Lucilla had also given up her son for that dream of Rome. As the years progressed under senseless greed and tyranny, the more meaningless those sacrifices appeared to her.

They were two lonely people sharing a house who had to work their way to a warm, sympathetic friendship. Lucilla had long released him to find love and comfort elsewhere, but he knew that any indiscretions on his part would be wielded against her with mockery and contempt. He had no regrets, he had long made peace with his choices; but sometimes in the silence of the night when dread would paralyse him, he would crave the comfort of another— not just the comfort of another body, but the presence of another soul. Perhaps, he too, was not a man formed for solitude.

Nobody was truly formed for solitude, their humanity demanded a connection. It had helped that they shared a love for Maximus, but Lucilla could not spend the rest of her life alone with just his memories. Acacius was delighted that their son was alive, it would help assuage some of the regret and longing she carries with her. He hoped the future gave her more time with her son so they could both soothe their old wounds. But Acacius could not imagine a future for himself. He had long wanted rest from the wars, but he did not know what rest looked like.

“May I ask you something?” He voiced.

“Only if I get to ask you something as well.” She replied.

“Why did you save me?” It was a question he had yet to find a satisfactory answer to.

“Why do you ask?”

“I had not expected it. I swore on my life to protect Lucilla and her son, I was prepared to keep that promise. I had accepted that as my end.” She was silent for so long, that he almost believed she had dozed off.

“You do not believe I would want to save you.” She accused. Perhaps she was correct, because he saw no reason for him to be saved.

“I saved you because I know you.” Then she did not say more, Acacius was tempted to prompt her for more, had they met somewhere before? Was that why she seemed so familiar?

“You are the man who comes home defeated even when Rome emerges victorious”—she laughed before reminiscing—“Did you know, for the longest time I thought I was doing something wrong. I believed I was making mistakes during the ceremonial rites, or maybe I was required to have stronger faith, and that I would be punished for my shortcomings… we are rarely allowed to go outside for the first ten years as a Vestal. I would take one look at you and believe Rome had lost the war.”

Acacius would visit the Temple of Vesta after every war to relinquish important documents into their care. And instead of lavish dishes and fine bread to express gratitude for Vesta’s protection, he would scornfully only present the bread from the military rations as an offering. He had not realised he would have scared a little Vestal as he did so.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, “I am sorry to have scared you.”

“You are a believer, Acacius—”

“I have stopped believing in the Gods a very long time ago. Where I have been, there was no God.”

“But you came anyway. You could have sent one of your men with the documents, but you came personally, every time. Sometimes I would hear you rage against Vesta”—her voice took on a quieter, more pained, quality—“sometimes I heard you cry. Your accounts of war… they unsettled me. At some point, I had stopped praying for the victory and glory of Rome to pray for your safe return and wellbeing.”

The admission was sacrilege, but it felt sacred as she breathed it into the mist, as it enveloped him like a warm, woollen cloak in dreadful winters. After every battle, he had felt compelled to visit the temple, almost like an angry child returning to a mother who refused to coddle him, desperate for her to just listen to his grief.

Everyone around him saw some misplaced glory and honour in the death and destruction he had inflicted, it choked and suffocated him. Even Lucilla did not know the extent of it, had not seen the violence and bloodshed, and he could not bring himself to speak it. He could not criticise the wars openly without denouncing the ambitions and gluttony of Rome and its Emperors— without endangering Lucilla and himself. But someone had been listening. He felt tears of relief slipping into his hairline.

“You know my prayers were personal.” He still gently admonished with laughter coating his voice. The Vestals had to always guard the sacred flame, and ensure that it never went out, but they still retreated to a distant corner of the room to allow him to pray— all except for one priestess.

“I remember you”—he heard a hitch in her breath—“you are the Vestal who gifted me the chlamys.” The red cloak had been ceremonially presented to him after a victory; he had an irrational affection for it. It was made of the finest wool that felt soft and smooth against his skin; it had shielded him from the elements, sheltered him from the scorching sun, wind, rain and cold. It had seen him through some of his most vulnerable and toughest moments, it made him uneasy to not wear it during his campaigns, and some nights he could not sleep without the weight of it comfortably wrapping around him. He tended to every stitch, every tear, every stain with his own two hands. It was why he had noticed her palla; it was made of the same deep red material as his, even the gold embroidery had been similar, but hers was distinctly more ornate and feminine.

“Oh,” she croaked, she sighed before speaking, levity returning to her words, “It was good for business, you see. Everyone wants to look like a hero, so they would buy whatever you wear. I made a very good profit on that fabric.”

He huffed a laugh, “Well, I am glad to be of service.”

He was no hero; and it was strange that the very people who would have turned their noses up at him for being his betters, those who still do so, should try to emulate him. Acacius had come far in life, from living in a crowded insula that always smelled like ashes and sweat to a lavish domus with all the comforts befitting a general of Rome. Yet, he had never been more satisfied than now, with his back to the earth and nothing covering him from the skies.

He knew this feeling was entirely due to the woman lying beside him. In less than a day, she had upheaved him; an expert gardener who had pulled him from the pot that constrained and restricted him into a newer, larger one that would allow him to grow— dream of a different, better future. The process had been uncomfortable, as all change is, he had been initially distrustful of her motives; he was frustrated at the betrayal of the senators and discouraged by the apparent futility of their plans.

She had challenged him by tearing off the veils of respectability adorned by the senators, exposing them for being greedy beasts worse than those they threw into the arenas. Instead of waiting for the dream of Rome to be fulfilled, she had silently and graciously provided him with the tools to realise it— tools that would help instead of kill. She reminded him that Rome wasn’t just some ideal, dream, or grand objective, one had to reach; it was the people and the communities they formed in search of connection, food, shelter and dignity. And this Rome was not so fragile, it had the temerity and gumption to just about survive anything.

Acacius was not a man who dreamed of the future— it was far too fickle and uncertain of a thing to hope for. But for the first time in decades, he was feeling purposeful, and he dared to hope. He imagined a life with this brilliant woman. Days spent just the way he was now, fulfilled and at ease. She was a blazing hearth he had borrowed fire from to nurture in his own soul— a part of her burned within him. It glowed so brightly and ardently that it banished the shadows of emptiness and solitude. If she allowed him he would make new oaths to her instead of letting the old ones govern him— promises of love, comfort and lifetimes instead of duty, sacrifice and death.

“How much time do you have left in the service of Vesta?” He asked, something told him she was not a woman who would break her vows.

“Two months…”

“What about that man who vowed to take no other woman?” Acacius felt stupid, of course, he remembered that the man waited for another Vestal. But he could not ask her if she had a lover waiting for her as well.

“Oh no, he awaits my sister.” Would she make him ask?

“So no man awaits you?” Only silence followed his words, it was so thick with an unspoken emotion he could not decipher. He worried he had offended her, his question was not meant to cast doubt on whether she kept her chastity.

“No… good men are few and rare in between.” Her tone was soft and light, it belied the previous tension between them. But it did not fail to fill him with the sense of new possibilities— the excitement of a new journey.

“Can I ask you a question now?” You felt raw and vulnerable. This entire night had been both bliss and agony.

Acacius was a sight to behold under the rising sun. By Gods, he was beyond compare. The golden light bounced off his hair which curled into soft, dark clouds around his face; and much like every beautiful silver-lined cloud, the greys in his hair glittered silver. His warm, brown eyes looked ethereal, taking an other-worldly quality under the rays of the sun, they were deeper and more intoxicating than the finest of wines. His nose stood proud and graceful over his masculine features which had their sharpness tempered by the soft lushness of his lips.

His face was weather-worn and battle-hardened but looked radiant and sun-kissed under the early morning light. It was carved with the signs of age and pain, deep creases lined his forehead, a scar marred his cheekbone, and another over his nose, while a bruise bloomed at his temple. You briefly wonder what his beard would feel like against your skin. Marcus had not grown a beard when you were young, and you had not touched a man as a Vestal. Would it be soft and smooth like the fur of a cat or a dog?

He hummed in acknowledgement, “Of course.” Had you said your thoughts aloud?

“Why do you not look at me?” The question had left you before you could consider it, mull over it, and rephrase it, “You always keep your sight trained down… others do not do that. Even if you look up, you never directly gaze at… Vestals.”

“Out of respect, I suppose.” Of course, his reason would be as stupid as his honour, you bit back a groan of frustration. He would not be the Marcus you loved if he was not respectful and honourable. But it did not assuage the hurt you carried for years.

“Modesty is not something that can be maintained by just one person. Vestals are made to lower their gaze in public, to conform with decency and propriety, to look at no man and to protect their chastity. This means I too should not gaze upon a Vestal to maintain decorum.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his words, “Ah, yes, you are quite right to assume that looking at a Vestal just once will make you fall deeply, irrevocably, agonisingly in love with her. And you must, never, ever, meet eyes with one. Vestals are able to hypnotise with their eyes, they will put you in a deep trance-like state you shall never emerge from because they have stolen your soul .”

His laugh was deep and smooth, and it settled around you like a warm current.

“Someone once told me that Vestals were unfortunate because they could only look at the ground and there was nothing interesting about staring at dirt. So you can count on my solidarity in staring at dirt with you.” His words made your heart thud against your ribs. These were your words, you had said them to him.

“Who told you this?” Please remember.

“I cannot remember.” You tried not to choke on the sob that was working its way up your throat.

“Do you wish for me to look at you?” His voice rang with expectation.

“No, I find your reasoning quite acceptable.” There was no use now.

“Then I shall gaze upon you two months later, after you are released from the Temple of Vesta.” There will be nothing to look at then.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, we do not lose our ability to hypnotise even after we complete our service, so you must be prepared to lose your soul to me.”

You had always known that Acacius was not a man crafted from the same mud as the rest of us; he was a being of light and it clung to him, it lingered over his form like a lover’s kiss. Not only in these open vast fields on the top of a mountain, light found him even in the deepest, darkest crevices. Despite the years you stood before Vesta’s fire, her light only ever reached him.

Sometimes you wondered if that had been her punishment for you, knowing that your love for Acacius far rivalled the devotion you could ever harbour for her. Your love for him was present in her every prayer. Maybe that is why she has blinded him to you. Or perhaps, you have never occupied any piece of his heart.
You were destined for darkness, to be unseen, and it was time to let him go.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked as you walked back to the temple.

I cannot let you go.

“Chickpeas,” you replied, “roasted with garlic, or boiled chickpeas with dill and parsley. Someone once bought them for me and I can’t forget the taste.”

Chickpeas she had said. He had bought them for her along with fresh panis focacius, crusted with garlic and herbs, and the honey cakes she was craving last night— the kind with hazelnuts and figs. Acacius had been filled with irrational jealousy, chickpeas were a meal for the poor, often mocked and ridiculed by the wealthy. Some lovesick pup had bought her chickpeas. And she couldn’t forget the taste. He had never been a jealous man, but he recognised the emotion in her voice when she had spoken— it was love.

He had left to carry out the preparation of her rescue as soon as he had delivered her safely to the temple. It had been laughably simple, he had discovered the labourers who were preparing the vault to bury a Vestal. They were typically buried alive with a bed, a lamp, and a small table of food and drink. Acacius had added enough oil, food, and water to last her a fortnight. As soon as the battle ended, he would dig her out in the dark of the night. And return the grave to its original state. They could then decide to do as she pleases; she could choose to reclaim her identity as a Vestal, or… choose another life and be with him.

Acacius decided to enlist Lucius in the task, he requested that Lucius rescue her should he die in battle today. He had wronged the younger man by killing his wife, but he trusted that Lucius would not vent his anger by letting an innocent woman die. However, there was still an anxiety that lingered in the back of his mind.

Battles were unpredictable, both he and Lucius were going to be specifically targeted today, so there must be another person who knows of this plan. He thought of both Lucilla and the Pontifex Maximus. He had considered telling the other Vestals as well, but there was going to be a funeral procession this evening and it needed to be convincing for both Macrinus and the people.

He then aided Lucius in releasing the rest of the Gladiators from the Colosseum, they will blend in the crowd during the funeral procession, and join them once the battle commences. He had three of the nondescript men follow them to the temple, they would help him carry his priestess’ sedan.

“General Acacius, you’re here.” Acacius did not like her use of his title, she had not addressed him thus when it was just the two of them. And now it felt like she drawing a line.

“We have given Lady Lucilla the robes of the Vestalium Maxima. Our Chief Vestal is getting on in age, she has backache that has left her bedridden for the last few days. She will need to stoop over a cane, but it is otherwise an excellent disguise since she will be covered by a veil.” She explained.

But he was not listening. A girdle of red and white silk ribbons was tied around her waist in a knot of Hercules as a sign of her purity. The knot was supposed to be untied by husbands on their wedding night. Acacius could not take his eyes off it. She wore a white tunic with billowing sleeves and a simple white stola. Her red palla was pinned to her head as a veil, six braids were plaited into her damp and freshly washed hair, and the locks were coiled and curled under her veil. She had been stripped of the red ribbons in her hair that symbolised her identity as a Vestal, but there were woollen white ribbons, a symbol of her virginity, woven into the crown of flowers resting on her head.

There was marjoram in her wreath representing honour, but also love and joy; rosemary symbolising fidelity, remembrance and loyalty; lavender for devotion; and myrtle for purity— and fertility. Her attire proclaimed her innocence, it screamed against the injustice of the accusation of her unchastity. But she looked like a bride.

Acacius was tempted to look at her, truly gaze upon her visage, study the features of her face and read the emotions that graced them. He wanted to memorise the sight of her looking like a bride, he did not want to ever forget the vision. But she had denied him at the mountain when he had asked if he should look. Just two months, if he should live to see the day, just two more months, and he will dress her as a bride again if she will have him.

“Listen to me, I will save you, I will not let you die.” The words came out rushed and whispered, mostly because his mouth was dry and he had lost the ability to speak at the sight of her. But he also did not want someone to overhear them.

She was silent for a while, and he could not ascertain what she was thinking or feeling, and curiouser yet was her response, “Why?”

