Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Talon]

MARTIUS VII 736 AUC - Rome, Italia

Marcus Valerius Aetius leaned against the inside of the doorway at the rear of his tablinum, arms crossed loosely over his chest, head inclined towards his right shoulder as he sat in idle observance of the scene playing out in the courtyard before him. Servants bustled about in preparation for the evening meal, some gathering fresh ingredients from the garden whilst others labored to transport sacks and crates of dry ingredients from the storehouse located at the back of the courtyard. Marcus’ darkly brooding gaze was cast out from under furrowed brow, eyes gradually shifting from one subject to another absent observable pattern or reason. Onlookers would note a passing resemblance in his posture to that of his namesake, the eagle, as he looked for all the world like a freshly sated bird of prey who was nonchalantly browsing for future options, targets upon which to satisfy his urge to hunt once the instinctual need had returned. Servants who passed in front of the doorway that currently served as his perch were quick to bow their heads, avert their eyes and hasten their step, offering only a mumbled “Dominus…” as his gaze fell upon them. In truth, despite appearances to the contrary they had little to fear from him in that moment, he was not the sort of man to lash out in undue anger at innocent bystanders, whether he had the legal right to or not. Although his servants inherently knew this to be the case from his past behavior, even the most battle hardened Legionnaire would find it a difficult task to pass under the scrutinizing gaze of such a man without instinctually withering or snapping to attention.

A man relatively modest in both height and frame, Marcus was not physically imposing in size by any measure. What musculature his frame did carry, primarily around his shoulders, arms and thighs, had been built and refined through years of active military service. His facial features were hard and angular; his jaw squarely cut, sharp nose set between hooded, richly dark brown eyes, portals that peer out from under a low brow and sit above strongly defined cheekbones. Well past the prime of youth, Marcus’ hair was now more granite than black, it’s former color still somewhat evident at the top of his scalp, having given way completely at his temples to a lighter, almost silver shade of white. Despite the loss of color his hairline had given little ground to age, a gradual retreat evident only above his temples. What Marcus might have lacked in physical stature he made up for in demeanor, carrying himself with an air of confidence that had been earned through victory and tested in battle, both in single combat and in large scale engagements. Sound of mind and quick of wit, Marcus’ most notable trait was the ability to remain cool under pressure. While he was not the most naturally gifted of tacticians, Marcus nevertheless was able to quickly and calmly react to changing circumstances or unfavorable conditions. He had the ability, as some would phrase it, to ‘think quickly on his feet’.

Dressed now in a modest, grey-green tunic belted at the waist, Marcus cut the figure of a worldly, humble man who did not rely on open displays of wealth to convey his net worth. He wore his hair short on the sides and longer at the top, currently slicked back haphazardly as if he had run damp hands through it while scrubbing his face clean. Having recently been in session with the Senate, Marcus had only just changed from his formal toga and taken a moment to refresh himself before retiring to his office to deliberate over the obstacle that had been placed before him. It appeared as if the change to casual wear had done little to lift his spirits, brow still knit in the middle, his mouth pursed in silent contemplation of whatever issue had been the source of his darkened mood.

“Dominus...you summoned me?”

Marcus’ head turned to look over his left shoulder, the thundercloud darkening his features momentarily clearing as the corners of his mouth turned up in a subtle, half hearted smile of recognition. “Mikkos…” he nodded to his Majordomo in greeting, turning back to gaze out into the courtyard once the gesture had been returned. “...I’m afraid my reign as ‘Rome’s most eligible bachelor’ has come to an untimely end.” His sarcastic tone implied jest but failed to mask wholly a deep undertone of concern.

Mikkos settled his shoulders, his left hand gripping the wrist of his right at his waist, an eyebrow quirked questioningly. Mikkos was of Greek heritage, a well educated slave who had entered into servitude with the Valierus family while Marcus was still a boy. Charged with tutoring Marcus in Greek and tending to his person as he came of age, Mikkos was inherited by Marcus when his father passed during the last civil war. There were few people in the Empire that Marcus trusted as easily as Mikkos, and the two had grown to be as close as Master and Slave could possibly become. “Oh?...I wasn’t made aware of any pending offers of arrangement...has Cupid’s arrow finally struck true, then, Dominus?”

Marcus scoffed, turning away from the doorway. “Nothing quite so poetic, I fear…” His legs carried him forward at a casual pace towards the wall to his left, arms still interlaced across his chest, halting suddenly as he turned to face the fresco mural centered on the wall there, his back once more facing Mikkos. The masterfully rendered painting depicted a great battle, the combined armies of Greece in the lower left corner facing off against the Trojans in the upper right, both elements encircling the Greek hero Achilles engaged in single combat with the Trojan Prince, Hector, at the center. The painting memorialized a scene from The Iliad, a favored tale from his youth, one that his mother would often read to him in her native tongue as she lay him down to sleep. Marcus’ gaze settled on the tragic figure of Hector, his head turning to the right slightly so as to project his voice over his shoulder for an audience behind him, eyes still favoring the art to his front. His arms were then uncrossed and shifted behind him, left hand clasping right wrist as they joined at the small of his back. “Quite the opposite. The Emperor has seen fit to draft new regulations seeking to target those who would ‘shirk their familial responsibilities as a Citizen of good standing’…” Marcus turned away from the rear wall suddenly, once more resuming his movement at a casual pace as he sauntered towards the desk set against the wall on the opposite side of the room, his gaze cast towards Mikkos as he spoke. “...in essence a set of marriage laws aimed in particular at those amongst the upper classes. Every celibate and widower of marrying age is to be given a grace period of one-hundred days to bring themselves into compliance with them, at which point a failure to do so would result in restrictions on social activities and rather exorbitant fines.“

Mikkos clicked his tongue behind his teeth. “And as a member of the Senate and someone seen to be solidly in the Emperor’s camp, I presume the option to simply pay the fines and accept the social stigma is not available, even if you otherwise wished to take it?”

Marcus sighed in resignation, shifting his arms from behind his back around to his front, crossing them over his chest once again as his right hand gripped his chin, face lowered towards the floor as he slowly paced across the room. “I have not been told as much, but one can safely assume this to be the way of things. Either way, it matters little, I will not labour to be granted special dispensation. It shall be as Caesar wills…I’ve no choice but to remarry...”

A moment of silence between the two men hung heavily in the air as the sounds of work in the courtyard outside carried through the open doorway to fill the momentary lull in conversation.

Mikkos cleared his throat. “Very well, Dominus…” He rubbed his hands together before him as if preparing to set about a task. “...how do we proceed from here, then? Have you any immediate prospects in mind?”

Marcus frowned, exhaling forcefully through his nose as the hand gripping his chin shifted, falling to tuck under his left bicep as he shook his head. “You of all people should know I have been avoiding the matchmakers as fervently as one would tax collectors...close friends and colleagues alike know this is a subject that is quick to draw my ire. As it were, offers are not oft forthcoming. ”

Mikkos momentarily tightened his lips in a faint smirk, his brow lifting light-heartedly. “Should I prepare a script for the praecones, then?”

A genuine smile broke Marcus’ visage as he stopped his pacing near to the back wall, his front turned away from Mikkos, gaze once more cast up towards the scene depicted there. “Nothing quite so tragically desperate, old friend…although if I thought it would bear fruit I might otherwise be inclined. No...I think I might have a more reasonable option. It is somewhat of a long shot, but given the circumstances, I believe it worthy of pursuit. Would you happen to recall a man named Pius Africanus Vergilius?”

Mikkos shifted, his gaze cast to the floor, brow furrowing in the effort to put a face to the name. “...Vergilius…”. Mikkos’ head lifted suddenly as a memory was triggered. “Yes...I believe I recall the name. He sometimes deals in grain, yes? He had enough surplus to provide food stores for your Legion during that tough winter in the Cantabrian campaign…”

Marcus looked back over his shoulder, nodding. “And once more during my Governorship of Gatalia when the local harvest was overly meagre. I’ve heard rumors that he has a divine gift for forecasting crop yields…” Marcus paused for a moment in contemplation, the hint of a playful smile across his lips. “...as far as gifts from the Gods go it would seem to be a rather mundane one, that is, until you have a thousand starving Legionnaires camped just outside your tent.” Marcus turned once more to face the fresco on the wall before him. “I seem to recall him mentioning in passing once that he had a daughter, one who he was interested in matching with a suitable husband amongst the upper caste.”

Mikkos nodded silently, straightening in anticipation of forthcoming instruction.

“This was several years ago while I was...otherwise spoken for…” Mikkos could detect the contempt underlying that statement, a contempt he knew the source of but would dare not give voice to. “... but I believe that his intent was for me to recommend to him someone suitable.”

A grin broke Mikkos’ visage. “And it just so happens that this ‘someone suitable’ has recently come to market.”

Marcus nodded. “Indeed. I can’t speak to his daughter’s physical appearance and how pleasing to the eye she may or not be, but, if she’s inherited any of Virgil’s inborn qualities she would certainly be a step up for me as of late.”

Mikkos frowned, seizing the initiative to gracefully steer the conversation away from the rocky shores of his master’s previous relationships. “Of that there can be no doubt, Dominus. Do you think the daughter of such a man remains unwed, even after all this time?”

Marcus turned on his heel, running his hands across his face and through his hair in what was a rare outward display of exasperation by an ordinarily stoic man, prefacing his speech with a forceful sigh. “It seems somewhat far-fetched, the notion...but quite frankly, I find myself lacking in otherwise suitable options. I’m sure I could cast a net amongst my colleagues in the Senate...surely there would be at least a few offers readily given. The problem inherent in that method is that I wouldn’t have the time to properly vet them... one backstabbing, overly ambitious harpy was more than enough to give me my fill of their sort…”

Mikkos set his steady hand to steer once more. “As you say, Dominus...so in other words, if his daughter is wed or the offer otherwise does not stand, we then find ourselves at an impasse?”

Marcus scoffed. “We might as well count ourselves among Leonidas and his three hundred…” Marcus paused, turning to Mikkos with a halfhearted smile. “Perhaps that is a touch overdramatic...but yes, circumstances would be quite dire. That is why I need you to prepare gifts for Virgil, his wife and his daughter, along with a message to be delivered to him this evening.”

Mikkos’ visage registered a look of surprise. “Tonight, Dominus? But it is already well past the hour of business…”

Marcus broke in forcefully. “Indeed it is...but this proposal cannot wait. Tomorrow the proclamation will be publicly made...affected citizens will be scrambling for hasty solutions to newfound problems. We have but one boon,” Marcus held up a single finger for emphasis, ”... the initiative...and thus we must make the most of it. Make the gifts overly generous and beg Virgil pardon my rudeness for having broken taboo...I think ultimately he will come to see the wisdom of my timing. If his daughter remains unwed he too will be subject to fines and social stigma, a situation I think he would be pleased to have resolved quickly and with so little effort on his part.”

Mikkos nodded, a smile of satisfaction across his lips. “A masterful opening play, Dominus.”

Marcus closed the distance between the two men and clapped Mikkos on the shoulders, grinning warmly with a scoff. “A well timed riposte, perhaps…” His grin turned, it’s warmth drained from his features as his demeanor fell grim. “...but make no mistake...until such a time as I am wed we remain solidly on our heels, on the verge of being routed...quite vulnerable to attack from either flank. If you should cross paths with slaves or servants from other households along your way, do not let them know what business you are about. Inform Virgil of the forthcoming proclamation and bid him not discuss it with any third parties. It remains a secret only until the morrow, I trust he should not find the keeping of it for one evening unduly laborious. As for you, I trust that you will exercise the appropriate caution, as ever, old friend…” Marcus firmly gripped Mikkos’ shoulders as if to emphasize his point before releasing him with a nod and turning away.

“Now then...let us make haste in the writing of this letter, for the hour grows late…”

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil,

It is my sincere hope that this letter finds you in good health and fortune, old friend. Twice now I have called upon you in times of great need and twice you have delivered, debts I repaid in time with both coin and great esteem. I write to you now in the asking of a much more personal favor, perhaps the highest favor one could ask to have bestowed on them by the father of a daughter.

I seek your permission to be joined together with your daughter by sacred rites of marriage. To form a bond between the houses of Valerius and Africanus for all time, not as mere allies or friends, but as family.

I regret deeply not being able to ask you in person, citizen to citizen, unfortunately our present situation necessitates the utmost discretion.

With highest regards,

Marcus Valerius Aetius, Senator

*~*~*~*~*

Pius Africanus Vergilius, known as Virgil to friends and family, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his free thumb as if to clear his vision, his other thumb engaged in clutching between fingers a length of vellum, a message given to him by the man who stood before him. Virgil lifted the scrap of vellum, once more grasping it with both hands so as to hold it aloft in order to be read. His eyes scrolled down the brief note now for a second time, Virgil lifting his gaze to the man who had delivered it, eyes squinting as he cycled through his short term memory for a name. “Your name again?”

“Mikkos, sir.” The man helpfully added.

Virgil nodded, turning to place the letter down amongst the various scrolls and sheets that littered the top of his desk behind him. “Mikkos...” He paused for a moment as if considering a suitable place before finally laying the vellum down to rest amongst its counterparts and turning back to face Mikkos, nodding. “...right, Mikkos. A strong Greek name, Mikkos.” Virgil remarked offhandedly, to which Mikkos only nodded in silent agreement. “I must say this offer is most unexpected, yet not in the least bit unwelcome. Quite the opposite!” Virgil laughed, reaching out to clap Mikkos on the upper arm. “Quite the opposite...the great Marcos Valerius Aetius, asking after my daughter?” Virgil turns, eyes casting over the room in search of something in particular. “A Senator, no less. No matter the underlying circumstances…”. Virgil’s brow furrows as his eyes fail to meet their target before finally turning back to Mikkos. “...I am honored to field such a request from the great Marcus Valerius Aetius.”

Mikkos nods. “He would want me to assure you that he is as honored to make such an offer.”

Virgil smiled, moving next to Mikkos and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, steering him towards the door as he moved to exit his office. “Assure the honorable Marcus Valerius in turn that he has my most humble acceptance, and that next we meet, we shall embrace as family…” The pair exited Virgil’s office, moving across the atrium slowly. “Tell him that I will prepare a feast to rival the celebration of the greatest Triumph, and that I humbly insist he allow me to host the ceremony here, in my home, to honor my obligations as father of the bride.” The men stopped as they reached the doorway that led to the exterior of the house, Virgil pulling his arm away from Mikkos’ shoulders as he moved around to face his front. “Most of all, tell him that my daughter will make him a fine wife. She will tend his household with great care and wisdom and bear him many healthy children. What she has not been taught, she can learn. She will be loyal and conduct herself properly so as not to bring dishonor upon his name.” Virgil beamed with pride, and though ordinarily a man of serious nature, he could not contain the smile that curved his lips and lifted his cheeks upwards. “Now go, Mikkos, and bring your Master the news of my agreement with great haste!”

Mikkos nodded his agreement, bowing his head as he pulled away from Virgil before turning to make for the exit with purpose.

Virgil waited until Mikkos had cleared the doorway before relaxing his posture with a sigh of satisfaction, his head tilting back, face towards the sky, his eyes closed in a moment of silent reflection. He mumbled a few thankful prayers to his favored Gods for their hand in his most recent turn of good fortune before letting his head fall, eyes shooting open as he snapped his fingers three times forcefully. A figure off to his right shifted into view as if materializing from thin air.

“Dominus?”

Virgil nodded, a satisfied smile still playing across his lips as he started off across the atrium in the direction of his office, servant in tow off to his left side. “Have wine brought to my office...a good vintage, the one we had brought from Pompeii last month should suffice...and have someone fetch Gaia and bid her join me in my office. Tell her I have auspicious news regarding the future of the family.” Virgil stopped at the doorway to his office, turning to consider the servant beside him. “That will be all.”

“Yes, Dominus, at once.” The servant disappeared as quickly as he had materialized, hastening to carry out his tasks as instructed.

Virgil settled into the cushioned wooden chair that sat behind the great wooden desk in the center of his office. He felt an odd sensation in his gut, as if some great knot in the pit of his stomach had been unravelled, the tension it had brought slowly seeping away. He worked his shoulders a few times as if he were a man who had just set down a heavy burden he had carried on his back for a great distance, and over that time, had grown accustomed to. Virgil settled back against the cushion of his chair, leaning sideways against the arm as the fingers of his right hand scratched at his chin, the fingers of his left idly toying with the scrap of vellum sitting atop his desk that held on it the message he had most recently been delivered.

An ambitious man born of an ambitious family, men like Virgil were not unaccustomed to victory. Quite the contrary, what fortune his forefathers had left to him he had only built upon, doubling or perhaps even tripling his family’s holdings thus far in his time as head of it. This victory, however, felt somehow different, more personal. Although he had grown ever more distant from his daughter as she grew older, he still felt a deep sense of love and affection towards her that he often found himself unable to openly express. He imagined she would not be pleased by this most recent development, perhaps not showing as much freely, depending on her mood, but deep down she would feel corralled and controlled. He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head gently. From his perspective he had endeavored to find her a suitable match. Proclamation or not, eventually she must be wed, birth healthy children for her husband and carry on their family legacy by raising strong, capable sons and dutiful daughters. It was a cause for personal shame as a father that it had taken him this long to find her a husband...Virgil shook his head. It was of little importance, the timing, for what is done cannot be undone.

Virgil had found his daughter a match, and a strong match it was. He knew Marcus Varelius to be an honorable man, a man both mentally capable and physically able-bodied. Not born to a royal, Patrician, line, but his family had a legacy of service in the Senate nonetheless, a legacy that Marcus had thus far upheld. What more could a father possibly hope for? Virgil was an ambitious man, but also firmly grounded. He knew the unfavorable odds that a man such as himself, a second generation citizen of non-Italian heritage, would face should they attempt to rise to the level he had outside of his ancestral homeland. Even for native Italians born to a Plebeian family the odds for such an ascension were nigh on impossible for all but the most capable of men. And yet here he was.

Virgil smiled as he straightened in his chair, leaning over his desk and passively sorting through loose pages that sat in semi-organized piles along the top, humming an upbeat tune softly beneath his breath. This is how Gaia would find him, uncharacteristically cheerful as he prepared to receive his daughter in his office and share with her the joyous news.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Gaia!”

She stopped in her tracks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, to stare down at the neat oceanic swirls of the mosaic beneath her feet. Any change in her body language would be enough to give her away, and that would mean another ear bending lecture, if not a direct hair-pulling. And though part of her was always itching for one good, true fight between her and her mother, like she’d seen her brothers fight with one another, decorum would never allow for them to wrap their knuckles and throw punches. No, a woman’s boxing ring was in the home, the corners shifting, the ground never steady. On her mother’s side would be the other women of the household, from her old nursemaid Cleopatra (one whom she’d considered an ally for the longest of times; the truth of the old woman’s nature of that of a spy still stung, all these years later) to the lowest cook, Hestia. Her mother’s supporters extended even out of the household, to her elder sisters Agrippina and Cassia. Bitches, the both of them - stray bitches that went into heat at the first sniff of wealth.

But Gaia was not entirely without her own crowd - her namesake, the earth warm beneath her feet, even through the tile, and the Great Huntress herself. And for now, they would have to do.

Diana, give me strength.

“Yes, mother?” Gaia turned, slowly, focusing on the way her brick red tunic brushed against her ankles, the folds of her palla against her shoulders.

Gaia’s mother, Octavia, raised an eyebrow. Despite her advanced age, well into her 50s, Octavia still retained all of the hallmarks of a devastating beauty that even time treaded carefully around. No small wonder: for what the gods had given Octavia, Octavia showed her devotion in turn by sparing no expense for milk baths, honey and beeswax facial rubs, kohl, perfumes from far reaches of the territory - on top of the remedies that had been passed down in the family, considered strange by those “natural” born Romans. The imperial lifted eyebrow was the product of careful arching, plucking to near oblivion, then inking back on.

“…You’re retiring early. It’s unlike you.” She folded her arms beneath her own shimmering palla, the fabric fine and a far cry from the more modest wool that Gaia wore. Gaia thought she’d recognized it; the color was like the sky spilled across a deep pool of water on a summer day. Linen, perhaps - there was no occasion for her mother to be wearing any of the silk damask that her father had painstakingly obtained for her - only to have her put it away. There had been much gnashing of teeth and wailing and raging against the Emperor that night, even if only in hushed whispers - to finally have the object of her heart’s avarice, and never to be able to wear it.

Gaia dedicated a snow white dove to Diana for the change.

“I haven’t been feeling well.” Though she longed to cross her arms, fold back into herself, there was no way that she could have, not without it sparking a fight. So she shuffled her palla forward, bundling further under it.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Octavia stepped closer; peered into Gaia’s dark eyes, looked over her face. “Your color is fine - even if you have gotten darker on the cheeks. I’ve told you time and time again to cover yourself properly if you insist on going outside.”

But I’m already dark, as are you. The remark leapt to the tip of her tongue, and it was only the firm clasp of her teeth against the potentially offending organ that the comment did not leap out.

Something in Gaia’s expression must have given her away, for Octavia’s scowl deepened. “And I’ve also told you time and time again to use milk to even out the complexion. You will never be a beauty, but you could be presentable, if not passable, if you just did the things I asked you to.”

Gaia bit her tongue so hard that her mouth flooded with the metallic taste of salt.

Diana, I beseech you; still my tongue!

“…If you’re not feeling well, I can send Cleopatra to look after you. She can make you something to fix whatever it is that you’re ill with.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Well, then, if it’s not, make sure to wash your face properly. And there’s enough light yet for you to do some weaving. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed that you’re woefully slow. Agrippina's got three young ones and made me the most lovely stolla in a few month’s time." Octavia sighed, with a slight shake of her head. In the candlelight of the halls, her golden earrings glittered, specks of sunlight caught.

“I will, mother. Good night.”

“Good night.” The impatient tapping of Octavia’s sandals suddenly stopped, making Gaia wish that she’d taken the opportunity to run as soon as her mother’s back was turned. “Say good night to your father as well.”

“Do you know where he is?” An honest question; her father had left dinner early, under the pretext of additional work. Gaia had suspected that it was perhaps to escape her mother’s nagging of the kitchen servants, but there was also no telling. She’d long stopped following his actions, trailing behind him as she had as a little girl. Meals were to be endured, with the occasional rarity of having something truly delicious across the palate, or a visit from one of her brothers. This had been an average meal - with just the three of them, her mother doing most of the talking. Complaining, really; the usual litany of woes from her social circles, old gossip reheated with different names.

“Probably in his office. Don’t dawdle if you’re ill.” A dismissive comment, waved along as Octavia sped away, the frantic patter of her sandals against the tile growing quieter as she moved further away.

Standing in the hallway, alone, truly alone, Gaia sighed, feeling her shoulders drop as she did so. Diana hadn’t forsaken her yet. She would be sure to give her the appropriate offering as soon as she had the chance.








“Father? I’ve come to bid you good night,” she said, at the door frame of his office.

When she was younger, she would have barged in, been scolded (though never struck), and promptly shooed out. When she was a bit older, but still younger than she was now, she would have poked her head in, only to have her father scowl at her and grow silent if he were talking, roll up papyrus and vellum if he were reading. Now, she bothered not with looking - the fact that she’d stopped at the door spoke volumes, for the past few years, if he were in his office, she would bid him a good night or morning only in passing, her voice raised loud enough for him to hear, and she never stayed to acknowledge if he heard her or not.

“Gaia! Come, come. I have news that concerns you - you are fated to live a long and healthy life.”

Gaia paused. She’d been poised to walk away; wasn’t prepared to enter any kind of conversation. “I..I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get too close, for fear of making you ill.”

Quiet, then, the pushing aside of stools, the familiar sound of her father’s grunt as he got to his feet, his knees stiffer than they were in his youth.

“Did you overeat? Your mother said that you’d stopped that habit.”

Gaia took in a deep breath. “No, I did not overeat. I have a bit of a headache, is all. Nothing that I think is contagious, but mother is always overcautious.”

“A headache, then?” Relief was clear in his voice, and for a moment, Gaia thought, hoped, that he was truly happy to hear that she was in good health, “That will hardly affect the news that I have for you. Come in; do as your father asks.”

It was gentle enough, but the undercurrent of lead compelled Gaia to move from the door frame into the door itself, standing and looking into his office as if it had been buried for centuries. In a way, it had; it had been so long since she’d seen it, but the walls with neat shelves covered in rolled scrolls, the table, even the stool on which he sat, once of a fine red wool, worn thin from his seat, the constant friction of the bottom of the legs scraped against the tile.

“No further than that; there’s a good girl. Do you recall the Senator Marcus Valerius Aetius?”

She didn’t. Rather than saying so, she simply cast her eyes downward, the beginnings of the headache she’d felt during dinner rapidly building to something much stronger than just a twinge behind her eyes.

Virgil, noticing the downward cast of her face, rubbed his chin. “You hardly look your age when you stand like that. Quite lovely, if one stands back. Keep that in mind; it will be important with what I tell you next. The Senator has asked for your hand, and I have agreed to it. You could hardly hope for a better match!”

She kept her head down.

“Well? Marriage, and to a Senator! No matter he’s been married before; it just means that he is practiced and will take good care of you. Your consent, of course, is a given.”

She kept her head down.

Virgil lapsed into silence, and, for what felt like the first time in years, he looked at his daughter. Her limbs were finely turned, her body slender beneath her tunic. She had none of her mother’s sharp, fine desert-fox features, but she was fair enough, if one looked at her in a certain light at a certain time of day. What she had thankfully inherited from both of her parents was a face that age did not seem to touch, and, if it did, it treaded carefully - in truth, her face seemed not to have changed a whit since her puberty; a lucky, lucky thing. But from where he was standing, he could also see traces of himself in her - more than in his eldest son. Beneath that tunic, he knew she had his knees, and fat legs. What joy had they brought him when she was but a baby. What joy had all of his children brought him then, fresh to the world, wailing, so perfectly a mix of himself and her mother, the marvel of seeing yourself repeated out into the world, with enough variation to keep things fresh and new.

“…We can discuss it further in the morning. Get some rest and tend to your head.”

“I will, father. Good night.”

She was gone before he could find the words that he’d felt form, the ones he struggled with as he looked at her. His last daughter, his dumpling of the fat cheeks and legs, would finally be leaving his home. And how empty a feeling it was.







Marriage.

“Marriage.” She said it out loud, stubbornly rubbing milk into her face. Milk and rosewater combined. Saying the word out loud didn’t make it feel any more real than it had felt floating around in her head. “Marriage,” she said again, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Ma. Rri. Age.” No, breaking it up didn’t help, either. “Marrrrrrrrrrriiiiiaaagggggeeee.”

Under her bed, her father’s old hound, Argos, lifted his hoary head. Snorted, then grumbled as he laid it down again. Her mother would have a fit if she knew - but she would have no better luck chasing the dog off than she would have turning the sun back under the horizon. The dog had been her faithful companion since she was a child, despite being her father’s guard dog. In one moment of sentimentality, her father had explained to her that years ago, he’d given Argos a command to guard his most precious possession. Argos had instantly laid his head on her, and Argos had been her shadow since then. Sentimental pap, more than likely, but…it was still something that warmed her.

“I think I feel the same way, Argos,” and the large creature thumped his tail on the floor in agreement.

Rubbing the last bit of milk into her face, she tilted her head backwards, and closed her eyes. It would make sense, this marriage thing. It was something she knew was going to happen, at one point or the other - something her sisters, those bitches, had been so excited over. Even the servants and slaves were happy when they were allowed to marry, and had their own quiet little festivals, were overjoyed to welcome their first child, no matter how much hardship came with it.

But I don’t feel anything.

Her heart, her mind, were as empty as a moonless night. Pushing away from her small table, she knelt in front of the dog, half-dozing on the small rug, and rubbed the wiry fur between his ears. He sighed in contentment, a heavy exhalation recognizing that now his duty was officially done for the day.

“Maybe I’ll feel something tomorrow,” she murmured, slipping between the linen. “Or maybe I won’t feel anything at all - and that’s the blessing.”

 

[Talon]

MARTIUS VIII 736 AUC ~*~ VIII days until the Wedding Ceremony ~*~


Marcus Valerius settled against the ledge of the warm bathing pool his lower half was currently submerged in, leaning back on his elbows and tilting his head back with a gradual sigh. Supposedly the water had been enhanced with some concoction of herbs or minerals that was said to help with aches and pains. Either way the temperature alone felt great, the heat soothing joints that had begun to feel the effects of the passage of time. Around him sat a loose collective of older men, some submerged in the water to varying degrees while others remained seated outside along the edge, all within speaking distance.

“...and so I said to the brute, ‘and how much for your mother, then?’”

The group of men laughed, some more genuinely than others. Frowning as if he had been disturbed, Marcus lifted his head and scanned for the source of the disturbance. Seated off to his right, holding court amongst the loosely gathered group was Septimius Helveticus Tullius. A member of the Senate, as were all gathered here in this exclusive area of the bath, Septimius was among the most wealthy of the Senatorial class, from a long line of rich and powerful men. Luckily for him, Marcus thought, as he was not an impressive specimen by any measure. Weak of character and body and low of intellect, his ego was about the only characteristic of any note.

Apparently Marcus’ movement had drawn Septimius’ eye as he addressed him directly once the crowd had settled. “What do you say, Marcus, old boy?”

Marcus winced with the thought of having to entertain this dullard’s crass sense of humor for even a moment, his tone dripping with naked contempt. “About what?”

Septimius sighed dramatically. “Some pleb farmer I’ve let work the lands around my villa owes me six months back rent. He blathered on about some fucking plague of insects or some such that supposedly hurt this years crop yields.” Septimus scoffed as Marcus fixed him with a blank stare, one eyebrow quirked as if to say ‘get to the point’. “So he offers me some ‘prize horse’ in place of payment, and I counter by asking him how much for his mother!”

Marcus’ expression remained blank, mouth slightly agape as his eyes narrowed.

