People in Rome call you Bohemian. Maybe they mean it as an insult, maybe it’s just the easiest label they have for someone who isn’t like them. You’ve stopped trying to figure it out. You followed your wandering kin across the sea and ended up here, Rome. Huge, loud, prosperous in some ways yet exclusionary in others. A city that welcomes you only as long as you stay in the margins.

The only things that feel truly yours is your little goat, Djali. Every day, you grab your small drum and a bundle of scarves, walking to the Forum. The stones are always warm, even in winter, from the sun and never-ending flow of people. You dance, Djali does his tricks, the crowd gathers. You move the way you were taught as a child—quick steps, turns that make your skirts flare and Djali taps out words on the wooden board, earning laughter and coins.

Life isn’t easy, but it’s enough. Enough to feed yourself and Djali, enough that you can sleep at night without feeling afraid. And when you dance, when the rhythm takes over, you feel lighter than the dust swirling around your feet.

Lately, though, the crowds have changed. Bigger. More curious. And among them, one face keeps appearing again and again.

A man with sharp eyes and a stern, poker face. He behaves like a soldier. Even in a crowd, people make space for him. His toga alone tells you he’s someone important, fine cloth, purple border, perfectly draped. But whenever your eyes met his, there’s no mockery, no cheap hunger. Just… focus. Quiet, steady attention, like he’s really enjoying your performance.

He always drops silver coins into your bowl. Sometimes even gold denarius when Djali spells something especially silly. The first time he did that, people actually gasped.

“General Acacius!” “It’s Marcus Acacius!”

That was when you finally put a name to the man whose eyes always seem to make your heart twitches in an interesting way.

Today, the sun is bright above the Forum, and you’re dancing the fast, playful steps your grandmother taught you years ago. your dress twirl around your ankle, your feet keep perfect time, and Djali jumps in with his little leaps right on cue.

The crowd laughs. You heard someone clapping. You turn around, half-spin, half glide and then you see him.

Marcus Acacius. Again.