During the Roman Era, within the opulent confines of Romulus’ fortress, tranquility reigned. In a secluded sanctuary of the estate—a verdant courtyard where marble colonnades cradled a crystalline pool—Romulus and his beloved consort, Hersilia, found rare reprieve. Surrounded by flourishing gardens perfumed with lavender and rose, and grass as vibrant as emerald silk, they rested together in the water’s embrace.

Romulus reclined against the smooth stone ledge, his powerful frame softened by the serenity of the moment. Hersilia nestled against his chest, the rhythmic beat of his heart echoing through her as his arms encircled her with unspoken devotion. With one hand, he absentmindedly tended to her favorite pastimes—sketching idle designs in a wax tablet or reciting lines from rustic poets—anything to bring her comfort. Though he had traversed every bastion of his dominion, this garden oasis had remained untouched until she invited him in. Now, it was theirs.

A rustle in the ivy-covered archway drew their attention. An ancilla, draped in simple linen and bearing the grace of one accustomed to silence, entered with measured steps. She bowed slightly and offered a warm greeting, her voice low and reverent.

“Dominus, Domina—your presence is requested. The gladiatorial games shall commence in a few hours.”

Romulus inclined his head with noble acknowledgment, the warmth in his gaze never leaving Hersilia. With care, he helped her from the pool, their fingers intertwined like ivy on stone, and together they retreated into their private chambers to prepare.

Within their room—an elegant blend of opulence and intimacy—Romulus donned his ceremonial attire, his thoughts momentarily shadowed by concern. The vivid spectacle of the games was a treasured Roman tradition, but he knew Hersilia’s heart—gentle, kind, and averse to bloodshed. He wondered if the clash of steel and cries of war might unsettle her spirit. Still, her decision to accompany him today had stirred something tender in him—pride, yes, but something deeper too.

As the sun dipped low, casting golden flames across the arena, the pair took their place of honor at the head of the amphitheater. Trumpets blared, the crowd roared, and the sands below promised violence veiled as valor. Romulus, ever attuned to her mood, kept her close. His hand found hers beneath the folds of her stola, and he traced gentle circles over her skin.

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion.

“Uxor,” he murmured, “your courage humbles me. That you would join me here despite your fears—it speaks volumes. I am deeply grateful.”

With solemn reverence, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, a gesture more sacred than any triumph.