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Chapter Text

There was something that the master of the house, Gaius Bruttius Praesens, used to say, and it was that summer seemed made to last forever in that rustic villa in little Volceii.

It was not uncommon to see him standing on one of the balconies on the upper floor of the estate. He used to dress in that white linen toga with which he shone like a beacon amidst seas of wheat under the kiss of the morning sun's rays, while the stole hanging from his shoulders shared the clear blue of that summer day. Both his family and the slaves knew not to disturb their master when he placed his hands on the white stone railing and closed his eyes, carefully breathing in the scent of the countryside.

It was with his eyes closed that he best distinguished the rustling of the dance of the wheat spikes that stretched beyond the house walls, the crystalline whisper of the water collected in the impluvium, and the light footsteps of his children playing among the marble columns somewhere on the ground floor.

He could even hear the waves of the sea.

Gaius Bruttius Praesens still found it strange to recall the dilemma that had divided his soul a few years earlier. He was young and ambitious, as his father had been before him, and he was determined to devote everything he was to the glory of Rome.

Rome.

His friendship with Emperor Marcus Aurelius and his devoted loyalty to him had taken him not only to the Roman Senate but also beyond regions he could once have only dreamed of. He had spent his youth not only witnessing death and destruction for the glory of the Empire but, on many occasions, causing it.

Despite the rumors his departure had sparked, the former senator considered his return to his native Volceii as the best decision he had ever made. He married a woman who had given him the peace that the intrigues of the Senate and the dark, barbarian-populated frontiers of the empire lacked. Although far from Rome, his fortune seemed endless, which is why it seemed the gods had decided to deprive him of his wife just a few days after the birth of his youngest daughter.

However, with the help of the balm that the years provide, the sunlight had returned to his life in Volceii.

“Father…”

Gaius Bruttius Praesens opened his eyes, as if waking from a dream, before glancing over his shoulder.

“Well, well… Look at you, Quintius,” said the man, proudly gazing at his eldest son’s attire. “Your mother would cry if she saw you so grown-up and solemn.”

“The one who would gladly cry is me,” protested the teenager. It had been fifteen years since his arrival into the world, so that summer would be the last in which Lucius Bruttius Quintius would have to wear the toga meant for children. “It itches everywhere, and I am sure one of the slaves left a needle inside.”

“Nonsense. Now, look up so I can see you properly,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens requested, taking his son by the chin. Young Quintius was tall for his age, well-built, with thick ash-blond curls framing his fine, marble-like face. The brown-eyed boy already longed to travel beyond the borders of the Empire to fight for the glory of Rome, but his father wanted nothing more than to go back to the days when Quintius was small enough to sit on his lap in the shade of the olive trees. “By the gods, where has the time gone? You are already a grown man, and the emperor will be impressed to see how much you have grown.”

The intrigues and war strategies had not allowed Emperor Marcus Aurelius to visit Gaius Bruttius Praesens’s villa for many long years, no matter how many times he had extended the invitation—more times than he could remember. His son, Lucius Bruttius Quintius, was just an infant back then, and his daughter, Crispina, only existed in her parents’ wishes and in the gods' plans, somewhere among the stars.

That reminded him…

“And your sister? Is she ready yet?” the man wanted to know. “I have not seen her all morning, and that does not comfort me.”

“The slaves went to her room this morning, I saw them go in myself,” nodded Quintius, adjusting his toga over his shoulder with a look of annoyance. “She must be picking flowers for the emperor.”

“And getting her dress dirty, I can almost see it…”

“Father…”

Quintius' gaze had wandered somewhere over his father's shoulder, and he gestured with his chin, urging him to turn around. Beyond the golden wheat fields and the green Roman meadows, a faint cloud of dust rose up toward the bright blue sky.

The emperor’s entourage was approaching.

“By all the gods, Quintius,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens sighed. “Find your sister.”

The pink petals danced before the brown eyes of the girl, Bruttia Crispina.

Crouched in front of the rose bushes, the youngest of the family watched every slight tremor of the flowers while the slave in charge nervously shifted her gaze between the girl at her feet and the cobblestone path leading to the villa's entrance. The hurried murmurs of her fellow servants and the sound of their footsteps had been increasing as the imperial entourage drew closer.