Septimius looked perturbed, a few of the men surrounding them coughing or clearing their throats in discomfort. “I mean...don’t you get it? I asked how much…”

Marcus’ features darkened harshly as the corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer. “For his mother...No, I got it, Septimus. You have a burning lust for the old mothers of desperate farmers. What’s your fucking point, then?”

Septimius shrank back, looking browbeaten. “No point...I...it was a joke…”

Marcus’ visage cleared, his eyebrows lifting cheerfully. “Ahhh...a joke...right. Well then, why don’t you finish the story? If I had to guess, a man of your caliber, being such an accomplished orator and all...you probably talked him out of both for payment, am I right?”

A round of uncomfortable laughter from the crowd, Septimius slowly smiling cautiously as he nodded. “...something like that.”

Marcus chuckled forcefully, his words tinged with fake laughter. “Of course you did...the real question, though, is which one of them did you fuck first?”

Septimius stood suddenly, Marcus rising to meet him in turn, the nude men squaring off for a moment before their fellow bathers moved to restrain them. Marcus pulled away from the grasp of a man who had reached out for his arm, pointing a finger at him with a look of warning before turning back to Septimius. “Keep your hands off...go on then, Septimius, I’ll let you take the first swing.”

Septimius was clearly seething with rage, fists clenched, nostrils flaring, rocking back and forth on his heels a few times as he chewed his lower lip. He shook his head with a final forceful snort of hot air. “This isn’t over, Valerius…”

Marcus grinned slyly. “One would hope not, we were just getting to the interesting part.” Without waiting for a response Marcus turned, brushing past the men who had surrounded them to step up and out of the pool, stomping off towards the dressing rooms without even bothering to don his robe.

The group of men settled once more into their former positions, with someone asking “What’s with Valerius, he eat some bad shellfish?”

Septimius shook his head, eyes fixed on the figure of Marcus as he navigated through the room. “No...he’s jealous, that’s all. He knows I please his ex-wife far better than he could have ever hoped to…”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Drusilla the Younger frowned as she studied the varnish on the nails of her left hand, rotating her hand this way and that to examine them from multiple angles. Satisfied with her appraisal she let her hand drop to the bed beneath her with a muted thud and a soft sigh. The new slave her husband had purchased last week, the one supposedly skilled in personal grooming, had a long way to go to meet her standard. Her previous attendant had passed last week from one sickness or another, not that Drusilla was sentimental over her passing, it’s just that she had spent so much time training and breaking her in, only to have to start that process anew. Drusilla sighed once more. It was so difficult to find good help these days!

“Oh yeah...take it...yeah...take it...you like that, huh, you little nymph? You want more?”

Drusilla was currently kneeling on top of her marital bed, her upper half bent forward to rest on her elbows, nightgown pulled up over her lower half and gathered around her waist, her bare rump upturned and presented to the man behind her. Her husband was gripping her ample hips as he pumped away frantically with short, shallow strokes, his pelvis colliding with the cheeks of her rounded backside with so little force it resulted only in a dull thwap. Unfortunately for him, even more so for her, he lacked the length to enable him enough range of motion to truly give her a firm pounding. As it were, she barely even registered his presence aside from his incessant comments.

Drusilla rolled her eyes. As much as it pained her to play along, in her experience it helped speed along the process. She tried to mask her boredom with a sultry rasp, despite her efforts it still sounded somewhat monotone. “Of course, my stud, what woman wouldn't? Not even Juno herself could refuse such a…” She paused for a moment as she wracked her brain for a halfway sincere sounding adjective. “...virile man.”

“Am I not?..you should’ve seen me this afternoon dear...oh, I’m close...getting close!”

Drusilla frowned, her curiosity piqued, her head turning to the side. “What happened this afternoon, my stud?”

Septimius was panting, grimacing as he neared orgasm, hips pumping desperately as he sought release. He managed to reply breathlessly “That old prick Valerius thought he could get the better of me…”

Drusilla lifted up, lashing back violently with a single arm, open hand smacking into her husband’s chest with enough force to knock him off balance, the feeble man losing his grip on her hips as he fell backwards and onto the bed, ending up seated on his rump behind her. Septimius had a bewildered look on his face, his mouth soundlessly working a few times as he tried to process this most recent development. Drusilla rolled over onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. “What about Marcus? What did he say?”

Septimius shook his head as if trying to clear his clouded thoughts. “Well...I mean...he insulted me in front of the other Senators...in the baths...we were just having a casual conversation and then…”

Drusilla leaned towards him, striking out again to swat him on the shoulder, her face turned in a vicious sneer, Septimius shrinking back and raising his hands in front of himself defensively. “I don’t care about that, you fool. Did he say anything about me?”

Septimius stammered, his tone elevated with distress. “W-W-Well...no. B-But clearly he was just jealous that I’m the one who…”

Drusilla shook her head, adjusting her gown to pull it down over her lower half with a frustrated growl. “Shut your mouth, idiot...pathetic, did you let him get the better of you?”

Septimius shook his head. “No...I mean, I told him it wasn’t over...it just wasn’t the right time to strike…”

Drusilla rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes...next time you don’t back down, do you understand? I don’t allow cowards into my bed, keep that in mind should you wish to continue enjoying your husbandly privileges going forward.”

Septimius sighed. “Yes, dear…”

“Very well, now that we have come to an understanding, tell me more about what happened this afternoon. What did you say to Marcus, why was he so on edge?”

Septimius shrugged. “Who knows...I didn’t provoke him directly. One of the men said something about this new proclamation that was issued…”

Drusilla sat up, gripping Septimius by the arm. “The marriage proclamation? What about it, he’s going to remarry?”

Septimius shrugged again, looking legitimately apologetic that he didn’t have more information to share with her. “I..I don’t know, dear...as you know, we travel in different circles. I would imagine so, the penalties are quite severe, not to mention how it would look for a Senator to be acting in defiance of…”

Drusilla sneered as she strengthened her grip, digging her nails into his arm as Septimius winced and tried to pull away. He wasn’t successful. “Leave the thinking to your betters, dear husband. Listen carefully now, darling. If you ever want to get your little ‘soldier’ wet with anyone other than a slave you’d better start keeping up your end of the bargain. Find out what Marcus’ play is. I don’t care if you ‘don’t travel in the same circles’, get creative! If you have to debase yourself by sucking off one of his slaves to get the information, so be it...just don’t get caught by anyone of any importance. Do we understand each other?”

Septimius nodded, frowning. “Yes, dear…”

Drusilla nodded, her pleasant mood returning as quickly as it had turned, releasing her grip on his arm with a gentle pat. “Very good, my darling husband. Now, I’m feeling quite spent, I think I’ll retire for the evening. If you still require…” she waved a hand in the direction of his genitals dismissively “...release, feel free to pleasure yourself as you look upon me. Try not to make too much of a fuss, yes? I’m afraid all this talk of conflict has disturbed my feminine sensibilities...Good night, dear.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


“Yes mother, I understand that you’re upset.”

Marcus picked at the plate of food that contained his evening meal, some sort of fish, well prepared, as he reclined back against an elbow on the couch in his triclinium. Across from him sat his mother, Marina Minor, whose plate sat in front of her, as of yet untouched.

Marina Minor was a woman of primarily greek Heritage. A beautiful, petite woman in her sixty-second year, her smooth, naturally olive toned skin left most with the impression she was no older than mid-forties. She had allowed nature to take its course in regards to her hair coloring, the shade of grey so light that its color was more white than silver. Her long, loosely worn hair was brushed out and well kept, it would reach well past her lower back while standing. She wore an elaborately stitched dress of a light, sky blue, complimented by various pieces of lavish jewelry that marked her as someone of significant wealth.

“I’m not upset, yiós, merely taken aback that you would make such a big decision without first seeking my counsel.” Marina fixed him with a downtrodden look, one meant to tug on his heartstrings. It was working.

“Mitéra...please, you know I meant nothing by it. It was all about the timing. Of course I want your blessing and wise counsel.” Marcus leaned forward, setting his plate on a small table off to his side before rising and crossing over to sit beside his mother. Marcus was not a giant of a man and yet still Marina’s slight frame was dwarfed by his as he embraced her in a one-armed hug. “It’s not too late for you to meet her mother and father before the wedding.”

Marina leaned up to kiss Marcus on the cheek, her hands reaching out to grasp his free hand in a gentle embrace. “I know nothing of them...how is her family? What is their heritage?”

“African. The father, Virgil, I know to be a man of integrity and honor. We are not so familiar as to be considered truly friends, but I trust him, solidly. The mother, on the other hand, I know nothing about.”

“Afrikanós? Lovely, what an interesting combination the pair of you shall make.” Marina sounded genuine. She was a gentle woman at heart, born with a natural curiosity for other cultures and peoples. Any prejudice she held was for individuals she felt had harmed her or her family directly. “Speaking of...have you seen her, your future wife? Does she seem healthy enough to carry my grandchildren?”

Marcus smiled. “I have not seen her yet...as for the rest, we shall worry about that when the time comes.”

Marina gently smacked a hand against his forearm. “Maybe you shall worry about that later, but I’m concerned with it now!...oy, agapoúla mou, I’m not getting any younger, you know...I want to see grandchildren before I pass to the other side…”

Marcus sucked in a deep breath. “I know, mother...I will endeavor to produce offspring as quickly as possible.”

“Ay...Marcus...don’t be so clinical about it, ey?” Marina shrugged his arm off her shoulders before turning towards him, reaching up to cup his cheeks with her palms. “Yiós...open yourself to this woman, your heart...not everything is about pride and prestige and ‘offspring’ and heirs...allow yourself to love again, and for her to love you, yes? Let your children be an expression of this love, not a vessel through which to pass on your legacy. I know you don’t understand the distinction...your heart is hardened by war and loss and grief. But, just this once, heed your mitéra...I love you, my darling aetós.” Marina pulled his head down towards her, leaning up to place a kiss on his forehead.

Marcus frowned in thought as his mother held him, pulling his head down to her breast, a hand cupping the back of his head. “I love you too, mother…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

V days until the Wedding Ceremony

A sharp twang rent the early morning air, followed by a quiet thump. The click of a tongue, a pressed down whistle.

“Your arrow’s off. That’s unlike you.”

Twang.

Thump.

The arrow trembled, lodged a few inches away from the painted center - the center occupied by two other arrows. Its predecessor was near the top of the target, a sack stuffed with hey, circles sloppily painted on by the hand of a child.

“Yes…” Gaia sighed, lowering her bow. There was no discernible excuse - the sun was still breaking through the mists of the night, the air unbroken but for the occasional cry of a bird. Still; all was deliciously still, with the remembrance of the half moon in the milky gray of the warming sky. “You’re right.”

“A blind man could tell I was right.”

Twang.

Thump.

“Oh, now you’re just showing off,” she could hardly stifle the laugh, and, a dam breaking, she allowed herself to laugh out loud, throwing back her head, the sound spooking some ground nesting birds who took to the air with mournful cries and scattered feathers.

“There’s what I’ve been missing,” her partner was jauntily running forward to the target. As he retrieved the arrows, he turned, holding them high overhead in a move that wouldn’t have been outside of one of the many victories he’d won on the battlefield.

Lucius Africanus Musa, known by his political rivals as “The Nubian” to disparage his heritage, was an impossibly tall man. Standing at six feet even, he fairly towered over the other members of his family and many of those in his second home in Rome. Critics of the family would point to his height as evidence of Octavia’s infidelity, but Virgil would laugh it off: after all, Octavia was tall for a woman, and his brothers had been tall men. Height ran in the family - with Lucius as the first born, it was only natural that he would simply be the best out of both of his parents, even before he’d drawn his first cry. His height was just one of the many ideal things about him - for his time in the army, his skin was still an unblemished deep brown, his arms and legs long and wiry, every bit of his body moulded as perfectly as by the hands of the gods themselves. His lips were a full Cupid's bow, his dark fox-like eyes, whose slight upward turn was only truly seen when he laughed or smiled, mirrored his mother’s. It was all his own cheerfulness, however, that made them bright and merry, lending him a boyish mischievousness that would tug on the hearts of his audience, and leave them wanting to join in on whatever he was planning. His nose was long, and his teeth startling even and white. His hair was a close-cropped mass of black, densely woolen curls, with hints of silver at his temples. His face, though aged from the sun so that when he smiled, his eyes crinkled at their corners, was plucked hairless, revealing a lovingly carved jaw, rounded chin, and broad cheekbones. His charisma clothed him almost like a golden aura, and he was well-loved by his soldiers and when he made friends, they were loyal beyond fault. Gaia had always seen him as her Apollo - even if she had joked that he had sucked all of their mother’s kindness from her breast so that she had none left to spare for the rest of her living children.

“I was worried that I’d never see my little fig dumpling smile again,” he held out the arrows to her. “And if that were to happen, why, next the sun would fail to rise, because who could bear to live in a world without your light?” He gently chucked her under her chin, causing her to raise her face to his. She was smiling now, so hard that her cheeks hurt, and she put a hand over his.

“That silver tongue must get you plenty of votes in Rome,” she nudged him gently in the side. “But you forget; I’ve listened to your lies my whole life.”

“Me? Lie? Why I would never!” A mock horrified gasp. “At least, not to my sweetest and dearest sister. However…I would hope that the same could be said for you.”

“In regards to?” She was readjusting her bow, studying the string even as she took half of the arrows from him. Kneeling, she set down the bundle, and took a moment to enjoy the dew from the morning grasses collect on her bare legs. This morning had seen her in a slavishly short toga, belted lazily at the waist with a strip of dark cowhide. The toga was of well-worn green wool, the color faded near to a pale olive. Notching an arrow, she took a deep breath, and drew back the string. Her arms snarled at her, angry at being asked to work in such a fashion. It had been too long - though the motion was fluid enough, she could feel that there wasn’t enough strength behind her pull. Adjusting her feet, she exhaled -

“About your impending marriage.”

Thwack.

Thump.

Silence.

“…Look at that; a bullseye.” Lucius’s voice was quieter now, the humor having fled.

"So it is.”

“Gaia, you’ve never lied to me - and I ask that you do not do so now. Did you agree to this marriage to further help my position?”

He was no longer looking at the target, but studying the face of his sister. She seemed not to hear him, as she was kneeling to retrieve another arrow. Notching it, she looked down, then, back up as she steeled herself, pulling her arm back.

Thwack.

Thump.

Another bullseye.

“No.” She lowered the bow, and turned to look at her brother. Saw the concern in his face, and found her smile again, feeling warmth in her chest. “Though I’m flattered that you would think that I’d sacrifice myself for you to be bolstered higher up the ranks of Rome, borne on the smoke of my own demise.”

“Well, I can see that my time away has done nothing for that venomous tongue,” he was laughing as he swiftly knelt to retrieve an arrow of his own. Notching it, he pulled his arm back, the muscles whipcord beneath his smooth skin. “I just…I supposed I had the sinking feeling that you were doing this out of love for me.”

Thwack.

Thump.

Gaia tapped his shoulder with her bow. “Now who’s shooting off-center?”

His arrow, still faintly trembling, was lodged in one of the outer circles of the target. “Not all of us are blessed by the Goddess of the Hunt. I’m allowed a bad arrow or two - but only when my life isn’t in danger. But, Gaia, between us, the earth, and the sky, tell me truly that you did not agree to this marriage to help me. I could not bear to have your unhappiness on my hands.”

“Your happiness is my happiness,” she replied, plain as stating that the sky above them was blue. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

He pulled her close with his left arm, careful not to hit her with the bow he still grasped in his left hand. She leaned into him, shifting her bow from her left hand to her right. Resting her head on his shoulder, she took in him the deep smell of his musk, the old leather and smoke and horseflesh that seemed to always cling to him, no matter how well he’d scrubbed.

Tapping the bottom of his chin against the crown of her head, he let her go. She retrieved an arrow, the last, and drew it back. “I think Father would have disowned me had I said no,” the truth, so long a bitter pill that she kept at the back of her throat, sprang free now, sweet, cleansing, here, beneath the silent sky and on the warming earth and near her dearest brother, “You know there have been no proposals, though he has tried his best to shop me around like the finest Egyptian grain.”

She lowered the bow now, but kept the arrow notched. Kept her dark gaze focused ahead, staring fixedly at nothing. “It means nothing to me, the marriage itself. It’s not anything that I’ve longed for. I think love is for other people, or for things. Like this. This feeling, I love. The way the air smells, when I run so long that my legs hurt, or when I spin around until the world is nothing but a blur and I can’t feel myself any more. Those are things I love. Children, marriage - they’re ideas. Things that happen to other people, but not me. It’s still the same now. I’m to be married, yes,” she pulled her bow up again, arrow still securely notched, “But I feel nothing about it.”

Thwack.

Thump.

Lucius looked at her shot, then back at her. There was no need to mention that once again, her shot had strayed off center.

“…It is good for a woman to be married, to have children. That’s what Father would say. He’s proud of Agrippina, of Cassia-”

“And of dreadfully boring Magnus. He calls me ‘Pomegranate’, you know.” A scowl was on her face as now she walked to retrieve the arrows from the target.

Lucius looked at her, his thick brows raised in confusion. “I thought you liked pomegranates.”

“I do,” a grunt as she pulled the arrows free from the target, “But he calls me that because he says that my behind in a red dress makes him think of a big, fat pomegranate. He is horrid and I hope his favorite cow kicks him.”

Lucius swallowed a laugh, and shrugged, clasping his large hands together. “Pomegranates tempted the Queen of the Underworld; they’re beautiful in color, like gems, and full of treasures and secrets, much like you.”

“You know as well as I do that Magnus was saying I had a fat butt,” she all but tossed the arrows at him, but lightly enough so that they couldn’t harm him.

“Magnus has always had the tongue of a slow farmer, you know that.” Lucius was setting his bow down now, flopping down in the grass and stretching out his legs. “He’s still your brother and he loves you as much as I do.”

“No one loves me as much as you do.”

“And no one loves me as much as you do,” he patted the grass beside him, grinning. “For what it is worth, from what I’ve heard of Marcus Valerius, he is a good man; Cupid has just chosen to ignore him.”

“And me as well; so maybe we’ll have that much in common.” She sat down, mirroring him by stretching out her legs as well. Unlike him, her skin was uneven; she bore tan lines on her dark skin, and her short toga revealed paler brown legs against darker arms. “And at the very least, I’ll be out of this house. While Father would have been disappointed, disowned me, and then reluctantly welcomed me back if I cried hard enough if I refused, Mother would have poisoned me herself. And would have done so with a smile.”

“Mmm, she is a hateful old creature, isn’t she?”

“I keep telling you; you sucked all of the good out of her when you nursed.”

“If she even had that much to go round. Haven’t you seen me? My head scrapes the clouds!”

She laughed again, running her hands into the fine grass beneath them. As the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, she could feel the air around them start to warm, all around their bodies the smell of crushed grass, old hay, the distant stink of their horses and their droppings.

“She loves you because you’re the best of us. The best of men, the best of brothers, the best of soldiers. If I was to be anything close to a dutiful daughter, if my marriage would make you a good position, I would gladly do it.” Before he could speak, she held up a hand, “But as I said, I am not agreeing to it solely for your sake. I didn’t realize that it could have benefited you until a day or so later. It’s not that Father was incredibly forthcoming in exactly who this man is. I suppose after our sisters, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that perhaps I may have wanted more out of a match than wealth.”

Digging her fingers into the earth, she pulled up a great fistful of grass, and tossed it aside. “I was quite sure that you were summoned here to help me tow the line. I could see Mother now, ‘Write to Lucius before that fat puppy of a girl ruins everything!’”

“There was no such a letter. You should know that Mother would never call you something as cute as a puppy. Perhaps a fat frog of a girl,” he leaned over, poked her cheek. “Ribbit.”

With a playful gasp of horror, she quickly turned and punched her brother in the arm. Hissing in pain, he grimaced, rubbing the spot that she hit.

“It was a mistake teaching you how to box when you were a child. You hit like a man. Albeit one who has served the best of his years as a catamite, but a man nonetheless.”

“You’re the worst and I take back every good thing I have ever said about you.”

“No you don’t,” and he pinched her nose lightly. “It’s strange, you know. To think of you as being married, and one day a mother. I thought that you would always be running the fields in the night, free as a golden hind.”

“Who’s to say that I won’t still be that? I’ve pledged myself to Diana, and she, in her greatness, has kept me from harm, brought me to adulthood, and will continue to watch over me as I tend to my own home. I will praise her for the rest of my days, she who has blessed me. And,” she moved to lay down in the grass, folding her bare arms behind her head, “If he doesn’t let me, this husband to be, I’m sure she’ll strike him down and I’ll inherit all of his land and money and I’ll sell it all and move to the mountains and have my family be the wolves.”

“Well,” a heavy grunt as Lucius rolled to his back, mimicking her, “You’ve already been born by a she-wolf. I’m sure the rest will welcome you gladly.”

 

[Talon]

MARTIUS XIII 736 AUC ~*~ III days until the Wedding Ceremony ~*~

Marcus Valerius rubbed his chin as he analyzed the latrunculi board laid out on the table before him. Seated at a table in the courtyard of his domus, he was currently engaged in an afternoon game with an old friend who had travelled to the city in anticipation of attending Marcus’ wedding. His longtime friend and current opponent, Tiberius Attius Farus, was seated opposite him, silently waiting his turn, leaned back on his stool with arms crossed. Two slaves stood on opposing sides of the pair, each presiding over a table with an assortment of refreshments at the ready should either man call for them. Tiberius was a fairly sizable fellow by the standards of the time, standing a few inches taller than Marcus, barrel chested and wide of shoulder. He was fair of hair and eye, his skin permanently tanned a light shade of bronze from all his years spent soldiering. Tiberius and Marcus first met whilst serving together as Tribunes in the VIth Legion during the Perusian campaign some twenty-three years past. While Marcus had eventually broken away from the military path in pursuit of political office, Tiberius, ill suited for other professions, had remained a professional soldier.

Tiberius clicked his tongue behind his teeth a few times. “Tsk, tsk. Marcus, must you spend an eternity weighing out each move? Have you no desire to take decisive action?”

Marcus’ gaze flicked up, casting a sideways glance at Tiberius from under brow for a moment before returning to the board. “Must you rush headlong through each of yours? Violence of action will only get you so far. Even if you catch them off guard, a skilled opponent might react and turn your momentum against you.”

Tiberius smirked, rocking his stool back and up onto its hind legs. “A skilled opponent might, sure…”

Marcus' expression remained blank and his tone dry as he continued scrutinizing his available moves. “Are you calling into question my level of skill, old friend?”

Tiberius shook his head. “No...only the pace at which you exhibit it. I’ve seen tortoises fuck faster than you put piece to board.”

Marcus grinned, shaking his head slowly, eyes still never leaving the playing field of the game board. “Ahhh, how I’ve missed your colorful analogies. I’d ask you to write them down if I thought you knew how to spell. A pity, surely you’d have such elegant prose.”

Tiberius returned the grin, still rocking back and forth on the rear legs of his stool slowly. “Well, you know how it goes. One man can’t be blessed with all potential talents. The Gods have to spread their gifts around a bit, keep the masses from pulling down the truly blessed among us out of spite.”

Marcus’ gaze narrowed in a scrutinizing squint, eyes scanning back and forth across the field of black and white game pieces. “Knowing you, I’d suppose you consider yourself to be amongst the truly blessed in that scenario?”

Tiberius affected a mocking look of feigned incredulousness. “It’s not that I consider myself as such, it's just I hear it so often from the women who share my bed. So many women, using that phrasing exactly...it’s uncanny. Truly.” The corners of his mouth widened in a sly grin. “That sort of praise does go straight to your head, though, even for a man as humble as I.”

Marcus shrugged, still seemingly engrossed in the study of his potential moves. “I can imagine it would...although I’m not sure if it should count as honest feedback if they are paid to be there in the first place.”

Tiberius laughed. “And what if I pay them extra for their honest critique? Is that a crime?”

Marcus scratched at his chin, gaze still locked on the board. “Against your purse, surely. The weight in gold of that lie must keep half the whores in Rome in silks.”

Tiberius winced, clutching at his heart as if to feign injury. “Ouch...unusually sharp of tongue this afternoon, aren’t we? Nervous about the wedding, then?”

“Not nearly as much as you should be…” Marcus leaned over, taking up a black piece from the board and moving it several spaces over before settling back onto his seat. “...about your ability to win this match.”

Tiberius leaned forward as all four legs of his stool returned to the ground, his forearms pressed to his knees as he kept leaning until he was nearly hunched over. “Forget the game for a moment.” He looked away, signaling to the slaves stationed beside them. “Wine, for the both of us.”

Marcus sighed in resignation. He had anticipated the coming of this moment, the one where his old friend would try to empathetically ask after his well being. So much for the momentary distraction of the game, it had been enjoyable while it lasted. The pair sat in silence for a few moments as the slaves prepared the wine, each man reaching out to take the clay goblet from the tray held aloft as it was offered to him. Tiberius raised his goblet, evoking the appearance of a toast. “To your health and happiness, my old friend, no man in the Empire is more deserving.”

Marcus nodded solemnly, raising his goblet in turn. “To a friendship forged in battle.”

Both men partook of their wine, Tiberius drinking deeply as Marcus only seemed to wet his lips before placing his goblet beside the board on the table before them. Tiberius crudely wiped his mouth with the back of a hand before speaking. “So, this bride to be, my future sister of sorts...is she pleasing to the eye, at least?”

Marcus sighed in anticipation of what turn the conversation would next take. “Not that it should be of any concern to you, but I honestly couldn’t say one way or the other, we won’t meet until the ceremony.”

Tiberius perked up, leaning forward further onto the edge of his stool. “You haven’t met? Is that not in the least bit concerning to you?”

Marcus scrubbed a hand through his hair, his brow lowering as he fixed Tiberius with an inquisitive look. “Why would it be?”

Tiberius scoffed, lifting his goblet and swilling the contents about, looking genuinely taken aback at having been asked the question. “Why would it be, he asks...have you forgotten what manner of man you’re speaking to?”

Marcus gave a lopsided grin as he scratched at his chin. “You’re right, clearly I’ve forgotten what manner of base creature you truly are, a thousand pardons for insinuating otherwise.”

Tiberius guffawed, slapping his knee with his free hand. “Base creature...hah! That’s rich. Pretend all you like, old friend, that you do not also slither on your belly down here with the rest of us. Do you forget who you are speaking to? I’ve been on campaign with you before, seen you partake of wine and women as freely as the next man.”

Marcus scoffed, arms moving demonstratively as he spoke. “Do you not also recall how in the prime of our youth we would mock the old men still playing at being soldiers? Well, we’re those old men now, Tiberius. Perhaps I’ve merely grown too old to find pleasure in such meaningless encounters.”

Tiberius scowled, shaking his head, taking a large pull from his goblet of wine before responding, once more wiping his mouth with the back of a hand before he spoke. “Perhaps you have, Marcus. Me, on the other hand...I’ll never grow too old to not take pleasure in being smothered between a great big fat pair of tits.” He motioned with his hands the outlines of two outrageously large breasts as if they were sprouting from his chest, the movement causing some wine from the goblet in his hand to slosh over the rim and onto his forearm.

Tiberius passed the goblet to his other hand and wiped his soiled hand clean against the front of his tunic as Marcus spoke. “I should hope not, old friend, for after all, we’ve already established that someone has to keep the whores in their silks.”

Tiberius signed in resignation. “True enough. In all seriousness though, Marcus, are you not even a bit concerned that this bride of yours might not catch your eye? You clearly have a type, I’ve been around you long enough to recognize it for myself. Remember the camp girl you kept in your tent in Cantabria?...what was her name?”

“I’m not nearly as concerned as you seem to be, for reasons hitherto unknown.” Tiberius stared blankly across the table at him as if waiting for him to continue. “...her name was Vlattia.”

Tiberius perked up. “Ah, yes! Vlattia...a well fed girl, that Vlattia. A pair of hips that Venus herself would be envious of. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a shapely rump as much as the next man, but you, my friend...”

Marcus growled lowly in his throat. “Enough, Tiberius. You’ve made your point.”

“Have I then? And what if this woman you’re set to marry is thin as a reed, at risk of being blown away by a strong breeze?”

Marcus was clearly growing tired of this line of questioning, a hint of annoyance beginning to seep into his tone. “Then I’ll tie something heavy about her waist and give prayer to Jupiter for clear skies. What else would you have me do? Her father, an honorable man himself, has agreed to the match and is of a wealthy family. So long as she herself is an honorable woman with strong moral values, what more could a man in my position ask for?”

“So her father’s rich and let’s just say she is a paragon of virtue, so what? Money and virtue can’t buy your lust, Marcus.”

Marcus frowned thoughtfully. “I think you’re misremembering the verbiage in that proverb, brother.”

“Am I?...well, in that case, I won’t dwell on it further, then.” Tiberius leaned back, apparently deciding he’d gotten as far along this inquiry as he was able without Marcus’ mood souring further. His tone turned conciliatory and playful. “Worst case scenario you can always just close your eyes and think of sweet Vlattia and her thick thighs…” Tiberius stuck his tongue out crudely as he drew the exaggerated shape of a woman’s hips in the air with his hands.

Marcus’ pursed his lips in mock consideration, recognizing in his tone that his friend had finally decided to move on to other topics. “Hmmm...or, here’s a thought; Maybe I’ll imagine your sister’s thighs, instead?”

“If you must.” Tiberius shrugged noncommittally as he leaned forward to consider the latrunculi board once more. “Fair warning though, she’s nearly as burly as me and twice as hairy. Good luck finishing with that mental image as your inspiration.” Tiberius picked up a white piece and moved it a few squares over, settling back in his chair and raising his goblet towards Marcus. “Your turn, then, tortoise.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening

Marcus' eyes slowly opened. Everything around him was white, pure white, so purely white as to be completely devoid of color. Perceiving the presence of his body he looked down and was relieved to see color amongst the warm, lightly bronzed tone of the skin on his arms and the blackness of the hair that grew there. The rest of his body was concealed beneath a toga, also white, clean but different enough of a shade that it stood out amongst the background color. Scanning his surroundings he quickly found himself disoriented due to the inability to distinguish the point in which the ground met the horizon. Finding himself growing dizzy he knelt, a momentary sense of relief washing over him as he felt solid ground beneath his knee. He reached down with an open hand, palm brushing against something solid. Was it glass?

