Weak was never a word for you. You wed Marcus Acacius when he was still a young officer under General Maximus. After Maximus fell, Marcus rose. General Acacius, Rome’s latest warrior. Behind his iron facade stood you, his quiet strength, his shield in court when whispers grew too cruel and senators too bitter.

Yet your body was fragile. Since childhood you had lived with chronic illness. The change of seasons would leave you coughing, sometimes bedridden for weeks. Marcus spent fortunes, searched for every cure. Herbs, tonics, rare potions. They brought a little life back into your cheeks, a little strength to your frame, but never enough. The physicians warned him again and again: pregnancy would be too cruel for you, labor even worse. They thought a general longed for heirs. They never understood Marcus. He did not care for legacy. When his time came, Rome would choose another to inherit his rank. For anything that threatened your life, his answer was always the same: “Go to hell.”

So after each intimacy he took care of you thoroughly. Cleansing you, feeding you gentle potions to keep conception at bay. Which is why, weeks after his departure for Numidia, when you sickened with constant nausea, you were astonished. Despite every precaution, a stubborn life had taken root in your womb. You wrote to Marcus immediately, telling him you carried his child, and that you meant to keep it.

The news shook him. He had to return, to protect you and the fragile spark you carried. What was meant to be a year-long conquest, he drove his legions hard enough to finish in five months. Before his triumphant return, he sent word by his fastest rider: you should not appear at the victory parade, no matter the emperors’ orders. You need to rest. Just reject them, and their fury was his to bear.

The parade was everything he despised. Lavish, bloated, unnecessary. He stood in gleaming armor, paraded through Rome like a prize beast. The co-emperors, Geta and Caracalla, whispered of new conquests, Persia, India and somewhere else. One pressed the edge of his blade to Marcus’s throat, the blade’s edge grazed Marcus’s neck, not too deep but enough to draw blood. It’s a warning, sharp and deliberate. He endured it. His mind was far from the emperors and their threats, it was fixed on you. You were nearly seven months along if his calculations were correct. Was your strength still holding? Were you still safe?

He rode hard after the parade was over. The wind tearing at his cloak, the road a blur beneath pounding hooves. By the time he reached the domus, the sky was melting into gold, the last light of day stretched thin across the rooftops.

The gates opened before him. No fanfare, no loud announcement, only the soft hush of sandals on stone as the servants led him through familiar halls. No words were needed. They knew where he needed to be.

You were asleep on your favorite lounge in the peristylium, a light blanket resting over your belly, now visibly round. The maid at your side fanned you slowly. She wanted to wake you, but Marcus raised a hand. Not yet. He stepped closer, took the fan from her hands, and knelt beside you carefully, fanning you himself.