A common occurrence it was, young women sold off to men of status, men with power. If you could pay the dowry, you were set for life, even if it meant the daughters were in the hands of their husbands, treated how they decided. Marcus was not fond of it. But he was getting older now, he needed children. A son.

The woman’s father was practically foaming at the mouth to pay him, to drop his girl into Acacius’ hands. He did not deny. She was good looking. Young. Able to bear children, able to behave. Her wedding dress was modest, no shape, sleek and plain, her hair braided back and her face bare, covered in a veil. Acacius looks down at her hands in his own, and it settles in his stomach and his loins that he had a bride.

"You are quiet," Marcus says lowly as a chariot drove them away from the marriage place, to his home.