“Because your death would be a loss for Rome. You have much to do and see of the world… you don’t have to die.” Because I find myself imagining a future with you. Because I might be in love with you.

The realisation reverberated through him. I love you, I am in love with you. Unbeknownst to him she had burrowed into his heart, and soothed his soul. She filled him with peace, and her mere presence was heaven. He had not realised it even as he chased that feeling by following her all night.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of fate; he had not seen her, he had not touched her. But if it was required of him, he could spend an entire lifetime with his head bowed in worship and devotion if it meant nearness to her. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his days fulfilling her every wish and command, knowing that if there was ever a deity that could offer him benediction it resided within her.

“It is too late, Acacius.” She whispered.

“No, no, it is not too late. I have made the preparations. I will come for you, do you trust me? All you need to do is wait.” He wished to hold her hand and offer her some of his own strength and certainty.

“I have waited long enough”—He could hear footsteps approaching them—“I do not want you to worry about this. Go, Acacius, you have to do your duty. Protect Lucilla and Lucius as you swore you would.”

“It is time.” Publius interrupted. He stepped away from her and allowed her to breeze past him.

“Acacius?” He turned to see her standing by the door.

“I want you to remember that this is not your fault. I do as I please, always.” She beseeched.

They were surrounded. Fury burned like lit coal in his throat. His priestess was seated in a sedan covered by gauzy curtains. He had hoisted the sedan over his shoulder along with the gladiators. They had not been allowed to keep any tributes of respect usually offered at a funeral procession. They walked in silence with no music, or flutes, leading them. The Pontifex Maximus led their procession with Lucilla, disguised as the chief Vestal behind him. Lucius walked in chains beside him. The Vestals walked behind the sedan and the Praetorian Guards brought up their rear, preventing any other mourners from joining them.

Acacius memorised the face of the guard leading them. He stopped every so often to loudly announce to the crowd about the unchaste Vestal who would be immured alive for her crimes against Rome and the Gods, and her barbarian lover, Hanno, who was to be publicly flogged to death. The guard took far too much pleasure in humiliating his priestess. And Acaius would kill him first.

Shock was palpable in the air, he had never heard the city so quiet. The people were in disbelief, it had not taken them long to figure out exactly who was being buried alive. He hoped the crowd waited until the sedan was lowered to be angry, so he wouldn’t jostle her inside. Lucius spotted Macrinus watching from the palace as their procession passed. He would see to that man later as well.

A woman called out for mercy, while children ran asunder to pass the news to their friends and families. A crowd steadily gathered around the Praetorian Guards; they pushed and pulled like the waves of the ocean but the guards did not break rank. The voices grew desperate and angry, they begged for mercy and leniency but their cries fell on deaf ears. A guard raised the handle of his gladius and forcefully brought it down across the temple of a boy who was trampled by their feet. He unclenched his jaw, giving it a twitch to relieve the tension. It was not time, not yet.

The sedan was lowered at the hill, the Publius helped his priestess out of her seat. It was then he learned her name, they chanted it like a desperate prayer. The name sounded so familiar. He watched her back as they led her to the vault. He could not be anxious, or afraid— he had to be courageous for the both of them. Acacius knew he would fight any god that sought to keep her in that ground.

The Pontifex Maximus raised his hands to the air and offered a prayer. She stumbled. Acacius jolted forward to help. But she denied the help of both Lucius and Publius who offered their hands. Publius clasped her hand, leading her to the ladder which would lower her to the crypt. He could not watch her be lowered into her grave but he refused to look away. And she turned to look at him while Publius dragged her forward.

His chest clenched as he soaked in her features. His priestess was beautiful, dread curled in his gut. His eyes roved over the arch of her brows, the trembling of her chin. He remembered those tearful eyes, he recognised the entreating look in them. He knows that smile, the curve of it unchanged by the years. The world spun around him, Acacius couldn’t breathe. A different prayer rang in his ear, not a funeral rite, but an initiation rite.

"I take you, beloved, to be a Vestal priestess, who will carry out sacred rites which it is the law for a Vestal priestess to perform on behalf of the Roman people…”

Another image overlapped the sight, one of a six-year-old child with the same eyes and that same smile turning back to look at him as she was being dragged away. His anaticula. He felt his knees falter, before Acacius blindly and impulsively surged forward. This was a stupid plan, it wouldn’t work. His little duck had been terrified of dark and enclosed spaces.

He struggled against the force preventing him from reaching her, he couldn’t breathe against the shoulder pressing into his chest. Hands clasped around his waist driving him down the hill. Acacius steadied his feet and charged forward, pushing the lump aside to see the stone closing over the opening of the vault. Perhaps, he yelled, or maybe it was another voice.

A body lunged at him, there was a blow to his face. He was clasped across the torso and pulled back again. He almost didn’t feel the blade that stabbed him from between the ties in his armour, but it dug deeper and slashed upward, carving under his arm. He tasted the iron tang of blood rising up his throat. The guards filled the pit, burying the crypt, until the ground was level once more with no sign of a grave.

Chaos reigned, there were stones being thrown and the torches were lit. The man was pulled off him, Lucius came into view. Acacius did not hear what he was saying, but his vision came into focus. She is brave, she is strong. His little duck had grown to have the courage of a lion. He found the guard who had led them raise his sword over a civilian and rushed towards him.

It had gone exactly how she had predicted it. They had managed to lure the Praetorian Guards to the city gates. The gladiators rallied around Lucius, while the ones who had helped him carry the sedan escorted the Vestals, and Lucilla, through the chaos back to the temple. The guards could have been minced between the angry mob and his army, but Lucius had chosen to show mercy. They had no choice but to surrender.

The Roman people had no love or sympathy for the long-feared Praetorian Guards. Seeing as they were tied up and incapable of inflicting violence, they were pelted with stones and filth on their march back to the palace. The aftermath of the battle had been rather anticlimactic.

Acacius had begged clemency for Caracalla, he could not stomach having to kill a boy hiding under a table with his pet. His madness would drive him to death soon enough. Unexpectedly, Macrinus was found dead in a pool of his own blood; his slave, the woman who had visited the temple last evening stood with a bloodied gladius.

Acacius impatiently watched the sun rise over the horizon, irritation flickered in his veins at the grand speeches. Initially, he had planned to dig out his priestess in the quiet of the night, but he couldn’t leave her there for a moment longer. For the first time in his life, he did not wait to be dismissed, he neither asked for permission, nor informed of his acts, Acacius took what he required and departed.

He had already dug past his knees when frantic voices called out to him.

“Acacius! Stop, Acacius. You cannot do this!”

There was nothing that could stop him, but he could not believe that Publius would try to stop him. Even Lucius stood behind him, looking at him with a faintly pitying gaze. He kept digging.

“You would let an innocent woman die?” He accused. He did not need to hear their response, he did not care for it. Because he wasn’t going to let her die.

“Stop it, General, you are desecrating her grave,” Publius begged him. He could hear the pain and anguish in his voice.

“She is not dead.” He informed the man. The shovel was ripped out of his hands by Lucius.

“Lucius, please, I beg you. I know I have caused you irreparable harm. But do not let this woman die for my sins”—Acacius found himself pleading—“You swore to rescue her just yesterday.”

“She is dead, Acacius.”

“SHE IS NOT DEAD.” Panic gripped him. He swallowed his anger, and turned around to keep digging with his hands— his fingers twitching with fear. He felt afraid. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

“People don’t just die in a night. I have left her enough food, water, and oil for the lamp to last at least a fortnight. She is not dead.” He reasoned. She couldn’t be. So why were they not agreeing with him?

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him away from digging, he struggled against Lucius’ hold; the younger man only wrapped his legs around him too, preventing him from moving.

“If I have to fight you to get her out, I will. Let me go. LET ME GO.” His surroundings swam, he was quickly losing blood from his side where he had been stabbed. And Lucius’ arm around his neck prevented him from breathing.

“Listen. LISTEN MAN. She is dead. Acacius, stop fighting—” He cut off his words with a well-placed blow to his ribs.

“General Acacius.” A Vestal… she would understand. She would help him.

“Please—”

“She is dead.”

“No, no that cannot be. You see, I had—”

“She came home yesterday with food from the stalls.” Acacius was released but he could not breathe, he could not move. He only swayed in his place. What were they trying to tell him? He clenched his fists to prevent the strength from draining from him. He did not have the time to sit around and talk; he needed to rescue his priestess.

“She poisoned it. Before eating it.” No, no she could not have. He had seen nothing but fire in her, a will to live. She would not have done this. The Vestal was sobbing, why was she crying? She was lying to him. For some reason, she was lying to him. He had bought her that food, she wouldn’t do this.

“We found the empty vial of poison after—” That means nothing. Acacius kept digging with his bare hands, unfeeling of the burn and ache of his wounds, uncaring of the stones chipping away at his fingernails. She was down there, waiting for him. He had asked her to trust him. He will not let her down.

“She said starvation was too long and slow a death”—the woman gasped before sobbing her next words—“Please, stop.”

No, it simply wasn’t true. He had asked her to trust him; she had said she trusted him. Had she? She had said to not worry, to do his duty. Acacius dug desperately, unseeing through his tears. The cacophony around him condensed into a dull buzz in his ear. He was lost to the world around him. His fingertips bled on the stone that was covering the vault, his knuckles mangled, and his palms torn. He dug further sideways, looking for the edge so he could slide the stone to the side.

…this is not your fault. I do as I please, always…

He could hear a hoarse wail that sounded distinctly like his own voice, but it came from so far away. Then Acacius could hear no more, his fingers found the edge of the stone. He struggled alone, trying to slide it from its place. Multiple hands grabbed him; they grappled with his arms to release the stone. But he did not relinquish his grip, Acacius felt his finger dislodge from its joint but he felt no pain only the surge of resolve.

He was on his hands and knees, being pushed down onto the ground by people. His knees scraped and bled on the stones as they sought purchase on the ground below him. Darkness closed in on his vision and in his last moments of clarity, he wished they would let him open this crypt so he could go lie down next to his priestess for the rest of eternity.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Acacius stared at the honey cakes on the table. He knew Lucilla had not meant to be cruel but the sight of them made his chest tighten. He wondered, not for the first time, what they would taste like in his mouth with the same poison lacing them as she had used on hers. He could bet they’d taste sweet, they would taste of reunion.

Acacius…

“Acacius.”

“Acacius,” Lucilla called. He broke out of his reverie to blankly stare at her. And he regretted it.

As his priestess had not completed her contracted term with Vesta, Lucilla had taken her place as a replacement since there had been no requirements of youth or virginity— divorcees were acceptable albeit frowned upon. The role suited her as she had a post in the College of Pontiffs; since the death of the previous chief Vestal, Lucilla had taken her seat and established her voice in the Senate. But he couldn’t look at the red and white ribbons in her hair without choking on his sobs. Acacius went back to staring at the cakes.

“You cannot keep living like this, Acacius. It has been months since we have heard you speak.”

It wasn’t that he could not speak anymore. He has heard the sound of his voice when he wakes up in the dead of the night clammy, tears staining his cheeks and a hoarse scream on his lips— begging his priestess to not leave him. He just did not have much to say these days.

No, he actually had far too much to say. All his words were lost in his heart somewhere, they filled him up to his throat and suffocated him— stifled him— but they stuck to his mouth because the person supposed to hear them was not here. She had not left him, not truly. She resided in his heart. He spoke to her there without having to talk.

“Lucius could use your guidance… some of the Praetorian Guards are dissenting. We could use your help.”

They didn’t need his help, he was a soldier, not a politician. And last he had heard, their new Emperor was making the Praetorian Guards fight each other in the arena in the name of training. As for the guards who were causing too many problems by terrorizing the public or plotting a coup, Lucius would fight them in the arena himself, reasserting himself as a public hero.

His priestess had left him a letter, advising him to take the throne and then work towards establishing a republic rather than foisting the country over to rotting administrators and decaying pillars. She had counselled Lucius to wait for the senators to succumb to their vices; and nurture better successors for them.

She may have hinted that it did not take much to remove a senator from his post— both Lucius and his priestess shared a devious mind. Just last week Senator Thraex suffered an apoplexy while he indulged in his whores and had since passed away. The Emperor has been steadily introducing legislature that cut into the power of the Praetorian Guards, and levied higher taxes based on income.

Their mutual friend Ravi had leveraged her extensive information network to benefit the new Emperor who kept a very close eye on many restless Praetorian Guards and Senators. Any voices of dissent were swiftly nipped in the bud. But Thraex had been correct about one thing, politics did follow power; after an example or two, all other senators had fallen in line.

Ravi, too, had received a letter from his priestess. Lucilla, as well, who had been tasked with continuing his priestess’ efforts to educate the poorest children of Rome. She had left letters for Publius, for the Vestals, for her servants, for employees, for clients, for friends, for whores— even for Fortuna, Macrinus’ former slave.

There were letters for everyone but him. And that fact bothered him like a speck of dust in his eye he was unable to remove. He would sometimes wonder if she had cared so little for him, but he knew that was not the case. The absence of a letter for him, when everyone had received one, had felt like a purposeful slight and that thought hurt more. He had not known his anaticula to be so cruel. Which only meant she had been upset with him for not remembering her— for not recognising her.

After a particularly restless but clear night, when he had felt like smoke had diffused into his every breath, and when pacing along the roads of Rome had not worked, Acacius had found himself on the doors of the Temple of Vesta. He had made every little Vestal acolyte read aloud their letters from her. One of those girls had the eyes the same colour as his priestess. He had to leave because he couldn’t bear looking at her. He had dreamt of her giving him daughters that took after her.

“You should join us for the festival in a few days,” Lucilla continued explaining her planning for the festival. He appreciated her kindness, truly; he could understand she was trying to be there for him. After all, they had grieved Maximus together. But she would never be able to grieve for his priestess with him— she didn’t know her. After Maximus, Lucilla had her son to live for, and Rome to live for. He had nothing. He was not going to that festival, he couldn’t stand to be in a room full of people who didn’t know her— who didn’t speak of her. He felt too raw and vulnerable to be around those who were celebrating and making merry.

