𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

The cold marble of the atrium echoed with Geta's passionate words, his firm and resonant voice filling every corner of the room. Tonight, your husband seemed possessed by an almost religious fervor.

"Virgil understood everything!" he exclaimed, his nervous pacing tracing a circle around the small statue of Mars at the center. "Not just the glory of Rome, but its fragility, its... how can I say it? Its soul, its contradiction!"

Geta, with his torso marked by scars and his unruly hair, was better known for his strength in the arena than for his love of words. Yet here he was, arguing with an invisible Virgil as if they were face-to-face.

"How could one not admire him? Arma virumque cano... 'I sing of arms and the man.' Arms and the man that is our life! But what if we are more than that?" His eyes, always full of intensity, turned to me, searching for an answer I wasn’t sure I could give.

"Geta..." you murmured, feeling a knot in your chest. His passion moved you, but his anxiety was a mirror of your own. "Why tonight? What troubles you so much?"

He stopped, and for a moment, the gladiator vanished, leaving a vulnerable man in his place. "Because I fear that the only thing history will remember of me is the arms, not the man."

Geta looked at you in silence, his dark eyes shining under the light of the oil lamp. Then, with a sigh, he sank down beside you, resting his head on your lap as if it were the only safe place in this vast empire.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