Marrrrrrcus...

His head snapped up, looking from side to side as he tried to identify the source of the ethereal voice. It had been light...breathy...feminine…

Maaaaarrrcuuuuus...

The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. He stood, spinning around, searching frantically, growing dizzy once more. Was it in his mind, was it the Gods?

Husband...come to me

He felt the sensation of movement, wind against his face and in his hair. Putting his hands in front of his face he cried out, a wordless shout as he felt an overwhelming sense of imminent impact.

Open your eyes, husband...it is time. Come to me.

He had ceased moving. His feet were on solid ground. Slowly Marcus lowered his hands. He was in a lavishly appointed domus, the home of some rich man, a God perhaps. He had never seen it's like. He took a few exploratory steps forward, slowly scanning back and forth as he took in his surroundings, mouth agape.

Husband. It. Is. Time.

The voice’s tone grew impatient, annoyed. Marcus turned. There, in a doorway some distance behind him, stood the figure of a woman. Completely shrouded in white, the same pure white as before, draped over her like a sheet, concealing all but the outline of a clearly feminine shape.

Yes. Good. Come to me.

No longer annoyed, the voice sounded warm, welcoming, loving. Like the voice of his mother, but different, as it was clearly not hers. Marcus started walking towards the figure, an arm reaching up, fingers outstretched.

Yes. Come...Husband, look out!

Searing pain on his left side, his heart. Halting in his tracks Marcus slowly looked down. Jutting from the left side of his chest was a length of steel, a blade, it’s reflective surface marred by bright red arterial blood, lifeblood. A river of red flowed down the front of his white toga to pool at his feet. Marcus tried to continue forward, legs heavy, but managed only a single step before faltering. The figure in the doorway faded, slowly dimming until it was simply no longer there.

I told you I would kill you before I let another woman have you.

He recognized that voice. It’s tone was pleasant but it masked darkness, hatred, jealousy. Marcus managed a few steps in place, enough to enable him to turn and see behind him.

Another feminine form, this one different somehow, shrouded in an aura of dark red, the color of anger, the color of blood. The figures outstretched arms still held the sword that had dealt him the killing blow, his blood running down the blade and pommel to stain the figure’s fingers and forearms with erratic streaks of red.

I told you I would never let you truly leave me, Marcus. You belong to me. You are mine.

The figure took a step forward, moving out of the red aura that concealed it’s features. Marcus fell backwards, head shaking in disbelief as he held his arms up in front of himself protectively. The face of Drusilla the Younger sneered down at him as she continued to approach, lifting the sword overhead as she prepared for the final strike.

I love you, Marcus.

The sword fell. Darkness.


Marcus shot up in bed, his breath labored, upper body covered in a cold sweat that had soaked through his sheets. Pulling back the covers he moved to the side of his bed and let his feet hit the cold floor. Despite the temperature it was comforting. Marcus stood, pulling off his damp bedclothes and tossing them onto the floor beside his bed before sitting back down. Looking down at his chest he rubbed a hand across his left pectoral. Even though he was awake now, and was sure it had only been a dream, somehow he still felt some pain there, like a memory of an old injury long forgotten. He heard hurried footsteps approaching from outside his chamber. Likely an attendant, perhaps he had shouted as he woke. Although embarrassing it would be a welcome interruption, he still felt like he was half in the dream state, interaction with another human should help ground him in reality.

“Dominus, is everything okay?”

Marcus nodded, holding up a hand as if to ward them off. “I’m fine...I could use some fresh water though, my throat is quite parched.”

“Right away, Dominus…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The Night before the Wedding Ceremony

“Have you put on weight, dumpling?”

“Of course she has; look at those arms! For all of the running that you do - and don’t think Mother doesn’t know that you still sneak out in the early morning, chasing after nothing -, it has no effect whatsoever on your upper body. And that bust! Like a cow’s udders.”

Gaia stopped in scrubbing her arms, and looked down at her breasts, the gentle roll of her stomach. From this angle, the heavy curves of her breasts did look a bit like the taunt fullness of a cow’s udder, right as it needed to be milked.

“…You’re just jealous, Cassia. You’ve had four babies and your tits look no bigger than bee stings.”

Cassia gasped in outrage. Agrippina chuckled.

“Well, she certainly has you there,” the eldest murmured, vigorously rubbing her thighs and calves down with a mixture of olive oil and crushed walnut shells. “I thought that you’d be a bit more pleasant right before our dumpling’s wedding, but instead you’ve chosen to bring venom into the bathing space. Serves you right.”

“Someone has to tell her that she’s eating too much and it’s making her body unsightly. What husband would want a wife with fat arms, fat tits, a belly, and then those mannish legs?”

“It’s less the legs themselves than what’s between them,” sighed Agrippina. “Now leave off Gaia or I’ll box your ears.”

“I’d like to see you try it; you’re getting a bit round in the waist yourself,” snarled Cassia, snatching the small vase of the walnut scrub from Agrippina.

“It’s called ‘prosperity’,” snapped Agrippina, her tone sharp, as she was rapidly losing what little patience she had for her younger sister. “Prosperity and contentment in a life well lived, with a loving husband and children. Perhaps you should still the bile that comes from your mouth long enough to enjoy what you have. And I'm not so soft in the middle that I can't drown you in these pools.”

There was just something in Cassia that made her hateful from the beginning; she had been a fractious child, aggressive and cruel. In fits of rage, she’d attacked the older Agrippina, even flew at Lucius, kind, gentle, Lucius, with her nails and teeth as a toddler. As she’d gotten older, the physical rage had matured into the most noxious tongue and mind. Most of the family, save their mother (the only one would could tame such poison, let alone be the only one who could have brought it into the world), gave her a wide berth, and her arrival at any of the estates was usually a cause for gloom. It would have been beyond improper not to invite her to the wedding - and the entire household, from Virgil to the lowest slave, had braced themselves for her family’s arrival. And surely she had arrived, in time with a darkening sky (a poor omen to all), her poor husband henpecked, her children cowed into silence. A far cry from the arrival of Agrippina, who’d come in a day after Lucius, with laughter and hugs and kisses. Even Gaia had been surprised to receive a warm embrace from an elder sister who had been, at best, chill to her as a child. Not as mean as Cassia (for there were scorpions that were kinder), but certainly not as loving as Lucius. Apparently her impending marriage had been cause for Agrippina to try and mend the gap of years, to relate to her youngest sister.

Gaia, for her part, had found Agrippina's new…kindness, if she could call it that, tentatively refreshing. As far as she could tell, Agrippina had no ulterior motive, and when she’d brought her concerns to Lucius, he’d vouched for her. Gaia had spent the previous day in Agrippina's company - after an early morning horseback ride with Lucius, to which Agrippina had agreed to with a knowing smile - and had found her older sister much changed by marriage, but most distinctly, by motherhood. The chill that had characterized her youth was gone, dissolved by an outpouring of rich love. Her children adored her; that much was clear, they hovered around her, distant little planets, the youngest barely able to walk. She was doting to them, even if the affection between herself and her husband, Aulus Catilius Corvinus, was a reflection of that chill.

She had been full of womanly and motherly advice, what to say to a husband, how to run a household, how to dress, and, surprising Gaia to the quick, how to be frugal. Each lesson was imparted with a gentleness that had only recently begun to characterize Agrippina, and made them that much more palatable, as opposed to the harsh words or cold silence from Octavia. As well as Agrippina meant, it was too easy to let her information slip in one ear and out the other. It was hard to come down from the high of being astride the magnificent horse that Lucius had brought with him, intended as a friendly gift to her husband to be. It had been with a slyness that he suggested that she test the horse, just to make sure that it would truly be as pleasing to the man as the horse’s beautiful form suggested.

From the highs of racing with the wind to the drudgery of the innards of the house - it was nearly enough to make Gaia cry. Just a few hours ago, she had been one with the wildness of the world, feeling the wind whip through her thick hair, tug it free from the pins and bobs of the proper woman to let it stream behind her, in the company of her beloved, who accepted her, all of her, as she was, the “fig dumpling” nickname, given because of her roundness and her complexion, truly a nickname of love, of suggesting something precious and favored. However…through it all, knowing that Diana also watched over new mothers, quickened their wombs, she did her best to listen. She’d always wondered how a goddess of the hunt could be content with the means of fertility, of the pain and bloody horror of childbirth, but far be it from her, a mere mortal, to question what a goddess chose to favor. She just hoped that Diana would continue to watch over her, even if she were to put aside her short running toga for the long skirts of a matron.

It still hurt her heart, the idea, no, the pending reality, of having to leave such unfetteredness behind.

And here, the night before her wedding, of meeting this strange man, of being forced into the bosom of her entire family (even slow, plodding Magnus and his wife and brood of children, resembling more a happy family of plump pigs, had arrived later that evening, bringing sunshine in the wake of Cassia’s storm), though she should have been annoyed at Cassia’s words, she found, if she thought about it, that they were pleasing to her. Not because of what was being said, but because they were being said at all. Her world was about to change, all that was familiar was going to slip away from her, and yet, here was Cassia, as toxic as always, as sure as the sunrise, and it brought her comfort. Perhaps there would still yet be a place that she could breathe, where she would perpetually be “fig dumpling,” or “Pomegrante,” and not the wife of someone or the other.

Marcus Valerius Aetius, that's what it was. She couldn’t be bothered to remember his name, until she slowed her mind down and fished within her memory to find it all to pull to the surface. It was difficult enough to recall his name; she hadn’t bothered to try and imagine what he would look like. Surely he couldn’t resemble her family, with their dark and shining skins, a richness that had a beauty beyond words.

Her family, beyond their dark skin, were creatures carved from the finest wood and marble - from the easy perfection of Lucius, truly, the best of them all - she knew enough about beauty to find her family, even if she disliked them, to be fine examples of humanity. Her mother, after all, though not tall, appeared to be so due to the uprightness of her carriage, Egyptian like in her bearing, if not her features, which were distinctively Numidian. Slim as a reed, with black eyes like a fox and sharp cheekbones, it was a face meant to be carved and worshipped, a goddess hiding under the guise of flimsy flesh for as long as the mortal world kept her entertained.

Her father, the same height as her mother, was rounder, with a broad nose and neatly trimmed mustache with flecks of gray, and close-cropped curls dusted with silver. Beneath the roundness of his cheeks were the hint of higher cheekbones, hidden by years of ‘prosperity’, as Agrippina had put it. He still had the arms and hands of a farmer; calloused, enough to be mocked by other well-to-do Romans, but he truly believed in not asking a farmer not to do what he was not capable of, and it was through his own toil, sweat, and blood that the earth responded to. It would be insulting for him not to give her praise when it was due. Though at the best of times he tried to remember to wear a sun hat (a large, broad thing that had always sent Gaia into fits of giggles when she was a child), he more often than not, under the pretext of, "I'm just popping out to take a look myself," ended up working in the fields bare-headed, and thusly, was always a sight darker than his wife and his other children, such a deep brown that it made one think of rich soil lining river beds, or the loam that cradled fallen logs in the woods. His hands and feet were large and broad, his calves and thighs sturdy, if not somewhat given to some chubbiness; something about how the knees and thighs connected were reminiscent of the fat legs of an infant yet learning to crawl.

And her sisters - willowy creatures, who, in their youth, had been all elbows and knees, but the ethereal beauty of their faces and the suggestive plumpness of their lips had brought no shortage of suitors to their door. The beauty of Octavia had filtered down into Agrippina undiluted; she was the spitting image of her mother. Age had tempered her body's sharpness, and motherhood had worn the rest of it off. It was strange, then, to see the two of them standing side by side, Agrippina looking all the world like the warm matron, and Octavia as a scathing older sister.

Cassia, as well, had inherited the looks of her mother: the same dark eyes, yes, and the upturn that was only more pronounced when she smiled (which seemed to be never, unless she was about to spit a nasty comment). Where age had tempered Agrippina and motherhood made her kind, marriage and children had sucked more life out of Cassia, making her thinner than ever, giving her face a pinched look, her eyes, once large and glittering, slightly bulged, giving her the look as someone who couldn't have possibly believed what she just saw. If one were to look at her hard enough, though, there was enough of that old beauty, hidden under the dust of a life not lived as well as she would have liked, to see what had drawn in her husband, and, quiet as it was kept, the embrace of several younger, and more virile, slave boys.

And Magnus - slow and plodding as he was, had a disturbingly good humor that allowed many to overlook his shortness - for he was indeed the shortest of them all, about five feet tall -, and a boyish glint to his eyes that suggested that he was embarrassed to be caught speaking out loud. His beard was neatly kept, and unlike many others, he oiled it, giving it a lustrous sheen - much to the enjoyment of his children, who took no small pleasure in tugging at it when they wanted his attention, to which he retaliated by rubbing it against their faces until they shrieked with joy. He had inherited his father's large hands and feet, and, with his spherical and stocky frame, he seemed much less a farmer than some merry dwarf that happened to enjoy working in the fields, his children merry little satyrs without the lasciviousness, and his wife, an ample dryad, fat and contented, with a bright, cheerful smile that revealed a massive gap between her front two teeth that rather than repulsed, was absolutely charming.

Truly, since the entire family’s arrival, the house had gotten much, much louder.

Virgil seemed to indulge in it all, a round, bouncing ball to the delight to the scores of his grandchildren. Octavia, an annoyed, beautiful great cat, prowling the corners of the rooms, away from the loudest of the noise, but not far enough to be considered rude.

And her?

Free of the bath, of her sisters, and staring into the highly polished disc that served as her mirror, a thing of some distant Egyptian past, Gaia studied her face, and tried to see it as her husband would tomorrow.

She had the same high cheekbones of all of her family, but without the leanness that brought them out. Her cheeks were round, yes, but perhaps not as fat as Cassia would say they were. She angled her face this way and that, sucking in her cheeks, puffing them out. There seemed slight difference between the gesture - so what difference would it make? She had big black eyes, yes, and the whites of them were clear, so that at least made her look healthy. Yes! Health - that was something she had in abundance. So maybe instead of being “fat”, it would be health that she could boast. There were no blemishes on her face - her mother's perpetual beauty washes had seen to that - and her features were regular, all in proportion to one another. Her eyelashes could be longer, perhaps - but the ones that she had were long and curling, sooty black without her mother's added cosmetics.

“My arms aren’t fat,” she grumbled to herself, holding them up. They were her arms, the same as always; a slight jiggle to the flesh under her upper arm if she moved them to mimic the flight of a bird, and maybe underneath her chin was a little soft, but she was getting older, too. Her upper arms were an unusual mix of musculature - the fledging beginning (or covering up) of biceps from pulling the bow with her brother, though it would be more pronounced now than it had been in ages, for every day since he had arrived, they had indulged in target practice, and, much to her joy, the day before this one, he’d snuck her out under some pretense to go hunting. She’d landed a rabbit - a small one, but a rabbit nonetheless. Blessed by Diana - she'd hoped it meant for a good omen for this impending marriage.

And maybe her waist wasn’t as slim as Cassia’s, even though Cassia had given birth several times. But it still clenched in a bit - leading to her stomach, which, she could admit, was a bit on the plump side, but it had seemed so since she was but a child. Perhaps it was just the way that her body was made; her back curved inwards and her rear outwards, suggesting the shape of an "S" - all of her family members had such a sway in their back; there would be no fixing that.

And her breasts - men were supposed to like them large, right? She reached forward, cupping them. They were heavy in her hands, a fact that always surprised her, for as high as they sat on her chest, their weight felt that they should hang round to her navel. They overfilled her palm when she cupped them, spilling over in their abundance at the top of her hand. And here she thought she would never have them, in the shadow of Agrippina and her perfectly round breasts, that fit easily in the palm, seemingly gifted to her personally by Venus, and nearly overnight, and then, Cassia, crowing about the acorn buds that she developed far before Gaia’s chest had begun to change. And now she had the largest bust of them all. And the largest rump to offset it, she thought, a bit ruefully, but it was what it was.

Letting go of her breasts, she angled the mirror to look at her face. It wasn’t…unpleasing, she thought. Maybe a touch sunburned on her nose and cheeks, but her features were fine enough - the nose of her father, the full mouth of her mother. The sharp angle of a jaw from her mother, the long neck, too. The thick, unruly hair, from her father, though that was something to be proud of as well. She’d never had it thin, never had to enhance it with the hair of slaves, something she knew other Roman women did quite often. So what if it was somewhat coarse, and that it coiled so tightly that her hair, when shed, could appear nothing more than a collection of perfect circles? It just meant more time with her fine-toothed comb to get the tangles out, until her hair was a corona of black around her face, a puff of round, thick hair that could literally be nothing less than a crown - until it was subjected to the taming ritual of braiding. The braiding was usually by Natta, a freedwoman of the family that had roots in the ancestral region of Africa, though interbreeding between her ancestors had lead the darkness of her skin to be diluted to a light brown that truly could be called more yellow than anything. Natta had a gift for braiding, for creating luminous patterns in hair that no one else could. Her gift had earned her high esteem in the family, so much so that it had earned her freedom. Knowing which side of life held had granted her favor, however, Natta, in her wisdom, had decided to remain in the employ of the family.

It was Natta’s handiwork that Gaia admired now. It was only after hours of sitting, of feeling her scalp tugged to its limits, her brows lifted permanently from the tugging, that she had been turned loose to the bath, the last thing that she would need to do before going to bed early. She was to look her best tomorrow, and well-rest was a vital part of that. She would miss those sessions, the casualness of Natta’s chattering away with her daughters who were apprenticing with her. Gaia knew that Natta had considered her one of her own, despite the differences in their station, and Gaia would never correct her, finding Natta to be the mother that she’d longed that she had, before and after the betrayal of Cleopatra, that two-faced mouse. Natta, being freed, and having a sense of her value, was the only woman in the house who could stand up to Octavia, and who, for some inexplicable reason, had the best understanding of the cold woman. Gaia had long since just assumed that Natta was magic; her hands certainly were.

Even now, the soreness of her scalp was easing, allowing her to better admire Natta’s handiwork. Wanting to bring focus to her charge’s facial features, but also show that Gaia had an abundance of hair (another sign of good health), she had braided it back from her face in swirls that suggested vines, and then, rather than extending the braids down her neck, had clamped each one off with a glass bead - rivers flowing back into the ocean. The rest of her hair was freed in that loose corona - though she would have to braid it down tonight to avoid having her hair mat and press down overnight. And it was in braiding it now that Gaia left off picking her face apart, dividing her body and weighing it section by section. She knew what she had, who she was, and how unpleasing that Cassia had insisted that it would be to her husband. Perhaps Cassia was right - a large bust, soft arms, mannish legs, and a fat rear and stomach did not bode well. But what could she do? This was the body the gods had granted her, and it had treated her well. Maybe he would be a man of reason, and could see that?

As she made her way to her bed, Argos already asleep at its foot, she tried to ignore the growing sense of dread that crept in through her stomach. It would make no difference, would it? Couldn’t she keep herself, her true self, kept locked away, as she had all these years? Would bearing children change her, like Agrippina had? Her children seemed to adore her; the light in their eyes had touched her heart; made her wish that someone could look at her like that. Maybe it would be worth it…

Maybe.

 

[Talon]

MARTIUS XVI 736 AUC ~*~ Day of the Wedding ~*~

Early the morning of…

Marcus Valerius stood with his arms held out to his side, parallel with the ground, as the servant attending him diligently worked a strigil across his skin to scrape away the layer of cleansing oil that had earlier been applied there. It was something his mother had bid he do before the wedding, undergo a thorough cleansing ritual, with her having issued some warning about not entering into his forthcoming union whilst still wearing something of the old. To that end she had also insisted on being allowed to help pick his wardrobe for the ceremony, and that it must be a new piece. Marcus had been happy to oblige, for with him having so little personal interest in fashion he was quite sure she would have the more keen eye on what would look best for the occasion. And, barring any potential supernatural boons gained from this ritual, hopefully his new wife would at the very least be appreciative of his efforts to be clean for her. He couldn’t say that he’d ever heard of a woman that complained of her man being ‘too clean’ as he took her to bed.

Marcus lingered on the thought for a moment as his attendant continued scraping the oil mixture from his form. Would his wife-to-be truly appreciate the effort? Better yet, would she appreciate him, his body, beyond just its state of cleanliness? Would she welcome his advances, his touch, his lust, as he sought to consummate the wedding? Or would she simply see him as a predator harrying its hapless prey? After all, if one were to be set upon by a feral wolf, a beast seeking only to satisfy its hunger with their flesh, would they give particular consideration to the state of it’s cleanliness or the silkiness of it’s coat before it devoured them? When they met their ancestors in the afterlife, would they say “I was consumed by a wolf, but, I have to say, at least it was a clean wolf with a handsome look.”? Could she see him as anything but? Would she?

Marcus was unaccustomed to overanalyzing his relations with women as much as he had over the last week. Was it because of the hasty nature of the marital agreement? Was he simply growing softer, more feminine as he grew older? Was it the fact that he had never seen her? Had he yet to fully recover from his last relationship? Was it all of the above, some combination of or something else entirely? He couldn’t be sure, of course, but something was amiss. Thankfully the time for being concerned with such things was rapidly drawing to a close. He was quite certain that the solution to his problem was in the doing, and that once wed, his nerves would settle. Such was the hope, at least.

Marcus watched on in silence as the servant moved around to his front, applying his implement to the skin on Marcus’ chest, carefully following the lines of his body as he set about his task. The issue he had been considering earlier returned to the front of his mind; would his new wife find him desirable? His own physical attractiveness was not a characteristic that Marcus had often bothered to assess. To what end? He had the wealth and station to find female companionship on a whim, and even if an interested freeborn woman could not be found in the moment, he had access to the most prestigious brothels in the city. By virtue of being a Senator he was amongst the most politically influential people in the Empire, and thus by extension the known world. It was a rare occasion that such a man would find himself lacking in options for sexual partners, no matter his personal taste or preference. Somehow that thought felt cheap in this moment, though, the idea that he should expect his new wife to garner her pleasure from his political station alone. Should he not want to be desired by this young woman, his wife-to-be? Should he not hope to satisfy her lust by providing her with genuine pleasure during coitus?

Taken by the thought of how she would see him through her eyes, Marcus looked down to assess his nude form. Standing at around five foot seven, a hair taller than the average man of his day, Marcus was of a moderate but respectable height. He was naturally slender of waist, the sort of build that led his mother to insist he be given extra during meals with the aim of ‘fattening him up’. It hadn’t worked, though not through a lack of her trying. The musculature around his upper chest and thighs gave the impression of ruggedness more than strength, complementing his trim midsection, but where he had once been more sharply defined in his youth those lines had now softened, still prominent but less aggressively so. His shoulders and arms, on the other hand, had maintained some of the bulk he had put on during his years of soldiering, lending a distinctive ‘V’ shape to his upper body that evoked the image of a man conditioned to hard physical labor. The area from his upper chest down to the middle of his thighs was not often exposed to the sun, and as such, had retained his naturally occurring complexion, a warm shade of pale sandy beige that harkened to his mix of Italian and Greek heritage. The skin of his arms and legs and about his neck and face had been permanently tanned a noticeably darker shade akin to that of wheat. His chest and abdomen was adorned by a blanket of soft, dark black hair that, even when left ungroomed, grew neither sparse nor particularly bushy. He left the hair that grew under his arms and below his navel ungroomed as well, finding the act of removing it to be distasteful for a man of his nature. Best to leave the smooth look for the dandies and the catamites, it was an ill look for a properly masculine, soldierly man.

Satisfied with his appraisal Marcus lifted his head. Given he knew nothing of her preferences in men it was hard for Marcus to say whether or not his wife-to-be would ultimately find his form pleasing. Given his experience with past lovers he was quite confident that his endowment was, at the very least, of adequate enough size for his female partners to have found coitus mutually pleasurable. Some had even commented that he had a ‘magnificently sculpted backside’’ or something to that effect, for whatever that was worth, although he couldn’t pretend to begin to understand what qualified as a ‘magnificent backside’ in the average woman’s eyes, let alone why a woman would find that part of a man desirable. The consideration of it caused him to crack a smile, though, as his thoughts harkened back to his conversation with his friend Tiberius a few days earlier.

“I suppose I am a debased creature, afterall.”

The slave attending him perked up, coming around his front to face him. “What was that, Dominus?”

“Oh, nothing, pay it no mind. Proceed.”

The slave nodded, bowing his head. “As you wish, Dominus. My task is complete here, shall we rinse you off before dressing for the ceremony?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes. Go ahead and prepare, I will meet you in the baths.”

The slave bowed his head once more before gathering his implements and moving off, leaving Marcus alone with his thoughts for a moment.

Marcus ran his hands through his hair, taking a few deep breaths. He wasn’t sure what it was about this wedding that was causing him to be so uncharacteristically nervous and introspective. Was it down to the age difference between them? The fact that they had not met? The sudden circumstances of their betrothal? He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but it had him out of sorts, further conflicted as the date drew closer until now, the morning of, he was actually nervous. Nervous like he had been as a young boy when girls had first begun to catch his eye and he saw them for the first time as more than just potential playmates.

“Dominus?”

The questioning voice of the slave who had gone to prepare the bath. Marcus had a schedule to keep, and he was starting to risk falling behind. It wouldn’t be proper for him to be late to his own wedding ceremony, not after all the preparation he was sure Virgil had undertaken.

“Coming…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that afternoon...

The events of the morning were like a blur to Marcus, even with so little time having passed since then he was having trouble recalling the exact sequence of them. He’d arrived in the early afternoon to meet with Virgil to allow them enough time to finalize details of the marriage before the ceremony. They had retired to Virgil’s office immediately after his arrival, sharing a goblet of wine together as they went over formalities such as the dowry. After business concluded Virgil had brought in the other men of his family, Lucius and Magnus, and the four of them engaged in some casual conversation over another goblet of wine. Virgil, being the gracious host and a proper gentleman, insisted they not talk about family business now, but that in the near future he wanted to arrange a meeting between himself, Marcus and Lucius to discuss the ‘future of his son’s career’. He left it vague, not so vague that Marcus couldn’t read between the lines, though he had not minded what he'd read there. What admiration Marcus had originally held for Virgil had only been deepened by this new bond between their families, with Marcus promising he would attend such a meeting once he and his new wife had returned to Rome after a few weeks at his seaside villa. Virgil had smiled in response to hearing “wife” in reference to his youngest daughter, the two men sharing a hearty handshake and a toasting of goblets in celebration.

The celebration proper was underway as the midday sun reached its zenith. The ceremony itself was to be presided over by the Pontifex Maximus and the High Priest of Jupiter, an honor due a ceremony marking the wedding of a man and woman of their station. Emperor Augustus himself sent a wedding gift along with the services of his favorite lyre player, a man known to be amongst the most skilled musicians in the Empire, notoriously impossible to book for personal ceremonies no matter the money offered, to honor the occasion. The decor and service was lavish, servants weaving through the crowd of guests while carrying trays adorned with all manner of elaborately displayed cuisine from all corners of the Empire, musicians stationed strategically throughout the expansive room so as to allow guests to hear differently highlighted parts of a collective melody as they milled about the room. Marcus’ mother and friend, Marina and Tiberius, were also in attendance, Marina busy acquainting herself with any female members and children of the Africanus family who weren’t otherwise busy helping the bride prepare. Marcus, Tiberius and the Africanus brothers were holding court near to where the altar had been set up in the center of the room, most of the male guests in attendance gathered around the four of them as Tiberius and Lucius swapped army stories. Virgil was busy greeting the incoming guests in the manner of a proper host. Marcus was clearly distracted, halfheartedly participating in the conversation when he was directly addressed, otherwise he scanned the room, hoping to catch a glance of his wife-to-very-soon-be as soon as she entered.

Marcus was smartly dressed for the occasion in a fine, dark blue tunic, highlighted in silver scrolling and threadwork, cinched at the waist by a golden belt of adjoined discs with sapphires at the center of them. His accompanying adornments were tasteful; a simple necklace of gold set with sapphires, golden bracers that gave the appearance of many rings stacked together, a band of gold set with a fire opal on his right index finger and a golden wreath about his head. Marcus smoothed the front of his tunic, eyes still scanning the room as Tiberius tugged at his sleeve to get his attention. Apparently Tiberius had been left unattended for a moment as Virgil had collected his sons to introduce some of the other guests to them.

Tiberius leaned towards him and spoke in a lowered voice. “Not half bad, old man. If it wouldn’t crush the hearts of my many adoring female fans, I might consider marrying into this family myself. Charming bunch.”

Marcus nodded, his eyes once more pulled away to scan the room. “It is as I said. An honorable family.”

Tiberius leaned in closer. “Right...and did you catch a glimpse of the mother of the bride? If your betrothed is a branch off that tree, friend...well, suffice to say I think you’ll be a happy man, afterall.”

Marcus shook his head, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. “You’re of a one track mind, brother. Do I seem concerned to you?”

“Well...do you want the truth, or a lie?”

Marcus elbowed Tiberius in the ribs, pushing the other man back a step. “Neither. You’ve but to hold your tongue for a few minutes longer, surely even you can manage that?”

Tiberius clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “I’m only teasing, Marcus. Soon enough you’ll be on your way to your seaside villa to enjoy a few weeks of solitude with your new young bride. Surely even a grump like you can take solace in that thought, no?”

Marcus considered Tiberius with a quirked brow for a moment before looking away, back towards the throng of attendants. “I’ll not argue against your point, it’s well made.”

