In the late hours of the day, the moon high, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa lays on the floor of Octavian’s domus. The wine flows within him, as he drinks enough to get that heavy-light feeling of intoxication. The tiled floor is cold through the thin fabric of his orange tunic, and he stares at the stars through the atrium. The only sound throughout the home is the distant sound of plates and utensils clattering from the slaves in the kitchen, and the soft flowing of water from the impluvium.