“Crispina, my lady,” urged the woman, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. “The emperor is about to arrive; come on, this is no time to be stubborn.”

“I just do not understand,” Crispina protested, letting out a sigh of annoyance and tilting her head back to look at the woman, who made sure the girl’s blonde curls remained neatly gathered atop her head. “Does not the emperor have his own rose bushes in his palace in Rome? Why must we give him ours?”

“It is a symbol of your family’s loyalty to the emperor and to Rome. Loyalty is very important, Lady Crispina; no man who lacks it is worthy of being called a man,” the slave assured her in hurried whispers. “By welcoming him with these roses, Emperor Marcus Aurelius will understand that he can always count on your family’s support in times of need, even when the bravest waver…”

Sadness did not leave the girl’s eyes, and she shifted without changing her posture, pressing her lips together tightly. Her small hands reached up to touch the curls caught in her high updo before the slave stopped them, guiding them toward the metal scissors.

"Stop touching your hair, Lady Crispina..."

"But it is pulling too much!" the girl replied, frustrated. "Is all this because of the emperor's visit? I cannot go to play in the wheat fields because my dress will get dirty, this hairstyle bothers me a lot, and now I have to cut the roses that I have watered every morning..."

“Crispina!”

The slave looked up: Quintius, no doubt, must be looking for his little sister. The woman let out a sigh of impatience: everything about this visit had to be perfect. Besides, having the opportunity to welcome an emperor and serve him in person was an honor she had never dared to dream of.

“Your brother is looking for you, Crispina,” said the woman, turning to her young mistress. “You know he will not like to see you so upset.”

The girl remained unmoved, her brown eyes fixed on her beloved roses. The woman remembered well the care and the extraordinary sense of responsibility with which Crispina woke up every morning, from the day they planted the rose bushes, to carefully pour the contents of her little pitcher over the buds. Having contributed to the growth of such beautiful roses was her greatest pride at such a young age.

“Roses bloom again, Lady Crispina, with the arrival of each spring: it will be wonderful to see them reborn in a year. And remember, loyalty is the most precious gift any citizen of the Empire can possess.”

“...Is it?” the girl wanted to be sure, somewhat relieved at the thought of being able to see the roses growing again. She thought of her father and the excitement with which he spoke of meeting Marcus Aurelius: she didn’t want him to be sad because of her. “Will the emperor understand that we are loyal to him if we give him these roses?”

“Marcus Aurelius is a wise man, dear child,” replied the woman, giving a playful tap on Crispina’s freckled nose. “The fragrance of the roses in his palace in Rome will remind him every day of how happy he once was in your family’s villa.”

The girl gave a sad smile, turning again toward the roses. The woman crouched down beside her and placed the scissors in the girl's hands, guiding them—though with some reluctance—toward the thorny stems of the roses that swayed to the morning’s melody.

She stroked Crispina’s hands, as they were still trembling with distress, just before the scissors opened and closed around the stem of the first rose with a strong metallic sound.

There was little time left before the meal would be served when one of the slaves came running to the marble steps where Gaius Bruttius Praesens and his children were waiting.

“The emperor and his family have already arrived,” announced the man, whose dark hair and sun-tanned skin spoke of long hours outdoors. “The emperor has asked me to beg for a few minutes of courtesy so that the empress and his children may recover a little from the long journey before meeting with you.”

An incredulous laugh escaped Gaius Bruttius Praesens’s lips.

“No request is necessary when it comes to the emperor,” the former senator said in good spirits, turning to look at his family: his children could not hide how much it seemed to bother them to have to wait a few more minutes. “Brighten up those faces; this is a joyful day like no other!”

Crispina stood next to her older brother, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she held in her hands the bouquet of roses she had cut herself. She checked that she had also cut off all the thorns, but the expression of displeasure did not leave her face, something her older brother noticed.

“If I were you, I would have left a thorn or two...” the young man whispered as if sharing an unspeakable secret.

The girl pursed her lips, trying to stifle a clear laugh that quickly escaped her lips. Gaius Bruttius Praesens turned to his children, asking for silence.

“Quintius, Crispina! Behave yourselves, here comes the emperor!”

Crispina shared a knowing smile with Quintius, who winked at her—something the girl had yet to learn how to do, no matter how much her brother had insisted on teaching her—before clearing his throat, throwing his shoulders back, straightening his posture, and fixing his gaze ahead.

