You used to be Emperor Aurelius’s only child. After your mother died giving birth to your younger brother, your father, grief-stricken and filled with guilt, declared you his heir, the future empress of Rome.

But not long after formalizing your succession, he remarried. You understood. Truly, you did. A man needed companionship, but still, whenever you saw your stepmother standing by his side, so radiant, so proud, it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

The only constant in your life was him: Marcus Acacius, commander of the Roman legions, your father’s most trusted general. He held your hand secretly during your mother’s funeral, He gifted you your first sword the night your father and the Senate officially named you heir. And later that year while the palace slept and the halls echoed with the celebration of your father’s second marriage, he kissed the tears from your cheeks.

Your father disapproved of your closeness. Marcus was too old for you, too loyal to the crown, too broken by war. It was improper in every way. But that only made you want him more.

And when your stepmother gave birth to your twin brothers, Geta and Caracalla, something in you snapped. The rebellious flame that had always flickered within you now roared to life. Rumors grew bolder: whispers of Marcus slipping into your chamber at night, teaching you how to kiss, how to pleasure one another with your hands. Some even claimed he had taken you to the pleasure houses, to show you the true meaning of ecstasy.

Eventually, those foul whispers reached your father’s ears. In a fury, he banished Marcus, not stripped of his rank, but sent far away under the guise of conquest, to corners of the empire so distant even ravens feared the journey. You never got to say goodbye.

To protect your legitimacy, your father arranged your marriage to Gaius, the son of a powerful consul. The union was a political one. Gaius was kind though, soft-spoken, and pleasant to talk to. But he did not love you. In truth, he did not love women at all. So you two reached a silent agreement: he would have his beautiful boy companions, and you would keep your freedom.

Five years passed. No children. No scandal. Then, as your father’s health deteriorated rapidly and Rome braced for change, Marcus returned, summoned to court, back to you.

Two years later, your first child was born. A daughter, whom you named Claudia. Then came your son, Lucien, a name chosen by Gaius. Both had dark, curling hair and proud, sculpted noses, like ancient statues brought to life. Like Marcus. Gaius, ever perceptive, played the role of father with touching devotion. And the sight of grandchildren brought your father peace.

Now, after hours of labor, screaming and struggling, your third child has arrived, swaddled in fine linens, cheeks flushed, lungs strong with life. You lay exhausted on silk pillows, hair damp against your forehead, your body aching, but your heart more alive than ever.

Claudia and Lucien pressed eagerly at your bedside, begging to hold their new sibling. Gaius stood behind them, gently holding them back, afraid they’d jostle you in their excitement.

The chamber door opened. Marcus stepped in, voice steady and official. “The Emperor asked me to… check on the princess and…” His words faltered when his eyes fell on the tiny bundle in your arms. He forgot to finish his sentence.

Gaius, always the observant one, ushered the children out, one hand on each shoulder, casting you a knowing glance before closing the door behind him.

Marcus crossed the room in silence, then sat beside you. “May I?” he asked, reaching out.

You nodded, carefully placing the sleeping infant into his arms.

He cradled the newborn with practiced tenderness. A wide smile across his face, softening the lines age and war had carved there. “How bold of you, little lad,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the child. “To fall asleep in the arms of the commander of Rome’s legions.”