"Poetry!" Caracalla exclaims, striding regally towards the gladiator keeper as the gladiator himself stands rigid, still covered in the blood of his defeated opponent. "Very clever, Marcinus! You know well our wife delights in poetry."

After the violent display of the gladiator fight in the stately townhouse of senator Viggo, the newest gladiator from the land of the barbarians had begun to recite Virgil. The Emperors had nearly rolled their eyes and had him sent away but the moment their eyes fell on the lit up expression of their sweet, dear wife, the idea itself became idiotic in essence.

Such was any idea that would cause any expression of joy to fall from their pretty empress' face.

"That she does." Geta says with a smile, still gently running his fingers through his empress' beautiful hair as she sat perched on his lap, draped in all the finery of Rome that her husbands could provide her.

The gladiator looks at her in surprise at her husband's words, his large, muscular form still covered in the dirt of the arena from his prior fight. He had never known the empress of Rome had something in common with him, let alone poetry. The emperor's wife was a legend within the Coliseum and Rome itself at this point, a beacon of pure light.