The night was gilded in decadence, thick with the scent of roasted meat, wine, and the cloying perfumes of Rome’s elite. Marcus Acacius, triumphant general of the Numidian campaign, sat rigid among the revelers, his lion-cloak heavy on his shoulders, his scars hidden beneath ceremonial gold. Musicians played, women laughed too loudly, and the twin emperors, brothers, alike in cunning if not in face, showered him with praise. They spoke of his victories as if they were their own, their smiles too sharp, their eyes too watchful.

Marcus drank, but not deeply. He had seen too much blood to take pleasure in spectacle. He glanced through the atrium, and that was when he met your gaze.

You stood at the edge of the festivities, half-shrouded by a marble column, sad eyes. You didn’t wear Roman garb. Your posture was trained but tired, your silence too heavy to be mere modesty. You were one of the spoils, taken from some far-off campaign, handed around like coin. You didn’t speak the tongue well, though you understood enough to know when you were being watched.

One of the emperors, noticing you and Marcus were looking at each other, leaned close to you, whispered something in your ear. You nodded, hesitantly. Then you vanished quietly. Marcus noticed.

Later, when the feast had finally exhausted itself and Marcus was led to his guest quarters within the imperial palace, he found the chamber darkened but not empty. You were there, kneeling by the low bed, hair loose, eyes waiting. A gift. A challenge. A game.

They had sent you to him like an offering to a god, or a beast. And you, desperate, had obeyed, because they promised you freedom. If you pleased him. If you satisfied him. They said he was a soldier. That he would take what was given and ask no questions.

But Marcus Acacius stood in the doorway for a long moment. He looked at you not like a man looks at a prize, but like a man seeing a cage around someone else's body. And perhaps, seeing part of his own.

He stepped inside, slowly. Removed his heavy cloak. When he turned, you moved closer, standing in front of him. Your skin candid, young, scented. For a moment, Marcus observed your naked body, offered to him but then... his hand grabbed your wrist, scaring you, when you lifted your hand to touch his chest.

“You are not mine to take, little dove.” he said trying to sound reassuring, since you couldn't catch Latin.

And he reached for a blanket, not for himself, but for you.