Tiberius turned to join his friend, passively surveying the crowd beside him. “I’ll take up watch with you, brother, in solidarity. She should be coming along any moment now, according to Virgil.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She heaved until her stomach had no more to give. And still, she found no relief; her belly cramping, wringing itself out.

The vomiting was new. It had come on with a disturbing violence the later the day grew. How was it that she managed, early that morning, to go for a last run, unbothered by even her mother, when the moon was bright and the sky still velvet blue, and not feel a thing other than the wind rushing in her ears, the burn in her legs and chest? And had she not eaten a small breakfast, surrounded by the women of her family, without so much as a complaint? And in rare deference to her, her favorite, pomegranates, were present - but they were tasteless bright gems slipped into her mouth, the taunt skin of the seeds bursting under her teeth. Her upset stomach was nowhere to be found then.

Or when she sat, forced into perfect stillness by the sharp tone of her mother, the night before, who, as she had for all of her daughters, applied henna to the soles of her feet, the palms of her hand, even to her face? Her stomach had been still as she focused on her mother’s breath, the furrow of concentration across her brow as she knelt, her skirts billowing against the tile.

Or when, after her morning run, she’d been instantly bustled into the baths by her mother, finding her sisters ready for her? Agrippina had been soft smiles; Cassia her typical sour self, but even her horror stories of the roughness of her husband to be hadn't been enough to truly scare Gaia into an uneasy stomach: “A former solider; he’ll know no gentleness,” she chirruped, as merry as a sparrow, as she scrubbed Gaia's back with the walnut and olive oil mix from the night before, sweetened with rose water, “He’ll take you and you’ll bleed soon enough. His sweet words will be for the whores he will see; you’ve only got one task inside of the house; to lay on your back and take his disease ridden phallus wherever he deems it. Even if it’s in the Greek way, right in that fat rear of yours-“

Not even when when she was moved to laughter until she cried, as Agrippina, in her silent rage, not only boxed Cassia’s ears, but hauled her off, naked, slippery, and screeching like a harpy, with much hair pulling, slapping, and shoving. Not even when Agrippina returned, the victor, her hair yanked out of its neat bun, her cheeks flushed, but with a smile nonetheless and reassuring words, was Gaia's stomach troubled.

Not when they left the bath, Cassia banished from the preparations to sulk in the great atrium with the rest of the guests and warned to stay on her best behavior with a glare from Octavia that could have frozen the blood of the most seasoned solider. With the bathing out of the way, (with the desperate hope that the plunge into the waters would purge Gaia of her childish ways), the reality of what was to happen was that much more acute, with Octavia’s presence starting the final stanza of her life as an unmarried woman - but still, Gaia had felt...normal. Present.

Perhaps it had been then, as her mother approached her, dressed in a casual woolen stola with the old pot that she’d only seen at the marriage of her sisters, that it had started. Its innards were innocuous enough; a mix of butter fat and red ochre, sweetened with myrrh, but it was what it meant that sent waves of unease through Gaia. No longer was marriage a remote possibility, words floating on the air that scarcely touched her. And when her mother knelt before her, and began to massage the paste into her arms - she bolted up, hand over her mouth, and ran straight to the latrines.









“Oh, my little dumpling, it will pass, I promise you, it will pass,” Agrippina cooed, rubbing her back in long, slow circles.

Gaia looked up from the edge of the latrine, her eyes red and watery. “I feel miserable,” she managed, before another dry heave sent her to lean over the latrine again.

“It’s only this bad because you haven’t seen him,” soothed Natta. She was at Gaia’s left side with a bowl of cool, clear water, a rag hanging out of it, a small vase of water laced with peppermint leaves beside it. “It won’t be as bad as your mind thinks it is. Here, fig, drink this,” a goblet, with mint leaves muddled into it, was pressed into her left hand. Gaia shifted to her knees, taking the goblet, following up with a small sip. The coolness of the water felt wonderful to her raw throat, the mint pleasing to her nose. As she sat, Natta dabbed at her brow with the rag, pat-pat-pat.

“Even when we know our husbands as well as we could, we’re all still nervous,” Agrippina moved to sit beside the girl, squeezing in the narrow space that was left. “Why, I thought I was going to faint too when I saw mother bring her jar. There’s really something about it, isn’t it?” She delicately crossed one leg over the other, leaning her cheek against the crown of Gaia’s head. Gaia closed her eyes; tried to focus on the chill cloth that Natta continued to press to her brow, her temples, her throat, her touch as soothing as the water itself.

“But, I’m proud of you, dumpling,” Agrippina lifted her head now, moving to grasp Gaia’s shoulders. “For all of your childish ways, you truly have the heart of a Roman woman.”

Unseen by either Gaia or Agrippina, Natta rolled her eyes as she settled the rag back in the bowl, rinsing it before wringing it out again. Lightly, now, she wiped at the corners of Gaia’s mouth, as if the young woman was a babe.

Noticing that Gaia’s breathing had evened out, Agrippina stood, dusting off. She was dressed for the occasion, in a gorgeous stola of such a pale saffron that it seemed the sky as the sun was just beginning to set. Her arms and throat were awash in golden bangles, dotted with tiger’s eye, her dark eyes lined with kohl, and, in deference to their mother and their shared heritage, marks were drawn on her face in henna, under her lower lip and along her cheekbones. The family lore stated that in the distant past, ancestors had such marks tattooed onto their faces, but now, under the sobering civilization of Rome, the marks would be mimicked in henna to fade in time, but the meaning and good fortune behind them remaining the same now as they had then. And truly, with her hair braided back and beaded, there was a touch of the strange, the beautiful, in Agrippina's otherwise matronly Roman appearance that Gaia found comfort in, a connection to something bigger than her that she would always have.

“I’ve said all that I could, my dumpling,” and Agrippina was kneeling now, clasping Gaia’s knees through her rough toga, the garment to be changed to her bridal robe once all preparations were done. “Ignore Cassia’s hate filled words from this morning. Marriage, and children, are truly blessings, if one knows how to look for them. It will be difficult at times, but so is life. Remember that I am here for you, and I have once walked your path - and yet, here I still am, no matter how frightful the road may have been.”

Standing now, she knelt over Gaia, cupping the round cheeks in her hands, and gently kissed the girl’s forehead with lips rubbed to a shine by the application of butter, emphasizing that even motherhood had not robbed her of that mouth that was full of sensual suggestion. Gaia tilted her head to receive the kiss, and, surprising herself, she reached forward, clasping her older sister’s arms in a brief hug, before letting go. With one last look at Gaia, Agrippina blinked away her tears and was headed back into the domus, specifically, the atrium. Her appearance would announce that the bride would be with them shortly - and though they were a fair distance away, both Gaia and Natta could hear the dull cheer of the guests at Agrippina's arrival.

“Drink that, and listen to me good, fig,” Natta set down the bowl and her rag, pulling herself to her full diminutive height of 4’8, “I’ve treated you like one of my own for as long as you’ve been on this earth, and that isn’t going to change. You're trading one home for a new one, and in this new home, you will rule over all. It will be your world to change, to mold, as you see fit. Diana has blessed you your entire life, and she will not stop watching you even as you leave us here.” A grasp of Gaia’s thigh in affection. “But if you need to cry, now is the time. You know your mother will not allow such a thing.”

Nausea gave way to fear, fear gave way to tears. And in Natta’s arms, without words, Gaia sobbed.









When they left the latrine, Gaia’s eyes were dry, albeit a bit red. Octavia was still waiting for them in Gaia’s cubiculum, still in her old, red-spattered stola, her face impassive. The only change in the room was the addition of a spray of fat Damascus roses, sitting on the small table in the room. Gaia gasped, a hand flying to her mouth - she’d recognize the roses anywhere. Octavia guarded her garden, almost, if not as much, as jealously as her fine clothing and jewelry.

“A gift, from Agrippina the Younger. A lovely choice, I thought, and save for the occasion of the day, would have earned her a good caning otherwise.”

The girl certainly had a gift, for the blooms she’d plucked were without blemish, their color a virginal blushing pink, their fragrance heady. “I thought a minor modification to Gaia’s hair, with this sudden gift, would be advisable. Natta.”

“Yes, Domina.”

Gesturing for Gaia to take her seat, Octavia gestured for Gaia to remove her toga. Suddenly shy, Gaia hesitated, before removing the garment. She was now bare in front of mother - and felt more naked than she ever had before in her life.

“Sit still," came the command of Octavia, and as Gaia did so, she could feel Natta moving behind her, deft fingers taking loose tight braids.

Rubbing the red mix into the brown of Gaia’s calves, Octavia worked silently, her full mouth pressed into a line - before it started. The sound that plunged Gaia's troublesome stomach into ice water. Her mother’s marriage song, in a language that the family had long forgotten, save for songs of mourning, of childbirth, of marriage. It was only sung at these times, its words, unknowable, but as binding as the words of the gods themselves. Her mother’s voice was no less beautiful, no less haunting than her face, and as her voice rose and fell, Gaia closed her eyes.

Strange, how, at the onset, the song had scared her, had driven that much further home what was about to happen - but now, she could hear a sorrow in the words, in the drop in her mother’s voice as the older woman kneaded the paste into her hips, across her stomach, her breasts. If Gaia recalled the rituals, her face would be left free of the red paste, allowing her natural brown skin to show. Dark geometrics drawn onto her cheeks, between her eyes, a line down the bridge of her nose, more lines under her lower lip, heavy loops of kohl around her eyes to draw out further their whiteness: these would be the only cosmetics she would wear. And that, too, would be up to her mother to do, to draw on with the thinnest of styluses, her hand, though aged, and somehow not stained red, as steady as the day she’d first done such makeup.

With the song growing to an end, Gaia standing now, so that her entire body could be rubbed down, Octavia took a step back, her brow glistening from the exertion. Gaia had been transformed - from an odd girl with boyish habits to a nymph of Venus. The roundness of her stomach, her rear, were less detriments as she stood and more lovingly carved embellishments. Less of a marble statue of the Romans, now, she would appear an Egyptian carving, with the curved lines of her stomach, the roll of her rear melting into strong thighs and defined calf muscles that sat high beneath her knee, leading down to slim ankles and narrow feet. Her braided hair, the lines of them reflective of the organic twist of vines, rolled into larger columns, then, pulled back into one thick braid, easily the width of her wrist, and this braid, once more, looped around and tugged into a column at the top of her head. Roses were woven into this braid, the yellow veil hanging from the crown of her head.

Could Gaia have imagined it, or was there something close to pride in her mother’s face, in the quirk of that mouth?

“You look lovely,” sighed Natta, clumsily wiping tears from her eyes.

“Don’t be foolish; she’s as naked as the day she was born. Here.” In a swirl of white cloth, heavily scented with rose water, the wedding robe was draped over Gaia’s naked form, the red instantly staining the inside, but unseen to those observing from the outside. The white against the glistening dull red of Gaia’s body was a stark contrast, boasting the evenness of the girl’s skin. Heavy beaten gold bracelets were slid onto each of her arms, her feet dainty placed in yellow sandals, the darkness of the henna patterns still clear. Around her neck was hung a collar depicting lotuses, bearing heavy stamens of lapis lazuli and carnelian, interlaid with beads of green clay. And behind that, still, the old marriage pulla, made from the hide of a leopard. It had been worn thin in places, yes, for it was old, a hand me down from one bride to another, but where the fur had worn too thin, beads to mimic the spots of its coat were painstakingly sewn in. Roman ways colliding with all edges of the empire, but reaching further back still, into half-forgotten ways of the dark ones that had brought the Africanus family into being, so many, many generations ago.

Fluttering the veil behind Gaia’s head, Octavia glanced over to Natta, who was still wiping at her eyes.

“Go and join the other guests. You were invited, were you not?”

Natta, picking up on the explicit dismissal in the coolness of Octavia’s words, gave a slight bow, and, with one last smile at Gaia, was gone.

The voices of the guests and the instruments were muted, this far back in the domus, and it would be quieter still before Octavia spoke again. Gaia looked down at her hands; they were trembling. Then, warmth, as Octavia took her hands in her own. Pressed her thumbs into the tops of Gaia’s hands, then, turned away, the moment lost to the imagination. When Octavia approached again, she looped a bit of extra white cloth around her daughter’s waist, tying it with expertise, having tied two other Herculean knots in her age.

As she stood from tying the knot, she murmured something in the language of that old song, words that meant nothing, but, filled Gaia with warmth.

“…What does it mean, mother?”

“It means ‘Let your love be like the misty rain, coming softly but flooding the river.’” Octavia’s voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, quivering. “This marriage is not one of the heart; we both know this. As you prepare to leave your father’s home…my dearest wish is for this marriage to be of happiness, and of love, slow though it may be in coming.” Leaning in, Octavia kissed both of Gaia’s cheeks. “Diana bless and keep you.”

Gaia was so shocked that she could have imagined the kisses, the words, the feeling of the veil as her mother dropped it over her face and lead her out, for the last time, of her cubiculum. Through the hallways, familiar, yet growing more distant as the pounding of Gaia’s heart overtook the growing din from the guests, the sweetness of the music. Her palms were cool with sweat, and the tremble that her mother had rubbed out had returned with a vengence, traveling the length of her body as that noise grew louder, as her heart throbbed harder and higher, lodging in her throat, making it hard to breathe, to swallow, and the sweat, too, colder now, moving higher to her temples, her stomach, once calmed, screaming, everything, now, in her body screaming, it would be so easy, to wrench her arm free from her mother’s, to run with all of the swiftness that the goddess had given her, to never be caught -

Why would you betray me like this? her mind howled, crying at the knees of a cold goddess, haven’t I worshipped you enough? Have I not sacrificed the right thing? Am I not as chaste as you? Please, tell me, what have I done wrong to face such a thing?

The cheers of the guests as she was now in the atrium, her eyes wide beneath the safety of her veil, her breathing harder, panicked, there was nothing, no one that was familiar here, simply shades that had taken on the appearance of her loved ones, this had to be some sort of grand trick, no, a nightmare, and soon she would wake up, and she would be back in her bed, right before the dawn, free to run in her short tunic and old leather belt, and there would be no worries of marriage, of bloody sheets and bloody childbirth, agonies upon agonies -

“My daughter, the bride,” The veil was sheer; only offering hints of what was beneath it. It was able to hid the panic of a caught deer in her black eyes, searching, searching, for any familiar face, any friendly face, and finding not a one, not among the smiles and raised goblets and laughter and music, all too loud for her senses, and the sharpness of her mother’s nails digging into her arm, trapping her there, grounding her, the time to flee had passed, and her vision felt dark, swimming -

A spot of blue amongst the crowd. Her eyes latched onto it, land in a turbulent sea. Slowly, the rest of the figure came into focus, something all too real - gold, yes, was there, but blue, so much blue, a blue she could drown in, a restoring shade from the yellow and oranges of her mother, of the red that plastered her body. But his face? What was his face? The veil that masked her face could only show broad sketches; colors, forms.

“Come and meet your husband,” Octavia said, bolstering her voice so that the guests can hear, “In this most auspicious of unions.”

 

[Talon]

Marcus’ breath caught in his throat as he heard the cheers erupt from the guests as Gaia was escorted into the atrium by her mother. He had, in that precise moment, been looking away, engaged in a discussion with one of the guests. The guest, noting the significance of the moment, withdrew of his own accord as Marcus left him with a gracious nod in parting before turning to face the incoming bride. He smoothed a hand down the front of his tunic before resting an open hand against his chest, over his heart, his other arm folded behind him, his back held straight, shoulders squared. His visage fixed with a look of well restrained happiness; the inside of his brows upturned gently, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the right corner of his lips, eyes widened. He intended for the look to convey warmth and openness, which he managed for the most part. From a different perspective, mainly that of his soon to be bride, perhaps he more resembled a man who had just been delivered a gift concealed within a box, one that he had been told he could not open just yet. With that restriction firmly in place, the man was left with only the container’s outer dimensions by which to judge what manner of gift it might hold within. Despite knowing he will soon be permitted to open the box and see what is contained within, a curious itch at the back of his skull leads the man to weigh the box in hand and scrutinize its shape in an effort to divine what might lie within. If one were to find themselves viewing the situation from the perspective of the gift hidden inside, would they see the man’s eagerness as heartwarming, or predatory? Would they feel as if the man were going to cherish them, or consume them? Without knowing the full measure of the man it would be hard to determine which branch of the path his reaction might take.

Marcus stood in stoic silence as the crowd parted, the cheers dying down as those assembled took in the magnificent manner in which the bride was presented. Marcus was generally the unflappable type, as a worldly man in his middle years, few things managed to truly catch him off guard anymore. He’d seen barbarian hordes charge at his battle lines, all done up in the body paint and cultural dress of their homeland, spitting and screaming and thrashing in their ‘war mad’ state. He’d seen art, stone so elegantly carved it seemed as if it could arise from it’s pedestal to mingle amongst the living with few able to discern it’s true nature. Magnificent animals from far away lands, from the great striped cats of the East to the unfathomably large elephants of the South. Naturally occurring wonders of nature, from majestic mountain ridges blanketed in freshly fallen snow to serene forest glades where it seemed the boundary between worlds was thin enough to let the realm of the gods seep through. Still, life could occasionally present moments of wonder that would bewilder even the most experienced or jaded of minds. And from Marcus’ point of view, the reveal of his bride was one such moment.

Her appearance married her family’s cultural practices with those of Rome perfectly and she wore it as if it were a second skin. Beyond merely her manner of dress and adornment there was something almost otherworldly about her presence. Ethereal. The fact that he could not clearly make out the features of her face beneath the veil, see the markings or expression worn on her visage, only further heightened this effect. Although the shape of her body was well concealed beneath her ceremonial garb as it were, merely the hint of the rounded, feminine curves that lie beneath instinctually quickened his pulse and deepened the draw of his breath in response. He felt a warmth at his core, a knot of hunger swelling there, a desire to touch, to taste, to feast upon the hidden bounty her garments held in tasteful concealment. She was clearly built unlike any woman he had ever lain with, which is not to say he found her form objectionable, quite the opposite, in fact it only further stoked his feelings of desire. She was not merely a mirror image of the fashionable type of waifish woman that could be commonly found amongst those of his caste. She was uniquely formed, a uniqueness that begged to be explored, that elicited a kind of sensual curiosity deep within him quite unlike anything he had felt before. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought that his friend, Tiberius, had been so concerned only days before that she wouldn’t spark such feelings within him. Marcus, for one, was joyful at the thought that Tiberius’ concerns were now clearly proven to have been unfounded. So unfounded that it’s likely the next time they spoke they’d be having the exact opposite conversation, one where Tiberius aired his concerns about whether or not Marcus was even up to the task of pleasing such a woman. Marcus was likely going to have to beat the man off his new wife with a stick, he thought.

Marcus drew a deep breath as he refocused his attention to the matter at hand. He watched as she moved with such a purpose, full of poise and grace, as if she could not feel the eyes of all in attendance squarely upon her. Perhaps the calming hand of her mother, grasping her by the upper arm as she escorted her along, helped contribute to her steadfastness. This woman...no, he thought, correcting himself before continuing his line of thought...his wife clearly had a sort of bravery about her. She was at least brave in the way a proper Roman woman of her station should be; she fulfills her obligations and conducts herself in a manner that brings honor to her family’s name. Any doubts Marcus might have held in this regard were well put to rest, at least for the moment.

And just then she was standing before him, finally. All the anticipation, the concern, the friendly and motherly advice...all leading up to this precise moment; their first encounter. For as much as it felt like an end, it was also a beginning, like moving to the next book scroll of the same story.

“Come and meet your husband,” the bride’s mother, Octavia, prompted. “In this most auspicious of unions.”

Marcus inclined his head and shoulders forward in a sort of half bow, eyes downcast for a moment, rising again as they fixed on the yellow veil obscuring her face, searching out what recognizable features he could and resting where he could make out the whiteness of her eyes. “Most auspicious of unions, indeed, and it is my honor to be met by a bride of such beauty and grace, like a flower freshly plucked from the garden of Flora herself. Without a doubt I have earned the envy of every man in attendance, if not every man in the Empire, solely by virtue of being named your bridegroom this day.”

Marcus shifted his gaze to Octavia with another slight nod. “And my deepest gratitude to you, my lady, for delivering unto me a daughter truly worthy of the title of bride. Merely at the sight of her I am filled with such pride by the thought that I might call myself her husband from this day forth.”

The Pontifex Maximus, having moved to his place at the altar beside them as everyone else was entranced by the bride’s entrance, cleared his throat gruffly before raising his voice. “If there is nothing else, shall we commence with the ceremony?”

The ceremony now underway, the celebrant began by first ordering any evil spirits present be banished from the hall. Well familiar with the words by now, this marked his third wedding celebration in the role of husband, Marcus found his attention to the ceremony waning. He was well used to attending formal gathers, however, and was quite practiced at appearing to pay close attention while actually paying little. He cast a glance towards Gaia from the corner of his eyes. What was she thinking now? What did she look like, under the veil? He could see little of her, and what he could see was dull and out of focus, but he made out the splash of pink from the crown of roses that had been woven into the ends of her braids. Drawing in a cautious breath deeply...there was a vague hint of sweetness to the air. Was that from the flowers, or the paste that had been rubbed onto her skin? Or was that her natural scent? His mind wandered, pulled by the knot of lust that still sat at his core. What was her smell...her natural smell? The way she would smell after a wash or when she just woke in the morning, before all of the perfumes and powders and oils had been applied. And what about her skin? It had looked smooth and healthy, a look heightened by whatever substance had been rubbed into it, but still...what would it feel like to run the backs of his fingers down the skin of her arms? The sensitive skin of his palm against her cheek...fingertips around the swell of her breasts…her hips...

The boom of the celebrant's deep voice snapped Marcus from his trance. “Be gone, foul spirits of the underworld, you are not welcome in this home!” The cleansing complete, the celebrant moved on to the next phase of the ceremony; invoking the spirits of the house for their blessing.

Marcus listened for a moment, trying to keep the thoughts vying for dominance seeping in around the edges of his consciousness at bay. Would they be a happy couple? Perhaps not in the mythical sense, where Cupid’s arrow strikes and everything is happily ever after. But, once accustomed to each other, would they be content with the match? It was just as much a question for him as it would be for her. What did he want in a wife? Beyond just an administrator of his estate and household and beyond just a body to simply warm his bed. Love was such a fleeting emotion...perhaps not love, but respect, would she respect him?

Once more the celebrant’s booming voice overtakes Marcus’ inner voice that narrates his thoughts. “...and I beseech the spirit of flame. Spirit, we ask that you bless this union between man and woman. And finally, I invoke Janus, the spirit of new beginnings, and ask that he bless this couple as two become one and a new bond is formed.”

“And now, it is time for the maid of honor to join the right hands of the bride and bridegroom.”

Marcus turned his head, looking over at Gaia expectantly, his right hand raising up between them, palm skyward.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The time to run, the time for tears - both had passed. Her mother’s grip had turned from one of caution to that of warning, her nails biting into the flesh as sharply as the talons of an eagle. With as tightly as her mother was holding her arm, Gaia knew that the older woman had to be able to feel the racing of her heart, even if the beads of sweat gathering under her arms, her temples, were blotted out, turned into waxen drops by the butter fat smeared across her skin. She could feel it, the tightening of her stomach, that cold drop that forced more sweat from her, the paralyzing fear that made each step like wading through sand and water.

Huntress who runs with the beasts of the forest, the goddess of the light of the moon, please, watch over me. Please grant me strength. Please protect me.

There were no prayers to Venus - why would she bother praying to a fickle goddess who would just as soon turn up her nose at Gaia, the fig dumpling, who never had need of her before? There was no time to think of things as love, of sex, the latter never described to her. Not even in the crude, cruel words of Cassia, or in the soothing tones of Agrippina. No, it had been about how to run a house, to be a shadow in her own domain, doing all things without being prompted, only coming into light, into being, with the birth of children. It wasn’t a consolation in the slightest. Gaia was someone now; she had a light of her own, now. And now, as she grew closer, she could feel the hand of her mother ease, but the hands of her family surrounding her flame, willing it to dim, if not go out completely in the face of this marriage.

The crowd parted, and the man in blue stood at attention. Her heart slowed, enough for her to suck in a deep breath. She could see little more, other than the fineness of his clothing, the heavy gold of his ornaments. She hoped that he could not see her face, how her eyes watered though she struggled to look anywhere - the mosaics on the floor, the face of Natta hiding amongst the crowd, a slave walking past with a serving tray piled with goblets. Her mother’s hand, with one lasting pinch, a get on with it, girl, left her arm, and Gaia was alone in a sea of strangers, the once soothing blue apparition in front of her suddenly less an island in an storm and the storm itself.

A look at his face, once she could still her eyes enough to attempt it. She was close enough to see hazy details of his face, that smile - enough to make her want to bolt and run. He looked happy enough; why would he not? He was the one that was going to win out in this. He had gray in his hair, she had known he was older, but not by how much. Gray hair and gold, wealth, yes, a fine match, and that’s what he was smiling about, no doubt counting her dowry in his mind, whatever other promises that her father could have made him. She was looking past him then, for a flicker of anything warming - and, ah, there he was, her Apollo, standing head and shoulders above the others, and his face, in that space of time between the two of them, was severe. An expression to be shared solely between the two of them, a secret that he would keep tucked behind his lips, behind the dark discs of his eyes. It was almost as if she could hear him in her head -

Be brave, little fig dumpling.

It was enough to make her swallow back the lump in her throat, to banish the tears that were beginning to form again. She canted her head upwards, a gesture that caused a ripple through her veil, the outline of her nose clearer now, perhaps the hint of those full lips, just a glimpse, before they vanished beneath the voluminous flow of the veil again, a fish showing a flash of silver at the surface of the water. Unfettered by the grasp of her mother and under the eyes of her brother, she stepped lighter now, with the buoyancy of a well-trained dancer, with a sway of her hips that all else of her body followed, her robe moving enticingly. A heady eroticism in that movement, yes, to Roman eyes: the way those hips moved, carrying her skirts with them, the veil swaying in time - wildness barely covered with the patina of Rome, but an echo of something deeper. To the observant, that hip sway was hereditary: the other women of the family present had the same, easy, sensual gait that called for further notice, that suggested kelp swaying in the ocean current, the slow opening movements of a dancer before the music truly began.

Walking was easier now, her breathing smoothing, as she focused on the beacon of her brother above this spot of blue. As she stopped in front of him, she was aware that he was speaking, past the white noise roar in her ears. Beauty. Grace. Flora. It was enough for her to wrinkle her nose beneath the veil; what absolute pap. Words well rehearsed, and had this been any other situation, she would have turned her head to find the true recipient of them.

He has the silver tongue of a politician. I should have suspected nothing less.

Grateful that her veil masked the wrinkled nose, the curled lips and narrowed eyes of annoyance and disgust, as he went to address her mother, she lowered her head. It would be that much easier to keep her expressions to herself, and, as she studied the tips of her toes that were visible from under the hem of her robe, it was that much easier not to start laughing. The absurdity of the situation finally struck her, a bolt out of the blue. Here she was, sweating as if she’d been out in the fields, covered in greasy fat and myrrh, wearing clothing and jewelry she would never wear again, and her groom, spouting flattery at her mother! Was this truly what was happening? Surely she’d turn over and awake in her room, in the middle of the night, and have a laugh over the ridiculous dream she’d have.

Octavia, if she sensed any of her daughter’s distress, her face did not change from the pleasant, albeit cold, close-mouthed smile that she showed to her future son in law. Her eyes curving up at the corner, a softening around her mouth, were the only things that showed that she’d accepted his words with grace, no less attention than a queen would have given to a troubadour singing of her praises. She was content, if not slightly amused.

“You honor my husband with your words.” Ah, so despite the imperious set of that neck, long and balancing a perfectly molded head, Octavia knew the order of Roman civilization, her husband beyond all.

In her effort not to laugh at her mother’s words, Gaia scraped her foot a bit too hard against the floor, causing her to shift forward. Instantly embarrassed, she took a fraction of an inch of a step back, playing the motion off as a slight adjusting of her posture. Even if she was meant to hold completely still, a slight movement here or there could express excitement, perhaps fear - either emotion to her benefit. Though she doubted that raucous laughter at the folly of it all would have been as accepted.

Still, she would appear to be attentive, if not deceptively still, during the ceremony itself. The buzz of the celebrant’s voice shifted into that same, dull white noise that had assailed her ears earlier.

This is happening. Once this is over, I will leave this home and go somewhere I’ve never been before.

Perhaps I can slip away in the night, run off.

And go where?

Why, back to my ancestor’s homeland. I’ll take a purse of money, and the swiftest horse -

Certainly. And while I’m daydreaming, I’ll run to the edges of the earth to see lands no one else has, and where daughters aren’t married off to strangers, and I’ll be able to run and hunt every day, and establish my very own temple to Diana, because to her I would owe all blessings at being able to escape. It’s not impossible.

But what if he turns out to be a good man?

A tightening of her mouth as she looked down, sucking in her lower lip. She hadn’t considered that. And Natta had said that this home, although new, would be one of her own design. So…again, what if he was a good man? If he was kind? If…he left her to her own devices? What if he was kind, and gentle?

What if…

What if he was handsome?

That was a new thought, one that blew some of the ice from her stomach. What if he was all of the above - good, kind, gentle, handsome? Just because she never had use for Venus didn’t mean that he didn’t. What if he had prayed to the goddess for a wife?

And then what would she do?

She swallowed, feeling her hands clammy, sweaty. What if this was Venus getting even with her, for holding onto her chastity for so long, for never showing interest in men? For making her mother worry to the point that she’d mentioned, in long annoyed whispers, to both Natta and Cleopatra that she feared her youngest daughter was more interested in Sappho? That would be just like the Venus she’d heard about; punishing those who didn’t accept love. What if he seemed like he was a wonderful man, but was cruel, or had some horrific proclivities? What if…he tried to take her in the Greek way, like Cassia said?