Her brother's sudden seriousness had a curious effect on her: for weeks, she had been hearing about the emperor's upcoming visit, and it was only now that she understood how important it was. Standing next to her family, it wasn't long before she saw the first horses, each with a guard mounted on its back, preceding the arrival of the emperor's family.

These creatures were not unknown to her, as they also had several of them on the estate, but she had never seen bridles as richly decorated as the ones worn by the proud animals, crowned with feathers of various colors atop their heads.

“Quintius,” the girl called her older brother in a whisper, causing him to lean towards her, breaking his solemn posture. “They look like the horses from the stories of Hercules…”

“Not even Hercules himself would have horses more magnificent than those of the emperor, dear sister,” laughed Quintius, giving the girl a playful tap on her nose.

Crispina began to feel nervous and clutched the bouquet of roses to her chest, inhaling the sweet aroma to which she had so quickly grown accustomed: the emperor was turning out to be an even more important person than she had thought, and she hadn't even seen him yet.

But that was about to change.

Preceded by a modest company of soldiers, the four members of the imperial family advanced toward the marble steps where they were waiting. The girl rose as high as her short stature allowed, trying to get a better look at the emperor's face: she had seen him on the coins her father carried with him in a small crimson cloth bag, but the profile she had seen there seemed to be that of a serious and proud man, nothing like the sparkle she could now see in his blue eyes.

Marcus Aurelius must have been around the same age as Gaius Bruttius Praesens, and yet he seemed much older. His face, etched with wrinkles, was that of someone who had known few moments of peace in his long years of life. Delicate silver threads flecked his brown hair and beard, but his blue gaze was friendlier than Crispina would have expected.

The girl couldn’t help but form a small "O" with her lips when her eyes fell upon Faustina, the empress. She was a slender and elegant woman, her thick mane of dark curls adorned with the silver laurel diadem befitting her position. Her face was sharp and reflected equal parts cunning and intelligence: something in her powerful blue gaze made Crispina afraid to look at her, as if she feared it would uncover her deepest secrets.

The young girl walking beside her, who appeared to be around Quintius' age, must be her daughter, and once again Crispina felt at a loss for words at her beauty and had the urge to hide.

The sternness that could be seen in the empress's demeanor had softened in her daughter, who seemed a perfect blend of her parents' best qualities: she possessed all the beauty and intelligence of her mother, combined with the calm and friendliness that surrounded Marcus Aurelius. The emperor, for his part, had already extended his arms to Gaius Bruttius Praesens, embracing him warmly while apologizing for not having found the opportunity to visit his villa in so many years.

Crispina sought her brother Quintius’ gaze in vain, for the young man could not take his eyes off the emperor, his expression reminding the girl of an owl caught by surprise at midnight. Even his hands were trembling slightly. It was something she had not expected—that her brother would be just as nervous as she was. Turning her eyes back to the imperial family, Crispina caught sight of a boy who had lagged behind, gazing out over the fields that stretched around his host’s house.

She remembered being told that the emperor had a son not much older than herself, and that they would have the chance to meet and play together, something where Crispina would have the advantage because she could show him all the corners of the villa that the boy did not know. The promise of a future playmate had not particularly excited her: boys usually played too roughly, especially if they were older than she was, acting as if they knew everything and treating her like a baby.

It wasn't fair.

“Ah, by all the gods...” said Marcus Aurelius. “Is it possible that this young man is Quintius? No, I must be mistaken, for he was nothing but a skinny child the last time I saw him. Look at the man you’ve become; your father must be very proud of you.”

“I hope so, Caesar. There is nothing in the world that would bring more joy to my spirit,” replied Crispina’s brother with an uprightness that was not typical of him, “except perhaps serving in the legions one day to bring glory to the empire and to our beloved emperor.”

Marcus Aurelius gave a smile that seemed a bit sad to the girl and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder in response. Then, the blue eyes of the most powerful man in Rome settled on Crispina’s.

