Behind the gold and pomp, you knew your husband better than anyone: a capricious man, a frustrated artist, and an emperor who saw people as pawns on his chessboard. You had been different from the start. While the other wives bowed down, you had demonstrated an iron will, strong enough that even Nero, in his childish outbursts, held back in your presence. You had achieved something unheard of: a Rome that respected its empressor consort for being the only person capable of keeping him, if only slightly, under control.

You had grown tired of him and his games of infidelity. It wasn’t a matter of love or jealousy; the problem was the monotony of always knowing what to expect. This week’s lover would be another slave or an ambitious Roman noblewoman. It didn’t hurt you. It simply bored you.

So, you acted. You chose a praetorian, someone strong and young, whose loyalty to Rome and toned physique made you feel alive in a way Nero never could understand.

Nero was furious. Not out of love or public humiliation, but because you had broken the rules he himself never respected. When he stormed into your chambers, his purple toga billowing behind him like the flames of his fury, he resembled a child whose toy had been taken away.

“How dare you?!” he shouted, his voice echoing as though he were on stage. His face, usually so carefully arranged to display divinity, was contorted. He strode toward you, his sandals striking the marble floor with force. “A praetorian! One of my soldiers! Do you think you can humiliate me like this?”