They shouldn’t worry, he wanted to say as much, but the words felt futile because he knew they would worry anyway, so he didn’t say them. The sun would set soon, and Acacius would go to the domus on the far side of the city and cook the food. He left the feeding part to others who could listen to the gossip, and glean important information. Acacius found his thoughts would drift out of his control, he was unable to focus on extensive conversations.

Then he would climb the mountain to watch the sunrise, he would lay on his back and reminisce about all the things he should have said to her then— informing her of his plans foremost, so she would not have… taken the drastic decision she took. He had shed countless tears into the earth of this mountain, softening it so it could engulf him, swallow him whole. And each morning the ground did not accept him, he would watch the sunrise even though its light no longer felt warm, it scratched and chafed him like dry, arid sand.

He would spend his morning training soldiers. He taught them how to march and fight. Help them with the construction of buildings, fortify city walls, and maintain the roads. There had been blissfully no wars, and what skirmishes had arisen had been dealt with diplomatically— Rome now offered people more sovereignty over their land, but still collected their tax. In the absence of war, he did woodworking. Acacius carved several idols of Vesta in her human form; they had all looked like his priestess.

He would go to the baths then, the ones she made free for the public, to ensure they were being operated in good condition. It was by no means something she entrusted to him, but the man she had left it to was ageing and could use the muscle. As all people in their older years, this man too was prone to nostalgia and reminiscing. He would recall the glory days of his youth as a soldier, and his stories would feature his beloved pupil— a young Vestal child he taught the art of fighting. His priestess.

Then it would be evening. There was something very morose about evenings. The silence of his home gnawed at him. The grief he had veiled in the air floods out in a deluge, and the waves of time slow. Acacius would wish nothing more than to reunite with his beloved in his dreams but sleep eluded him. He wished could drown himself in drink but found that he did not like his sight blurred because then he couldn’t envision her clearly. More often than not, he would sit staring into the blazing hearth and imagine her sitting beside him.

He could not express the injustice of it all if he tried. She was close at all times, he took her with him everywhere— nestled in his very being. Acacius belonged to her, but he would never know if she was his or not. They existed like two opposite shores of a river that do not meet— so near yet so far away. The distance, the grief, was unbearable.

It was not that he had not considered covering that distance. It would not be too difficult to swim across the river of the dead if she were waiting for him at the bank. But… he loved her. And that was reason enough to breathe. She had not just saved him at the Colosseum, she had breathed new life into him; and now he carried a part of her within him. He could not bear for that small flame to extinguish— deprive the world of that small part of her. For decades, he had only known that world which had been darker and crueller without her.

It was not that her work, and her accomplishments, required him as champion and supporter. What she had done in life will echo in eternity. And as she had hoped for, the people rallied for their communities; new faces took her place to continue the work she had begun. He knew others would take their place in the future.

Her name still rang on their lips, there were still signs of her around him. But he knew that one day she would be forgotten. The world would move on without her and it would leave him behind with her. But he wanted to live so he could remind them of her— her light, her kindness, and her love; because he would always remember her. Acacius would never be able to breathe in a world that had forgotten her.

“Lucius likes her brother. He wants him to join him in the city… run for senate. But the man has been resistant.” Lucilla was still talking to him. He wasn’t always this bad at listening— Acacius had always been more of a listener than a conversationalist. He stroked the soft red fabric spread over his leg; he had later learned that his priestess had spent days embroidering his cloak personally. Acacius did not dare read into the significance of the act fearing it would drive him insane.

“Acacius… I’m talking about her eldest brother. I heard you were friends once.” Her brother?

Instantly he felt ashamed, nervous. He had prided himself on being a man of his word but he had not kept the promise he had made to his priestess’ brother— his friend. Her family had been the only ones to welcome him with open arms when he had first come to the city in search of work.

He remembered her father, a respected general, who had taught him honour, hard work, and valour. Acacius had been incensed when they were accused by Commodus, and heartbroken when they had to leave in disgrace. He remembered her mother; Acacius had been too self-concerned as a young man to speak to her about her work and trade. But he remembered her rose petal jam, the taste of it, the scent of which her daughter wore on her body.

His priestess would always hide behind his legs after breaking her mother’s precious artefacts, knowing she would not be punished in the presence of a guest. Acacius would unabashedly lie for her. But he had not been treated as a guest in their home. He remembered her mother’s eyes full of admonishment and mirth, “I know the demon that has crawled out of my womb, Marcus. You’re much too sweet of a boy to destroy or break anything.” How wrong she had been, all he had done his entire life was destroy things. And he had allowed his actions to destroy her daughter too.

He thought of her brother, one he had called brother himself. They had fought battles together; he had never had to worry about being attacked from behind knowing his friend stood at his back. His friend had never taken to bloodshed the way Acacius had; he had the cunning of a politician tempered by his kind nurturing. He had promised his friend to watch over his little priestess, they had been so worried to leave her alone in the city without friends or family. And he had not kept his promise. She had died because of him.

“You could visit her family at their countryside villa… convince her brother to come to the city…” Lucilla left after some time without an answer from him— as was their routine. She did not need to hear the answer anyway, he would always say no. It was funny, he would have never imagined denying her several years ago. But he had been freed of his oath.

He could never face her brother. He wouldn’t know how. But the thought of seeing him had firmly grown roots in his mind, he could not stop thinking about it. Her brother had the same eyes as her, and he just wanted a glimpse of them full of life and vitality. That night, Acacius left without informing anybody, not that there had been anyone to inform.

Acacius paused, he was a soldier. His instincts never lead him astray. They helped him survive. He had already spent several days in this town which had been both blissful and distressing. Her presence was strong here— her scent was in the air; he could sometimes hear her laughter; he would see wisps of her hair in the crowd or turning the corner; he would hear whispers of her name. It had all felt like a dull knife sawing on his heart, reminding him of the loss and grief he carried.

But Acacius looked around him, and carefully studied his surroundings. The food stall served rose petal jam along with cheese and bread. There was a woman eating her meal; the sleeves of her tunic were tied into a more flattering shape with red wool strings. Despite their wealth, women wore their hair in much simpler coiffures. Women tended to wear their palla with intricately woven designs incorporated while the fabric was being produced on the loom; this town sported the additional fashion of embroidering over the cloth.

He made his way over to an old man sitting under a tree, unsure and hesitant about phrasing his question. Anticipation curled in his belly. But he sat there for several long seconds before clearing his throat.

“The family that owns the land here… I heard their daughter returned.”

“Aah”—the man grinned—“You must be one of the prospective suitors.” Hope unfurled in his chest, could it be?

“Prospective suitors?” Acacius asked.

“Yes, a retired Vestal virgin with a handsome pension from the state, who wouldn’t want to marry her.”

“She was in Rome?”

“No, no… not Rome. We heard about the Vestal they buried there. Terrible business that, killing an innocent woman for politics. This one was south of Rome, the temple in Bovillae, I think.” Acacius felt an incredulous laughter overcome him.

“You’re in luck, all the wealthy Patricians from neighbouring territories have come down to see her… But she hasn’t taken a liking to any of them. You are handsome enough to test your mettle against her. She’s no ugly duck that one but she is not young. Men prefer younger brides…” Acacius did not stay to hear more.

The instincts of a predator had already overcome his rationale. He stalked down the street in search of his prey. It would be easier to just show up at her estate lying in wait for her. But he had heard her laughter just around a few corners. His gait was quick and sure, she would not escape him— not now, not ever.

Acacius was in disbelief, a muscle twitched in his cheek, he was frozen at the sight of her. There she stood under the setting sun, bathing under its glowing light tasting the food out of a pot in the cart. He had walked past that cart just a few moments ago and had not realised it had shielded her from him. His feet carried him to her involuntarily, he heard that laughter again as she nodded about something, her gaze trained on the person speaking to her. He grasped her elbow and whirled her around to face him.

It was her. She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.

His fingers grazed her cheek, oh so gently, fearing she was a being of air and mist conjured by his dreams and hallucinations. Her skin was warm under his touch; her eyes stared up at him speechless and bewildered but alive— bright with vitality.

He didn’t know whether it was laughter or sobs that were escaping his mouth, but even as he enfolded her in his arms, they racked through his body. He held her tighter still as she jostled in his arms because of his own heaving breaths and jagged sounds. Acacius did not relinquish his hold on her, grasping her closer to him, feeling the shape of her shoulders and the strength of her spine with trembling hands. His legs too were trembling as sheer relief flushed through his body, she braced him around his chest— holding them both up so they didn’t sink to the floor.

He would remember to be angry at her later, but his tears soaked her clothes now. She was whispering something into his ear that he could not hear. Multiple hands were trying to pull him off her; another time he would realise how inappropriate it was for him to even touch her let alone hold her against him. But the entire Roman army could not pull him away from her now. He had forged all his strength, tenacity and ferociousness through decades of war for the sole purpose of holding on to this woman. He will not let go now that he has her again.

Her words finally pierced through the fog surrounding his ears, “Marcus… Acacius you are hurting me…”

He loosened his hold, just enough so that he could look down to observe her. He still kept her pressed into him; Acacius studied the contours of her face; and watched her take deep, steady breaths. She was panting with effort, her ribs struggling to expand against his own. He gave her more space within his enclosed arms, but she swayed on her feet, her hands grasped his shoulders for support, clenching his tunic in her fist. His lips lingered over her brow and temple, firmly kissing her, uncaring of the crowd that had formed around them.

“Step aside… give way, step aside.”

His priestess flung away from him at the new voice, turning around to face the intruder.

“Brother…”

Acacius looked at the man as he dispersed the crowd and sent them back to their jobs. The years had been kind to his friend, he looked fit and healthy, his skin flushed bronze from work under the sun, his hands still strong and powerful.

“He thought I was someone else.” His priestess explained without having been questioned. The sardonic stare his brother levelled at the distance between them, Acacius knew he didn’t believe her. And Acacius would not corroborate her lies.

He stepped away from her anyway, part in acquiescence with his pointed stare; but mostly so that when he chose to hit him for taking liberties with his sister, his priestess wouldn’t be accidentally hurt. But instead of the blow he had braced for, his friend engulfed him in a warm, welcoming embrace with several hearty pats on the back.

“We just got our sister back, Marcus. Have you come to take her away from us so soon? You must know we will not easily hand her over to you.” Her brother spoke over his shoulder. Acacius struggled to make sense of his words. Regardless, if they did not want to give his priestess to him, he would make peace with living at their doorstep like a pet dog just to be close to her. There was no getting rid of him now. His friend released him with a firm grasp on his arms.

“There will be no handing me over to anybody… I have considered renewing my vows with the Temple of Vesta.” His priestess primly interrupted, before leaving him staring behind her agape.

“Seems like you’ve upset her, Marcus.” His friend was having fun at his expense.

The dinner had been sadly oppressive. It wasn’t his host’s fault; they had all been enthusiastic in their welcome, and the conversation had flowed smoothly. Tears had stung his eyes, his nose had burned when he had met his mentor; the man was still strong for his age, jovial too. Acacius had been ungrateful for severing his connection with the man who had shaped him. He also wondered when he could start pleading and begging for their forgiveness for not having protected their daughter. But they had surprised him by tearfully thanking him.

Things had all gone downhill from there. He was tongue-tied, ashamed and lost. His priestess had lied to her family and had credited him for rescuing her. She would not meet his gaze the entire time. He had wanted to burst out the truth, Acacius was neither familiar nor comfortable with lies. Every time he had tried, she had spoken up to guide the conversation elsewhere. He couldn’t eat, his palms felt clammy and his skin crawled with anxiety until he had worked himself up into a temper.

He had come to several infuriating realisations when he had later found his priestess reposed over a bench admiring the moon, “Where you ever going to tell me?” His voice thundered through the garden.

She appeared unphased at his outburst, “General Acacius.” She had called him Marcus when he had found her.

“How many people know?” He choked on his words, he could not shake off the feeling of betrayal that coated his chest.

“Know what?” Her tone was mild as if they were discussing the weather. He scoffed.

“Oh. Not many, but they all will eventually. Since I am still in trade.”

“Why”—his voice broke—“Would you do this? I had promised to rescue you. I would’ve come for you.” Acacius took several deep breaths in the silence between them, shoving his sobs back down his throat. She was never going to tell him that she was alive.

“I was just tying up loose ends.”

“Loose—” He laughed this time, loud and scornful. Loose ends? Did she not realise he was the loose end? His heart was a loose end?

“But I came for you.” His voice was small and vulnerable— it expressed the injustice he felt. But the placid, distant way she looked at him made him feel like had no right to object to how she had wounded him.

“I’m sorry it was done that way.” There was not a hint of regret in her voice, just endless politeness that was driving him crazy— it made his jaw clench and teeth itch.

“Why tell your family I rescued you?” He demanded.

“Because you made plans for it. I appreciate your attempt at rescuing me, it would have worked had I not made my own arrangements.” Acacius paced the short length of his garden, her eyes followed his form curiously but tentatively.

“You do not need to worry about it,” she continued, “I saved your life at the Colosseum. And you made plans to save mine. Consider your debt to me repaid.”

He whirled around to face her, “Is that what you think this is? Agony over a life debt?”

“Well, of course.” She genuinely looked confused.

“So why do it? If you knew I would worry over a life debt, why make me believe you were dead? Why go with your arrangements? Why did you not wait for me? Why not trust me?” His words were rushed and frenzied. There was an angry fervour to them which made her flinch back and stare at him like he was an animal that would pounce on her.

Acacius abruptly put distance between them, he had enjoyed that fear in the eyes of his enemy, but he could not bear for her to look at him thus. He tried to rein in his temper, she was inexperienced in the ways of love, and she probably didn’t even know what he felt for her. His priestess had spent so many years alone, protecting herself and others with nobody to depend on. It must have been difficult for her to trust someone else to come to her rescue.