He’s turning to look at me!

Her small start of being shaken out of her thoughts was imperceptible, but it was there, as she turned to face him as well. A half beat slower than him (to the amusement of the guests), she was lifting her right hand, too swiftly, too suddenly, before she smoothed out the motion to take his hand in hers.

Oh.

She wasn’t sure what she expected from his hand - it wasn’t scaled, or covered in fur. It was too human, actually. Warm, with hard spots on the fingers, reminding her of the hands of her brother. Larger than hers, yes, there was that as well. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice how her hand was shaking; the sweat that collected on her palms, making her hand unpleasant to the touch. From their joined hands, she glanced up at him, as discreetly as she could. This close, she could make out more of his face. Feel a bit of warmth collect in her cheeks - and hear the mocking laughter of Venus, for there was enough to suggest that he was of a pleasing face. And the simple fact that she’d noticed that, that it brought some feeling to her face, was enough to confuse her. She hadn’t had time for this before. So why now, would she notice that?

I’m being silly, no, stupid, because I’m scared. He seems to have a nice jaw, a nice mouth.

Those were thoughts she was comfortable with; seeing him as she would evaluate any piece of art. And her family had all agreed that she did have an eye for it - for craftsmanship. She often was the one to pick the best of the livestock, being able to tell a fine calf just moments after it was born.

He is well proportioned, it seems, her mind ventured, wading tentatively into new waters. He is not as tall as Lucius, but hardly anyone is. And he is not as short as Magnus, so that is a blessing there. He doesn’t seem deformed, either - nothing missing, so far as I can tell.

Ha! What if you marry him and he’s got no phallus? It was chopped, clean off! He’ll lift up that toga and be as smooth as a clay doll. And wouldn’t that just solve all of your problems?

From beneath the veil, even as she tried, in futility, to lower her head, the sound of a choked, barely suppressed snort of a laugh could be heard.

 

[Talon]

Marcus stole glances at his bride as the ceremony commenced, the celebrant now pontificating on the important symbolism behind the joining of hands between bride and bridegroom. A length of fine cloth was wrapped loosely around their joined hands by his new wife’s eldest sister...Agrippina, perhaps?...but his attention was so consumed by the veiled figure in front of him that he took little notice of her actions. His eyes slid over the length of fabric that hid her visage from his curious gaze, that granted him only a vague impression of what lay hidden beneath. His eyes slid up, past the veil, to the elegantly braided hair that lay above, his eyes growing empty and distant as a memory flashed across his stream of conscious thought..

At least there are no snakes…

The last few nights he’d had a strange reoccurring dream, a nightmare, really, with each specific instance differing in exact detail but sharing the same overall theme. He was awaiting the reveal of his bride-to-be, standing amongst a crowd of guests at an altar not unlike the one before them now. His bride had been brought out to stand beside him, concealed from head to toe in a heavy cloak of fine weave. Once beside him, the mysterious figure would throw back their hood to reveal the head of a Gorgon, the creature’s fanged maw twisting in a mockery of a crooked smile. Marcus recoiled a step back and shielded his eyes instinctually as a few of the creature’s ‘hair-snakes’ snapped at him, hissing, their fangs dripping venom, the creature’s eyes considering him hungrily before bidding he seal the marriage properly with a kiss for his new bride. The tone and tenor of the creature's voice was soft and feminine, but had an underlying ichor and a distinctly serpent-like hiss that sent shivers up his spine. Marcus would then turn to the faceless figures of the crowd surrounding him with a desperate, insistent look, wordlessly pleading that he shouldn’t be forced to marry this monster. The face of Virgil would materialize from the crowd, then, as jovial and kind as ever, to seize him by the arm with an iron grip and pull him toward his ‘daughter’, speaking the same words each time as he drug Marcus forth. “A deal was struck and the die is cast. Let the buyer beware, Marcus…”. The beast would reach out for him with hands tipped by long, taloned fingers, Virgil pulling him ever closer, her fingers wrapping around his forearms as they pulled him in, claws biting into his flesh, snakes hissing and striking at the air around him...

Marcus blinked away the memory of those talons, clearing his throat lowly and once more considering the hair atop his bride's head. Gaia was no Gorgon, that much at least was abundantly clear. Her thick, dark hair was elaborately braided with beautiful rosebuds woven in at the end of each braid. A stark, and much welcome, contrast to the snake-heads of his dream bride. And when he had been granted fleeting glimpses of features beneath the concealing fabric of her veil...the whiteness of her eyes, the hint of the outline of lusciously full lips, the fullness in her cheeks...he could plainly see they were not the markings of the mythical monster, but those of a vibrant young woman. Where their hands met he could feel that the skin of her palm was cool and damp, what most would consider unpleasant to touch, although if he felt so Marcus did not give any outward sign, his own warm, calloused palm enveloping hers with a steadfast grip. Through the sensitive skin where they were joined he could feel an almost imperceptible tremor that marked an outward expression of her nerves. He could hardly blame the girl, afterall, this was very likely the first time she had been on open display in this manner, the center of attention, being scrutinized by so many including her future husband. In actuality he was quite impressed that she had managed to marshall her feelings of nervousness to this extent, evident only at such close proximity. He’d seen men break down into tears, piss themselves, evacuate the contents of their stomach...all manner of fearful reactions in the moments before a battle. Not his wife, though...she’d strode out into the atrium to meet her destiny, head on, like a true Roman. His heart warmed with pride at the thought.

Just then he heard her emit a strange, choked off sound from beneath the veil, the sudden noise pulling Marcus’ attention away from the distraction of his thoughts. It was faint and sudden, as if she had managed to restrain an outburst at the last minute. His eyes jumped to the celebrant as he droned on, tuning in to the content of his speech to see if it had been in reaction to something he had said. “And thus, with the joining of their right hands, life energy shared freely between them, these two…”. Hmmm. Pretty standard, if not a bit dull. His gaze moved to the crowd that had formed in a semicircle around them and in front of the celebrant, scanning over them. It didn’t seem as if anyone else had taken notice of the errant sound, their attention given fully to the speaker in that moment. His gaze returned once more to Gaia, or rather the length of veil that concealed her visage, as he sought out visual signs of her features. He could no longer distinguish the presence of her eyes, and given the slight forward tilt to her head, it seemed her gaze had been cast down. Perhaps she was feeling overly embarrassed, thinking her ‘outburst’ had carried further than it did? Was it a nervous tick, an inexplicable reaction to the situation that she had managed to bite back just in the nick of time?

The fingers of his right hand, gripping hers in a firm but gentle grasp, waggled gently, slowly, in an effort to keep his attempt at covert non-verbal communication from the attention of onlookers. It was clearly deliberate, not just the shifting of uncomfortable fingers or the repositioning of an awkward grip, the movement starting with his pinky and ending with his forefinger, the tips of his fingers pressing softly into the flesh below her last knuckle and above where wrist meets hand. He repeated this ‘signal’ three times in succession, confident then that she would be unable to mistake his intent to gain her attention. His eyes remained on her veil, approximately where he judged her eyes should be, a somewhat mischievous look in his eye, that promise of a sly smile playing at the right corner of his lips, right eyebrow quirked just enough to escape notice from a casual glance but be evident from her vantage point. His thumb stroked the back of her hand gently, reassuringly, gliding along and transferring some of the mixture that had been applied to her skin onto his own. Marcus cast one last furtive glance around the audience, and satisfied then that his next move would go unobserved, his thumb slowly slid up, overtaking her own, coming to rest there between the first and second knuckle before he gently applied pressure. Not enough to cause harm nor give her a start, only enough to convey that he had done so with intent. His thumb remained there for a moment, as if to pin her thumb down, similar to the game he had played as a child where the object was to capture your opponent's thumb and hold it there to a count of three. Their hands were not in the correct position, and of course she had no prior notice of the contest so it wasn’t exactly a ‘fair match’, but Marcus hoped it would help distract her from the somber nature of the present moment. Still holding her thumb there for a few heartbeats, he finally let the corner of his mouth break into a more pronounced grin, his right eye flashing a quick, playful wink to the blank canvas of her veil before his gaze once more returned to the speaker. His thumb relented it’s grip, sliding down to its former position, gently stroking the back of her hand occasionally as if to reassure her of his presence.

“And thus, there remains only one further gesture to seal this union under the watchful gaze of the Gods and all in attendance...Groom?” Marcus nodded firmly. “You may kiss the bride.”

Marcus drew in a deep breath, feeling the collective attention of all in attendance shift over to him, the feeling not wholly unfamiliar to a man of his experience. Taking a half step forwards, closing what little distance remained between them as their right arms folded in, the backs of their joined hands brushing against each other's midsection, Marcus’ left hand raised to gently seize the bottom of the delicate cloth veil that sat over her face. He paused for a moment, a heartbeat, as if silently acknowledging the gravity of the moment before gently lifting the bottom of the cloth out and up, slowly lifting the veil as if opening the lid of a chest that held the promise of precious treasure. His eyes drank deeply, hungrily, of her features as they were gradually exposed to him; the tall neck and defined jawline of her mother, lusciously full lips that previously had only been hinted at now confirmed, full cheeks enveloping high cheekbones that seemed to glow with a healthy warmth, the markings on her face and around her eyes that highlighted and brought out her natural features. Her eyes...large, expressive, captivatingly dark orbs that seemed to both see through him and ensnare him the moment his own made contact. Deep pools he could drown in, windows into her soul that, for the moment at least, seemed to be staring back into his ...he stood a moment, hand still raised, veil held aloft, his expression a mix of curiosity and contentment before he spoke, his tone warm and deep.

“Well met, Gaia Africana...my wife.”

The hand that had peeled back her veil dropped as he leaned forward, his face angling to one side as they grew closer in proximity, his lips pursing as they neared contact with hers, Marcus pausing for a moment just before contact, the newly united pair sharing the same breath for a heartbeat...

They met then, softly, firmly, decisively as his surprisingly soft lips pursed against the pillowy fullness of her own, Marcus deeping the kissing ever so slightly, a primal underlying hunger evident there in his first intimate contact with his new bride, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his throat, one that could scarcely be heard even by her ears, instead felt through the vibration against her lips. An eruption of applause by those gathered around the couple seemed to snap Marcus back into the moment, and realizing perhaps that he had lost himself in it, she could feel hesitation from him, as if he didn’t truly want to break contact, but the kiss had gone on long enough to result in the raising of a few of the more conservative guest’s brows. Their lips parted more gradually then they had met, Marcus pulling back a step to his original position, his gaze once more upon her, that half-grin once more fixed on his lips, an almost predatory, hungry sheen across his dark eyes. The applause and cheers died down as the celebrant cleared his throat gruffly, smoothing the front of his ceremonial toga.

“Yes...well, let all those gathered bear witness, from henceforth these two shall be recognized as husband and wife by all the laws of the Gods and of men. This concludes the legal portion of the ceremony, I believe the family of the bride have some traditions of their own they now wish the new couple to observe.”

Marcus had looked away from her for a moment as the celebrant spoke, his attention now returned to her as her father prepared to address the crowd. He leaned in towards her, turning his head so as to direct softly spoken words intended only for her to hear.

“Seldom have I seen a woman your equal; brave, beautiful, built like a goddess...I could not be more pleased with the match, I hope in time you will come to feel the same…” His free hand gently gripped the flesh of her right upper arm, squeezing her reassuringly as he leaned back and looked towards Virgil, now standing before them where moments before the Pontifex Maximus had been, greeting him with a genuinely warm smile.

“So...father-in-law, friend...what do you have in store for us?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Beneath the safety of the saffron veil, she could feel his eyes on him. A part of her, defiant, angered at being betrayed like this by her goddess, wanted to look up and glare at him, challenging him. The other part of her, the part that was molded to fit neatly in Roman society, the part of her that could still imagine the warmth of her brother Lucius, was the part that won out - and rather than tilt her head at such an angle to invite a fight, she lowered it. The flicker of gold earrings under her veil swung with the motion.

It’s easier to look at my feet, anyway. There’s certainly enough gold on me to keep my head weighed down for an eternity. Not like I could move my face, anyway. Natta braided my hair so tightly I think my eyebrows are permanently raised.

Easier to study her feet than to try and keep catching glimpses of him. To be reassured of what, she didn’t know, but felt in her stomach that she would never be reassured of. It was too big; too unknown. The ways of men were brutish, brutal - from how they treated each other to their wives: that much, she’d learned all too well from Lucius.

But that’s not fair, whispered a small voice. Are you like other Roman women?

Not really -

Then who’s to say that he’s “just” like other Roman men? Be fair.

What’s there to be fair about?

With her gaze focused steadily downwards, there was no way to tell how he was handling this. From the calm set of his hand, warm and dry, it felt that it was yet another event, as regular as eating dinner.

Every word pulls me closer into the unknown. Further away from family. Even if it’s not perfect, it’s all I’ve known, how will I fare outside of these walls, what if he isn’t kind, but only appears to be - and he’s cruel, horrible - oh, Goddess, why have you abandoned me?

And so her thoughts went, chasing each other round in fevered circles, nipping, snarling, at the heels of the thought that proceeded it. Round and round, stirring the fear in her stomach up again, sending fresh waves of trembling through her, though her hand was still firmly clasped in his. The weight of it was strange; an unknown thing that was tethering her entire body, keeping her glued into place.

Then -

A change in pressure at her hand; tapping, almost, on her knuckles. Beneath the veil, her lips pursed, a curious expression, caught between confusion and interest. She couldn’t move her head; if she did, she’d be done for. A wiggling in his grasp was her response; not quite shaking off, but an acknowledgement, a tentative, “You have my attention - now what?” Perhaps there was a bit of an annoyance there, frustration at dealing with a persistent child. She would receive her “response” soon enough, his thumb pressing down on hers.

What foolishness…?

Just an inch, just a bit, she lifted her head to try and see his face. What was he trying to do? She wiggled her thumb, in spite, beneath his. He would let loose quickly enough - and -

Oh.

Oh.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt her senses leave her. Had she imagined it? The wink had been so quick, it easily could have been a mistake in her vision. But that smile wasn’t. How could something as simple as a smile turn her insides to water?

She wouldn’t have too much longer to contemplate it. The veil was lifted - and yes, there was a bit of that startled deer wide-eyed ness, innocent and fearful, but with resignation, a front of bravery in front of unknown odds, the suggestion there, of some deep wildness, of the desire to run and the knowledge that yes, she may not be caught -

And then -

Like snow falling from the side of a mountain, all of those practiced expressions, the firmness that she tried to hold her face in, the only tells her eyes, crumbled.

He’s..

Thoughts melted, shivered as his mouth found hers. Her heart pounded so hard that all she could hear was the roar of blood in her ears. Her body was stiff, caught between surprise and simple inaction: she knew not what to do. Her family was not a demonstrative one - and the tugging in her body felt…quite…she didn’t have the words for it. Other than it wasn’t proper. To him, her lips, plump, would yield beneath his, after a momentary stiffness, but then, they would simply be…there. No response, nothing - at least, not yet. When he would pull away, her eyes, they were the tell. They were dewy, her brows knit, knowing that, on some level, that she was left wanting, though she wasn’t sure what was missing entirely. The face of a besotted young woman after her first kiss, pure in its own clumsy way, the small flower bud of an infatuation.

If the kiss hadn’t been enough to tip her over, that smile of his was like someone shoving her off of a cliff. She flinched, as if physically pinched, and looked away. Though her skin was dark, the flush of her cheeks was all too clear. Her face felt like it was on fire; she couldn’t bear to touch her cheeks, not with so many watching.

What sort of spell has he put on me?

In all the years of her life, she’d never felt this..foolish. Like if she opened her mouth, all she could do would be giggle. Giggle, or sigh. Her head was floating, her heart pounding, and what was worse, her…body was feeling…things. That look! That curve of his mouth, the suggestiveness of it! She should be insulted; not want to know what he was hiding, what wisdom he’d learned. Not think about how she’d wanted him to touch her more. And all of this was so sudden! One moment she had been herself, had been Gaia, and now…she was some creature, the earth pulled from under her and lost in the vastness of an ocean, with no shore in sight and no sand beneath her.

His words fell on deaf ears - she wanted to push him away, wanted to pull him closer. But they still rang false; too smooth, too practiced, too nice to for them to truly belong to her. It was when he finished speaking that she risked looking at him, and her expression was quite unreadable - torn between the lovesickness of a girl with her first experience with Cupid, and the world-weary Minerva that knew far more than her youth and her face would lead one to initially believe. And still, deeper than both, that wildness, that deer in the woods, staring at the hunter, daring him to chase her down, to try and tame her. His touch on her arm sent sparks into her, painful, snapping - pulling her more towards his sea, an ocean she wasn’t sure of, not yet. She seemed to be frozen, until her father spoke -

“Well, son,” Virgil savored the words as if they were a fine wine, his face fit to burst with the force of his smile, “We dance!”

It seemed no sooner than he’d said the words that the heavy cithara and sistrum were usurped by the melancholy bird trill of the tambin. A few opening notes, a brief warm up - it seemed more for the comfort of the fully Roman attendees than the others. An introduction to far away lands, dusty and dry, with magnificent creatures and blessed by all gods. Though the gentry may have been confused, there was a palpable excitement among the servants, a lightness in their steps. The warm up seamlessly blended into the tentative, then exuberant accompaniment of drums. It seemed that the music didn’t build as so much as suddenly spill out, fully formed, from the hands of the servant musicians, their throats - a song materializing and grabbing the attention as firmly as a hand around the shoulders. The clapping of hands, stomping of feet, and, above it all, breaking free, the ululations of the women: Octavia leading, her head thrown back, arms overhead - the elder daughters answering her in turn, stomping the packed ground to show off red-dyed soles.

Whatever tension that may have held in the air under the heavy weight of formality was deftly tossed aside, and now, yes, now, felt like this was the true wedding, the skin of the fruit peeled back to reveal glistening ripe innards. The women of the family called; the men answered, a perfect harmonious chorus, voices heavier and older still than those of the hired musicians. From the corners of memory and tradition they sang, the music responding in turn - the tambin for the women, the drums for the men, the servants supplying commentary between each, singing, yes, but clapping hands, stomping feet, filling the atrium with sound, rolling all attendants deep within.

And for Gaia? She was pulled in one direction by the married women in her family, bird-calls that she responded to, shakingly, at first, unsure, then, like a candle being lit, she somehow found her feet, each response a bit firmer, the plastered smile becoming a bit more sincere with each push and pull of her sisters, the playful nature of the dance, the coaxing of the new bride to join them, before, yes, even Gaia had to break and join their line. Long skirts were lifted, tucked away to bare knees, to show off elaborately hennaed feet and red-soles, heavy gold and cowrie shell anklets, trimmed with glass-like bells, hands, arms, swaying in and around each other’s bodies, hips moving on an axis that was all the more divided from the upper body, and yet, in the midst of such dancing, the flurry of feet, their voices, the song, never stopped, female voices calling to male voices, hips, waists, swiveling as the upper bodies maintained clapping -

The clapping rose, the tambin and drums fading so that it was only the voices of the women and the men, the servants, keeping the thread of the music alive, beautiful in its fullness, blessings raised to those on high, and the family parted, leaving Gaia in the middle of the atrium, the Roman guests standing aside, spectators, but somehow more than that, some fumbling and attempting to clap along, but not shamed for their efforts, no, rewarded with wide smiles and nods, that would only serve to encourage. Even the most conservative, perhaps hiding behind an anthropological observation, lost a bit of the coldness around them, smiling to themselves, pulled in by the infectious nature of, what was, at heart, simply a celebration of the most human sort, the joy of the joining of two together, of a new life, of new children, of another generation, of being blessed to have lived to this day. Gaia, freed by her sisters, would take the circle given to her by her family, keeping the dance going, a stomping of feet, a crouch to the ground that relied on the power of her thighs as she held the position, sweeping her arms over head, exaggerated the gesture of listening to the men, then to the women, then to the servants, oh, what path should she choose? That was the nature of the song, the understanding that the new bride had so many new voices to listen to - not just her own, but the voices of the women who knew more of marriage, of the new husband that she would now belong to, but oh, the women, they were sly, they sung of being the true ones to lead the household, for a happy wife was the pole that held the home together. And so it would go, one sweeping gesture after another, upturned hands, delicate positioning of arms that caused the bangles she wore to clink against one another, then, yes, jumping, high, then higher still, bringing her feet up, tapping them with her hands to the nodded approval of her family - an old tradition of determining a wife’s ability to bear children, her flexibility and dexterity a sign to her husband of pleasant nights in bed with a pliable and fit woman. When she would land, it would be again in that wide-legged pose, thighs spread parallel to the ground, then she was up again, then, in one last flurry of movement, faster, and faster still, spinning, her body seemingly to go in one direction, the rotation of her head in the other, a concentrated effort of rolling her head on her neck, a looseness in the spine that suggested that she was being spun by invisible hands that were holding strings and she was but a doll on them. And perhaps it would have been believable, save for the wide smile on her face, yes, she’d inherited that from her family as well - even white teeth, startling in the darkness of her face, whiter all the more for the contrast -

There seemed to be no natural stop in the music, just a shifting of tone from one piece to another, as she approached her new husband. She held out her hand to his - an invitation to the dance. There was uncertainty in her eyes, the reality of the situation cutting through the excitement of dancing, of letting her body go in a manner that was only allowed at such celebrations: weddings, births. And she wasn’t sure what to expect from him; there were no prior dance lessons, no explanations of what was to happen. But tradition held it - for how well they danced together was a window into how well their bodies would pair, and the better that was, well, the more grandchildren there would be. Though her chest was heaving from the effort of her frantic dancing not moments earlier, her forehead beaded with sweat, the red ochre rubbed into her skin smearing and spreading, revealing long tracks of brown beneath it, she offered some direction -

“Jump when I jump.” It wasn’t much to go on, but, despite her own hesitation, her fear, it wasn’t enough to keep a small bit of a smile from being tucked away in the corner of her mouth. Her hands were sweaty in his now, less from nerves, more from the movement. There was a shift in the music, a pause, a question waiting to be answered, and with a gentle squeeze, she jumped. Their first attempt was clumsy, as to be expected, and answered with raucous, though not unkind, laughter from her family, from the servants who had seen many a ceremony like this, but she would guide him through, a press to his hand a split second before the jump was expected, and soon enough, they would be jumping together, less a dance and more of children entertaining themselves, and she was laughing openly now, from what, she wasn’t entirely sure, though part of it had to be the absurdity of the situation. Such a severe looking man, with gray in his hair, jumping with her like he was little more than a child. The music was somehow even more upbeat now, having shifted in tone from instruction to accompaniment: now it was them setting the pace -

And as soon as it started, it was over, and the music and the song shifted again, Gaia being danced away by her mother and sisters, Marcus rhythmically stomped away. For the men in the marriage ceremony, luckily enough, their dancing did not seem as complicated; if anything, they appeared to be variations of military formation marching. Once the bride and groom were out of the dancing circle, it was the servants now, dancing for themselves, for the approval of their guests, and it seemed that the newly married couple could take a breath. And certainly it was needed, as Virgil, face full of good cheer and flushed with the exertion, dabbed at his face with the lion skin that was draped over his shoulder, a symbol of his status as the head of the family.

“You held up quite well,” he crowed, slapping Marcus between the shoulders. “The best of my son in laws!”

“He says that about all of them, just so you know,” supplied Lucius, taking a long sip from a goblet.

“But it’s true in each occasion,” Virgil was quick to add, retrieving his own goblet. “You dance splendidly!”

“Father, don’t take up too much of his time,” Magnus would interject, a glance over his shoulder showing that he was the one thinking of the rest of the guests, and, surprisingly enough, his youngest sister. “He’s got people he needs to talk to.”

“And you’re family now,” another clap between the shoulders, “There’s plenty of time to listen to an old man prattle. But for now, eat, drink, and be merry!” Virgil could have served for a picture of Bacchus; so merry he looked, so full of pride and content with the events before him. If there was a bit of the old money there, it was nowhere to be seen, replaced with the rustic contentment of a man watching the fruit of his hard work. One could hardly blame him - his wife, magnetic in her beauty and bearing, was dancing now, a goddess among nymphs, her daughters her attendants. Gaia seemed to have vanished - an incredible act, considering that the party was, essentially, for her.







Gaia could scarcely catch her breath - from the jump dance with Marcus, she’d been whisked off by her sisters to dance with the servants. It was a thanks to them for their service to her as a child, and a farewell, as she would be leaving their care. Even in the midst of the laughter, there were tears, muffled sobs turned into ululating as they would press their cheeks to hers. And through it all, no matter how she felt, Gaia knew that she wouldn’t be allowed to cry. Her eyes were to be dry, all she could show were smiles. And yet…

Over the hurricane of dancing bodies, even the awkward, but loveable flailing of Romans, she would look for him, look for this Marcus. With the tattoo of his kiss still burning on her lips, the press of his hands in hers, she felt her head was floating up to the sky, the weight of her body hardly enough to hold it down.

When he’d kissed her…

It was her first kiss, yes, but…was it supposed to feel like that? Like someone had suddenly started a fire in her stomach? Was she being a wanton? She’d wanted his hands to go round her body and press her close. What were these strange feelings? She thought that by dancing as she had, by funneling every bit of that fire from her stomach that leeched, somehow, into the space between her legs, she would be over it, she could retain herself, be wild and still something beyond trapped. And perhaps she had touched into it, for just a minute, as the world, the faces of the guests had all whirled and vanished into blurs of color, her head swirling round higher and higher, her breathing the only thing keeping her in tune with the world, the music having lifted her past even its own sound. She danced like someone else controlled her, and it was good; she knew that much was a blessing, a freedom that her ancestors knew well, had passed down to her, and wasn’t it good that she could still tap into that?

But if she looked through the crowds now, and her eyes found his, she could feel her cheeks warm, and the fear ease, just a bit, overtaken by curiosity - who was this man? Would he catch the message there, as she looked at him, then, to the closest exit? Was she even sending a message, or was her mind playing too many tricks on her, brought on by too much wine and dancing?

She’d taken advantage of the end of the servant’s dance to “sneak” off to the edges of the crowd in the atrium. With her mother in the middle of the events, she knew that no one would be able to take her eyes off of her. For once, she was glad of her plainness, even with the aid of the makeup and the ochre and perfume and jewelry.

She waited until a burst of laughter - her father must have joined the dance - before she slipped out of the atrium all together, standing in the cool air of the front garden. She wasn’t far enough away to be considered “deserting” - somehow, she knew that the time for that had passed - , but far enough away to get a sense of herself. Though it was night, the air outside was still warm, but immeasurably fresher, without the tang of innumerable bodies pressed together mingled with the odors of food and wine. Here, it felt that the wind carried the smell of her mother’s roses, mixed with all the familiar smells of her father’s home: horse flesh, crushed grass, dung, leather.

Will I ever smell this again?

Tilting her head up, she took in the full, fat orb of the moon above. It was tempting to take the veil from her head. Instead, she took in a deep breath, ran her hands along the tight edges of the braids, the fleshy petals of the roses woven there. Watched the moon, the bright pinpricks of the stars, and, despite wanting to admit to herself, waited, hoping that her new husband had seen her, would join her. For what, she wasn't sure of. Could she be happy with an otherwise stranger whose eyes made her feel a bit weak in the knees, whose small gesture with his hand, she was still trying to figure out?

And, worst of all - why couldn't she just think straight, for one moment?

 

[Talon]

It was all a bit much for Marcus to take in, the rapid tonal shift of the wedding celebration. As if transported to another dimension the somber, reserved legalese of the Roman portion of the ceremony had erupted with stimuli that threatened to overwhelm every aspect of the uninitiated’s senses; splashes of color, from vibrantly hued skirts and tunics to adornments of precious metals and jewelry, exotic instruments, some sounding like songbirds. Marcus, a man described as particularly stoic even for a Roman, couldn’t help but be entranced by the sounds and movements unfolding around him. He even found himself clapping along with the beat on occasion. It was strange, the feeling the celebration elicited deep within. The strange dance movements, the unfamiliar melodies...he felt as if he were witnessing something truly ancient, ritualistic movements that had been old even as the brothers Romulus and Remus still suckled at their adoptive wolf-mother’s teat. He didn’t feel as if he were looking in upon something as an outsider, though, instead he felt perhaps like a child or a man that had just come of age in their culture, now of an age to be allowed to participate in the celebratory dance that he had previously been too young or too unproven to be a part of. This was the culture and rituals of his wife’s people, and would be part of the shared culture of their children, therefore it was becoming a part of his by extension, as well. It helped that the attitude of Gaia’s family and their servants was welcoming, inclusive, and they wordlessly encouraged all present to participate however they felt best suited. It was intoxicating, and yet, with so much on offer, his eyes had but a singular point of focus.

Gaia. His wife. He felt magnetically drawn to her, compelled to seek her out amongst the crowd, no longer from mere curiosity of what she might look like, but from something deeper, more primal. He felt as if he could close his eyes and yet still point her out from amongst the other guests. A knot had formed in his stomach as she was pulled away, gnawing there at his core, demanding he take heed of it. The heat of her lips still warmed his own as his gaze hungrily drank in her form. He recognized the feeling, although he had seldom felt it this strongly. A certain part of it was lust, or at least derived from it, but as a whole it was borne of a sort of obsession. The type one feels when they find a new lover, a particularly passionate tryst, where they are compelled to be alone with them for every waking breath, to explore their mind as well as their body, to map out every line of their form, to lay a kiss upon every curve. The sort of feeling no self respecting Roman man would ever give voice to, for, without a doubt it was highly improper for a masculine man to feel so…enthralled. She should be the one pining for his affection, not the other way around...right?

