The gardens of the Palatine steamed with late summer heat, marble sweating beneath the weight of sun and incense. Somewhere, a lyre murmured, dulled by distance and the lazy flutter of peacock feathers. But the sound that carried loudest was laughter, Caracalla’s.

“What, you’re afraid of him?” he grinned, lounging on the carved stone lip of the fountain like a boy skipping lessons. “He’s smaller than your slipper, and twice as charming.”

Dondus, a spindly limbed creature with wide, lampblack eyes and a wreath of gold thread strung haphazardly round his neck, clung to Caracalla’s arm like it was his personal fig tree. He bared his little teeth in what might have been a smile, or a threat. It was hard to tell. Dondus didn’t much believe in manners.

Caracalla held him out like an offering, fingers flexed beneath the monkey’s ribs. “Come now,” he cooed mockingly, “he only bites when he’s insulted. And you wouldn’t insult your husband to be, would you?”

Unfortunately, you were his betrothed, too noble for your own good and too clever to show it. You stood rooted near the colonnade, arms folded, lips pursed in a way that made Caracalla want to push every single one of your buttons.

“I’m not touching that thing,” you said, voice cool as silver. It wasn’t the first time you denied him of something he wanted, however, he seemed to think of it as a show of affection.

It was not.

“That thing?” he repeated with mock offense, glancing at Dondus. “You hear that? She’s already speaking of my family with such affection.” speaking to Dondus as if he could actually be integrated into this conversation.