“No, you could not have saved me.” Her words were heavy with meaning. He believed the moonlight was playing tricks on him, her eyes could not look so cold, dark and lifeless. Acacius felt an urgency course through his veins, and sweat broke out against his back. She seemed so far away like she could slip from between his fingers again. Just as he moved to grasp her arm, her eyes met him in a hard, contemptuous stare; the polite smile on her lips was disingenuous and false.

“You would have forgotten about me. The moment I disappeared from your sight, you would have forgotten about me. That is how it has always been between us… it is how it will always be.” She had delivered the words with such certainty that they lingered in the air, suffocating him, long after she had bid him goodnight in that same soft, placating tone.

“Acacius?”

Her father stood behind a column, and Acacius spun to face him— flustered, embarrassed and entirely overwrought. He did not have any more conversation or niceties left in him. When had the man snuck up on him? How long had he been standing there?

“Join me for a drink, Acacius.” He had no choice but to follow.

He poured him a drink of wine, as both men sat facing the hearth. A large painting hung over the fireplace, it was his priestess’ mother. She had her mother’s eyes and colouring.

“The thing about brilliant women, Acacius, is that their mere memory could sustain you for a lifetime. Do you not agree?” And Acacius sighed with relief— because he knew. Her father knew that he had not saved her.

“I agree,” He whispered.

The older man gave him a kind smile, “How long do you plan to stay with us?”

He knew the question demanded a different answer. This was no host making living arrangements, this was a father asking Acacius what his intentions were for his daughter. There was much he could tell him, that he loved her, cared for her— every day without her was a struggle for survival that exhausted him like he had fought an entire battle when he had not even stood from his seat. But the words stuck to the roof of his mouth along with his tongue. She deserved to hear these words from him before anyone else.

“I am sorry… for not protecting her—”

“It’s not what I asked. I cannot blame you for not protecting her when I have failed to, as well. I know how it hurts to let her down, Marcus. And I am her father.” There was a charged silence between them before the older man sniffed into his drink.

“She used to send us these letters through her tutors. Desperately begging us to take her home, she would never say what was wrong… nobody could tell what was wrong. Her mother and I worried, but we always told her to be strong… You couldn’t imagine the horror we felt when we found out she had poisoned the Pontifex Maximus, what had pushed a child to such extents… she never sent us letters again, unless we wrote to her first. Never asked for help. I was surprised she came home honestly, grateful, but surprised.”

Acacius felt a stone lodge in his throat; worry and fear warred within him. She had needed a protector, he was supposed to have been there… He calmed his twitching fingers by pressing them to his thigh, hoping to ease the uneasiness in him. He remembered the previous Pontifex Maximus, the man had barred him from seeing his priestess because she had been too busy playing by the sacred springs. He bit the inside of his cheek in realisation that he had been lied to, he had gone home content to know she had made new friends, and was enjoying herself in the temple. He had believed that monster.

“She dug under the walls, you know?” The man looked smug and proud.

“She paid her men to dig from outside the city walls, tunnel under it to reach the crypt. Thank you for leaving her those extra supplies, she had needed them”—her father raised his glass at him in salute and gratitude—“she had to break the mud bricks lining the inside of the crypt to access the tunnel.”

“I had to send one of my men to fill the tunnel again to fortify the city’s defences.” He informed Acacius with a sigh.

“I had promised to visit her often and watch over her… I am sorry for not keeping that promise.” Shame coloured his voice, it came out so low that he was afraid the older man would not have heard him.

“We do not blame you, Marcus. The politics at the time had been… murderous. As a general, I understand. As a father, I will say that my daughter deserves to hear that apology. She always looked at you with hero-worship in her eyes, even when you were nothing more than a young inexperienced boy who didn’t deserve to be called a soldier.”

Acacius smiled at the memory of her large, twinkly-eyed smile, she had always depended on him— trusted him. It would have hurt her more for him to not have been there for her when she needed him.

“She will forgive you, I know. Maybe she already has. My daughter wrote the most colourful letters describing your ascent in the military. Nobody was prouder than her. So were we, I hope you know. My wife and I relished every news we heard of you— well— except for your marriage that is.”

Marcus felt his eyebrows rise in surprise as he shared a laugh with his mentor. He had not realised they would follow his career and life so closely.

“Her mother was so angry when you had married. She almost beat me up while we were sparring. Blamed me for stubbornly ruining things… If she had her way, she would have foisted our daughter on you as soon as she had turned seven, she would say to me”—His voice took on a higher pitch and an accented lilt to mimic his late wife—“you don’t understand, old man. I have travelled the world. I know a good man when I see one. This one is a diamond in the rough, you will never find someone better for our daughter.”

Marcus felt humbled, a warm glow spread across his chest. He had been nothing then, he had nothing with which they could trust him with their daughter. But their confidence in him was sobering.

“You do not have to tell me how you feel about my daughter, Marcus. The truth pours from your eyes. You have never been one for schemes and lies.”

You carefully peel the outer petals of the bloom before arranging it again in the vase; it instantly looks fuller against its companions. You heard the door shut behind you, it was probably someone who collected your empty breakfast tray. Someone cleared their throat, someone with a voice so deep it sent a girlish thrill through you. But you were far too embarrassed to face him this morning. It was best to get this over with as fast as possible.

Marcus. He looked at home in his soft tunic and wool toga, and briefly, you hated that he still looked so comfortable when he had you so unsettled since yesterday. You gave him what you hoped was a gentle smile and not the grimace you were desperately trying to contain.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

You both spoke at once. You couldn’t help but give an answering smile to his amused one.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you decided to lead, “it was wrong of me to question your honour. I know you would have come to rescue me. But I am used to depending on myself.”

“And I am sorry that I never visited you at the Temple. I should have been there to lend my protection when you had required it. I know you are more than capable of protecting yourself, but you should not have had to.” He sounded so earnest.

“It is not your fault, Marcus. You were still a child yourself, and away at war for most of the time. Commodus was also purging those loyal to his father at the time. And with you fighting under Maximus then. Helping this family’s daughter would have just unnecessarily made you an eyesore.”

He was silent for a while as if considering his next words, he cleared his throat again, “Last night… I spoke to your father. And I expressed my interest in you— marrying you.”

You blinked in shock, it would have been more believable if he had told you the clouds were green today, and the heavens brown. An incredulous laugh builds in your chest as you realise he is entirely serious. “No.” It was all you said, all you could manage. And it had taken all your strength to say it, you had fought every dream and every instinct to deny him.

“Why not?” He asked so gently.

The truth was that you loved him, more than he could ever love you. And if you were to marry him, you would waste no effort in making him love you. But if he didn’t love you then you would grow to resent your marriage because you would be trapped in an endless cycle of begging for his attention and affection then feeling lonely and bereft at the lack of it. Eventually, you would wither away from the loneliness in a marriage to a man who loved another.

You gave him an excuse that was part truth and part lie, “Because we do not love each other, Acacius.” I love you, so much. You do not love me.

“But I love you.”

For a brief horrible moment, you think the words had slipped past your lips— that your mind had finally tired of keeping it a secret and shoved it out of your mouth. But as you looked at him, standing there with his brows furrowed over hesitant, pleading eyes, you realised he had said it. Acacius said he loves you… He loves you?

“Of course, I know. You have always loved me… but brotherly affection cannot sustain a marriage.” He didn’t need to go so far as to marry you to compensate for whatever way he imagined he had failed you and your family. Because that could be the only reason for marrying you. Anger curled in your belly, blistering and ravenous, did he truly believe you would settle for his marriage of duty and honour… after you had loved him for so long?

He was slowly stalking towards you, as if you were some spooked little animal he did not wish to alarm. He weaved around the table and the sofa, and you took a step back with every forward step of his until your back touched the wall behind you.

“You love Lady Lucilla.” You tightly remind him, he had said as much in the arena that day as well.

“Ah, yes, but brotherly affection cannot sustain a marriage.” He had a teasing glint in his eye that only infuriated you further. He stepped even closer, his hand clasped the side of your waist; you squirmed away from his touch— it was overwhelming. Did he enjoy being cruel to you?

You had never felt so angry at someone and noticed how beautiful they were at the same time. He was infuriatingly perfect— even with all his little imperfections; you adored the enraging way his left eyelid drooped ever so slightly more over his eye than the other, the creases across his forehead, and the crevices formed around his eyes.

“Do you think I am stupid?” You hissed at him as you fiercely shoved against him. But the bull of a man he was, Acacius didn’t budge at all. Damn him.

His fingers gripped into the softness of your belly, and he pulled you against him until your chest touched his. His other hand came up to roughly tangle with the braids and coils in your hair. He firmly pulled your head back, exposing your neck to him. It made you feel far too vulnerable, he could see the wild beating of your pulse on the side of your throat. He could probably feel the tiny shivers of anticipation racing across your spine.

“No… I do not think you are stupid.” He whispered, his breath teasing across your lips.

“You”—you were mincing the words in your mouth before they came out—“you… arrogant, stupid, self-centred, BASTARD!” You had shoved against him again, mixing physical strikes with the verbal ones. You clenched your fists and rained blows over his chest and arms. He absorbed the force of your hits as if he couldn’t even feel them. It only made you struggle harder in his hold.

“No doubt, I am all those things… but tell me why you think so, anaticula.” He sighed his endearment against your throat, his lips brushed your jaw. You flung your head to the side, hitting his nose with your jaw. You paused, panting with effort, and watched him twitch his nose and flare his nostrils to check the damage of your hit.

“Tell me.” He demanded once he believed his nose was alright.

Your face contorted into a scowl of rage, lips trembling with the pain you held inside. His hand receded from your hair to cup your neck. Acacius brought his thumb to gently massage the side of your jaw you had hit him with, his gaze on you intent and focused. It seemed he was reading your every fleeting thought and wavering expression. Helpless, resentful tears streamed down your face, they scalded your cheeks.

You could not possibly bear his gentleness right now; you had used all your strength and courage to leave him behind in Rome, and then again just now to seemingly deny him your hand in marriage. You were weak, your soul fragile— you could not barricade him out of your heart for too long. You summoned the last of your strength. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders and you leveraged their steadiness to fling yourself up and savagely bite his ear.

He reared back, pulling his ear out of your mouth before you could painfully bite down. He laughed, wild and free, as he squeezed the back of your neck to shove your face in his chest. He pulled the both of you off the wall, while you fought him with flailing arms and legs. Your foot caught his shin with a dull thud, you heard him grunt in pain. Acacius threw you on the seat of the sofa, knocking the wind out of you.

You gasped for breath while he stood over you, but you were not silent for long. You lunged for him again, screaming long and loud, uncaring of who heard you in your home. In a swift, smooth movement, he had you pinned down under him, his legs pressed down on yours preventing them from moving, your wrists were grasped in each of his hands, and Acacius pushed down his weight on you effectively cutting off both your screams and your breath.

Somebody furiously pounded on the door of your office, “General Acacius! My Lady!”

Acacius shouted at them to go away while he finally shifted some of his weight to his elbows. You tilted your chin up to take large, gulping breaths of air.

“If anyone opens that door, they will face my blade, do you hear?” His threat was ironclad; his voice— deep and hoarse. This must be what he sounds like in battle. The thought sent a pleasurable little current straight between your legs. You were embarrassed to feel your nipples tighten under your tunic. Please, please don’t notice them.

He did not take his eyes off your face, and the footsteps finally receded from the door. A tiny voice in the back of your mind panicked that the servant would return with your brother or, Dear Gods, your father; you would be caught with Acacius on top of you. You continued your struggle against him much more silently but with newfound vigour, arching and turning into him to throw his weight off you and onto the floor next to the sofa.

Acacius shocked you into stillness by licking a wet, long stripe across your cheek and tasting your tears. He looked at you with wild, overbright eyes. His grip on your wrists was beginning to ache.

“Stop struggling, you will hurt yourself, dulcissima.” Even though he spoke slowly, his voice sounded otherworldly, like he was possessed by some crazed, bloodthirsty spirit.

His grin was savage and predatory. “Tell me.” He commanded again.

You laughed hysterically, no doubt surprising him, bending your wrists in his grip to scratch your nails against his hand.

“I saw you,” you viciously informed him, “I saw you take that stupid oath to protect her and her child. I saw you marry her.”

Your chest heaved, touching his with every breath, the contact far too sensuous on your oversensitive skin. You had no more tears left, the last of them were drying on your cheeks. But the rage, the frustration, the pain still churned in you— they overwhelmed you, burned you alive.

“I have watched you for years!” You sobbed, “And you never saw me…”

It was as if the dam had broken with this one little truth; everything you had hidden and suppressed gushed forth with vengeance.

“I see you now.” He said. Damn you.

“You didn’t even know my name.” You shouted once more.

Acacius bit the uppermost swell of your breast, leaving indents of his teeth. A broken, keening sound left you and you arched into his mouth. When had he untied your tunic?

“I know your name now.” He swiped his tongue over the teeth marks he left.

“You…”—you swallowed another moan—“you didn’t even remember me. You forgot I existed.” All coherent thoughts had left your mind, you continued to mindlessly thrash against him, throwing your bitterness and aggravation at his body.

“I remember you now.”

Acacius leaned away and slid down your body, you nearly wept at the loss of him. His hands were rough and warm against your thighs; he had lifted both your tunic and stola until they bunched around your hips. He guided your foot over the back of the sofa where it limply hung in shock. He grasped the other foot under your knees and spread you open to his eyes. There was a mortifyingly wet sound at the movement; you could feel a slick moisture coating the inside of your thighs.

You struggled to cover yourself again, trying to pull your clothes down over the most intimate part of you. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Acacius— Acacius would never do this. He would never take your virginity and deprive you of a choice in your marriage. Desperation burned in your throat. And you resorted to one final act of protest. Your hand reached up to soundly smack against his face.

There was a stinging current in your palm from the impact. A redness bloomed on his cheek, along with an imprint of your hand. You began to regret your choice of action at the sight of his marred face. For several long moments, Acacius was frozen with his head still whipped away from your strike. You anxiously waited for a reaction, forgetting to even right your clothes.