If that were so, why then could he not look away? There were plenty of other desirable women among them, their energetic movements displaying their sexuality enticingly when viewed through male eyes. And yet he was fixated on her. He played it off, of course, arms crossed before his chest casually, occasionally unfolding to clap along, that half-smirk half-grin worn loosely across his lips, brows raised as if in wonderment. But a watchful eye followed Gaia, a not-so secret admirer who couldn’t help but be enamored by her display of agility and strength. He was legitimately impressed that she was able to carry out such movements with all the grace of a seasoned dancer and he couldn’t help but wonder how much time she had spent practicing. He also couldn’t help but laugh to himself under his breath and be thankful that he wouldn’t be expected to put on such a display. Perhaps in his youth, he was quite light on his feet then, but he couldn’t imagine trying to jump and touch his feet to his hands now, he’d probably shatter a hip in the resulting fall. But not her...she must have powerful thighs, he mused. What would they feel like wrapped around his hips...or his ears? He wondered if she were the sort that would squeeze them together as…

And then suddenly she was before him, offering her hand, beckoning him to join her in the dance, a challenge for him to evolve from spectator to participant. He couldn’t rightly refuse even if he had wanted to, and he hadn’t, but if he was hesitant, he didn’t let it show. Taking her hand he allowed her to lead, followed her direction silently and to the best of his ability. Despite his lack of experience with the forms she did well to lead him patiently, gracefully, even happily as he finally saw her formerly stoic visage break into a grin. Sweat had formed on her brow and run down her face from the exertion, granting him his first glimpse at her true complexion beneath the ritual makeup. It was of no surprise to him, he had seen her mother and father, after all, but it was welcome, as if another veil had been lifted, allowing him a peek at her true self underneath. A warm, deep shade of brown, he found it suited her and complimented her features, most notably her eyes. He lost himself in that moment, then, her hand squeezing his to signal him, figures moving all about them, instruments and voices mixing to form an uptempo melody that filled the air around them. A rare, unadulterated smile was worn across Marcus’ face, even as he was once more separated from Gaia to dance among the men, looking to her brothers for guidance and example then. He was actually having..****.

And as quickly as it had begun it had ended, Marcus finding himself standing amongst the males of his new extended family. He graciously accepted their feedback and banter, shaking their hands and clapping arms in turn. “Gentlemen...father...brothers...we’ll speak again before it’s over. My thanks for helping me look good out there...well...good enough.” He smiled as he moved past them, eyes searching the crowd, stopping momentarily to take a goblet of water from the tray of a passing servant. A thin sheen of sweat had formed at his brow from the exertion, wiped away with the inside of the sleeve of his tunic, before he took a long pull from the goblet, the water cool, clean and refreshing. He felt a tug at his sleeve and, with a frown, turned to find it’s source.

His mother, Marina, stood at his side, dressed in her best finery, a goblet of wine cupped in her left hand, her right still at his sleeve. A warm smile lit her features. “I have not met her and yet already I love her as if she were my own...did you see her dance? Such...páthos(passion)...such...fotiá(fire).”

Marcus smiled, his free hand rubbing her shoulder. “I saw, mitéra..to tell the truth, I lack the words to properly describe it.”

Marina frowned sarcastically. “You lack the words? Apó tous theoús(By the Gods), Marcus, did none of the tutoring in poetry help you, eh, o gios mou(my son)? Go to her! Any words are better than none, so long as they come from your heart.”

Marcus smiled as he gently patted her on the shoulder . “I know mother...you’ve told me.”

Marina gripped his forearm, gently but insistently. “Nevermind that...Go to her, then, and comfort her. This is a big day for her...the most important day. Remember how you felt when you were first given command of a Legion? The weight of that responsibility, so many eyes upon you, weighing you, judging you...”

Marcus nodded, his eyes raising once more to consider the crowd. “I take your meaning, Mother...thank you.”

Marina pinched him softly, to return his attention to her, a soft smile on her lips. “Be sure that you do...for she is my daughter now as much as she is your wife, and you’re not too old for me to…”

“I know, mother, no threats needed, thank you for the pep talk.”

Marina pulled his arm into her chest, embracing it. “You’re welcome, yiós. And you make sure that before you abscond with my beautiful new daughter, that you properly introduce her to me.”

Marcus nodded, leaning over to kiss the top of his mothers head. “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Marina smirked, swatting at his arm playfully as she released him and turned away, moving off towards where the women of Gaia’s family were gathered.

Marcus took another deep pull from the goblet, looking around for a moment before signalling a servant and handing them the now empty container. His eyes once scanned across the room...there. Along the edge of the crowd, Gaia, locking eyes with him. He smiled gently. She cast a quick glance off to the side, towards an exit, and back to him briefly before moving off towards it. He couldn’t be sure it was a sign intended for him, but that knot at the center of his stomach pulled him forwards, his feet moving almost of their own accord, moving towards the doorway she had just exited from as if shot from a bow. He brushed against guests a few times, shook hands or clapped shoulders with polite greetings and thankful acknowledgements of congratulations offered. Thankfully, brisk communication was a skill he was well versed in, and his learned ability to quickly, but politely, cut off attempted conversation came in handy as he made his way through the assembled guests.

Now on the outside of the throng he surveyed them quickly, no one was looking in his direction or calling for his attention. He’d done well, then, to extricate himself from his groomly duties without causing offense. Nodding to himself with satisfaction he turned and moved through the same doorway he had seen Gaia motion towards.

He found her there, at the center of the front courtyard, amongst the cool night air, illuminated in the light of the full moon, the air smelling of flowers in bloom. It was as if straight from some romantic poem…he smiled to himself, thinking of what his mother might say. He stood for a moment inside the doorway, in the shadows, collecting himself and his thoughts, straightening out and dusting off his tunic before proceeding forth.

“An auspicious sign, you know...the full moon.” Marcus mused as he strolled across the open courtyard at a casual pace, thumbs tucked into the belt at his waist, his left hand raising to point towards the celestial body that lit the night sky. “My mother’s people say that a wedding consummated under such a moon means the marriage will be prosperous, that both husband and wife will be united happily for the rest of their days.”

He neared her position and stopped, well outside of reaching distance, as if respecting some unseen and unspoken boundary she had set. He stared out across the courtyard, abruptly changing subjects. “A fine display of your dancing skills back there...your father is so filled with pride he seems on the verge of bursting at the seams…” Marcus scuffed his foot as if kicking away a pebble, his gaze moving down towards his feet. “And your husband…” he looked up then, finally making eye contact with her, that shadow of a grin once more on his lips. “...well, perhaps you can impart upon him some of your skill with a quick lesson?”

He held out an open hand to her invitingly.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She listened to him impassively - ah, shades of her mother there, in the imperious set of her mouth, full lips tightened at the corners, as if holding a sour ball behind them, in front of her teeth. The tilt of her head, the eyes cast to look down at him. All she needed was a high balcony, rose petals raining down behind her, the cheers of a blood-soaked crowd below her, and she would have been right at home at a game, the audience rapt to see how she turned her thumb. Her gaze drifted over him, from the head to the feet, summing him up - livestock before an unconvinced buyer. She would be patient enough to wait until he finished speaking, then -

"Did you dose me with a philter? Something on the lips, perhaps?”

The words were blurted before she realized entirely what she said. There was a moment, brief as it was, beneath the light of that pale moon, that shock crossed her face, sheepishness, for having said something so crude. It would rapidly melt into that same determination that tightened the corners of her mouth, the wildness he’d glimpsed prowling right below the surface of her dark eyes, a panther waiting in the shadows.

“Or are you blessed by Venus?” Less accusatory - fishing, questioning. The desire to want to know more; to figure out how his standing in front of her, the wave of his hand, was enough to make her want to inch closer to him. No, not inch, but lean into him, to press the lines of her body to his. It had to have been some sort of poison - acting in such a manner was beyond her. And it was past the desire that women were supposed to have for their husbands; only whores had such outward desires for men.

Turning to face him now, it was without the thrill of the wedding, still in full force inside. Without the mystery, the ceremony - the grounded feeling of waking up and realizing that chores were to be done. She longed to wipe the ochre from her body, to slip off the wedding robe, and to run, yes, in the midst of this warm night, run until her legs throbbed, her goddess watching, and then, a plunge into a cool tub and to sleep well between fresh sheets, scented of rosemary.

“If..” She fought the urge to twist the sides of her robe in her hands, “If you did,” swallowing, she added an undercurrent of strength beneath it, “I…How long does it last?” Was she going excuse it, if he had? She wasn’t entirely sure of it; it made sense to her. She’d heard of philters, that, once given, could bring a woman to madness unless she copulated, or tied her to a lover, even when the lover had tired of her. Yes, those horrid stories of jilted women, screaming, crying, fit to match the Furies, until the madness drove them to their deaths, and the man? Laughing after he’d taken what he wanted, and then, had the audacity to proclaim that he was wronged by such obsession. But, if he had, maybe if she asked nicely, he would provide her with an antidote, take pity on her. “It’s very effective - I felt…not as myself directly after you kissed me,” shyly added, as she looked down at her feet. Then, realizing that she had, indeed, said too much, she looked up, with that insolent cock of the head, looking down at him again, though she was shorter than he. “No,” no room for negotiation now, “Provide me with the antidote, and save yourself the shame. Imagine, a man of your age, using such tricks. You should be ashamed of yourself."

 

[Talon]

She’s brave, alright…and fierce when cornered, like a wolf-mother with her pups.

Marcus had been caught off guard by her brazen accusation, so much so that it registered on his visage for a brief moment before he managed to compose himself. And for his part, he listened as she laid out her case, although not passively. His outstretched hand retracted as gracefully as it was offered, arms folding across his chest, shoulders squared, his brow knitting in the center as his left quirked questioningly. That lazy smile he had worn so easily was now nowhere to be seen, his lips tightly sealed, fading so far as to turn down gently at the corners. An angry fire flashed across his eyes as she spoke, his hackles raised, although the flame tempered as he allowed her to go on, as she laid out her case, as she let be known the cause of her distress.

This upstart little...I ought to take her over my knee…

Then again, there was an aspect of Marcus that swelled with pride, with relief, that he had somehow evoked these feelings within her. That he was capable of inspiring the same sort of desire in her that she in turn drew from him. His cheeks warmed, the first visual sign that his anger was passing as quickly as it had come on.

A creeping smile slowly broke across Marcus’ icy visage, a spreading of mirth across his features that culminated in a hearty, deep chuckle. “Hah!...Wife, if I truly had the antidote for what ails you, or better yet, even, the access to a philter or potion that made the imbiber feel as you do...I’d be wealthy enough to make your father look like a poor man.”

Marcus ran a hand through his hair as he let out a deep sigh through his nose, a clearing of the final remnants of the steam that had built between his ears. “Tell me...do you know of a cure for the bite of an arrow from Cupid’s bow? Is there a salve that will soothe the melody of a songbird as it serenades its mate? An antidote to stop the flowers from blooming in spring? You seek to alleviate symptoms of a natural condition that cannot be abated so simply…”

Marcus closed the distance between them with a few steps, his arms unfolding from across his chest as he drew near. His demeanor was non-threatening, if not a bit cautious, but he moved with a firm, underlying confidence, like a man attempting to confront a caged animal he wished to peacefully release from its confinement. “But...I can say this much, however. You are not the first to suffer so, or even the only one to suffer from this affliction in this very moment...do you think me immune to your feminine charm? That somehow, by some virtue of age or masculinity, that I am steeled against the curve of your hip, or the warmth in your smile...?” He was close to her now, closer than they had been when they joined hands during the ceremony.

“The taste of your lips is far more potent than any philter brewed by the hand of some heathen charlatan.” He drew closer, eyes locked on hers, a fire burning there, a flame born not of anger this time, but of lust, of hunger. “Do you truly want to know how to quell this feeling of hunger that builds within? To satisfy the primal urge that gnaws at your core?” He was close enough now that she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her skin, his head moving beside hers, lips brushing across her cheek before resting at her earlobe, his words low enough to almost be a whisper.

“You have to feed it…”

His head moved back slowly and angled to the side, a hand reaching between them, fingertips brushing the cloth at the widest part of her hips, up her waist, over her arm at the elbow, across her collarbone, around to the side of her neck, his palm finally coming to rest there, thumb softly stroking her cheek. His eyes fixed on hers as his other hand slid around her waist, brushing down the sensual curve of her lower back, seizing a handful of the bountiful swell of her rump. He pulled her in close, their bodies meeting in the middle, pressed together, fitting like adjoining pieces cut from the same puzzle, his forehead pressing gently against hers.

“If you think that I speak falsely still, put your hand over my heart...tell me if what you feel there is the coldness of an organ that beats within the chest of a man who would deceive you so...one who would seek to wrong you, to rob you of your innocence...” She was shorter than him, yet still tall enough that he need only bend his head down a bit for their lips to touch. It was as if they were the perfectly complemented pair, physically, in that moment at least. His lips brushed against hers. “...I don’t want to harm you Gaia, I want to please you...taste you...touch you...” The hand at her backside pulled her in more tightly, not so much that it seemed he desired to entrap her, but it was as if he needed to feel her close, to feel their bodies touch. “I want…”

His lips met hers, a passionate kiss of a different nature entirely to the first that they had shared, the hand at the back of her neck gently pulling her in just as it’s twin did with her lower half. It was fiery, but quick, over within a few heartbeats as he pulled back, dark eyes burning with desire, the sound of his lips smacking wetly as they withdrew filling the still night air around them.

“Tell me you don’t feel the same...tell me you wish me to leave you alone, here, now, and I will...give word and I will take flight.”

His lips brushed against hers again. “If you don’t feel that way, though...if you want me to stay...show me.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Wife. There was that word again. He wasn’t wrong; she knew that, but the sound of it, that small thing, strangled her, made the air turn to mud around her. There was a deep, instinctive fear there, the bitter realization that she had moved forward in life, that there would be no getting back what she had lost. What she was continually losing - the ocean of him wearing away now at her purity, making her body react in heated and foreign ways.

He moved closer, and, like a caged animal, she froze. A stiffening of her shoulders, her arms, drawing in tighter to herself. It would seem that though her mind was paralyzed, her body was making the fight or flight choice for her. The closer her came, the more she bundled into herself, until it was too late. He was close; too close - but perhaps he could feel how tightly coiled she was, drawing all the tighter. His words were a dull buzz in her ears; he was using that silver tongue of his. Honeyed words, falling from lips that were practiced in spinning them. He was complimenting her, and, much like when she was hidden by the veil not that long ago, her reaction was out before she could stop it.

It was a snorted laugh as his lips touched her earlobe, the coil of her body unwinding, just a bit, to let out that strangled sound of mirth. There wasn’t more time to let it go, to let it change on its own, before it was replaced by a horrified squeak as he gripped her rear. How strange was it that the same hand she’d held before could be changed so rapidly in its intention? His grip was firm, closing in on the ample flesh that made her feel small and overfull at the same time. Her body, though smaller than his, was a combination of densely packed muscle in her thighs, her rear, spilling over to soft suppleness. The effect on her was instantaneous confusion. Warmth on her cheeks, in her stomach, between her legs, fear, speeding up her heart. There was another thing she clung to: the insult of being handled so roughly, even with those sweet words that made her knees shake.

Then -

His mouth was on hers.

Her mind shorted out, dust thrown on a fire. If she had thought that the sealing kiss of the wedding was maddening, this? This was sheer, primordial chaos, plunging her mind into nothing but noise before everything went blissfully quiet, the fire in her belly stoked to such a height that she felt her skin, no, her entire being, would burst into flame and leave him holding a pile of ash.

He was pulling away now, and her head fairly swum. She was unsteady on her feet, struggling to blink clarity into her eyes. That thread of indignation that she’d thought she’d found was gone now, and she could feel herself blindly fishing for it. Trying to find something to help her reinforce it -

And she shoved him, with a strength that belied her size and stature. “You get away from me,” she spat venomously. Her face was on fire, her stomach clenched, her sex, the treacherous thing, was damp, and though she did not entirely know why it was, the dull ache that had begun to build there as well infuriated her. “You’re using some sort of spell, I know it. You speak sweet words; they must work well on the whores at your camps, at the brothels. You’ve got no end of them. You’re going to take everything precious from me and leave me with nothing, nothing but thankless dull hours trapped inside of the home, nursing wailing babes, while you - you, have the freedom to leave, to woo others with that tongue of yours. Best to quench whatever fire your witchcraft attempts to stoke; to keep my wits about me, than to be turned into a moaning whore for your temporary enjoyment. The only pleasure you want of me is to plow an unfurrowed field." The words poured from her, earlier fears, irrationalities, all blending together, her too flustered, too annoyed, entirely too aroused and not knowing how to deal with it erasing any sense of decorum from her. “None of this, ‘Please me’, ‘Taste me,’ nonsense," words spat with a curl of her upper lip.

She was circling him now, with the careful and practiced footwork of a boxer. Her hands were up, clenched into fists as well. Had it not been for the hard set of her mouth and eyes, it would have been comical; a bride, decked in the finest that her family and money had to offer, holding up her fists like she was in the arena.

“Try coming over here and taking such liberties again, by the Goddess,” A squaring of those shoulders, “I’ll not have you make a mockery of me, using witchcraft to addle the mind and the senses.”

 

[Talon]

Marcus grimaced as she spat his words back at him, tucking his thumbs back into his belt as she paced before him, his shoulders and feet squared. It’s not that he didn’t think she was capable of violence outright, her body flowed to a stance ready to administer it easily enough, he just didn’t believe that was her intent in the moment. He’d reached his hand out to her and she’d snapped at it. She hadn't wounded him, it was merely a warning, a defensive posture, like a wolf raising its hackles and baring its teeth or a lioness roaring and swiping her claws. Perhaps he had been overly presumptuous, stepped a bit too far over the line. She was clearly in distress and exhibiting all the outward signs; seconds away from bludgeoning her new husband at their wedding celebration, all while still clad in her full wedding regalia and all. Besides, the harshness of her words and the sudden threat of an escalation of violence between the two had cut the edge off his mood, sharply and decisively.

He saw then in her an aspect he wasn’t expecting, an irrationality, a flash of recognition from prior rocky relationships long since passed. She reminded him in that moment of another and it wasn’t a favorable comparison, in fact, it set a taste on his tongue so foul that it evoked a turn of the head and the gesture of a fluidless spit from the corner of his mouth. It was different enough as to not be identical, more self defense than outright attack, to start, but her demeanor evoked difficult memories, the likes of which he hadn’t anticipated reliving on this particular day, of all days.

He smirked at her disapprovingly as she finished her tirade off with an open threat. Not mockingly or in jest, he seemed to be taking her threat seriously on the surface, at least as far as his body language outwardly signaled, but more in the manner a disappointed father or sibling would look upon a young child throwing a tantrum. “Forgive me if I am forgetting a past meeting, perhaps the experience of an entire past life from the sounds of it, but you speak so freely as if you truly know me, intimately. You cast accusations of spellcraft so easily at me...do you have some divine gift of foresight, yourself, then?”

Sighing, it was his turn to pace in front of her, his temper cooling a touch, still barbed around the edges. He stopped suddenly, cocking his head as he eyed her stance. “You also seem quick to escalate things to the next level. Brave, of course, but there is a fine line there, between bravery and foolhardiness, don’t you think? I was killing men while you still suckled at your mother’s teat...don’t get me wrong, you look like you could chop a tree down with a pugio, particularly if someone lovingly groped your backside beforehand...but did you honestly think I was the sort of man who would be cowed by such a naked display of bravado, a reckless threat of violence? Let’s say you hit me, rattled my teeth, bloodied my lip even. Did you envision me simply giving up and going away, then? Turning around and going home...annulling the wedding...calling this whole thing off, then and there? That seems an unlikely outcome.”

Marcus scoffed as he started pacing again, just within range of her fists, as if tempting her to lash out at him, drawing in a deep breath before speaking. “Alright then...so no tasting, pleasing, complementing, plowing or moaning...how about talking, then, Gaia...is that permitted? Rather than harbor all of these preconceived notions of how terrible a man I am deep inside, why don’t you try asking me a question, forming an opinion based on observations instead of speculations? Or is it that your gift of foresight already told you all you need to know about me?”

Marcus stopped his pacing again, squaring up to her, a frustrated but less hostile look on his face now that had talked himself down a bit.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Don’t you talk down to me,” heated anger turned into ice, a suggestion that she was regaining some sort of composure. Her fists lowered, but she kept moving, kept pacing, fluid movements, caught between dancing and fighting. Her voice was quieter - though she never had gotten to the point that she was shouting. Though the festivities inside would have drowned out any sound that they made, she hadn’t lost her temper entirely.

He had, after all, made her feel some semblance of pleasure. Probably through years of practice. The sour thought wrinkled her nose, an expression that twisted her face into something childish, but deceptively charming as well, as if she’d taken a bite of lemon, or was unsure of what she was smelling. But still she watched him.

He’s making a sound argument. But of course he would; a politician, just like Lucius.

A particularly festive ululation from inside - it was Agrippina, she was sure of it. Agrippina always had the voice of a songbird. The music shifted, bolstering the woman’s voice. It cut through the tension outside, slipped between the ribs. Sweetness incarnate, yes, but with a strength, a bellyful of the divine. The song Gaia wasn’t entirely familiar with, but it tugged at the corners of her memory. Recalled from sneaking around corners, through the haze of past weddings. It was touching, soothing, knowing that no matter how much her world had changed, some things were still constant. And she knew, knew within her core, that her sister was singing for her. Her anger melted from her, salt in water - replaced with resignation. The realization that she was acting untoward.

“…Do not talk down to me,” she repeated, stopping in her pacing. With the background of her sister’s voice, she seemed to shrink, her edges smoothed away, her form melting into moonlight and smoke. “But you are right. I have been too hasty to judge you.” If before had been a volcanic eruption, now, she was the ocean, drawing back from the shore. It was nearly a physical transformation, her calming, her drawing back down into herself. Not with the same animalistic tightening as before, but with a surrender that was defeated, deflated. Passion folded deep down, tucked away.

I am still in my father’s home.

The father, so distant, but so close, like the moon, like the stars. The father that, through his distance, had provided for her up until this point, the family that had allowed her goddess worship, that had molded and trained and corralled, yes, and had married her off - and, more than that - Lucius. This marriage would benefit him; he had alluded to it.

If it is for Lucius, who loves me best, I can undergo all things. Goddess, give me the strength. The poise. The calm. And chase away your petulant, cruel sister Venus, who would make a mockery of reason and scorn chastity.

She lowered her head, then, lifted it with the same resolve she had used to accuse him. “I apologize.” The words were not clipped or harsh - polite, yes, and meaningful as well. They would still ring hollow; the practiced emotion of a woman used to pulling herself into a clam shell. “Forgive me and my hastiness; I have no excuse for speaking so out of turn.” Would she kneel? No, but there would be a slight incline of the head, as much as an apology as her station would allow her.

He is right; I do not know him. But I am not sure if I wish to know him either. As long as I have my thoughts, I can have some freedom. If I am patient, and watch this man, I will be able to maintain a life of my own. Diana has seen me through this far; she will not abandon me. I must have faith. I must.

She could have made a smart remark, mocking his age, to have reacted in further anger at his comment about her strength. He was baiting her; he had to know. And she would react accordingly - with what pride she could salvage.

Just like a man, to praise something in one breath and curse it in the next when he cannot have it.

To spite him, to remind herself of who she was, she flexed her arms, unseen to him, under the voluminous folds of her robes. Felt her muscles, the sweat cooling on her body, the whine in her thighs from her dancing before. Her sister’s song continued, willing her back inside now, as the tempo had picked up, from a ballad to considerable cheer.

Forget him. Dance while you can, for this night cannot last forever.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she would turn away from him now, the chill coming from her palpable. It was not the ice of hatred; that could have been easier to deal with. What noble marriage was without a healthy amount of resentment, disappointment? No, this chill was far more practiced, far more impersonal, and all the colder for it. The polite civility given to strangers, a smile with nothing behind it. A far cry from the woman he’d kissed, who he’d danced with.

I will take my bulky body, and I will fly while I still can.

The resolve set her mouth, thinning those lips into a firm line before she stepped inside, pasting a smile to her face. The expression was false, until she caught the eye of Agrippina, who, as she suspected, was in the center of the atrium, singing as servants danced around her. It was hard to keep a sour expression in the face of such light, and Gaia could feel herself relaxing, standing for mere moments before airily joining in with the servants again, no difference between her station and theirs, save for the richness of her clothing. Natta, who had been dancing closest to the outskirts of the circle that surrounded Agrippina, her feet tethering her to the earth as her hips swiveled, undulated, in a manner that would have put the best whore to shame, to the laughter of the servants, of Gaia’s family. It was understood among them, that lewdness, burlesque, had its proper place, and even in the staid face of a wedding, well, there was a wedding night, after all.

Natta, catching Gaia’s eye, did not stop in her movements - but that tilt of her head, the wiggle of her shoulders, of her once generous breasts, was a challenge, come, show me what you can do, prim bride, that, had this been any other situation, would have earned a servant a whipping for impudence - but now, here, it was met with laughter, the lilt of the song changing - would the bride be brave enough to face the new challenge? Even Agrippina’s voice held that question, holding a note, waiting, brows exaggerated in their lift -

A long, shrill cry - a vocal push - but from who? Surprisingly enough, it was Cassia who had voiced it, somehow still conveying that same poison that her words typically carried. And Gaia, already unable to resist the call of her beloved Natta, stuck her tongue out in Cassia’s direction, and then, joined Natta, crouching low, her waist, her hips, moving as sensuously as the freewoman’s, matching movement for movement. There would be no lifting of skirts now to show calves, feet, but it didn’t matter. The sheer eroticism of their movements were heightened by the clothing they wore, that covered them in accordance with Roman modesty. Not that Gaia would be alone - for it would seem that the song, carried by Agrippina, a bit breathless now - from lack of practice, certainly, for she had not hit a single sour note -, was a call to the married women.

Giving the elder sister a rest, the music changed, held by the pounding of the drums. And Octavia, seeming to float from nowhere and everywhere, joined them, with a slippery twist of her waist and energy that belied her age. Cassia would bring up the rear now, moving with a rust that spoke of ill-temper (how was it that such a foul nature could be so clearly conveyed?) and impatience - a funny thing in the middle of such carnal movements. The women twined in and out of each other, slow, sensual motions exaggerated, combined with silly facial expressions, that set the audience to laughing - an unspoken challenge, for when any of the women would crack a smile or laugh, they appeared to be “out” - and would make their way to the side lines of the impromptu dance circle. Agrippina was first, cackling at the gorgon-like expression that Natta cast, with wide eyes and a rolling of her neck. Gaia was next, sent into a fit of giggles at her mother imitating a yawning lion, the hilarity that much more for her stoic beauty. Cassia was next, the smallest snort meaning that she’d lost - among a brief argument between her and Agrippina, with Gaia joining in. Cowed by her two sisters, Cassia huffed and exited - leaving Natta and Octavia last, the music curious as to who would win.

It would be Natta - securing her victory with not just an owlish expression, but from her sudden leap in the air, mocking the the dancing of Gaia earlier - a moment that seemed completely out of line with the small woman’s barrel shape. If it wasn’t enough, she dropped into a split, crossed her eyes, and swung her breasts from side to side. It’d be too much for Octavia - who, in some distant recognition of the occasion, burst into laughter, the sound as regal as the rest of her. Laughing until the kohl streaked from her eyes, Octavia approached Natta, and the two women embraced in their laughter, almost drowned out by the applause from the others, from the ongoing music from the servants.

The dance seemed to have soothed Gaia’s nerves - if that had not been enough, the fact that Agrippina, in her laughter, had cradled Gaia close to her as she would one of her children, complete with a kiss to her sweaty forehead - it was so reassuring. Gaia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held by someone in her family, let alone reassured physically - and Agrippina’s touch was a balm she desperately needed. There would be time for them to breathe now, the various children at the wedding taking to the dance floor now - a charming tableau, with Virgil teaching the youngest, carefully balanced on his feet, some of the more rudimentary dance moves, much to the joy of the child.

Gaia smiled, watching all of it - though she could still feel the bit of bitterness in the corner of her heart. She would be watching it all with the knowledge that once it was over - her life here would come to an end. There would be no such dancing again - if she were lucky, if her sisters kept to the old ways, perhaps at the wedding of one of their daughters, but like this? No, a time like this would never come again. And so, she was on the floor again, grasping the chubby hands of a nephew, one of Magnus’s children, she was sure of that much, even if his name alluded her. She wouldn’t have long to dance with him alone before a sibling of his, barely walking, had grasped her left leg, leaving her unable to do much more than swing the toddler around to her shrieks of laughter, and spin the nephew around clumsily.

 

[Talon]

Marcus frowned as she exited the courtyard, remaining behind for a few moments, alone with his thoughts, his mood turned dark and brooding after this, their first ‘marital spat’, so to say. Her words rang hollow and slid off him without much consideration, given as they were with so little genuine remorse, if any. She’d called his honor into question, repeatedly, and accused him of what amounted to a crime in most eyes, of using spellcraft to seduce her. Beyond even the hit to his personal pride, if her father took such an accusation to the religious authorities, it’s very likely he’d be put under some rigorous investigation as a result. He could probably avoid any serious penalties, given his status, but still, he didn’t need the stink of that rumor on his name the next time he stood for election.

Buyer beware, indeed...you’ve really caught your foot in the trap, again, haven't you, old boy?

Marcus ran his hands through his hair again several times, relaxing his guard now that he was alone. He’d thought he’d picked the safest route, that he’d chosen the one that would guarantee he’d be relatively strife free. He hadn’t given much consideration to what Virgil’s daughter would be like, beyond the surface, but he couldn’t say that he expected...this.

Would it have been such a bad thing, you old goat, to simply pick a woman from a politically ambitious family, a known quantity? One who would at least have feigned interest in you, out of a duty to family, if nothing else?

Where he had felt warmth for Virgil only hours before, an admiration born of business dealings that had been tempered to hardened steel by what Marcus had considered a favor, at worst, that feeling of warmth was beginning to cool.