“Well, this is the first time we meet, little one,” the emperor said to the girl in a gentle voice, brushing her cheek with a light touch. “I hope the gods allow that this will not be the last. Do you know something? Your father wrote me a long letter shortly after you were born. He told me that there was not a single person in the nearby villages who did not swear that your lady mother had given birth to a summer’s day in the form of a little girl—a small one with hair like golden wheat and with drops of sunlight sprinkled on her cheeks. It is a wonder to see that such tales were true.”

Crispina could not suppress a smile that created dimples in her round cheeks. Now, she did not mind so much giving those flowers to the wise man who ruled Rome and was so important to her father. She lowered her head in a deep bow, careful not to let the hem of her linen tunic touch the ground, just as she had been taught. When she rose again, she found herself facing someone completely different.

She had assumed the emperor would still be there, so she had extended her arms to place the bouquet of flowers into the strong hands of Marcus Aurelius. However, the roses ended up in very different hands.

Letting out a small gasp of surprise, the girl looked up to meet the gaze of that boy who had lagged behind, gazing at the wheat fields. Still cherishing the beautiful words that the Emperor of Rome had spoken to her, the girl wondered which words Marcus Aurelius would choose to describe the boy who now stood before her.

He had the same dark hair as his mother, resembling ebony wood, and the color of his eyes made her think of the olive leaves that shaded her from the afternoon sun. Despite the fact that she could read from his face that he was just as unwilling to be there as she had been, Crispina did not find him entirely unpleasant. Though it would be much easier if he would smile, even just once.

“Well…” sighed Marcus Aurelius, moving closer to the boy, “It seems my son has finally decided to grace us with his presence and devote his attention to our kind hosts: this is my youngest son, Commodus. He is only three years older than you, dear Crispina. Enough to know that the roses of the host family are a gift for the emperor.”

The emperor’s hands took the bouquet from the boy’s hands, who looked at him with a troubled expression. His green eyes only seemed to settle when he saw the roses end up in his beloved mother’s arms, who smiled as she received them with the impeccable grace expected of someone like her.

“I did not need your roses anyway, you know?” Commodus said to the girl as Marcus Aurelius and his wife’s attention returned to their host. “In the imperial palace, we have dozens of rose bushes that are tended to daily: I am sure yours even had bugs…”

The girl’s face contorted into a gesture of disgust and anger: how dare he say such a thing?

“I took care of them myself; they do not have any bugs!” the girl retorted, feeling her cheeks burn and her chin trembling at the thought of passing by her rose bushes without any roses, thinking that it had not been worth cutting them for such an unpleasant child.

“Excuse my brother, Bruttia Crispina,” said the emperor’s young daughter, with a voice as clear as the sea, crouching to the children’s height. “We have had a long journey, leaving very early from Rome, and I am afraid Commodus is still just waking up…”

“That is not true!” Commodus protested, unwilling to be made to look bad again.

“Alright, if it is not true…” his sister responded softly, “You can prove it by greeting your new friend as Father taught you, remember?”

The kindness in the teenage girl's words acted on the boy like a spell: Commodus's green eyes regarded his sister as if she were a deity descended from the stars. Although he did not lose his look of discontent, he did turn his gaze back to Crispina.

There were many things the girl wished to say to the emperor’s son, but she knew that none of them would please her dear father, so she forced herself to recall the words that Gaius Bruttius Praesens had repeated to her time and again in the past few days.

“Welcome to my family's home; it is an honor for me just as it is for them” the girl said, remembering the words her father had taught her for such an occasion. “I am Bruttia Crispina.”

“Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus” the boy said, introducing himself in turn.

A tense silence followed, causing Crispina to look towards the rest of her family, engaged in conversations with the emperor and his wife: Was she supposed to say something more? Perhaps a curtsy? The boy wasn’t the emperor, though he certainly had manners that suggested otherwise. She didn’t want to curtsy to someone who dismissed her roses so contemptuously.

“And I am Annia Aurelia Galeria Lucilla” the teenage girl introduced herself, maintaining her sweet tone. “But I fear it is an excessively long name that might cause confusion. Just remember the last of them, as my brother and I will remember yours. As long as friendship lasts in our family, and it will as no other family in Rome, since your father is a loyal advisor and good friend of mine, my brother will be Commodus to you and I will be Lucilla.”

The girl smiled, feeling somewhat more at ease.

“Well, my father has not ceased to repeat how magnificent this villa is, how even beyond the eternal wheat fields one can see the sea, is that true, Crispina?” Lucilla asked, rising again.