He slowly turned around to face you again, and gently clasped the hand that had him. He frowned at the redness of your palm before tenderly pressing his lips to the warm centre of it while giving you a reprimanding look through his lashes. He massaged and caressed your palms before interlocking your fingers with his.

Just as you had thought the storm had passed, Acacius swooped down in a swift and urgent motion. His jaw stretched, and the hot cavern of his mouth entirely covered your dripping sex. His tongue started flat against the base of you, between the cheeks of your arse and dangerously close to another hole farther down. It licked a strong swipe between the folds, scratching past the pert bud of nerves on the way to the very apex of her where short hairs curled. You arched into his mouth, quite incapable of sound as your belly contracted with the shock. Your eyes rolled back in your head and fell close until all you could do was feel.

There was a difference between innocence and ignorance; you had spent enough time with whores on the street to know what sexual congress between two people looked like. But they had failed to inform you of this…

He was tasting you, slow and intimate, as if he had all the time in the world. Each stroke elicited a different sound from you, he perused your reactions to him to draw forth more of your pleasure. His tongue circled the throbbing bundle of nerves sitting at the top of your slit before enclosing his mouth on it and he sucked. You rocked your pelvis into his face to ease the tension building at its spine.

Acacius dragged and pulled on that bit of flesh in his mouth, rolling it between his lips and tongue. You were quivering under him, his hands found your hips and pressed them back down into the seat under you. You felt his teeth graze over that sensitive bud as he nibbled on it. The tension snapped, and an intense white heat spread from your centre until you saw stars behind your eyes. You came, shuddering with the force of pleasure; every nerve felt alive. The loud wails and moans escaping your mouth broke on the need for you to gasp at the intensity. You had forgotten how to breathe.

He was still licking into your folds with devastating accuracy, coaxing more tremors from your body as he cleaned up your release with his tongue. Acacius pressed his tongue deeper into you, barging inside where your flesh was still contracting and releasing. You clenched over the sudden intrusion and… Dear Gods, Acacius was trembling between your legs. A low groan rose from deep within his chest and disappeared into the fluttering walls of your cunt. It was an intoxicating thrill, to know you could provoke such a response in the usually steadfast and composed man like him.

You waited, limp in the pool of pleasure and warm relief, for Acacius to resurface between your legs. There was a thin, silvery string that still connected his shiny, wet lips to your opening. He licked his lips regretfully, no doubt tasting you, his eyes voraciously trained on your pussy. His head bent down again, and you thought he might repeat his actions. Any resistance you might have had was already melted away from your body.

But his eyes flickered up to the door, hearing something you could not hear over the rush of blood and ringing in your ears. His shoulders slumped in defeat against your legs. And he pressed a reverent kiss against that sensitive and raw piece of flesh that made you twitch under him again. He looked down at your wanton form, thighs spread wide open for him in invitation, gaze half-lidded and enticingly parted lips.

There was a rightness that enveloped you as Acacius consolingly kissed inside your knee as he pulled your leg from the back of the sofa. There was… a new awareness, a new yearning as he helped you sit up and pulled your clothes back down your legs. You watched him, fascinated, as he fruitlessly fussed over your hair to fix your coiffure before settling to tuck the loose strands of hair behind your ear.

He kneeled by your feet. His large hands firmly stroking your thighs over your clothes, it sent another pleasurable thrill down your spine. Acacius reached for his toga that he had abandoned on the floor in your struggle, wrapping the cloth around him and draping it to cover the insistent bulge pushing forth below his torse— you caught a wet patch staining his tunic before you averted your eyes. Your mind configured lewd images of what the whores had taught you, but it was Acacius… Acacius inside you, inside your mouth. His hands came to rest on your knees as he sighed your name.

“I cannot change the past dulcissima.” The man was obscene. His tongue flicked over the side of his lips to taste you as he called you dulcissima— as if you truly did taste sweet.

“But I can promise you now that I will never have another woman except you in my lifetime— even if you refuse a marriage to me. You are everything I want. You are all I see now.” His eyes were earnest and sincere.

You looked down at where his hands were clutching onto your knees, his grip betrayed the anxiety and nervousness he felt in the moment. But you were distracted. His hands had new scars. They sprawled over his hands, some of them flat and lighter in colour, others puckered and slightly red. Your nails had scratched into the thin skin of his scars and drawn blood; you gently and apologetically grazed over his wounds before coaxing them around to see his palm. The skin of his palms was coarse, new callouses had formed over abrasions.

“What happened to your hands?” Your question was whispered into the skin of his palm as you imitated the kiss he had given your palm just earlier.

“Nothing.” His voice was deeper, lower in octave, you could sense the emotions he was trying to bury. The scars weren’t nothing if he wasn’t able to tell you how he got them. These weren’t the callouses one got from holding a sword or weapon. One of his fingers sat at an odd angle like it had been broken and then fixed.

A suspicion arose in your mind, “What did you mean last night when you said that you had come for me?”

He did not answer you, he did not need to. Acacius was a man of his word, nobody could have stopped him from digging you out.

“But I made a show of drinking poison. They must have told you.” He harshly gulped, his jaw twitching before he gave you a soft smile. His hands climbed from your thighs to hold your waist while he leaned up on his knees to give you a chaste kiss on the lips. It was nothing more than a press of two warm lips but it made a current run through your veins. You were going to marry this stupid honourable man who had fought over your grave to pull you out.

“I love you.” You finally told him. A wave of joy and euphoria overwhelmed you.

“I love you, too.” You giggled at his admission, still in disbelief.

You leaned down towards his face, Acacius turned his head to catch your lips but you jerked your head back from his. You both watched each other, and you admired his features again as he acquiesced to your silent demand to turn his face forward again; he watched your movements out of the corner of his eye.

You lined your cheek to Acacius’ jaw and in a fluid, cat-like movement rubbed yourself against him until the bristles of his beard scratched all the way down your neck and to your shoulder. You gasped at the delicious scraping sensation on your skin that sent a jolt of pressure to your nipples, through your belly and between your thighs. He huffed a small, amused laugh at your actions.

“Never known what beards felt like… thought they’d be softer— like fur.” You explained, eyes still coloured with lust.

“Should I shave mine off?” He teased.

There was a spot just to the side of your folds, inside your right thigh, that was still vaguely itchy and burning, his beard had rubbed that patch of skin raw. You looked down at him, dark and forbidding.

“I will never marry you if you shave it off.” You threatened.

The door of the office flung open; you and Acacius scampered away from each other. Your father and brother stood by the entrance looking livid as their eyes studied the both of you. Oh dear. You stood to say something in Acacius’ defence, but your brother turned to you with an accusing glare.

“Why would you do this to him? You cannot act like a savage animal in this civilised home!” You gasped, affronted and shocked, looking to your father to rein in his son.

“Really, anaticula, look at the state of him. What did you do to him? How will we ever find you a husband?” What did you do to him? You should be asking what HE did to ME!

You looked at Acacius. There was a clear imprint of your hand on the side of his face. You noticed with a wince that blood had dried near his ear, had you truly bit him that hard? His hands were also bloodied from your scratches. Very well, he looked like he had been mauled. It wasn’t fair at all, you were incensed at being unable to defend yourself. Even more so when you realised his shoulders were shaking from laughter.

“About the husband… I have just asked your daughter if she would marry me.” All three men turned to look at you. And you only had your eyes on one of them. Acacius looked… happy. His eyes were warm, twinkling with delight and contentment. He looked like a man in love. He was in love with you.

“Well… you haven’t exactly asked.” You still replied petulantly. Both your father and your brother whipped around to look at Acacius whose gaze on you was affectionate and devout. The smile gracing his lips made him look boyishly young.

“Anaticula, I find myself hopelessly and irrevocably in love with you. I know I have made you wait for far too long”—you both swallowed the emotions clogging your throat at the moment—“but will you please reach into your endless reserves of mercy and deign me worthy of marriage to you?”

You laughed through your tears, the words were so unlike Acacius that you could see him physically searching for them in his mind.

“Very well, but only because you begged so prettily.” You knew you would pay for your words later when lustful heat flashed past his eyes. But for now, you were drawn into each other’s arms again— as it was always meant to be.

A/N: The final sort of confrontation, confession scene is inspired by a book I read a very long time ago during COVID so I don't remember the name or author of the title. But I do remember the Hero trying to coax the confession out of a reluctant heroine who was very upset that the Hero was a manwhore who never noticed her while sleeping around— which is not Acacius, but it was so fitting. I hope you guys had as much fun reading it as I had writing it :D

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You must cry.” The Vestal begged.“Why must I cry? I happen to be very happy today, the tears are not forthcoming.” His anaticula sounded almost petulant, this was not the first time they were having this discussion. Acacius gently stroked his thumb over the side of her finger; their right hands were bound together by wool ribbons, fingers interlocked.
“The bride has to cry during the wedding procession, show some reluctance and modesty—”“I am so joyous, I would skip to my husband’s home if I could.” Acacius snorted into his cup of wine, spilling some of the liquid over its edges. He made no effort to suppress his chuckle as he placed the wine down to wipe at his mouth. His lips were still curled into a grin, he found he hadn’t been able to restrain it since he awoke this morning. He cannot decide which sound is sweeter, his name on her lips or her address of him as husband.
“—it is Roman tradition.” Her friend insisted.
“I don’t believe I would like to invoke the Roman tradition of kidnapping women for marriage.” Oh, but Acacius had wanted to invoke it several times a day leading up to their wedding. They had been reduced to chaste kisses and clasped hands, always chaperoned by a hawk-eyed matron who would squint at the most gentle caress he dared to share with his betrothed. Now his wife. Her father and brother had insisted it was for his own safety, so their anaticula didn’t attack him again as she had in her office— forcing an honourable man to wed her, they had teased.
Acacius felt they were having far too much fun at his expense. Because all this honourable man wanted to do was haul her over his shoulders and carry her off to the nearest cave. He wanted to hide her somewhere, not even share her shadow with the world; keep her trapped underneath him until all she could see was him. Alas, he had to settle for buying a domus near her father’s home. He has ensured nobody would interrupt them for the next few days so he could take her over every surface, wall and square foot of the floor before letting her up. Let their pleasure and love strengthen the pillars of their home.

He had spent over a decade with only his hand for company, but now the few meagre weeks of abstinence riddled his brain with insistent need. His skin buzzed with excitement, a current working its way up his limbs, as it would before a battle, at the very thought of having his Priestess to himself tonight. He had thought up so many ways to unleash that tigress he had encountered in her office.“You know it is not just about that… The lares will be upset. Your household deities have guarded you for so long, they will be upset to see you spurn their protection for the gods of your husband’s home. You must cry to let them know you do not leave them willingly.” Acacius paused at the words, he had no lares ; there were no spirits of ancestors or deceased family to call upon.
He had been orphaned young, his whole family was lost to illness and he hardly remembered them. He had long lost faith in the deities and gods. But perhaps marriage was making him sentimental, even if ineffective and symbolic, he did not want his Priestess to go without protection. The shrine in his new home was fashioned with a single wooden statue of Vesta he had carved, it bore a distinct likeness to his Priestess, along with rose-scented incense— reminiscent of her scent. However, he couldn’t invoke her own spirit to protect her now could he — that was for his protection.

Acacius had given up his previous tools of protection. All his equipment had been military commissioned; as a General, he did not believe in using a weapon that his soldiers could not afford; sometimes well-made weaponry was the difference between life and death, and his life was not more valuable than any of theirs. His gladius was the only weapon he had owned— the very one he had used to defend himself in the Colosseum.Acacius had melted the sword to make two identical daggers— one of which he had gifted to his Priestess as a betrothal gift, the other he had kept for himself. An engagement ring had also been made from the same metal, which she now wore on the third finger of her left hand where it would connect to her heart. It had felt right to slide that ring onto her finger; it was only fitting that the woman who had rescued and protected him had a piece of the blade that had guarded him. He had vowed to never fight another war. After all the victories and bloodshed across the world, he had returned home to submit at her merciful feet. And there had never been a defeat sweeter than losing himself in her, especially not when he had won her too.

There had been enough metal left over to form a thin betrothal medallion, engraved with their visages sharing a kiss along with two clasped hands on its back. He knew his Priestess wore the medallion around her neck, a gold chain could be seen disappearing into her tunic, the disk surely nestled between her bosom. Acacius wondered if he should convince her to place the token in their shrine. After all, their love had protected and sustained them both through difficult times. He knew it would guide and watch over any children or descendants they might have.“Did you want me to cry, Acacius?” She asks him as she draws closer, resting their bound hands on his thigh, easing the stretch of the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He really should unbind their hands, they were sitting beside each other, so he had to stretch his arm across his torso to grasp her hand. But judging by how tightly she held him, she did not want to let go either.He shook his head no, he did not believe he could stomach seeing her reluctance to marry him even if it was feigned. He had even offered for them to stay with her family if she was unwilling to part with them since she had lived apart from them for the last three decades.
“Are you sure? I could shed some false ones… maybe get closer to the smoke so it would make my eyes water”—Acacius kissed the irresistible little moue off her lips—“If I don’t cry then everyone will say you have married a disobedient wife who will tyrannically dominate your home.” She continued her exaggerated words anyway. She didn’t know that he planned to acquiesce to all her commands and requests, he could swim across oceans blazing with fire just to see her smile— he had done worse for much less.
Acacius watched the sway of her earrings, the metal catching the light from the setting sun behind her. He hadn’t been able to look away from her since he had lifted her flammeum for their wedding ceremony. The flame-coloured veil glittered around her, casting a warm golden glow upon her skin. His priestess was not one for dull colours, but she looked radiant in her white tunic and stola .
He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then trailed gentle pecks all the way to her ear where he nibbled on the soft, petal-like skin of her ear lobe before he widened his jaw, tongue reaching out to capture her earring into his mouth. Acacius savoured the coolness of it in the warmth of his mouth as he gently suckled on the jewellery, relishing the shiver that went down her spine. He nuzzled the loose coil of hair behind her ear, knowing she enjoyed the scrape of his beard on her skin— he heard the hitch in her breath. He released the earring in his mouth, letting its wetness streak across her neck.

