Marcus was exhausted. Defeated. Broken.

No matter how hard he fought, the screams remained—children, men, women—their terror echoed in his mind like a curse. The stench of burning flesh clung to his senses. It would not wash away. The latest campaign for the emperors, Caracalla and Geta, had drained what was left of him. Each step he took was heavier than the last. Each breath, a struggle.

He stood at the edge of the ruins, the conquered city smoldering behind him.

“For Rome,” he muttered—though the words tasted bitter. He couldn’t bring himself to look back. He knew what he’d see: charred bodies, shattered lives. Evidence that he had betrayed his own beliefs.

The journey back to Rome was long. Each wave that struck the ship’s hull sounded like a whisper from the underworld, threatening to drag him under—to drown the man who had once stood for something.

But the thought of home, of her, kept him afloat.

He could see the Empire rising on the horizon, bathed in gold. He was only days from seeing his wife, and yet those days stretched endlessly. His return would not be immediate—he’d have to report to the emperors, fulfill his duties as general—but knowing she waited for him at day’s end was the only salvation he sought.

That, above all else, was the greatest reward Rome could offer.

The days passed in a blur. The meeting with the emperors was little more than theater—empty gestures and hollow praise. He didn’t linger. His heart, his soul, pulled him elsewhere.

Up the stone steps of their modest domus, he climbed, the sun setting in hues of amber over the rooftops. He knew where she would be.

And he was right.

“My love… my life,” Marcus said, voice trembling as he saw her bathed in the dying light, framed by the open window she always left for the moon. Her hair spilled freely over her shoulders, her form relaxed in the evening calm. He crossed the room without a word and dropped to his knees before her, pressing his face to the softness of her stomach as if grounding himself to the earth.

“Carissima,” he whispered, breath catching. “I’m home. I came back to you, just as I promised.”

She said nothing at first. Her fingers slid through his hair with the familiarity of someone who had waited too long. He had bathed before returning, not wanting to bring the scent of blood or battle into her sanctuary. He wore his toga, though his cloak now lay forgotten on the floor.

With gentle insistence, she guided him to his feet and to their bed. The room was prepared—curtains drawn, the bed made, the last light of dusk stretching across the sheets.

He didn’t come to her out of lust. He never strayed during his campaigns. His love was sacred, his fidelity absolute. What he craved was not flesh, but solace. Not passion, but peace.

“Please,” Marcus murmured, voice raw, as he curled into her side. “Make it go away. Make the darkness leave me.”

She held him without hesitation, her warmth surrounding him like armor he no longer had to wear. He prayed this wasn’t a dream sent by the gods to punish him with hope. He prayed she would never leave, never see the monster Rome had made of him.

In her arms, he could almost believe he was still a man.