“Yes, lady… I mean, Lucilla” the girl corrected herself immediately.

“Good, may my brother and I be so fortunate as to have you show us your favorite spots?” the emperor’s daughter requested.

Crispina’s brown eyes once again turned to the emperor’s son, who still looked at her with disdain. A childish pride seized the girl’s heart, and she lifted her chin defiantly: she did not want to give that boy the chance to speak ill of her father's villa, but at the same time, she did not want to disappoint her father. As was often the case when she found herself in a tight spot, Crispina sought the gaze of her older brother, whose conversation with the emperor had fortunately ended.

Quintius now appeared entranced by the presence of the beautiful daughter of Marcus Aurelius, so similar to him in age.

“Could my brother come with us?” Crispina said, taking Quintius' hand and pulling him out of his thoughts. “As the older one, he knows more secrets of the villa than I do.”

“Crispina!” laughed Quintius. “You know I have no secrets from you; you are my only sister. But if it is no trouble, I would be more than happy to join you.”

“Then say no more” Lucilla smiled, her face lighting up with beauty under the sun’s rays. “Show us everything Commodus and I ought to know about this marvelous villa.”

The girl smiled in relief while Commodus snorted to himself, still wishing he could be anywhere else. However, no expression of displeasure from that proud boy could bother her now that her brother was by her side. She trusted that Quintius would show him that their little villa by the sea had nothing to envy in the most ostentatious palace in Rome.

Quintius began to walk, motioning for the emperor's children to follow him. From the very first moment, Crispina realized that her brother found it impossible to look away from Lucilla's blue eyes, which made him oblivious to how Commodus walked sulking beside his sister.

Crispina sought the emperor’s son’s gaze one last time; she wanted to find some trace of that first feeling, when she had recognized in the shade of his green eyes the olive trees that sheltered her from the sun in summer. Their gazes crossed for just an instant, and that was enough for Crispina to realize that there was nothing she could do to change his mood. Nevertheless, she did not care about that: she had done what she needed to do, and she would not give her father any reason to scold her at the end of the day.

She wondered if Commodus could say the same in front of the emperor.

Chapter Text

The summer was lazily abandoning the lands encompassing the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens when he summoned his children. Seated on one of the benches between the columns surrounding the atrium, Quintius and Crispina awaited their father's arrival. The sun's rays cast a special light on the tranquil waters of the impluvium, strewn with flowers, under the watchful gaze of the goddess sculpted in marble. From her simple stone pedestal, she watched over the well-being of the house and all who lived in it.

With no other company than the subdued murmur of the slaves' footsteps, engrossed in their daily chores, the children of Gaius Bruttius Praesens gazed between the clouds in the sky and the garlands made of leaves and fruits from the villa, which hung from one column to another as an offering for the gods to grant them a good harvest. Their fresh and sweet fragrance remained suspended in the air.

Crispina, who had turned ten over the summer, let out a sigh and stood up with her lyre in her arms, heading toward the edge of the impluvium.

"Father will not be pleased if the lyre ends up in the hands of the fish," Quintius warned his sister.

"Fish do not have hands, smart one," the girl replied, glancing over her shoulder at her brother before dipping her feet into the warm waters of the impluvium and sitting on the stone ledge. "Besides, there are no fish here."

Crispina caressed the maple wood surface of her lyre. Her father had given it to her for her eighth birthday, and it was her most prized possession. She remembered how he had explained that it was decorated with paintings brought from the consulship of Africa and that she had to be very careful with it.

Her daily lessons with the lyre master they had assigned her had been tough at first: she still remembered the deep crimson line that used to form on the tips of her fingers and what her instructor said about it.

“The mark of the beginner, Bruttia Crispina,” he had said, walking around her while the girl carefully blew on her fingers. “No master worth his salt was born that way, and the gods grant the gift of music, but this gift must be matched with effort.”

Quintius also eventually stood up from the wooden bench, taking a small walk around the impluvium with his hands behind his back. His younger sister watched him as she continued to play the lyre delicately. Many times, when she thought she would never be able to coax any beautiful melody from the strings of her lyre, she thought of Quintius.

