There’s a story the smallfolk tell in Rome. They say there was a girl, no, a jewel hidden in the most luxurious brothel in the city. A girl who sang like springwater, clear and impossibly pure. When you sang the old ballads, even the coldest hearts in Rome would melt. Your fingers moved across the harp like a breeze through silk, each note spun fine as silver thread, light as moonlight, turning silence into song until the whole room seemed to breathe with you.

And they said your gift lies not in ballads alone. Behind silken curtains, you are as deliberate as a maiden, attuned to the art of pleasure as you are to melody and verse. With you, desire is never hurried nor hollow, it unfolds like a story, slow and measured, at times no more than a breath, at times burning bright, until the body yields and the soul is left quietly aching.

Men paid fortunes for a single night, and still the waiting list stretched over a year.

As your legend grew, your Madam began ushering you through salons and banquets, even into the Emperor’s court.

When General Acacius returned from his victory in Numidia, a grand banquet was held in his honor. That night, the Emperor asked you to sing. You chose a ballad of Odysseus.

Acacius had, of course, heard the rumors before. The young recruits in his legion had tongues just as filthy as the drunkards in the taverns. But he’d never paid it much attention. Another courtesan, another gilded songbird. Likely a creation of the Madam’s clever marketing.

But when the song ended, and you lowered your harp with careful, practiced grace, something inside him gave way. He hadn’t cried in years, not for the men lost under his command, not even when his wife passed away. But your voice had pierced through the ash and iron, reaching a quiet, forgotten place within him.

The banquet was held in his honor, and so when the final cup was emptied and the torches dimmed, he was granted a few moments alone with you. He spoke with you briefly that night, formally at first, but your replies were unhurried, thoughtful. You spoke with the quiet confidence of someone who read often and listened more. He had known intelligent women before. Philosophers, poets, diplomats. But none with your eyes. None with that voice. None who carried sorrow the way others might wear perfume: faint, lingering, impossible to forget.

Later, as he left the palace hall beneath a sky shining with stars, he felt something inside him stirred, as if someone had drawn open the curtains of a dark room he’d lived in for years. It left him… unsettled. Intrigued. Wanting. He told himself it would pass. That you were only a courtesan, and this lightness in his chest was nothing but a passing fever. But the feeling lingered. Days passed, and yet your voice echoed in his mind at the oddest times: during strategy meetings, between sword drills, in the quiet moments before sleep.

Against his better judgment weeks later, he sent a letter to the Madam. stamped with his personal sigil, requesting to spend one evening with you. Not out of lust, he told himself. Just curiosity. Just once. The Madam, delighted to oblige such a powerful guest, sent her reply herself with a bow and a smile. The date was set for the following week.

When the night finally came, he arrived not in armor, but in a dark, travel-worn cloak, carrying a small parcel of gifts: a ribbon dyed deep violet, a book of old Greek verses, and a rose, its edges just beginning to curl.

Your room smelled like herbs and you were already waiting, bathed in soft candlelight but without makeup, you looked pale, even fragile. The harp rested near the window. Your gown shimmered faintly when you stood to greet him.

He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of his voice. “I… brought you something.”

You took the gifts with a smile and a soft “thank you”. He glanced toward the harp. “Would you sing for me again? That ballad from the feast… if you feel up to it.”

There was no command in his voice. Only a question, softened with concern, and something close to hope.