“You can cry for me… later when it is just the two of us.” He whispered to her. But his words did not have the intended effect on her. He watched her eyes waver before skittishly looking over his shoulder, her own shoulders tensed and curled away from him. Acacius retreated and saw the nervousness painting her face, her lips pursed and brows slightly furrowed.
He playfully nudged her nose with his, “What is it, anaticula ?”
He heard the harsh gulp of her throat, her eyes frantically looking around for the right words. When she looked at him again, her gaze was hesitant and embarrassed. His Priestess cupped his jaw with her free hand, her fingers pinched his earlobe in retaliation before her thumb softly stroked under his eyes. Acacius melted into her loving touch, his eyes drooping shut.
“You woke so early today…” She smelled of her gardens— flowers, herbs and fresh earth.
He had awakened well before dawn, but he felt rested and replenished. Usually, the bride and her mother would collect flowers from their garden to weave a wreath on the day of the wedding. But his anaticula’s mother had already passed away. He knew the other matrons of her family would gladly help her, but Acacius had wanted to weave her wedding crown himself. He had decided so when he saw her wear a wreath the day she was to be unjustly punished for unchastity.

He had sneaked into her room, woken her up with cakes collected from the kitchen before stealing her away to the gardens so they could make her wreath. He had chosen marjoram for honour, love and joy; rosemary for fidelity and loyalty; lavender for devotion; sage for long life; verbena, basil and mint along with roses, lilies and violets. The crown had ended up a bit too heavy but she wore it with grace.
“And you also went hunting with my father and brother.” An animal had to be sacrificed for the wedding. Acacius had decided to hunt a wild boar himself. The entrails of the animal were read by the auspex for omens and the approval of the Gods. It would not have mattered what the auspices prophesied, he would have hunted every animal in the city until the omens were read in his favour. But the first boar had been enough, the omens had signified a joyous and lasting marriage. After the offerings had been made to the gods, the animal was cooked for their wedding feast.
“Then you cooked in the kitchens as well.” He hadn’t cooked, he had made the bread needed for their wedding ceremony. It was not supposed to be made by the groom. But in the absence of his Priestess, during the months he had believed her to be dead, Acacius had perfected making bread in the kitchens she used to feed the poor. He had wanted that bread to be offered to the gods, he had wanted that bread to be fed to his bride. It was another token of his devotion.
“The ceremonies were so long.” She was right, Acacius thought the Pontifex Maximus would never stop talking and praying and chanting. He suspected the man dragged out the wedding ceremony solely out of spite that his Priestess had lied about her death. But he had not heard a single word of the chief high priest, his Priestess had stood before him and he was lost in her adoring, twinkling eyes.He had always believed her eyes to be wondrous, always bright with mirth and mischief, they found joy in the smallest pleasures of life. A single gaze from her could fall on him like a soothing salve as well as disturb his constitution— make him restless with need and desire. His heart always trembled when she looked up at him through those full lashes. But today her eyes had looked so captivating with the kohl lining them that Acacius had almost stumbled in an effort to get to her. He had blindly signed their marriage contract, unwilling to take his eyes off her for too long.The only time he had lost sight of her today was when he had cried during her consent of their marriage, his own tears blurring his vision. Theirs was a union of equals, he would never make demands on her wealth and personhood, and she was free to keep the name her parents had graced her; all Acacius had wanted was a chance to spend his remaining life by her side, and the privilege of belonging to her. So he had been dumbfounded and overwhelmed when she had forgone the blessed and auspicious name Gaius to lovingly and proudly take his name during her vows.
Ubi tu Acacius, ego Acacia. Where you are Acacius, there I am Acacia.He had not deserved the honour, the name meant very little. It was not what his parents had called him; neither was it a name that held any high esteem in terms of legacy and social standing, nor was it the name bestowed upon him by the people. Acacius was always preceded by General and it was a name tainted with the blood of the innocent. But she had taken that piece of himself he was most ashamed of for herself. And in doing so, she had breathed a new life into it— she was what gave his name honour and worth.And he was proud to be her Acacius. Ubi tu Acacia, ego Acacius. Where you are Acacia, there I am Acacius. He had broken the bread he had made over her head, careful not to drop crumbs in her hair, before handing over half as an offering to the Gods. Acacius had fed her that bread, her teeth gently grazing his fingertips, affectionately nipping at them, before she had taken the same piece to feed him. And the bread was sweeter where she had bitten into it. But far sweeter was her mouth when he had sealed their marriage with a kiss.
There was a rightness, a sense of tranquillity, that had settled about him at the conclusion of the ceremony as their hands were being tied. For the first time, Acacius had been content and at peace. His mind was serene, devoid of the usual demons that haunted him; his heart could taste the rising joy within him, and he could pluck the excitement from the air.

“So you must be very tired tonight…” Her words had tapered into mumbling, which was so unlike the woman he knew. Acacius figured she was hoping to avoid their wedding night which was a surprise since she was so receptive to his advances.
“One of the women gifted me this… salve. Some ointment they got from a trader.” He knew he wouldn’t need to pry for answers, she would work her way to telling him her concerns eventually.
“And all the other matrons have been looking at me with these faintly pitying looks. At first, I just thought it was because I did not have a mother… but they sat me down last night for the most interesting conversation.” Her hand left his face to pick a grape before offering it at his lips. Acacius obediently accepted the fruit in his mouth.
“They said my wifely duties would be very difficult.” She looked at him, as if awaiting a reaction.“Why? I plan to be the most amenable of husbands, dulcissima .” He dropped an affectionate kiss on her palm.
“Because of your size , Acacius. They said you would be very big, like a bull”— Acacius choked on the second grape she had shoved into his mouth, a strange sound between a strangled laugh and a cough escaped his mouth—“And it would hurt me very much but I should just lay back and endure . I do not want to endure…”
Acacius took a moment to appreciate her aggrieved face, “ Anaticula , did you not enjoy our play in your office—”“Yes, about that. It is most uncommon I am told. But that bodes well for our marriage—” he huffed a laugh at the sagely nod she gave, he would have loved to hear her explain to an elderly matron how he had kissed her between her legs. Was that why he had been receiving odd and appreciative glances all day? He felt a flush climb up his neck, how many women had she told?“I did enjoy it… but do men do it to compensate for the pain after they have taken their pleasure?” He blinked at her, it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion based on what she knew.“I assume… it should not be too difficult, right?” She said, almost as if convincing herself, “I’m told it is quite nice sometimes…”“I swear to not do anything that doesn’t please you tonight, dulcissima .”
“Everything you do pleases me.” She gifted him a soft smile.
“Even when you believe it will hurt you?” He couldn’t help but tease her.
“I know you won’t mean to.” And she sounded so certain that he felt a tender spot in his heart give away. He could still taste her essence on his lips. If all she allowed him tonight was to drink from her nectar, he would happily pass away on his knees with his head still buried between her thighs.“ Carissima , I will enjoy our nights together, and I expect you will find your pleasure as well. I will ensure it, because it brings me more joy and gratification than you can imagine—”
“Can the newlyweds please be mindful that the guests are trying to eat their meals?”His wife reared back with a soft gasp before turning to face her brother. Acacius was pleased to know he held the same effect on her as she had on him. Because he had been heedless of their wedding party all day. Their guests had been raucous, tittering and chatter filled the air; the wine flowed freely and the food was plentiful. Many people had come up to speak to them, but the conversations never extended beyond pleasantries and congratulations.
After all, he was no longer an important political force and the highest echelons of society still didn’t know of his Priestess’ influence amongst the people. It was baffling how disconnected the aristocrats could be from those they considered lowly. Moreover, their guests were too busy ingratiating themselves with their young Emperor who was in attendance with his mother.His wife had pointed out no less than three women who had thrown themselves at Lucius, quietly snickering to him when they were rejected. According to her, a prospective paramour had tough competition in both Fortuna and Ravi— who shared a very interesting history. His anaticula loved gossip, it was the most endearing thing about her. And she had informed him with great relish how both Macrinus and Ravi had been lovers once who chose to lead very different lives after earning their freedom. Macrinus had been different then, but he had slowly rotted and corroded just as his owners had. Ravi would go out of his way to help those Macrinus owned, Lucius and Fortuna included— grieving for the man he used to be. She believed the Emperor would be sharing his lovers. Acacius didn’t care as long as none of them came to disturb him and his wife.
Acacius pulled his wife to stand, urging the wedding to its final ritual. He unbound their hands, so she could pray to the lares of her father’s home and bid them goodbye. He wordlessly assured their household gods that he would take care of her and keep her happy while leaving an offering of food and coins at their shrine. He watched as his wife’s eyes glazed over with tears, helplessly his hand found her arm offering her warmth and comfort.
“If the lares are unwilling to part with you, tell them they can find you in my home.” He whispered to her. The words pulled a teary huff of laughter from her.
“I miss my mother.” She quietly confessed. And Acacius felt his heart break for her. He gently wiped at the tears on her cheek, his nose stinging with his own tears as she leaned into his touch.“She would have been the happiest at this match”—Her father told her, as he handed his wife a clay mask resembling her mother’s face—“take her with you to your new home. Let her guide and protect your family.” Acacius was grateful for another addition to their shrine.He could think of no better protector than her mother. Acacius had been young and barely literate when he had arrived in Rome and the woman had shown him enough grace and favour to educate him along with her children. It was at her behest that her husband had trained him as a soldier. As a General, he had learned that diplomacy and negotiation prevented unnecessary bloodshed. While he was no politician, these were skills he had learned as a youth when he had watched the woman run her household and business. He remembered anaticula’s mother to be remarkable, shrewd and protective— qualities that he was grateful ran to her daughter as well.

She lit a torch from their hearth and passed it to the matron of honour before her father and brother tearfully embraced her to say their goodbyes. As he had no family of his own, this man— his mentor— had served the role of his father in all the wedding rituals while his wife’s brother had served as her guardian. There was an uncertainty in the air, even as the guests had begun the wedding chants and songs. As a groom, he was supposed to put on a show of forcefully ripping his bride from the arms of her family. But he knew his wife did not agree with this particular tradition so he waited for her lead.
She reached out for him and he pulled her closer by the hand, kissing her knuckles as she stood by his side. But instead of walking together, Acacius stooped to carry her, his arm coming under her hips to offer her a perch, another arm supporting her knees. He shouldered past the curtains and flower garlands on the archway of their door to walk out onto the street.The entire city seemed to have shown up to see her married; in addition to the passers-by, those who used the charitable services she offered had shown to throw honeyed almonds and walnuts at the newlyweds— shouting their blessings and good wishes for her. Her arms found purchase on his shoulders as she looked over them to wave at someone in the crowd. His wife, overwhelmed and astounded at the love people had for her, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and his skin burned with the tears she shed there. Acacius soothingly rubbed her hip and placed a chaste kiss on her arm. He couldn’t help but feel so proud of the woman he loved.
She sniffled and collected herself as they neared the neighbourhood crossroads, “Acacius put me down, we have to worship the shrine at the crossroads.” He heaved her higher in his arms to readjust his hold on her and bring her closer to the shrine at the crossroads. She placed a ceremonial coin to the protective gods of the shrine along with some food a boy had carried for her.
Her friend Aquilia, another former vestal, served as the matron of honour and led their group to his home. While her marriage was not as long as was required for the role, her husband’s love for her had persevered through the three decades of her duties in the Temple. Acacius liked the man, he had vowed to take no other woman in his life and had kept his word. Although, he was still upset that all of the Vestals had suspected his anaticula was alive when he had believed her to be dead, but they had not thought to inform him.
“Surely you don’t intend to carry me all the way home.” She spoke into the curve of his shoulder. He most certainly will carry her to their home.“I’m too heavy, you’ll tire yourself.” He didn’t grace that with a response. He had carried men heavier than her; in the heat of the battle he had lifted drawbridges and ship towers. She should know better than to question her husband’s strength, he hadn’t earned his physique without the heavy labour.
She gave a resigned sigh, he felt her warm breath down the back of his neck. She nuzzled behind his ear, and took a deep breath before her tongue lapped at the sensitive skin. Acacius shivered and his knees weakened, his grip instinctually tightened on her so she would not fall.
“Carissima, wait… we are on the street.” He hissed through his teeth while she quietly laughed. She could not have tasted anything other than the light sheen of sweat he had worked up in the warm evening. His anaticula picked a honeyed almond stuck in the folds of his toga and apologetically offered it to his mouth, Acacius did not forget to kiss her fingertips for the gift. She took another sweet treat for herself that had been trapped in a crevice between them.
Acacius finally set her down when they approached the new domus , allowing the Pontifex Maximus to utter some more prayers while his wife smeared the fat of the boar to honour Ceres, and the fat of a wolf to honour Rome on their doorposts. She tied the wool strings that had bound their hands to the handle of the door. He felt the first stirrings of impatience, to be so close to their home and not have her to himself was making his hands twitch.
The guests clamoured to warn her to not step on the threshold as she entered her new home— doing so would insult Vesta and bring bad omen. But Acacius simply lifted her again, with an arm under her waist and knees so that her feet were as far from the threshold as they could be and carried her into their home.
Only their family followed them inside and watched her light the hearth of her new home with the fire from her father’s home. Acacius extinguished the torch and threw the wood at the audience gathered at their door who rushed to catch it.
It seems his wife was becoming impatient as well because she had begun the prayer and offerings at their shrine without him. Acacius bent to unlace her sandals, removing the single coin she had stashed in her footwear and placing it at the feet of the wooden Vesta in the shrine.“Does that statue… look a bit like me?” She murmured. She had yet to discover the depths of his devotion.
Acacius offered her a lamp and a bowl full of water, “I give you fire and water”—she touched both items—“You are the Domina of this household and master over everything that resides within its walls, including your husband, Carissima. ”
He kissed his wife before turning to his guests, resolutely ushering them out of his home and unceremoniously closing the doors on their teasing and obscene jeers.
You stared at the nuptial bed. It was small— too small. It would barely fit just Acacius, and that too only in width, because one end of the bed lifted into a curve they would have to rest their back against so their feet didn’t hang off the other end. Or perhaps this wasn’t the nuptial bed because it was here, out in the open courtyard, rather than in your husband’s sleeping quarters. But the bed was finely made, with sturdy wood and soft cushions decorated with roses and crocus petals— a current tingled in your belly at the sight of the aphrodisiac flower. That won’t be needed. Acacius returned in a huff after seeing off your guests, plopping down on the chaise— because really this can’t be called a bed. You looked down at him, resplendent under the glittering moonlight; it made the grey hairs in his curls glimmer silvery. The torches around the atrium cast playful gold shadows across his face. Instead of a white toga as was the custom, he had chosen to drape the red cloak you had made for him all those years ago, its gold embroidery gleamed against his tanned skin.
But it was his eyes, that made your heart flutter with the verses of love you didn’t have words to express. Acacius managed to make even the cold, luminous moon burn bright and hot in his eyes. Sometimes the way he looked at you still made your heart feel raw and vulnerable. You had waited thirty very long years for him to simply look at you— to recognise you. While you had loved him for as long as you could remember, never once had you hoped for his love too. Your younger self would be in disbelief had you told them one day he would be your husband .