The young man, eighteen years old, trained every day in the shade of the trees, his sandals kicking up dust from the ground with each quick movement as he dodged the blows of his combat master. A few years ago, when Quintius was still learning, the blows she heard through the window were those of wooden swords clashing, but it had been a long time since that material had been replaced by steel.

She wouldn't lie—Crispina was afraid of imagining her brother among the ranks of the emperor's army, but his courage and determination to improve every day had helped her when her lyre lessons felt endless. If Quintius could thrive with practice, so could she. Now her lyre and the melodies she coaxed from its strings accompanied the girl wherever she went.

“Will you tell me a story before dinner?” Crispina asked, catching her brother’s attention. “I like the lyre much more since you told me that story about…”

“Orpheus and Eurydice,” Quintius murmured to himself with a smile. “Do not you get tired of hearing it?”

Firm yet relaxed footsteps interrupted the siblings' conversation, and, from among the fine curtains that separated one room from another, Gaius Bruttius Praesens soon appeared. Crispina set the lyre aside and took the hand Quintius offered to help her stand, pulling her legs out of the impluvium.

“Children,” the man addressed them, placing his hand on the belt that held his toga. “This morning, I received a letter from the emperor.”

Quintius and Crispina couldn't help but glance at each other with a certain air of confusion. The girl shifted her weight from one leg to the other and regretted not having her lyre in her arms to conceal her nervousness.

"Our Emperor Marcus Aurelius has decided to grant us the honor of having his youngest son spend a few days in our company," announced Gaius Bruttius Praesens, raising his chin in a gesture of pride. "Needless to say, I expect both of you, my children, to make his stay with us as pleasant as possible."

Crispina blinked, surprised; she felt a strong urge to run to the rose bushes surrounding their home, eager to protect them from the whims of a spoiled child.

“May I ask the reason, Father?” Quintius inquired.

“I am glad you asked, my son, for that is why I wanted to speak with you,” his father replied, opening his arms and inviting his children to come closer. “Come, walk with me.”

Crispina picked up her lyre before approaching her father, who wrapped her in the long sleeve of his toga while affectionately squeezing her shoulder. Placing his other hand on Quintius’s shoulder, who was already taller than him, Gaius Bruttius Praesens guided his children through the gates of the main entrance. The last rays of the sun guided the family's steps as they walked over the warm earth and under the dance of the leaves of the trees.

“Tell me, my children,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens began cautiously, making sure there were no slaves nearby. “Do you remember what I told you a few months ago? I am referring to what happened with the Empress.”

“Yes, Father,” Crispina nodded, still clutching her lyre. “It was very sad, and I remember her in my prayers to the gods.”

A few weeks earlier, the former senator had gathered all the slaves of the villa and his children in the main atrium. There, he had announced the death of Faustina the Younger, the beloved Empress. That news had caused surprise and murmurs, which the man quickly asked to cease. He urged them to remember the imperial family in their prayers during these difficult times and toasted to the memory of the Empress.

Afterward, he had called Quintius, and they had withdrawn to a separate room.

Even several weeks later, at that moment, father and son still shared that look of understanding that the girl could not decipher.

One shared by those who have made a promise.

Or a secret.

“Good,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens nodded, giving his son a pat on the shoulder. “Listen, my children: the death of the Empress, untimely as it was cruel, has been a hard blow for everyone and is proving especially difficult for Commodus, the Emperor’s son. He is having trouble sleeping and also has some behavioral issues. At the imperial palace, they say that...”

The man stopped there, bringing his hand to his chin, contemplating his next words. Crispina frowned, not liking the direction the conversation was taking; she didn’t have particularly fond memories of Commodus’s first and last visit to their home. She had found him to be an arrogant and unpleasant child with whom she had been encouraged to befriend, despite their differences in character making it impossible.

She didn’t even want to imagine what he must be like now, with the behavioral issues her father had mentioned.

“What do they say?” Crispina wanted to know.

Gaius Bruttius Praesens ended up shaking his head, giving a fleeting smile to his daughter while caressing her golden curls.

“It is not important. What is important, my children, is that Marcus Aurelius has decided it might be good for Commodus to spend a few days away from the capital. Away from everything that reminds him of his mother, do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Father,” Quintius nodded, prompting a look of silent pride from his father.

“Well, I do not,” Crispina replied. “Father, it is just…”

“Speak freely, my daughter.”