Favor? That scheming old bastard married me off to...to her. A razor sharp blade wrapped in flower blossoms. If you only observe from a distance, it seems normal, beautiful even. But woe to the man who approaches close enough to try to pick that blossom, you’ll slice your fingers clean off.

Where had he gone wrong? Sure, he had been a bit...eager, perhaps, but he didn’t feel he had gone over the top, particularly when in front of her family and guests. Had he been too warm, too open? Should he have been as if carved of stone, holding his nose up at her, not letting his attraction show so openly? Had she perceived that as a weakness? What had she expected he would be like, that his arrow had fallen so short of her mark?

Marcus sighed, pinching his nose at the inside corner of his eyes between thumb and middle finger, his eyes forcefully squeezed shut, staving off the stress induced headache that closed in along the edges of his consciousness.

I’m too old to deal with this...this...foolishness. What’s done is done, guard your heart and temper your lust, old boy, build fortifications in anticipation of the battle that is to come. You don’t need her to love you, lust after you or...hells...she doesn’t even need to like you. You’ve got what you aimed for, a marriage, you’ve made yourself compliant with the new laws...that’s that. What’s done is done.

Maybe he could arrange for an appointment outside of Rome, a governorship of some far off province. One that promised enough danger that he wouldn’t be expected to bring his wife. She could stay back and manage his household. He’d send gifts on the right occasions, maybe visit a few times a year, hope that her feral edge would wear off long enough to at least allow him to sire a child. After that, there would be a freedom of sorts. So long as she kept things covert, she could seek out her pleasure wherever she liked, he’d be content to be far enough away that the rumors wouldn’t reach his ears, releasing him from any obligation to take action to squash them. Perhaps some damn barbarian would do him the mercy of sticking a spearhead into his ribs during some rebellious uprising...preferably a Chieftain or some would be King, at least then it would be a somewhat noble death.

Marcus let his hand fall from his face, examining the flesh of his palms, growling as he noted the areas where whatever substance had been smeared on her skin had transferred to his. He scrubbed his hands against the front of his tunic roughly to clean them, seeming unconcerned at the moment with potentially staining the fine fabric of the garment, nodding with satisfaction after a follow up examination revealed that his hands were mostly free of the substance. Marcus rolled his shoulders then, tilting his head from side to side, looking as if he were imitating a pugilist preparing to enter the ring.

She wants to keep things cold, eh? Fine...I will be as if carved from the ice of Boreas’ throne…

~*~*~*~*~*~

Marcus clinked goblets with the man he had been engaged in conversation with, standing on the outskirts of the celebration, amongst the marble columns where the less active guests had gathered. The liquid of the man’s goblet was dark whilst Marcus’ contained only water.

“So, as I was saying...I believe I could have a thousand ready for delivery by, say...the ides of Sextilius?”

Marcus nodded, lips pursed in thought. “And you say you’ll have a prototype available some time before then?”

The man nodded. “Of course, of course. Some time in Maius, I’d expect...plenty enough time to sample and confirm my claim of their superior quality.”

A tug at Marcus' arm, causing him to frown and turn his head to glance over his shoulder in search of it’s source. Tiberius. Sweat had formed at Tiberius’ brow, his chest rising heavily, signalling that the man had likely been doing what he could to keep up with the dancing and festivities. “Marcus, brother...what’s going on, why are you not joining in the merriment?”

The frown didn’t leave Marcus’ lips as he gave Tiberius a once over, sipping from his goblet before speaking. “I have...don’t I seem...merry?”

Tiberius smirked. “Quite…” he looked over to the man who Marcus had been engaging in conversation with. “Excuse me for a moment…”

The man chimed in. “Quintus...Quintus Armenius Natalis.”

“Right, Quintus. I’m going to borrow the groom for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Quintus frowned, but upon seeing the size and stature of Tiberius, apparently deemed it wasn’t the best choice to push the issue. “Of course...Marcus, we’ll speak again on the matter.” The man raised his goblet in salut before turning and moving along.

Marcus sighed, brushing his free hand against his tunic, looking over to his friend. “What is it, Tiberius, need to borrow some coin to cover a bet?”

Tiberius plucked a fresh goblet of wine off the tray of a passing servant, drinking from it deeply before responding. “Of course not...you know I would not dare to gamble at the wedding of my oldest friend, it’s in poor taste for a man of my station.”

Marcus scoffed. “Mhmmm...and we both know you are well renowned for always conducting yourself with good taste…” His tone was sarcastic, with a particularly sharp bite.

Tiberius frowned, straightening. “It’s worse than I thought...what turned your mood so sour, brother? You seemed on top of the world when I saw you during the celebration...practically walking on air. You disappear for a few minutes...and you come back looking as if something crawled up your arse…”

Marcus winced, a pained expression on his visage, a hand scrubbing across his face. “For the love of the Gods, leave it be, Tiberius...I have no patience for one of your talks right now...if you can’t still your tongue on this subject, then leave it behind your teeth, will you?”

Tiberius was visibly shaken, taken aback, swaying back a step in reaction. “That serious, eh?...well, I suppose whatever it is, it can’t be helped...but I trust you know I have your back, brother, if you need me…always.”

Marcus inhaled deeply, looking around aimlessly for a moment, his gaze distant, hard, before it once more settled on his friend. “I know...but there are some things a man must face alone, as you know. It’s my burden to bear, don’t trouble yourself with it. Go...go and enjoy yourself on my behalf, eh?”

Tiberius frowned, clapping Marcus on the shoulder lightly. “Very well...I’ll see you again before you’re off, yes?”

Marcus nodded silently.

“Good...well...I hope you come to terms with it, whatever it is…” With those words of parting Tiberius moved off, Marcus’ gaze following him for a moment before breaking off, as if ensuring the man was really going to leave him be. A Roman man approached from the side, looking eager to swoop in and bend Marcus’ ear, but apparently he decided against it at the last second, seeing the hardness of Marcus’ gaze he bypassed him with a curt nod of greeting and a forced smile.

Good...Marcus thought...perhaps now I’ll have some peace…

He hadn’t seen his mother since returning to the party, he anticipated that would be another arrow he’d have to dodge. Those closest to him would see past the stony, hardened exterior and know that he was nursing an internal wound of some sort. Those familiar only on a surface level were unlikely to see anything more than a proud, old stately man, a man so concerned with the upkeep of his stoic public image that he couldn’t bring himself to be demonstrative in this moment.

Marcus sighed as he sipped from his goblet of water, his gaze flickering over the participants of the dance in the open space at the center of the atrium. His eyes didn’t linger on any one person long enough to distinguish features...he couldn’t be sure that Gaia was among them, he hadn’t made eye contact with her since returning. Perhaps she’d fled the celebration altogether, run off with some servant she’d fallen in love with.

Marcus’ brow perked...was that the issue? Was all that business about spellcraft and feelings and the accusations of his low character...was it a clever ruse? She knew she couldn’t escape the obligation of being wed to him once her father had agreed to it, and if she had fallen for some servant or perhaps a boy whose family had no name or wealth to speak of, surely her father would not have approved of such a match. So, in order to free herself of this union, perhaps her aim was to push him away, to make Marcus sour on the deal so that he would end it of his own volition, freeing her from obligation and salvaging her family’s honor in the process. Clever...devious even.

Marcus sipped again from his goblet, settling in to await the closing of this phase of the ceremony, preparing himself mentally for whatever might come next, to be able to speak without the ire of his thoughts bleeding through into his tone.

She’ll not catch me off guard again…

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Eat, drink, dance, be merry: such was the course of events at any Africanus celebration, though not always in that order. Wine flowed as easily as water, though with the frantic call of the dance floor, it hardly stayed long enough in the system to addle the head. Enough wine for even the most staid among the Romans to try their feet at the dance. In the spirit of such celebrations, the movement, the music, would go on, endless, the gradual tapering off barely noticeable as it perfectly coincided with the natural fatigue of the guests. It was the children that would peel off first, finding quieter corners to protest that they would only sit for a minute, but eyes would rapidly close, breathing would fall into the deep easy cadence of slumber. Toddlers were bundled off to nurses, women whose foreheads glistened with sweat and were, grateful, in their own way, to take a break from the dancing to tend to the babies.

To Gaia, the slowing of the music and the slow departure of the elderly, the children were the grains of sand slipping through the hourglass. Her time here was soon at an end, and even though she knew it was the early hours of the morning, before the sky started to turn a pale gray at its edge, that it was a celebration that would be discussed for ages, everything had to come to an end. If it wasn’t enough in the air around her, the imagined chill of the warm night and silence of the dead sleep of the courtyard seeping into the atrium, she could feel it in her family, the way they clustered together, drawing closer to her. From her brothers and sisters, she couldn’t discern much. Not that she would have expected to; it had been a long while since they shared the same roof. But there was a bit of sorrow, a heavy curve to the shoulders of her mother that was so wholly unnatural that Gaia wondered, not for the first time that night, if the whole of the evening was some dream, brought on by buried anxieties.

Marcus hadn’t left her field of vision. She doubted that he saw her, but suspected that he knew she was watching. Considering. He was in a mood, that much she could tell. The hard set of his mouth caused a pang in her. So he was human, after all.

You’ve acted foolishly.

The thought wouldn’t leave, sat round her neck like a millstone. Dancing alleviated it, but it didn’t erase it.

You’ve acted foolishly and made a bad first impression. Shamed your brother.

Even if family didn’t mean much to her, the thought of hurting Lucius, through her own idiocy was something that stung.

But why should she be shamed for what she said, for voicing her concerns? Why was it that whenever she felt she acted of her own mind, it did nothing but make a muddle of things? The weed in her mother’s yard when left to her own devices, but capable of being a rose when sculpted and groomed according to someone else’s hands.

As she whirled round in the last dance of the night, the last dance she would have for years with her family, she let the thoughts roll round with the motion of her head, the whipping of those long braids, years of not laying a blade to the wildness of her hair, bared now in careful braid of Natta, whipping round her waist. In the back of her mind, she knew that it couldn’t stay with her. Not with what she needed to have happen.







Octavia watched as her youngest surviving daughter danced. She could see bits and pieces of herself in the girl, a feat that she continually marveled at. This creature, once mewling and blind, had come from her body, covered in blood, sucked from her breast. To see her now was to see herself when she was young (though she would admit that Agrippina did truly favor her the most), but more than that. Not just a muddying of the blood between herself and Virgil, but blood that reached back further than Octavia could imagine.

Had she been raised well? Would she take to her new husband, be a dutiful bride? Would she find something that soothed her heart and her mind? Gaia had always been the wildest of the children, a wildness that couldn’t be explained by bad behavior or ferocity. More like a changeling, a lioness pretending to be a jackal pretending to be a human. Agrippina had been soft since birth, Cassia, a monster. Strange, then, how the more children she produced, the less and less human they appeared to be. Truly, the best of her and Virgil were Agrippina and Lucius, no one could argue that.

But as she watched her youngest, there was a small swelling in her breast. Too small to be considered pride. Nor was it relief, in that the wedding appeared to go well, that their last daughter had made a good match and now would start her own family. It would take days after the wedding for her to finally put a finger on it.

It was anticipation.

Anticipation for what would come next for her goddess-struck daughter, the one who’s mind existed in a world that was far removed from their own. Would she turn into the lioness she actually was, or would she continue to shrink into herself, content with the scraps that others would throw her?

If the gods were kind, she would live long enough to see it.







“Well, now, brother, this wedding night is coming to an end - all that’s left is for you to take her home.” Lucius’s voice would come from his right shoulder, the lean giant of a man moving with a speed and silence that was deadly on the battleground. "I hope you appreciate the gift - no finer stallion has come out of Thessaly since Alexander's Bucephalus! He's the jet black creature outside next to your carpentum; your guard should be familiar with him. We've been calling him 'Tenebris' - fairly uninspired, I know, but it's meant to be a temporary thing until you decide upon a name. He'll be a noble steed for you. He's a fine creature - but like a loyal dog, has his 'people.' He's not easily won over, yes, but my sister has him literally eating out of the palm of her hand. I thought, 'No better wedding gift than one that brings the bride and groom closer together!'"

Surely he knew how strange it was to mention that a woman, and not just any woman, but one of her station, would be able to deal with a horse, in particular, a war charger? But there was no change in Lucius' easy chatter, water in a brook. That was, until he leaned closer, his voice dropping so that it was only for the two of them to hear:

“From one brother to another - please, look after my sister. She is precious to me.” The timbre of his voice, the shine in his black eyes from torchlight, spoke of a sincerity that ran deeper than a freed tongue from wine. Where Gaia had been cold, Lucius was warm, that infectious good nature of his that caused men to pledge their loyalty to him, to follow him into the fire had he but asked. “But I suspect that I shall see you sooner than later,” and a good natured clasp of the hand.

Except that his hand was not empty.

Keeping Marcus’s hand in his, he would lean even closer, lowering his head down to the shorter man’s ear, “You will find the time to read this on the way.” Then he was away, giving the man a warm smile. “Time for the abduction, brother! Do it now before the Lares catch on!”

With all of the deftness of a skilled pick pocket, Lucius had slipped Marcus a scroll, no larger than the taller man’s hand. It was hastily sealed; the wax was still pliable. It was small enough to be hidden under one of the arm bracers that Marcus wore, or tucked away in his belt or a fold of his tunic. A missive with the careful nature of a habitual note-exchanger, one who did his best communications in secret.

Magnus would approach next, only glancing temporarily at Lucius as he took his leave from Marcus’s side. There would be an exchange in nods, cheerful smiles, before Magnus turned his attention to the older man.

“Well met, brother!” And, without further preamble, Magnus wrapped him in a tight hug, filling Marcus’s senses with sweat, wine, and oud mixed with the body odor of a farmer. “It was a pleasure to see you dance; I hope that you will find much more opportunity in your life to do so. Life is so bitter without music, without song. It’s what turns the world around us, you know.” If Lucius had the ease of charm, Magnus would make up for his own lack of silver tongue with his simplicity. There seemed to be a joy about him, like everything he was witnessing was for the first time all over. “I will be looking forward to many nieces and nephews, and will keep you in my prayers.”

A kiss on both cheeks, the surprisingly soft beard rubbed against Marcus’s face, and Magnus was walking to join his brother. The rest of Gaia’s family were preparing to see her off, clustering around the opening of the atrium. All save for Virgil, who, winded by the night’s events, was coming to Marcus, sweat still on his forehead, his breathing labored.

“Ah, I hate to trouble you with this, but our earlier agreement will have to be amended. It has come to my attention that Natta’s daughter, Arethusa, has fallen ill, and will not be accompanying you on your journey. We’ve made Gaia aware - and, stubborn creature that she is, she refuses to have Arethusa travel in her state, though both myself and Arethusa’s mother, our own Natta, assured her that it was fine. The initial fever has broken, you know. But she’s a bull, my Gaia - she refused to take our word for it. Snuck off to see Arethusa and convinced the girl that she would be able to manage on her own until she was much better. ‘At the very least, a week!’, she demanded. ‘Time enough for her to regain her strength.’ You have my apologies in advance if my daughter appears a fright once she has washed off the cosmetics for the wedding. She will be without a hair dresser and left to her own devices.” A slight crease in the older man’s face, near the mouth, that suggested that perhaps he wanted to say more, but kept himself from it. “Once Arethusa is doing better, as per Natta, we will send her with one of my sons. Lucius, more than likely. They’re very close, the two of them, despite him being so much older. You’d think that a strapping young boy would have wanted nothing to do with a bumbling puppy of a girl, but children - they’re like a garden. You till the soil, you plant the seed, you nurture it the best that you can, but your plants, ah, they still have a mind of their own.”

He sighed now, heavily, tinged by sadness. Where had the time gone? So much of it as of late had been spent making sure that this day happened: that Gaia would be married, off on her own. And somehow, it was still too soon. Still too much that needed to be said. That there would never be enough time for.

“Marcus…son, humor an old man before you take his youngest child away,” Virgil looked at the rest of the family, clustered around the entrance of the atrium, Gaia a beacon in her white robe. With the learned eyes of a father, he knew she was holding back tears, keeping up a brave face through her smiles. Agrippina was hugging her now, leaning down to say something in the girl’s ear. Lucius would be next - their embrace would last the longest. There was his Lucius: defiant and fierce to his love. It would have been the source of immense mockery, the affection he showed to his sister now. He had her wrapped tightly in his arms, kissing her forehead, the crown of her head as he rubbed her back. Her face was buried in the man’s chest, her own arms encircling his body.

“Spend the time that you can with your young ones, once you have them. Time passes quickly for us as it is, but it will grow wings once you have children. One day you will be rejoicing at their first smile, the first tooth, then, you’ll blink and they’re undergoing rites into adulthood. The moments you spend with them are precious. Let them know that you love them. Do not let an estrangement grow between you for fear of what others will say. That was my mistake. I have no opportunity to change the damage that has been done with my daughter, but I can be born anew with my grandchildren.”

A gentle clasp of Marcus’s shoulder. “Well, that’s enough sobriety from me. Leave me to bid my farewell - and come and take your new bride.”









Fog in her ears. She knew that her sisters were saying something, that Magnus had said something with his hug. All that was real was Lucius. And when he let go of her, she had to bite the tip of her tongue until the metallic salt of blood filled her mouth to keep her tears back. When he let go of her, she could hear the last pacing of the drums, the servants raising a shout. Agrippina lightly nudged her, a cue to her last performance of the evening.

And the wailing began as Marcus approached - cries to leave their youngest, to leave the daughter. And Gaia herself, sobbing, the sound over the top and false, not posing any fight as Marcus lifted her - though, in some deference to her size, the heft of her rear and thighs, she actually hopped a bit, making it that much easier for him to drape her over his shoulder. She would keep herself somewhat buoyant over his arm, not going dead weight to make it that much harder for him to take her out of the home.

Outside of the villa, now, the sky was beginning to lighten up, hints of pink chasing away the gray. But all she could see, all she could focus on, were the smiling faces of her family, growing smaller as they moved towards the carpentum. He would have to continue to carry her until the Lares were satisfied, until it was clear that she was being taken “against her will.” She was suspecting that he would toss her within the confines of it, and braced herself for it. He was stronger than she’d initially thought, the firmness of his body beneath her own appealing. A curl of heat in her stomach had started when he lifted her, his face next to the same rear he’d grabbed hours before. Though she had helped him with the jump, he had been more than strong enough to hoist her without the extra help. The folly of her boxing stance came rushing back; she wouldn’t have been any kind of match for him.

He’s strong enough to pin me down.

Why had that thought filled her with heat?

Too much; entirely too much going through her mind. She was surprised into stillness as he gently put her down in the carpentum. There was a moment where she looked at him, not sure what she should think, how she should feel. Or realize that she had actually been crying as she left her family. The loud sobs had been false, true, but in the midst of them, even as she tried to stop her laughter over how ridiculous she sounded, the tears had flowed. The only home she’d known was now closed to her, and like a fool, she’d started this marriage on the wrong foot.

Before he could look at her too much longer, she was hastily wiping the tears from her eyes, trying to settle into the comfort of the carpentum, shrinking into the cushions, the woven blankets. Even these things, symbols of comfort, smelled strange. Stale. And her tears started afresh, despite her still fumbling attempts to wipe them.

 

[Talon]

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Time heals all wounds. Cooler heads prevail. Proverbs passed down through the ages for a simple reason; they ring true.

Marcus’ head had cooled well before the ceremony had finally wound to a close. It couldn’t be helped...try as he might to harbor some deep seated discontent, he couldn’t work loose the knot of desire that had formed deep in his gut for this woman, his wife. As his heart had tried to incase itself in ice the fire at his core had reduced it to steam before it even had a chance to take form. While confident that he himself had not acted in a manner at all unlawful, his actions had been perhaps a bit untoward. How would the situation have differed if he’d simply extended a welcoming hand to her, a steady shoulder to rest her head against? Instead he’d handled her like a slab of meat, with no thought given to how she might interpret that. Did it feel good, in the moment, that sense of immediate gratification? Absolutely. Had it sparked off a chain of events that led her to raise her fists to him, at best, and at worst had soured her opinion of him from that moment forth? Most likely. She could have perhaps reacted somewhat better, herself, but all things considered, he was the one responsible for the snowflake that had triggered the avalanche.

What was it about this woman that had lit his passions to burn so brightly, so intensely? That made him act so...irrationally. Irrational; an adjective that few would appreciate associated with their actions, least of all a man like Marcus. He took pride in being a paragon of rationality, of thinking before he took action, looking before he leapt.

Had copping a feel of her backside there in the courtyard, the first moment they were alone, had it been worth the fallout that followed?

Perhaps it had...I mean, by the gods...imagine her crawling into bed beside you every night...those lips at your neck...those thighs wrapping around your waist...

As impure as that carnal thought was, as shameful as it made him feel, he couldn’t deny that it dominated his thoughts. No...not it...she. She dominated his thoughts. It wasn’t simply the naturally sensual sway to her hips as she walked, the shape and size of her prodigious backside, the bountiful swell of her breasts, the pillowy softness of her lips, the dark pools of her eyes, so deep one could easily get lost in them. It was none of those things and yet all of them simultaneously. It was frustrating, is what it was. Frustrating that he, Marcus Valerius Aetius, the Senator, the Soldier, the Legate...somehow even a man such as he, a man of accomplishment, was still able to be flummoxed by the sight of a beautiful woman as if he were but a young pup, mother’s milk still fresh on his breath, reduced to a form not unlike a lowly beast in rut. Unacceptable behavior for a masculine man of any age, even more so for a man old enough to be eligible for higher office. He was supposed to have this figured out by now, to have a wife and a few mistresses on the side...to be the sort of man that Gaia had accused him of being.

And if his thawing needed any outside assistance, maintaining his icy exterior once he found himself again amongst his newly extended family had proven next to impossible. Any burgeoning grudge that had begun to take root in his mind towards Virgil was banished as soon as they spoke again. He was a man most would find hard to dislike, particularly when he hadn’t truly caused them harm. He couldn’t bring himself to feel ire towards her brothers, either; cut from the same cloth as Virgil, both men seemed to be of integrity and honor, with the same gregarious nature as their father. Lucius and Magnus both had imparted kind words, with Lucius slipping him a missive to be read later. Lucius was the sort that any man would be proud to call son on the strength of his accomplishments alone, nevermind his stature, but he maintained the humble nature of an honorable man nonetheless. Magnus, the younger brother living in the shadow of a greater sibling, both literally and figuratively, had not seemed to let that shadow darken his demeanor, unlike many lesser, more jealousy prone men.

I have no quarrel with the Africanus family, truly. And I have no quarrel with her either. You’ve started down this path old boy, and now you’re going to travel down it long enough to at least see where it leads, even if that means you have to swallow your pride along the way.

That would prove a bitter pill to swallow, his pride. But he owed it to himself, to Virgil, and most of all, to his new wife.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Marcus exited the interior of the carpentum without so much as a glance at her after he’d set her down along the bench, shutting the door firmly behind him as he left. Muffled voices outside, a terse conversation between Marcus and a softer, yet no less forceful, distinctly feminine voice. The door swung open again, suddenly, a slight figure stepping up into the coach assisted by Marcus’ hand at her back. An older woman shrouded by long, flowing white hair that framed a slender face, one whose angular lines bore more than a passing resemblance to the distinctive features of Gaia’s husband. Her petite form was clad in a fine dress that was dyed the same deep shade of blue as Marcus’ tunic. This was clearly Marcus’ mother, Marina.

Marina, reaching back to shut the door behind her, turned back to take in the sight of her daughter-in-law. Upon seeing the tears that had formed on her cheeks, she hurried over to Gaia to squat down before her, reaching out to encircle her in her arms and pull her forward into a motherly embrace with a wiry strength that belied her size.

“Come now, my child...sssshhhh.”

Marina pressed Gaia’s face into her chest, seemingly without regard as to how the younger woman felt about being held so, one hand rubbing her between her shoulder blades, the other cupping the braids at the back of her head. Marina shushed her soothingly as she rocked her gently a few times, her face tilting down to place a kiss lightly atop Gaia’s head.

“Let it out, my darling, no one here will begrudge you for it...”

There was warmth in Marina’s hug, an earnestness to her tenor, comfort in her tone. She held Gaia there a few moments in silence, gently rocking, evoking the rhythmic sway of tall grass under the influence of a gentle breeze.

“I always dreamt of having a daughter, you know...and while the Gods apparently felt differently about granting me one naturally, they’ve now seen fit to provide.” Marina pulled back, her hands shifting to rub up and down the flesh of her upper arms. ”To gift me with a daughter so full of beauty…” swooping in to place a soft kiss against Gaia’s forehead, “...strength.” her left cheek, “...and health.” and finally to her right. “I’m tempted to bring you home with me...what do you think? We’ll let the boys go off and play with their toys of war…” she said, her voice deepening in a mocking caricature of a masculine tone. “...while me and you, we’ll share a cask of wine together and gossip about whatever nonsense takes our fancy…” Marina smiled slyly, conspiratorially, settling back onto her haunches, dainty thumbs reaching out to wipe the tears from the corners of Gaia’s eyes. “Something tells me your new husband would be opposed to that plan...and perhaps you might as well, for similar reasons.” Marina leaned forward, her smile blossoming with warmth, eyes full of mirth, cupping Gaia’s hands together with her own, lifting them up to place a soft kiss against the backs of Gaia’s knuckles. “Whatever happens between you two, know that you are now as family to me, as much my daughter as he is my son. I want you to feel you can be truthful with me, and that you can come to me with any problem as you would your own mother.”

Marina sat up, leaning forward once more to pull Gaia into a warm embrace. “I want you to promise to come and visit me when you get back to the city, dear child. If my boy is still insisting on being such a hard-headed mule by then, I’ll box his ears until he’s serenading you with ballads by the light of the moon.”



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Marcus stood outside the carpentum, at a few paces to give his mother and wife their privacy. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was being said, anyhow, it likely didn’t paint him in a good light, perhaps rightly so. His arms were crossed tightly in front of his chest, his vision locked on the group still milling about in front of the Africanus villa, occasionally raising a hand to wave farewell in turn as someone from the crowd bid him so.

He still felt the sensation of having carried her weight on his shoulder, not from exertion, as if she had taxed him like a burden, but from the warmth of her presence, like a footprint left in the sand. He’d taken notice of her trying to be helpful throughout the process, though he couldn’t be sure if it had been for the sake of her own pride or his. They hadn’t spoken, or at least he hadn’t, as he carried her off, wailing in the traditional mournful cries of an abducted bride, but it had felt good to be near her again, to feel her midsection resting against the musculature of his shoulder as he carried her off. He’d looped an arm around the back of her thighs, below the prominent swell of the cheeks of her rump, but it had been solely to secure her there, to ensure that she didn’t slide off his shoulder. He’d made no untoward advances as he carted her off, his hand had resisted lingering to feel the firmness of her shapely thighs. One thing that couldn’t be helped, though, was his eyes upon her backside as he’d carried her. In all fairness to him, the entire left side of his peripheral vision had been taken up by it, it was literally impossible for him not to have taken notice.

By the gods...he’d thought...what ever did I do to deserve this woman? The next time she draws my ire, I’ll just harken back to this view. A woman with an ass like this...suffice it to say there are far better ways for us to spend our time together than in argument...

Marcus’ ears registered the crunch of dirt beneath a sandal clad foot, pulling his consciousness away from the recollection. Tiberius, approaching around the side from behind the carpentum.

He casually strolled up beside Marcus, an object gripped in his hand, the smell of wine rolling off him. “A lovely sunrise...you can see some purple there, at the horizon...a good omen.”

Marcus turned to consider the skyline. “Indeed...did you enjoy yourself, brother?”

“Have you ever known me not to?”

Marcus smirked, eyes still scanning the horizon.

“I’ve a gift for you, Marcus...from one brother of the sword to another, of the only sort worthy of such an occasion; the gift of steel.”

Marcus turned to face his friend, seeing that Tiberius held his gift out before him with outstretched arms; a spatha, simple in decor but fine of form, jet black around the scabbard, pommel and hilt, the handle of a fine light material in contrast, with elaborate gold scrolling around the cap of the scabbard and pommel of the weapon.

“The blade is of wootz steel, I picked it up the last time I was sent out East. One of the blacksmiths there claimed he could forge a Roman blade better than a Roman smith...well, the man was not wrong, after all, it is fine work.” He gestured for Marcus to take it. “Fit for a fine man…”

Marcus reached out, grasping the handle, drawing forth the blade from the scabbard held fast by Tiberius, the steel gleaming in the light of the rising sun. Marcus flourished the weapon a few times, testing it’s balance. “It’s…”

“Perfect, I know. The man was an arsehole and a braggart, but he wasn’t lying about his skill nor the quality of his steel. As loathe as I am to part with such a treasure, it is at home in your hand, you always were more handy with a blade than I.”

Marcus smirked, the blade cutting wide arcs through the air beside him. “And you always were a fine judge of skill.”

Tiberius smiled smugly as he shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Some men are born with a gifted sword arm, others are born with a gifted cock. I suppose I’ll just have to settle for being hung like a mule.” Tiberius held the empty scabbard out to Marcus, gesturing for him to take it.
“I’m satisfied with which side of the coin I fell on.”

Marcus took the scabbard, holding the blade facing down at an angle and aligning it with the slit along the top before sliding it home. “A runt dwarf mule, perhaps...you really should stop taking the honeyed words of whores to heart, you know, they only compliment you so as to secure your repeat business.” Marcus turned the sword over in his hands a few times, giving it a thorough look over, before lifting his gaze to consider his friend with an easy grin.

“For most of them it is said in complaint, it’s only taken as a compliment once it hits my ears.” Tiberius laughed under his breath, extending his empty sword hand between them, his demeanor growing more serious. “Best of luck to you, brother. Safe travels, good luck with the new bride. Oh, and...do try to pull the stick from your arse and enjoy yourself for once, eh?”

Marcus extended his hand in turn, the men gripping each other's wrists firmly. “And you try to stay out of trouble...why don’t you come and stay with us for a week? Get out of the city, enjoy the fresh air.”

