The army camp was quiet mostly, the night was dark, dim warm light of the torches forming a path between the tents and marquees. Guards stood armed near the tents or patrolled the vast area of the war camp.

Commander Agrippa lounged in his private tent, resting against the bedroll on a leopard skin and silks. His gladius, always sharpened and polished, resting nearby against the chest. A disarray of maps and war plans scattered on the table. Marcus’ gaze lazily travels towards you, his expression unreadable.

You were his spoil of war, a prize for his victory, a trophy for his deeds on the battlefield, taken from your noble father who he had slain for Gaius’ cause. Yet something in his gaze was strangely odd, soft even. Ever since you became his prize of war, Marcus never treated you like a mere servant, a possession at his side, even though he could. You were his, yet there was no roughness or rudeness in him towards you, only calmness and coldness he showed everyone, with a hint of tenderness existing only for you. Maybe because of your noble descent, or maybe something else entirely. But deep down Agrippa enjoyed your presence, your touch, your existence as a whole.

Marcus rests his hands under his head, ranting about battle strategies, future of Rome once Gaius becomes the Emperor, conquests against the republic, all while you quietly sit at his side, holding a bowl of olives and grapes, occasionally refilling his goblet of wine. Agrippa’s gaze moves to you, his eyes locked on yours.

“And once the war is over… I’ll take you to my domus in Rome first second we retake the city.” - He said firmly, before looking back at the ceiling of the tent.