“Well… Commodus did not seem very happy during his last visit,” Crispina began to explain. “He looked around as if our villa was not good enough…”

“Well, one day we will visit the imperial palace, Crispina,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens promised. “You are still young, and it makes me happy that you think there is nothing better than our humble villa, but…”

“It was our home, and he was our guest…” the girl protested.

“Crispina…” Quintius warned her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I had to cut my roses and endure a hairstyle with threads that pulled my hair…”

“Dear sister, if I remember correctly,” Quintius interrupted gently, “Commodus was not the only one sulking during that visit.”

The girl frowned, feeling her cheeks flush.

“The point is… My children, and this is something you both must remember,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens said, once again embracing his children with his arms, “that the son of the Emperor will be spending a few days with us, and we must do everything we can to make him feel better than he has in his own home since his mother passed. The gods have blessed me with intelligent and sensible children, so I have no doubt you will do as I expect of you. So, during the days he honors us with his presence, grant him your friendship and also your patience, even if he does not offer you the same gifts.”

He let the words hang in the air for a few moments, in that space occupied only by him and his children. Quintius, who was already a strong young man taller than his father, held his gaze with the firmness of a promise. For her part, Crispina still seemed unconvinced, clinging to her lyre, her golden curls framing her childish face.

“Can you do that for me?” the head of the family spoke again. “You are already my pride here, within the walls of our home; now be so also in the name of Rome.”

“You have my word, Father,” Quintius replied.

“And mine,” Crispina finally conceded.

A soft smile formed on Gaius Bruttius Praesens’s lips as he gave each of his children a squeeze on the shoulder. Now that her mind was drifting back to the melodies she had been practicing when her father called them, Crispina felt relieved: who knew how many days it would take for Commodus to arrive? And when he did, she would do her best to forget the last visit and be as kind as she would to a new friend. Besides, Quintius would be around and would help her, as he always did.

What could go wrong?

The dark cloak of night shielded the journey of Marcus Aurelius' youngest son, who was about to turn thirteen years old. Rain was his traveling companion, delaying his arrival until the early hours of the morning. Despite this, Gaius Bruttius Praesens and his servants greeted him at the villa’s entrance in what was meant to be a warm welcome.

One that was met with silence as the only response.

Silence seemed to be the most loyal member of his entourage, as it accompanied him wherever he went. He did not utter a word when they showed him the room where he would stay, decorated with frescoes of ancient Greek myths, nor did he speak when they assured him that he was at home, that if he needed anything, he only had to ask.

Despite this invitation, it took just a few days to realize that he had no intention of leaving the bedroom, not even to share a meal with his hosts. It got to the point where Gaius Bruttius Praesens ordered his slaves to bring meals up to his room, which each day had to be cleared of broken pottery shards.

“It is rude…” Crispina remarked one morning while eating her breakfast porridge.

“Give him time, Crispina,” said Quintius, sitting next to her. “His situation is difficult, as I know from experience…”

The girl fell silent. She had been just a few days old when her mother passed away, but she knew well the sadness that still appeared on her father’s and Quintius’s faces whenever she was mentioned.

As the days went by, the other inhabitants of the villa came to the same conclusion that the daughter of the former senator had reached: that there would come a day when Marcus Aurelius would call his son back to Rome, and he still would not have shown himself to anyone except those who were obligated to serve him.

Little Crispina could not say she regretted this; she enjoyed the peace she had thought lost the moment her father announced the visit.

It was a sensation that reigned supreme in the room where the girl decided to spend the afternoon that changed everything. Gaius Bruttius Praesens’s library was situated in the wing furthest from the peristyle, so silence was the only companion to the soft aroma of parchment and the cypress wood from which the furniture was made.

Crispina had always liked tracing her fingers over the intricate carvings of the cabinets where all the scrolls, carefully rolled and tied with leather straps, that her father had collected throughout his life rested. He had always encouraged his children to visit that place, not without reminding them to be gentle with his treasures.

Accompanied by the whisper of her sandals against the mosaics, the girl let her brown eyes wander over the stacked scrolls, wondering which ones contained the stories that Quintius narrated to her and to which she had become so fond. She admired how her brother could memorize them and then recount them to her under the shelter of the dancing branches of the olive trees.