Tiberius barked out a hearty laugh. “Hah! Already anticipate needing reinforcements, do you? As much as your invitation warms my heart, I think you’ll be a bit too busy to keep proper company…” His eyes flicked over to the carpentum that held Marcus’ bride.”...besides, I have some business in the city to attend to. Perhaps I’ll grace you with the honor of my presence after I wrap that up. I’ll send word ahead if I plan on making the trip out.”

Marcus nodded. “You do that...anyways, thanks for the blade, brother, and for always having my back. I won’t forget it.”

Tiberius clapped him on the shoulder, tightening his grip against Marcus’ wrist. “Until the end, Marcus…”



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Marcus had said his goodbyes to those in his camp, he’d seen his mother off in her litter, heading back towards the city, and helped his friend Tiberius mount up, the man now riding alongside Marina’s litter as if an escort.

Mikkos, Marcus’ Majordomo, approached him then, as if he had been waiting for an opportune moment to catch him alone. “Preparations for the journey are complete, Dominus. All gifts are secured, your gifts for the Africanus family have been offloaded and I’ve made arrangements to secure the dowry and make payment for the transfer of Domina’s handmaiden, Arethusa, into our service.”

Marcus nodded, his eyes still watching his mothers small caravan as it grew smaller in size against the horizon. “Very good...you work quickly, old friend. Tell Servius Vipstanus and his men that we will be departing momentarily and pass my instructions along to them, to the word; Their first and highest concern is to be the safety and wellbeing of my wife. Inform them that they’ll be paid a two hundred and fifty denarii bounty for each head they claim from any bandits who see fit to try and waylay us along the road. That is all.”

Mikkos nodded, moving off to carry out his instructions.

Marcus sighed, looking down at the gifted sword he still held in his hand, spinning it around as if considering it, his thoughts elsewhere, though.

Come now, old boy. Choke it down, your pride. There is a beautiful woman waiting for you inside, one that’s scared and vulnerable. Be of comfort to her and perhaps amends can be made, it’s not too late to heal this wound, it hasn’t yet begun to fester.

Marcus opened the door to the carpentum, stepping up into the cabin, blinking rapidly for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the low light of the interior. Looking down at the sword in his hands, as if suddenly realizing how carrying a tool of death at this moment might be seen through her eyes, he turned, tucking the scabbarded blade behind the bench opposite the one she occupied, out of sight. He turned back towards her, and standing there, just inside the entrance, he seemed to be considering the seating arrangement for a moment. Marcus shut the door behind him, latching it from the inside, and moved to sit beside Gaia.

An awkward moment of silence hung heavily in the air, dispelled as Marcus cleared his throat hoarsely before speaking. “Gaia...wife…” he stumbled a bit, as if he wasn’t sure how to address her at this moment, but his tone was conciliatory, remorseful and genuine. “...listen. I realize now that I came on a bit too strong back there, in the courtyard. While I do not feel the need to apologize for my desire to be close with you...you are my wife, after all...I do think it right to offer you an apology for how I reacted. I was overly defensive of my actions, pressed you a bit too hard in that moment...and for that I am truly sorry. I should have been more understanding, and I will be, going forward.” Marcus held out his hand between them, palm skyward, offering it to her as if he intended for her to fill it with her own hand. “I hope you can find it in your heart to put that behind us, to move forward with a blank slate so that we might still salvage what remains of the day.”

His upper body turned towards her, hand still held aloft, considering her as he awaited her reaction to his words.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The sound of voices outside of the carpentum, one burgeoning in familiarity, the other new, caused her to wipe her tears faster. A quick sniffle; thankfully her nose wasn’t running as badly as she thought. She wiped her nose all the same on the edge of her robe, just to make sure.

When the doors opened again, she was a little more composed, though her eyes were red, and the kohl rimming them had begun to run down her cheeks. There were slight smudges of kohl under her eyes, on her cheeks, mixed with the red ochre, not to say anything about the state of the sleeves of her robe. The figure of Marcus was partially obscured by the small woman in front of him. The dark blue of her dress was enough for Gaia to make the connection that surely that were related - not to mention the tender way that he helped her in.

What Marina would see, as she entered the carpentum, would be a young woman that was nearly curled in on herself, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Rather than gazing out of the small latticed window, she was facing the door, waiting, expectant. There was none of the ferocity that Marcus had encountered before, but there was also none of the joy that she’d displayed when dancing. But the fumbling attempt at a stoic face she’d tried to hold quickly fell as soon as Marina wrapped her arms around her. Her face crumpled, and she began to sob in earnest. Between her fears, her sorrows of leaving her family, there were muffled apologies, for slights both real and imagined.

Dimly, she knew that she was saying entirely too much, already sullying herself in the eyes of her new family. But like a spring, once the ground was broken, there was no stopping it all. Marina smelled of crisp myrtle and olive leaf, so different from the heavily and expensive perfumed specter of her mother. It was new, different, but not off-putting, more like wandering from one arm of the garden into a new one, green and welcoming all the same for its newness.

Breaking away from Marina, she managed a shaky laugh, before gasping softly. “Oh, your robes…” and clumsily, she tried to wipe the smears of red ochre and black kohl from the blue.

“Don’t worry, child! I’ve certainly have had worse stains,” Marina had soothed, giving Gaia another stroke to the crown of her head, delicately avoiding the roses, only slightly touched by wilt despite the dancing, the heat, the press of various bodies. “Cheer up; you’re not the first bride to weep so, and there is no shame in it. I had many the same fears.” A tender squeeze of Gaia’s hands in her own, and she leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “And there is nothing to apologize for. What you’ve described to me is a new bride. It will get easier in time; I promise you.”

What could Gaia say in the face of such pure kindness? Little more than more tears, and a shaky nod of her head - but that wasn’t enough.

“Wait…!” She was up, nearly tripping over the edge of her robes, and she wrapped her arms around Marina, grasping her as tightly as she had Lucius. In her arms, Marina felt like a little bird, soft crepe skin and fine bones. “Thank you,” she pressed the word into the side of Marina’s head, into the comfort of her head, the sheer fabric of her palla. Marina, returning the hug the best she could, laughed warmly, giving Gaia one last kiss to the cheek before she was lead out of the carpentum.

Settling back into the cushions lining the interior, Gaia wrapped her arms around herself, taking in a deep breath. Her tears had stopped, and rather than feeling like a drained well, she felt the smallest spark of hope in the pit of her stomach, growing despite the chunk of icy dread that had taken over.

The Goddess has not abandoned me. Thank you Diana - and thank you, Juno, for creating such a kind, wonderful mother.

Already her world had changed, opened up that much more.

How could such a warm woman bear such a cold son?

But how did mother bear Lucius? shot a second thought.

A small smile then. Perhaps there was something more in children than just merely raising them that would turn them into who they were. And maybe she wasn’t - no, there was no “maybe.” She hadn’t been fair to Marcus at all; only allowing terrible things to fill her mind, her logic dragged down by fear. But was that that she’d felt when he kissed her? A fire, yes - and something he seemed familiar with. If he knew how to stoke it, perhaps he would know how to tame it…What if there was much more pleasure for her to discover, if she could overcome her fear and trust in him and in the Goddess? She would have to try harder.

Glancing outwards, she could still make out the waning pale circle of the moon, dyed in the colors of the dawn before it would take on the milky blue of the high horizon. “You have not lead me astray so far…please, give me your strength, speak to your golden brother on my behalf - to set my tongue in the path of truth. To make the best of this, and to start to mend the mess that my mouth has already made.”

Scarcely had she finished her small prayer that Marcus was entering, the sword glittering in his hands. She blinked, registering the weapon - she tensed, but it was momentary. A reaction to the sword, and not him. She’d seen them before, but they always filled her with a sense of dread. Though her brothers told stories of war, of glory, they had always filled her with horror. Seeing the weapon in his hand was a reminder of all of those ugly things, and what was worse -

He could be taken from me. He could die in some distant land, and I would never see him again.

It was a fresh horror, that one. One that she hadn’t considered, even in her wildest fantasies of suddenly retaining her freedom and running off into the wilds. She swallowed the lump in her throat that the whispered horror had lodged there, and, stiffly, moved over so he could sit beside her. The stiffness was not from not wanting to be close to him, no - it was from sheer awkwardness, the remembrance of her words from their time out in the courtyard. Before she could speak, he was - and there was sheer surprise on her face.

How could he be apologizing first?

It wasn’t uncommon for her to see men apologize to women; she’d seen her father apologize often enough to her mother for some slight, real or imagined. Magnus had apologized to his wife on a few occasions. Cassia’s husband’s entire life seemed to be a long apology for his own existence. But now? He had done nothing wrong - well, he had been quite liberal with his hands, yes, but…wasn’t that her role, now? Wasn’t that what husbands did? And, moreover, didn’t she actually like it?

She was moving to place her hand in his, licking her lips, prepared to speak, to pour all the words out, all of the apologies, the confession of how strange he made her feel, how unskilled she was in all manners of Venus, how much she mistrusted that goddess - but the brief silence between them was marred by the shouts of men, and the furious snort of a horse. Normal sounds - until they dissolved into swears, angry words between men, accusations of stupidity and the occasional rough guffaw.

“Hold…” She held up her other hand, indicating that he should be quiet. Her brows knit, her lips tightened as she listened. A defiant roar from a horse, the sound deep and terrifying in its rage. The swears turned into shouts, the scrambling of men’s feet, cries of surprise. “Come with me,” she grasped Marcus’s hand, and all but tugged him out.

Outside, as the sky’s purple was giving way to bands of pink and orange, they could clearly see what was causing the ruckus. Three men were surrounding a very angry jet black stallion, one man desperately trying to grab the creature’s leads. In the early morning light, it seemed less a living creature and one out of a nightmare. Its ears were pinned back against its head, eyes shining white in anger.

“Stop!” Her voice cut through the early morning air. One of the men, turning to look at her, shook his head.

“We’ve got to get this beast reined up with the others; but he’s fought nearly everyone trying to get him going.” The man was clearly exasperated. “He was docile enough when he was brought out, but the moment we tried to get him moving, he turned into that.” He gestured back at the horse. All four feet of his were on the ground, but his head was lowered, and ears still back, his tail twitching back and forth swiftly. For all of the anger packed into the animal’s body, it did nothing to take away from his sheer beauty. His coat was without a single mar, and the muscles of his chest were powerful, leading to heavy legs and broad hooves. His stocky form suggested that he was not of the nimble-footed light-weight horse. He was powerful and broad, his mane and tail the same jet of his body.

“Leave him be; please - I can take care of him.” Gaia hadn’t let go of Marcus’s hand, even as she started to walk towards the infuriated horse.

The man scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Horses are not a woman’s business.”

“This one is,” she retorted, with a sharpness that would have done her sister Cassia proud. “Was he not the gift from my brother?”

He looked to want to say more, to shoot her down, and glanced to Marcus for some sort of back up. When it was clear that there would be none forthcoming, he frowned deeply, and held up his hands.

“It’s your folly,” he said, snapping his fingers to signal his men. As the other two men backed off from the horse, he seemed to visibly relax, though his ears remained close to his head.

“Come with me.” Gaia turned to look at Marcus now, her face determined, not a speck of fear on it. “He’s yours; best to come to learn his manners.” The smallest slip of a smile then, unsure, but conciliatory. There would be words, that, she would have to swallow her own pride to see to, but after her prayer, she’d felt the warmth that came with feeling that a prayer had been heard. “Approach slow, as he may not remember you in such a heated moment.”

She slipped her hand from Marcus’s now, moving with the slow gait of a woman who was entirely unafraid. The horse, drawn to the movement, lifted his head. Scented the air. And as Gaia held up her hand, soothingly, the ears peeled from the head to perk forward loosely, the horse straightening, the furious swish of his tail easing. “Come now, Tenebris - up to mischief so early?” Her tone was light, almost bantering. Hearing a familiar voice, the horse perked up, and, as docile as a kitten, he let out a soft nicker, trotting forward to her outstretched hand.

“There’s my troublesome boy, there now…” She held out her hands, and he instantly placed his massive head within them, draping his head over her shoulder. She smiled, closing her eyes as she rested her cheek against the elegant nose, petting him softly under her face. “Come, meet your new master.”

She opened her eyes now, and, pulling a hand away from the horse’s muzzle, waved Marcus over. “Slowly now,” she spoke, more for Marcus than for the horse, “He’s calm now, but he doesn’t take well to a harsh hand.” Tenebris lifted his head slightly from Gaia’s shoulder to peer at Marcus. There was no hostility in the horse now; an idle curiosity, a carefulness as he watched Marcus’s approach. The horse seemed to be calculating if the man was friend or foe, but perhaps leaning more towards “friend”, were those perked ears any indication.

 

[Talon]

Marcus gave no resistance as Gaia led him from the carpentum, content in the moment to observe her as she moved with determination towards the commotion that had drawn her attention. Perhaps a bit of the seasoned military leader archetype took over in that moment, the aspect of the mentor, that when one of your junior officers spiritedly took charge in a moment of crisis, you stood back in response, allowing them room to demonstrate how they handle themselves under pressure. There wasn’t an exact correlation between that scenario and the present one, but regardless, Marcus found himself curious as to how she would conduct herself.

She certainly wasn’t afraid. She’d barked the command to stop in a manner that would make a grizzled old Centurion proud, causing Marcus to raise his eyebrows in surprise, all the while never looking back to him for a source of strength or support. Perhaps she felt some additional comfort having him there, but from how readily she moved to intercept the men, it seemed to him that she would have done the same if she were alone. He was being led as if by bridle, himself, as if she were somehow demonstrating to the men she was attempting to tell off just how up to the task she truly was. Marcus laughed under his breath to himself, the corner of his mouth curling in his trademark half smile, as he noted the irony.

“Horses are not a woman’s business.”

The smile melted from Marcus’ face as he turned his head to consider the man who had spoken the challenge. Right or wrong, it certainly wasn’t this man’s place to tell his wife what her business should be. But, still fixed in observer mode, Marcus’ eyes flickered over to the back of Gaia’s head, waiting to see how she would react in turn.

Gaia didn’t hesitate to respond, with confidence. “This one is, was he not the gift from my brother?”

The man looked to Marcus, as if in that moment he expected some sense of solidarity, a reinforcement of his position, a man who had fallen overboard, looking for a hand to pull him up and out of the water. If he were truly in that predicament he would have drowned as Marcus offered no outward signs of support, his visage as if carved from stone, lips pressed into a tight line, brow slightly knit.

“It’s your folly.” The man said, before gathering his fellows and moving off.

Marcus watched him a moment, thinking that if he were to offer any critique of how Gaia handled the situation, he’d say that she let him off too lightly. For as level headed as Marcus often was, he never could tolerate the kind of person who acted as if they had authority where they truly didn’t.

“Come with me.”

Gaia’s words cut through Marcus’ ire like a blade, bringing his attention back to the moment. He watched in silence as she approached the animal. While Marcus was familiar with standard protocol when handling horses and was a fairly skilled rider due in large part to his service in the military, he had always viewed them as a method of transportation first and foremost. While on campaign he’d have an attendant to see to the day-to-day aspects of maintaining the animal and looking after it’s health and wellbeing. Thinking on it, there in the moment, he couldn’t even recall ever having personally named any of his mounts. They were a tool, and so long as that tool was fit to purpose, he’d paid it little mind beyond that.

Clearly, his wife was of a different sort. He’d seen individuals who worked with animals who had displayed a level of connection with them that seemed supernatural, as if they could converse with them as if they spoke the same language. He saw much of the same in her, there, in that moment, in the calm confidence of her movements, in the soothing tone of her voice. Impressive, made even more so in his estimation as he doubted she’d had much of any sort of formal training in the field, it wasn’t likely that her father thought it proper for a young woman of her station to be interested in such things. It wasn’t necessarily a hereditary thing, either, insofar as he knew, her family wasn’t known in particular for it’s skill at raising or training animals of any sort, let alone horses.

So this was something specific to her, an aspect of her person, previously hidden to him. He’d take note of that, something to remember as his mind took stock of her makeup. He smiled to himself, following her instruction as if he were a novice, taking enjoyment in the shared moment between them, unconcerned with the need to show her that he had some knowledge in this regard.

“Slowly now. He’s calm now, but he doesn’t take well to a harsh hand.”

Marcus approached the animal from an angle, making sure to stay within its range of vision, walking forward slowly until he was standing beside her. “Like this, then?”

Marcus reached out to stroke the horse’s neck with a slow, calming rhythm. “Tenebris?” Marcus’ lips pursed as he nodded. “...a fitting name. Although I must say, it looks to me like he has already met his master...or should I say mistress?” Marcus smirked. “Although, I think it a shame to squabble over ownership rights of such a fine animal...shall we agree to share, then? And for my part, I’ll try not to be overtaken by jealousy when he responds to your call more readily.”

Marcus smiled easily, and with his hand still stroking the horses neck, he reached out with his free hand to stroke her upper arm as if silently congratulating her on a conflict well resolved. He didn’t feel the need to give voice to such congratulations, it would likely come off as condescending if he had, but he wanted to show her in some way that he was proud. With a mother such as his, Marcus knew well enough that strength was not solely in the physical realm, and it made him proud to know that his wife was the sort who could stand up for herself should the need arise. That’s not to say he wouldn’t at times be overprotective, he was still her husband, after all, but it warmed his heart to see that she was the capable sort.

“Your brother has a fine eye for horseflesh, it seems. You’ll have to help me choose a suitable gift to show our gratitude when he visits us to deliver your servant.” Marcus nodded as he stepped away, then, slowly, tucking his thumbs into his belt as he looked the animal up and down a few times as if evaluating it.

“I’ll defer to your judgement, wife...but it seems to me, young stallion like this, he likely needs to stretch his legs a bit before being calm enough to take to being reigned in with the rest. You know how us men can be, we need to burn off a bit of energy from time to time, lest we become uncivilized. Would you take offense if I left you alone in the carpentum for a while? I figure a few miles of open road should do the trick. What do you think, should we saddle him up?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The skin of Tenebris’s neck rippled, mild surprise at the new hand on him. He turned his large head to look at Marcus, considering. He seemed reluctant to move entirely away from the comfort of Gaia, but, upon consideration of the man that approached him now, came to a conclusion. The horse silently moved forward, an impressive feat considering his size, closer to Marcus than to Gaia. He seemed soothed by her presence, and recognized that Marcus posed no threat. Certainly, there were no harsh words or sudden movements: things that had set him off before. Deciding that Marcus was a fair sort of man, Tenebris gently breathed on his face.

“I think he’s taken to you,” Gaia’s smile was clear in her voice. She had kept a careful eye on the situation, but, seeing as Tenebris had relaxed further than she’d initially expected, had actually put a bit of distance between herself, Marcus, and the stallion. Better for the two to meet and greet each other on a somewhat more even playing field. “Keep a fair hand with him and treat him as you would any of your men, and he will be a faithful mount for as long as he lives.” She would make no direct comment about Tenebris being her horse - though her stomach gave a bit of a flip. Would it be too much to dream that she would actually be able to ride a horse again? And not just any horse, but this one? She couldn’t look too optimistic; couldn’t reveal that much of her strange self to him. They hadn’t even left her father’s lands. She would duck her head a little, hoping that her lowered face would hide the warmth of her cheeks. “Give him time,” it was said softly, as she approached Tenebris and stroked his nose. “He’ll warm to you.”

At her caress, Tenebris wickered again, content. It was enough of a distraction for her to feel like Marcus’s hand on her arm was something imagined. He seemed to touch her with the same ease that she touched Tenebris - reassuring, a start of something new. When Marcus moved away, letting his hand drift away, though she wasn’t smiling, her expression was at ease. It didn’t set her body aflame, but it had been…nice.

“Lucius thought that a war charger would be the best gift for someone of your background,” she supplied, with an ease that said all was forgiven; that she was willing to start this over. That she had been wrong. Still, it wasn’t good enough for her. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. She took her attention from Tenebris’s snout to face Marcus. This apology, for all of the lack of polish of her apology from the wedding night, had more sincerity, the clumsiness of a woman struggling to find her place in a new world. “I acted unseemly last night - but you make me confused.” It was less of an excuse, more of an explanation. “I…” She licked her lips, took in a deep breath, waited for her mind to calm enough for her to find the right words.

You make me confused because you make me feel things that I’ve never felt before.

I want more of your touch.

It’s unseemly.

I want to know what your hands feel like on my skin.

I want to know what kissing you is truly like.

The words were there - the courage was not. Tenebris nudged her, and she smiled, a small, wilting thing, crumbling under the weight of her perceived failure. It had been so easy to speak to his mother, Marina - but when it came to talking to him, she was at a loss. The chill from him was both an attraction and a repellant - kept her at a distance, but still kept her pulled into him. Was this where they were to remain, simply circling each other for the rest of their lives? Would she be happy with that?

“I..I think that would be a good idea. More time to get to know each other. He rides beautifully.” The last was said before she fully realized it, and she quickly clamped her lips shut. “So my brother has said.” It was a smooth recovery - but not smooth enough to show that she had innate knowledge of Tenebris.

But now was the next problem - should she help saddle the horse? No; that would show far too much familiarity with the inner workings of things that a proper woman should have no business knowing. She twisted the ends of the Hercules knot at her waist, wracking her brain for a good excuse. He was still chill, yes, but it was bearable, he was speaking to her easier now, and she didn’t want to lose that.

Surely there must be something - think, Gaia!

“I’ll lead him,” the words were out again before she could register them. The men had managed to throw a loose lead around his neck, and thankfully, it hadn’t been dislodged by his rearing. “But I think that you should saddle him; he is your horse.” The last bit was said with a small smile, a shy thing that seemed to barely survive as she picked up the lead. Tenebris, quite content with the current circumstances, didn’t so much as snort, but paced behind Gaia. His gait was elegant and light, his well-brushed mane and tail trailing behind him.

“I like his mane and tail as is,” she started, looking over at Marcus, “But for war, he may need to be shorn closer. I’m not really sure.” Clumsy, fumbling - but it was an attempt at trying to keep the conversation going. If she couldn’t speak directly of herself and her relationship with him, perhaps conversations on the generalities of their soon to be life together, would be enough. A starting point, at least. She managed to keep her gaze on Marcus, Tenebris slightly obscuring her vision, showing Marcus parts of her profile - the tip of her nose, a flash of teeth as she smiled, the sun reflecting off of the bangles that still coated her wrists. “What do you think?”

 

[Talon]

Gaia’s ruse was working, at least as far as she could judge from Marcus’ outward expressions. Marcus accepted her words without feeling the need to examine them further, settling for the impression that she felt some natural connection or kinship with animals, not that she had any particular skill or interest in riding or taming them. The way Tenebris took to her hand cemented this in his mind, and he gave it little further thought. He was enjoying the...casualness...of the current interaction, perhaps a window into how their day-to-day life together might look like going forward. Marcus knew as well as anyone that it wasn’t all about lust, and that without a solid foundation, even the most passionate connection between two people would fade over time. Marcus followed along with her, keeping pace on the opposite side of Tenebris’. The distance to the wagon that held the supplies where a bridle and saddle would be kept wasn’t far, but their pace was measured as if to draw out the length of the journey and extend their time together.

Marcus looked over to Tenebris, gauging for himself the length of his hair at the present moment. “Hmmm...I think you are right, it suits him for the time being. As for war...well, I would imagine that it would depend on what role his rider will serve in the coming battle.” She had good instincts for the subject for her to have thought to question the length of a mount’s hair in battle, he thought to himself. “If he was to be among the cavalry auxiliaries, surely one would wish to allow as little for the enemy to seize a handful of whilst leaving the animal adequate length for it to serve its intended purpose. An officer's horse, though? He cuts a certain figure groomed like this, and certainly stands out amongst his peers, so to speak…” Perhaps Marcus’ answer was a bit too in depth for an off-hand question, a bit too thoughtful, but it allowed a window into his psyche, a glimpse at Marcus’ makeup. He was the analytical sort, it’s just how his mind worked.

Marcus glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his hands clasped together in the small of his back. She had slipped in an apology back there...perhaps it had been a bit clumsy, no more than my own had been, though, to be fair. A smile cracked the corner of his lips as he imagined an analogy in his head, as if they were two people stumbling in the dark, apologizing as they bumped into each other or one accidentally kicked the other’s shin or stepped on their toes. Perhaps it would have gone more smoothly if he had taken the reins more firmly. If he had been more insistent that she obey his will as her husband. He shouldn’t need to seduce his own wife, right? It was her duty to take to his marriage bed, to see to his household, to address her husband with deference...right? And just then, as his mind worked through his thoughts, Marcus had an epiphany; Gaia had reacted to him like Tenebris had reacted to his handlers.

While he was quite sure his wife wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, it fit in the moment. Not in appearance, of course, but in spirit. He had seen how the animal had reacted when his would-be handlers had tried to use a forceful hand to bend him to their will...he had grown fearful, violent… much like Gaia had, back there in the courtyard. When Gaia had approached him with cool confidence, an empathetic demeanor and a calm hand...well, the animal had taken to her lead as easily as if she were its mother. Marcus wasn’t sure he was capable of reaching out to her in that way, the complexity of human emotion far outweighed that of a beast, after all, but the revelation was not without its own merit. It had helped to put things in perspective for him and further soothe his wounded pride.

Marcus signaled to a servant that was loading the supply wagon as the three of them drew near. “Fetch Mikkos, tell him there's been a slight change of plans, that I’ll be riding for the first leg of the journey.”

“Dominus.” The servant, a young man, stopped what he was doing and moved off to see to his task.

Marcus moved around Tenebris’ head, reaching out a hand to the horse as if to signal him of where he was as he moved across his blind spot in front, drawing up beside Gaia. Besides Tenebris, the pair were once more alone for a moment.

“You must be tired...I’ll have Mikkos put down some bedding in the carpentum, perhaps you can take rest while I am riding Tenebris.” Marcus reached up to gently cup the side of her face with his palm, the inside of his thumb stroking her cheek softly. “There is a young female amongst the servants we’ve brought along, we could have her bathe you with wet cloth before you lie down, I imagine you must be feeling the need to be cleansed after such a long night. The choice is up to you, though, wife, of course you can wait until we reach the villa, if you’d prefer.”

Marcus' tone changed, growing more somber as he caressed her cheek. “And listen...I know that you are confused, that these newfound feelings are strange and unfamiliar...unsettling, even…but we will explore them together, for we are as one now, Gaia, from this moment forth. I will not simply use you and toss you aside once I’ve had my fill. While I know you find this hard to believe, all I ask of you is that you give me the chance to show you, to prove to you that I am not the sort of man you envision. You don’t need to say anything in return, now...think on it as we travel, we will speak more of it once the journey has ended.” Marcus leaned forward, placing a soft kiss against her forehead.

“You called for me, Dominus?” Mikkos’ voice called from behind them, the man approaching unseen as the newlywed pair were drawn in by the moment.

Marcus favored her with a parting smile as he pulled away, moving to speak with his majordomo. “Yes...fetch brush and saddle, I’ve decided to give Tenebris here a chance to stretch his legs. Move carefully about him, he is still a bit weary of strange hands…”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marcus rolled his shoulders, his head moving from side to side as if he were attempting to limber himself up for the long journey ahead. It felt good to be back in the saddle again, felt like old times, less complicated times. Tenebris was still a bit restless but certainly much calmer than when they had come upon him before, soothed by the brush in Marcus’ hand and the calming words of Gaia in his ear as they worked in concert to saddle him up. Marcus could feel the eagerness in the young stallion's gait for himself, now, from atop his back, as if he were an arrow that had been nocked and pulled back, awaiting release. Marcus bent forward, a reassuring hand stroking the horse's neck. “Easy now, boy...you’ll have your moment to shine soon enough, steady on for just a bit longer.”

Marcus had collected his gift from Tiberius before they set out, the spatha now sitting at his left hip, the feeling of being armed atop the back of a horse evoking nostalgia from his glory days of old. The armed escort rode one on each side, two in the rear and two at front, setting an easy pace that the wagons could maintain for the course of their journey. Marcus was currently riding beside the carpentum that carried Gaia, slightly forward of and a stone throw off to the left, glancing back from time to time as if to ensure Tenebris’ eagerness did not cause him to roam too far ahead or off track.

I hope that she is able to get some rest, she has a big night ahead of her…

Marcus smiled to himself, feeling that knot at the center of his being begin to tighten once more. In the past few hours his lustful feelings for her had somewhat cooled, or at least receded, first due to the conflict and then again during the reconciliation, or what was the beginning of one. A vision in his mind's eye of that sensual sway in her walk was all it took to bring those feelings rushing back, however, which spoke to the fact that his desire to sate his feelings of lust for her had only been suppressed, not quenched.

I wonder what her demeanor will be once we are between the sheets. Will that fierceness in her resurface? Or will she simply withdraw, close in on herself, reduce herself to serve as a vessel to allow for him to seek his pleasure while not attempting to find any for herself? No...that would not do. He’d need to find some way to draw her out of her shell or keep her from retreating back into it...to show her what pleasure could be found in matters of the flesh...in the meeting of their bodies...in the touch of a finger...the flick of a tongue...

For once he wished he had paid Tiberius’ sermons more mind, surely of all people he’d have some creative suggestions. Marcus smiled, thinking it likely his friend would suggest something outlandish, something that was more likely to get him slapped than it was to be met with approval.

Marcus shrugged, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he fought back a yawn. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of a day, and the night yet before him promised to bring both pleasure and the potential for further conflict. But it was a ways off, yet, with another eleven or so hours of travel before them, it was best to put it out of his mind for the time being. It would be a long road indeed if he spent the entire trip daydreaming of lustful endeavors. Remembering then the missive from Gaia’s brother, Lucius, he reached into his belt to retrieve it. Steering Tenebris with his knees, Marcus examined the crest that had been stamped into the wax seal for a moment before breaking it and unrolling the sheet of velium.