“Are you hungry?” He asked while stretching out his hand for you.
You hurriedly shook your head, your insides were suffused with enough love and awe to sustain you for a lifetime. He pulled you to sit on his lap, his thigh felt strong and firm under your bottom.
Acacius stroked your back, his hand was large and warm as it reached up to cradle your neck; his fingers calloused and firm as they massaged away any tension. Your head lulled back over his hand, a soft sigh escaping your mouth. He leaned forward, another hand coming over your waist pulling you closer into the heat of his chest. You gasped as Acacius kissed along your exposed neck, his beard deliciously scraping against your sensitive skin as his lips lingered over your beating pulse before reaching your upturned chin. He playfully bit your chin.
You turned in his arms until both your legs framed his waist and you had straddled his lap. You pulled at the wool of his toga, removing it from his shoulders so it lay spread beneath him before your hand slid into his hair; the curls wrapping around your fingers as you claimed his lips with yours. The force of the kiss pushed him down until his head was leaning over the backrest of the chaise.What you lacked in experience you made up for with need and desperation. There was a groan from his chest and his arms wrapped around your waist to haul you closer to him— something hard was prodding at your thigh. You reverently traced the shape of his lips, feather-soft kisses to the plump cushion of them, light licks over the swooping edges. But you craved more, more, more. You needed to feel his tongue against yours, you needed to be closer somehow.
Your hand wrapped around his throat, fingers barely reaching the sides of the thick muscles. His heartbeat thundered on your fingers and then onto your palms as you slid your hand up to cup his wide, square jaw. You dug your fingers into his jaw to pry his mouth open. Acacius parted his lips to allow you to explore his mouth, you stroked and delved deeper in the chase for his tongue. He closed his lips around your tongue and suckled. His tongue met yours now, teasing and confident before he released you, placing a gentle kiss to the tip of your tongue and then on your closed lips.“How do you want me, dulcissima? ” He purred against your lips.
You did not know what he asked of you, “Desperate.” You answered honestly.
Acacius laughed. A loud, free sound that made your heart race.
“For you? Always.” He promised as he guided your hips to sit directly on that hard, throbbing part of him. He did feel large. “I will not do anything you do not wish me to, anaticula. Tell me, what do you want from me tonight?” His tone was breathy as if words were difficult for him.
“Everything.” You didn’t want to waste another second. It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, but you needed a part of Acacius within you, physically and in every other way you could possibly consume him.
“Are you sure?” He confirmed even as his hands had already unpinned your veil allowing it to fall behind you. But he waited, for permission, for something as small as a nod while he fingered the Hercules knot tied at your waist— a sign of your chastity.

“Yes.” Your voice barely about a whisper. Acacius pulls the wool at your waist, both hands fisting your girdle around the knot, and breaks it with apparent ease instead of untying it. He then pushed your stola down over your shoulders until it pooled at your waist. Anticipation curled in your belly as he slowly pulled at the tiny bows that ran down your shoulders and along the sleeve of your tunic. Each tug of string was a sensual display of possessiveness and desire— his eyes were raptured on the swathe of skin as more of you was exposed to him. The tunic too fell at your waist, pooling over his lap and yours; only a plain binding lay between him and your breasts. And instead of unwrapping you, slowly as all his other actions had been. Acacius swiftly and impatiently tugged the fabric down.
You both gasped at the movement, the cloth dragged across your sensitive nipples causing them to stiffen and bloom towards Acacius. The winds were blowing colder in the night than they were during the day. A shiver ran down your spine as you sat bare on his lap, he made no moves. Acacius just stared with intoxicating eyes; they roved over your body, studying your face, the slope of your neck, the expanse of your chest, the curve of your shoulder, the length of your arms and the swell of your belly until finally, they settled on the betrothal medallion that hung in the valley of your breasts.
Even as you held still for him, allowing him to look his fill, the experience of being displayed thus was new and uncomfortable— no man had seen you this way. But it was not unwelcome. He looked breathless and awed, his hand faintly trembling as he brushed your nipples with the back of his fingers. The touch was so light, lighter than a feather, but it incinerated you, it sent a fiery current down to your womb which contracted; there was an insistent throb between your legs.
But whatever sensation you felt seemed dwarfed by his reaction. Acacius shuddered. His eyes were wide and glassy. You placed a hand over his heart, its pace wild and erratic. Abruptly, he dug his fingers into your waist, lifting you off his lap and stood with you. Your clothes fell to your feet, and you fisted his tunic to guide it over his head. You regretted that he chose to wear the tunic that fell to his calf, the longer fabric took a few scant moments longer to be pulled over his head but the wait was torturous. His underwear swiftly followed yours on the floor.
Acacius was better than anything you could have ever imagined. Better than those marble statues of gods and heroes, better than art and most certainly better than those erotic drawings you bought on the streets. He looked unworldly, bathed in both the cool of the moon and the warmth of the hearth. He had been stripped to his basest form now both hardened warrior and wild beast with the eyes of a man in love. Your husband.
You laughed then, wide and happy, “You are divine, Acacius.”
He answered with a chuckle, light flickering over the dimple on his cheek, “You do not see yourself, carissima. ”He held nothing of himself back as he allowed you to touch him; he sighed as you caressed his scars as if you relieved him of the pain, his breath hitched as your fingernails raked over the hair on his chest, he gasped as you scraped over his nipples. The planes and hills of his body leaned into your palm as you explored all the ways he was different from you.

He did not stay still under your ministrations for too long and his lips fell on yours without reserve, his hands cupped your ass using it to pull you closer towards him. Your arms wrapped around his neck like a garland of love, a hand buried in his hair in a silent command for him to never stop kissing you, another hand exploring his broad shoulders, the stretch of his back and the bulk of his arms. You decided Acacius had to be naked until the sun rose tomorrow so you could study every freckle and spot on his body.His kiss was raw, elemental— there were no gentle explorations and tentative touches. Acacius claimed and conquered, his lips on yours were hard and insistent while his hands on your body were rough and restless. He touched where no decent man would linger, using your delighted and shocked gasp to enter deeper into your mouth; you clung to his shoulders to keep up with his pace and only his hands held you upright.
A calloused thumb grazed your nipple before he pinched and pulled at the sensitive flesh. You bit into his lip, giving it a sharp nip in response and Acacius groaned into your mouth. He kneaded the flesh of your hips, but his fingers slipped as they moved to the inside of your thighs. You were dewy and wet for him, the hairs and skin surrounding your sex were covered in slick moisture.
He lazily explored your folds, his fingers parting and squeezing as they pleased until he bought his tips right against the bundle of nerves at the apex of your slit. You ground your hips against his curled fingers when he stilled his motions, desperate for the friction as your pleasure built, steadily climbing up your spine while he nipped under your jaw before receding to watch the sway of your hips to and fro, to and fro over his hand, smearing it with more of your sticky fluid.
“Please…” You begged him. And Acacius moved his fingers then, in dizzyingly tight circles on your nub, his calloused finers offering just the right roughness needed for your muscles to seize. Warm currents coursed through your veins as you trembled and shuddered through your release in his arms— your skin overheated against the cold air. The hair on his chest dragged against your erect nipples causing more of your limbs to twitch; he held you close through your pleasure, his fingers unrelenting until the little bud was oversensitive to touch.You rested your weight against him, your legs feeling too soft under you and took his flat nipple in your mouth wanting to give him the same pleasure he gave you. You gazed up through your lashes as he brought the hand that had been between your legs close to his mouth and groaned as he licked a wide strip from the side of his wrist to the centre of his palm. Your tongue lapped over his nipple to mimic the movement before encircling the little peak, you toyed it between your teeth and Acacius greedily shoved three fingers into his mouth to taste you— a soft breathy moan escaped him.
He pulled you off his nipple, your lips making a soft pop sound as they left his flesh slightly red. His hand curled into your braids as he pulled you by the head, “Taste yourself on my tongue, anaticula . Sweeter than honey…”
Your tongues met again in a dance of their own before you suckled his tongue as he had yours, drinking him in. You weren’t particularly sweet, but something about your taste mixed with the spit of his mouth sent a heady thrill through your body which made your toes curl. His hands roamed your body again, finding the spots and places that were sensitive, he lingered there with light touches and tender caresses— surprising you entirely when he sharply pinched your waist. You pushed deeper into the strength and heat of his body as your waist rolled with his unruly touch. Acacius swallowed the surprised moan from your mouth.
He had always been so… staid, controlled and solemn that you had expected Acacius to be such in his intimate moments as well— respectful and gentlemanly. There had been a wild, unpredictable demon that had come out to play in your office all those weeks ago but you had attributed his actions then to the high tensions and unresolved conflicts. But he was here now, lurking in the dark gaze of his desire, the tremble of his lips and the urgent grasp of your body. He could barely contain himself.
And it made you realise just how much of him you had yet to learn. Like the rest of the world, you had seen the dignified General. You knew the reluctant conqueror and the grieving soldier. You had met the loyal friend, the protective family, the kind elder in him. But you were unacquainted with this man before you— unrefined and almost savage under the influence and vulnerability of his own wants and impulses.

It filled you with a childish, stupid sort of rage to know that others had seen him as such. He had lovers before you, while you were trapped in a temple. He was so familiar with the female body, while you had to flounder for answers. It made you all the more resolved to erase all those previous embraces and lovers from his mind. You clutched him closer still, his cock insistently pressing into your belly, the tip leaking and smearing a wet patch across your skin.
From this day forward, there will be no other for either of you. It had been an entirely new discovery to know you were a jealous, shrewish sort of wife who could not even bear that her husband thought about another lover even in passing. Should your husband ever tire of this marriage, he will have to squeeze the life out of you himself to be free of you. And this realisation was entirely unsurprising, that you would be content with such a death. You only had one life and one heart but if you had more, those too you would gift to Acacius.

You guided him to sit on the chaise again, and despite his forceful and desperate advances, he went obligingly— never once pulling his mouth away from yours, pulling you to sit on his lap. But you evaded his embrace and knelt between his feet the only way you knew how; like a devout priestess kneeling at the altar of her deity— like a lover submitting at the pulpit of her beloved.
Your eyes trained on his phallus, you had seen the male form before on statues, art and even in ceremonial rites to ward off evil; but you had never seen one quite as wide or large as his— your fingers barely touched as you wrapped your hand around him. He hissed as you gripped him and stroked to its base, pulling some of the skin and exposing the angry bulbous head that was leaking clear beads of liquid. You moved to taste him as he had tasted you, but his hands framed your face, halting it in its descent.
“What are you doing, anaticula? That is not for wives to do.” Of course, it wasn’t. It hadn’t been the old matrons who taught you how to suck a man’s cock. No husband from a respectable household would expect this from his wife. But you wanted this. And before shame could eat away at your courage you confessed to your husband.
“But… I want to.” Ever since you had felt his tongue between your legs, there was very little you had thought of. You couldn’t bear the idea of never sharing this intimacy with him.“You can explore all you like later. I can’t— I won’t last if you toy with me now…” His thumb caressed the apple of your cheek, his torso hulking and leaning over your knelt form.“But we have all the time in the world, Acacius.” You struggled against the hold he had on your face, and stretched your tongue out of the confines of your mouth when he wouldn’t allow you closer to him. You barely tasted that small drop on the weeping slit of his cock on the tip of your tongue with a short cat-like lick. Acacius shivered.He spread his legs wider and gave you a chaste kiss on your lips before lowering your mouth to his cock. The tip of it nestled against the curved roof of your mouth, the flared head pressing against the wrinkled ridges behind your teeth and it already felt so full. It was ticklish if not altogether strange sensation and you took him deeper until he was touching the more sensitive and softer part in the back of your mouth, your hand coming up to stroke the rest of his length that was left outside.
You realised you could do this forever as your eyes closed shut. Your tongue was pressed to the vein that ran along the underside of his cock which thrummed with his heartbeat. It was like you were holding his beating pulse, his very heart, in your mouth. You felt his thigh quiver under your hand, and you chanced a curious glance up at your husband to behold the sight of him trembling, his teeth clenched and jaw twitching with the effort to remain perfectly still. And yes, you realised, you could do this forever— just hold him in your mouth until he lost his composure and grew desperate enough to fuck into your mouth.
Acacius frowned at you, he looked dark and forbidding, “I know that look in your eyes, put away whatever idea you just came up with, wife.” He spoke through gritted teeth and his chest racked with the effort to breathe.
You started moving your head, slowly at first as Acacius guided your hand to stroke over his length as he liked— tightening your grip and twisting your wrist. You hollowed your cheeks to envelop his cock tighter and suck him deeper inside your mouth, relaxing your throat to adjust to the fullness in your mouth. Perhaps, your husband was to be cursed with the most selfish sort of wife because you stopped looking for his reactions, his cock was in your mouth for your pleasure alone and whatever he might glean from it was secondary in your mind.
He smelled of musk, sweat, the floral powder used to scent his clothes and something so addictingly Acacius. You rubbed your thighs together, the arousal had pooled from between your thighs to coat your ankles and feet under your folded legs. You hated to feel him receding from your mouth, sucking him as your head moved up, swirling your tongue around him to taste him before coaxing him deeper into your mouth again. Experimentally, you brought a hand to the sac hanging heavily under his cock, testing its weight and the hairy texture of the skin, gingerly massaging it until it drew tight in your palm.
His cock jumped in your mouth as his hands entangled in your braids to pull you off him. But you suckled him with a petulant whine, refusing to be wrested off him. A warm, salty and slightly bitter taste filled your mouth while he wrenched your head off him, the rest of his spend falling in spurts across your face and neck. What a waste… Acacius glowered down at you, mouth agape and panting, “You are going to be the death of me… One of these days you will kill me.” His eyes were focused on your tongue as you licked the side of your lips to taste more of him. And he watched as some of his cum glittered on your skin as it trickled down until it was halted in its path by the gold chain hanging from your neck. He lapped at your skin, collecting his cum from the chain and depositing it into your mouth with what could barely be considered a kiss, his tongue surged into your mouth until you had cleaned his thick release off it.You felt a smug satisfaction as you noticed that he was still shaking, a bit unsteady on his feet as he stood and lifted you onto the chaise. You thought you could consummate your marriage now, but to your confusion he knelt before you— his cock looking much flatter, softer. You felt your lower lip wobble as Acacius guided you to lean back. Was it supposed to do that? “What did you think was going to happen?” He chastised you.
“I had no reason to believe he would just go soft like that… can’t you make him go up again?” You whispered, a bit uncertain of the male anatomy. Would you not be able to consummate your marriage tonight?Acacius leaned over to kiss your pouting lips, “It comes back faster when you’re younger.”
You adoringly caress his bearded cheek as he smiles down at you, an uncertain vulnerability curved about that smile. You struggled to think of what to say to him, he could be old and decrepit and you would still be glad to have him as your husband. You had still wanted him a few short hours ago when you had been expecting pain and shame on your marriage bed, and you wanted him more now that he had shown you pleasure and wonder instead. You loved him not because of his prowess in bed but because of the simple fact that he was Acacius— steadfast, loyal, protective, kind, and loving, oh so loving. But complex sentences evaded your mind as his lips closed around your nipple, he lingered there with his teeth and tongue before moving just a bit below to bite under your areola. He insistently sucked the flesh of your bosom into his mouth until it came away with a small bruise. His lips traversed down your body in a sensual dance of kisses, nips and almost painful bites. He spread your legs and groaned at the sight of your arousal smearing large patches of your limbs.
“So wet for me, anaticula. ” His voice was breathless.“You’re perfect.” You settled for simpler words that were just as true. He was perfect. Acacius huffed a warm burst of laughter.
“I’m glad you think so, wife.” He chimed even as his gaze seemingly searched for the sincerity in your eyes.“I love you.” You offered him another nugget of truth.
You watched as the colour rose from his chest to his neck, Acacius shyly smiled before obscenely licking at your arousal and suckling another bruise on the inside of your thigh. He was marking you.

You squirmed with anticipation, feeling his hot breath on your cunt as he spoke, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back just as we have prepared you some more.”
“Here, hold these for me.” He spread your thighs and pushed them towards you, your hands came under your knees to hold yourself open for him as he had commanded.
His mouth on your cunt was a reunion like no other. Acacius remembered every sensitive spot and fold of your sex. But the swooping in your womb had more to do with the sight of him rather than the pleasurable feeling of his tongue on your slit— his mouth attached to your cunt, eyes glazed over with a half-awake and half-asleep look in his eyes, lashes gracefully fluttering as he tasted you, a patch of his cheekbone shimmering under the lamp light where the slick from your thighs had smeared across his face.

Gone was the urgency with which he had devoured you previously in your office, he was instead languid and slow. But there was a fervour in his grip and his fingers painfully dug into the flesh of your hips. He toyed with one of the lips covering your opening, sucking it into his mouth and nipping it with his teeth before doing the same with the over. His tongue roved over your sex sometimes just the tip, lightly and ticklishly grazing over a sensitive spot, and other times he was insistent, tongue flat against your folds as he roughly lapped up your essence.
You grew desperate as he purposely avoided that crest right at the apex of your sex that would ensure you would see stars behind your eyes again. And you grind your hips against his face, hoping to catch the needy spot against his nose, or his lips or even his chin— the lightest of touch there could set you off, you were so close, the tension curled so tightly inside you. There was a resounding smack in the air, it didn’t occur to you that Acacius would hit you until there was a tingling on the side of your ass, the impact making you gush into his mouth.“Of course, you would enjoy something like this,” He murmured. And he laughed. He had the audacity to laugh as his lips closed around the exposed little bud, the vibrations of his amusement travelling straight into your nerves. You came undone with a shout, your eyes unseeing while your veins felt alit with delicious flames coursing through them followed by warm currents that doused your body in a dreamy languor. You lost your grip under your knees, letting your legs fall apart in the most inelegant fashion but still spread so wide for your husband. Acacius moved away with a teasingly tutting at you, and you whimpered at the loss.“Hold them for me again,” He said. And you obediently took your position, hands under your knees, lifting your trembling legs so you were entirely exposed for him.
Acacius took your clitoris in his mouth again, his tongue encircling the oversensitive bud. You felt his thumb gather some of your slick before going down to the ring of muscles far below your cunt. You gasped his name in surprise as his digit followed the same dizzying circles around the ridged fig-like skin surrounding that opening.
“Is this alright? Do you trust me?” You gave a hasty wordless nod for both questions.
Acacius pressed two fingers into your cunt and suddenly it was all a bit too much. His tongue flicked the bundle of nerves, the intrusion of his fingers felt foreign and the thumb circling your other hole was sending waves of pleasure to muscles you hadn’t realised could be used for such a purpose. He watched you restlessly whimper and whine with half-lidded eyes as you squirmed at his touch. He released the nub of flesh from his mouth, making soothing sounds as he comforted you.
“Relax for me, let it happen, my love, do not fight it.” He said as he curled his fingers inside you catching some dormant set of nerves which threw you into another release. You came with a gasp, still shaking and quivering as he pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thigh. You hadn’t yet descended from the heights of your pleasure, your muscles feeling fuzzy and boneless when he flipped you over. Your head rested sideways over the backrest of the chaise as Acacius guided your own hands to your ass.
“Spread yourself for me, wife.” His tone clipped and terse. You had thought yourself past surprise and shame but were still so unprepared for the feel of his tongue against your anus. His tongue burned hot against the ring of muscle as he held it in place while his fingers found their way inside your cunt again, three this time instead of the two before. And this time he lets you grind yourself on his face. You are mindless and hazy with pleasure, there is no real pace or rhythm to your hips.His hand curved around your waist so he could curl his fingers into your clit, providing delicious friction as you swayed your hips. His fingers lazily dragged in and out of you, his beard scraped against your sensitive skin, and his tongue pressing hot and wet against the opening of your ass, burrowing inside despite your haphazard movements. Acacius gives you a deep hum of approval the more desperate and determined you grow in pursuit of another release.
It crept up on you, steadily climbed your spine, long and drawn out rendering you utterly silent as your body gripped and convulsed barely being able to hold itself up. For several moments you were lost to the world, Acacius circled and patted the erect bud of nerves until you stopped twitching while another had soothingly stroked and petted over your shivering skin. He turned to lay you on the chaise, pressing an affectionate kiss to your parted lips and covered you with his own body, whispering soft praise and encouraging words as his legs entangled with yours— you gasped at the feel of his weight, another throb coursing down your sated sex, you clenched around the tip of his cock as he bullied his way inside.As he had promised, it did not hurt. But you felt full, and far too relaxed and pliant to be overwhelmed even with the slight burn of the stretch. Dazed, you noticed the wet patch on the backrest where his hand gripped— you had drooled. It was worse, your release had coated his cloak underneath you, it glistened against his face and it dripped down his chin, his neck, his chest.
“ Dulcissima, you have to let me in, please— you’re strangling me. Breathe—” Acacius was tense, speaking through gritted teeth, his words breaking from his effort to breathe. And your body complied with his request, you could never deny him. And you felt complete once he had nestled inside you, filling not only your cunt but your heart and your soul. Your gaze was wondrous and awed as you held him inside you, you clenched around him trying to pull him impossibly closer still.
He gasped before kissing you again, trying to hold most of his weight off you. You stay that way, connected in more ways than just the physical, locked together in both love and ecstasy— your hands exploring his warm skin and the strong contours of his body. A surprising laugh bubbled up your throat when you realised Acacius had broken into goosebumps, his hair raised alert and small bumps ran along his arms.
His forehead pressed against yours and you nudged his nose with yours gazing into the eyes of your beloved seeing the love and adoration reflected there. He softly caressed your cheek and your temple, “I haven’t done this in years,” he confesses. Years? “Good.”
He chuckles at your response, “Good? It means I won’t last long…”“You don’t have to. It is done, is it not? The consummation.”
He pecks your nose, “We aren’t done until you come all over my cock, anaticula .”
And then he moves, in sufficiently long and deep strokes that have your eyes rolling back, grinding his hips so the hair above his cock rubs against the erect nub above your opening. Your nails dig into his back, the coil of pleasure winding tighter at your core.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the skin of your neck.
“It doesn’t hurt.” You told him as your hips rolled to meet his thrusts.“I’ve done you a disservice—” Why was he talking? Did he expect you to hold a conversation? All you could manage was a broken keen when he rubbed the most perfect spot on the inside.
“You’ve been trapped in a temple for thirty years, you deserved to see the world, take a few lovers, but I have trapped you instead.”
“No—” He couldn’t possibly be saying these things while his arm wrapped under you to massage your anus.
“You can roam the world, freely conduct your business— take over Rome if you want to— I’ll follow you… anywhere. I’ll go.” He wiped the tears that slipped out of your eyes before continuing, “But this is what you will do at the end of every day, anaticula. ”“You will go about your dreams and ambitions and then you’ll come home every night into my arms, my bed, with my cock buried deep in your cunt. Do you understand?” He brutally snapped his hips into you while you responded with some sound between a sob and a laugh.
“Say it, say it to me. Tell me you’re mine.” He commanded, his eyes overcome with a zealous light. His fingers dipped into the tight ring of your ass. You could feel his cock all the way in your throat.“We’ll have to train this hole of yours open if you do not want children, carissima . This is where I will fuck you next. But you’ll take me, like a perfectly biddable wife— into your heart, into your body. It is my home, and you will not cast me out—”“I want them— I want children, everything you give me— please please please— Acacius.” You begged.
“I’m yours. Your wife, your lover, your whore— please, Acacius—” You weren’t sure what you were asking of him. But your husband, ever the provider, brushed his fingers against your clit and you shattered under him with a distorted scream. You convulsed and shook underneath him with no effect as his weight pressed down on you. And your husband followed soon after, shivering and groaning as he painted the inside of your cunt with his warm seed; your walls fluttered around him to milk every last drop of it.
“Daughters… wife. Give me daughters, ones who take after their mother in both looks and heart.” He prayed to you. Acacius stayed that way for several long moments, reverently kissing your warm and sweaty skin while you felt him softening inside you. You clenched around him in distress, hating the inevitable loss as he slipped out of you.You had watched with great interest as he had stumbled away from you, admiring the sight of his ass, wishing you can sink your teeth into it. And with even more interest, you stared at his cock as he returned with a wet cloth to clean you both along with a tray of food he had prepared. The both of you had ravenously polished off the feast of olives, cheese, fruits, stuffed dates, spiced cookies, bread and sausages. Your husband had plied you with more wine before dipping his strawberries in your cunt to eat them; they tasted sweeter that way he had claimed and you hadn’t believed him until you had cleaned up honey from his cock which had tasted impossibly sweeter to you.You lay on him, sleep still evading you because you knew you had to address his words when he had been inside you. Your back leaned against his chest, and Acacius had parted his legs to make room for your bottom between them. Another reason sleep was not possible, this chaise was too small for both of you— you told your husband as much.
“You should have seen the one they brought before, it was much smaller… So I built this one.” He chuckled.“You built this bed yourself?” You whispered, appreciating the work and polish under new light. You thought he only worked on smaller projects.He hummed in response, “And the bed in our chambers. Don’t worry, I made that one palatial.”“So why aren’t we there?” You laughingly demanded.
“Because I wanted the heavens to witness our consummation, dulcissima .” And your heart fluttered again.
“I still quite like this one, despite how small it is… It’s our marriage bed and I’ll be fucking you on it as often as I can.” Despite, how sated and spent you felt, heat still curled in your belly at his promise.
“You know, Acacius”—you turned in his arms to face him, chin resting against the swell of his stomach, you gazed up at him with imploring eyes—“You have done me no disservice. I wanted to marry you.”You couldn’t hold in the words any longer, “You can never imagine yourself as some chain around my feet… you make me brave. You bolster me, make me feel safe— like I will always have someone on my side.”
He sweetly caressed your spine, “I’ll never give you cause to be disappointed in our marriage, anaticula. ”
“You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried, Acacius.” You struggled against the insecurities in his mind, before realising that only time will reassure him.
“I love you,” Acacius said, not as a confession or a desperate sigh, but in the same steady way he would voice a fact.
“I love you, too,” You whispered against his chest.
“Are you sore?” He gently asked.
You were, not just between your legs but also in your heart— you shook your head in denial. Just a little white lie because you knew that having him close, having him inside you could cure all ails.
Acacius watched the sun rise, as he would on most days of his marriage— casting his wife in an ethereal glow, the rays shining down on all the marks he had left on her body while she languorously rode his cock to their shared bliss.