Stories of the ancient world, from distant Greece across the sea.

Stories that spoke of gods and monsters, of heroes and wonders, of adventures and laments that endured in the memory of men under the blessing of those who dwelt beyond the stars.

Her heart skipped a beat when she heard a piece of pottery smash against the floor behind her. The girl glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a figure hastily hiding behind one of the columns. She couldn’t help but feel nervous, guessing who it was, but she mustered courage by recalling the promise she had made to her father.

“You do not have to hide,” Crispina said after a few moments of tense silence. “Father always said that the vase was poorly placed and that any day it would end up where it is now.”

The figure behind the column moved a little, just enough for the girl to see that he still wore the simple black mourning tunics. The song of the crickets celebrating the sunset was the only thing that broke the stillness of the room. Crispina, feeling that the honor of her promise had been fulfilled without success, had started towards the entrance arch when the voice behind the column spoke.

“I did not know anyone would be here… Gaius Bruttius Praesens told me that no one but him was allowed entry here.”

“Yes, his children can,” Crispina replied, regretting her bad luck.

There was a slight sound of footsteps on the other side of the column, and finally, Commodus emerged from his hiding place, allowing the last rays of the afternoon sun to illuminate his adolescent figure. Now that she could see him, the girl thought he wasn’t very different from how she remembered him, and yet, in some ways, he was: he was taller than the last time she had seen him, his face less childish, though still years away from being that of a man.

The thin arms protruding from the wide sleeves of his tunic assured her he was not a warrior, as Quintius had already developed muscles at his age. But if there was one thing that hadn’t changed in Marcus Aurelius’s youngest son, it was those green eyes that reminded Crispina so much of olive leaves: both seemed to glow in that boy with dark hair and mourning tunic.

“The girl with the roses...” Commodus spoke with disinterest, fixing his eyes on her. “It seems you have gotten over your displeasure; you are not as sulky as the last time I saw you.”

The indignation over her lost flowers flared up again in the girl’s spirit.

“They were my roses. I was taught to care for them and make them grow...” Crispina retorted.

“And you got up every day at dawn to water them with pond water, yes, yes, yes...” the boy remarked with a bored tone. “Your roses were nothing special, just a formality: my father has made all kinds of roses grow in the imperial palace, that he found during his military campaigns... His most prized ones are the yellow roses.”

The girl hastened to hide the look of surprise that had taken over her face: she had an older brother; she knew when someone was teasing her.

“Yellow roses...” Crispina repeated, following Commodus with her eyes, who had started wandering distractedly around the room. “Those do not exist...”

“As golden as your hair, Bruttia Crispina...” Commodus assured, giving one of her curls a tug as he passed by her. The girl clenched her jaw and watched warily as he took one of the scrolls, passing it from hand to hand. “Why would anyone want so many volumes?”

“They belong to my father,” the girl quickly said, taking the scroll out of his hands. “You have to be very careful with them.”

Commodus let out a snort filled with both bewilderment and amusement at being challenged by a little girl. Guest and hostess held each other's gaze with a certain defiance, neither willing to back down. Finally, Marcus Aurelius’s son stopped paying attention to the disgruntled girl and turned toward the rest of the room.

“My father also likes to lock himself in places like this,” Commodus muttered, observing the statues of Athena and Hermes standing in niches in the marble-paneled walls. He wasn’t surprised to find frescoes similar to those in his own chamber. “He forbids everyone from entering and immerses himself in his writings from dusk till dawn. I bet that is why he gets along so well with yours because, what good is it...?”

The words of the emperor’s son stopped, and Crispina noticed with renewed unease that what had caught his attention was the lyre resting on one of the study tables. She had almost forgotten about it; she was so eager to visit the library that she hadn’t put it away in her room after her daily lessons. The girl held her breath when the boy turned to her, pointing at the string instrument with one of his thin fingers.

“Was that you?”

She didn’t know what she had expected, but not that.

“I do not understand,” Crispina admitted, shaking her head.

“The nights I have spent here, I have heard someone playing the lyre...” Commodus admitted in an angry whisper. “Was that you?”

Crispina was grateful that the growing darkness helped hide the blush on her cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t have, but there were times when she couldn’t sleep, and playing soft melodies on her beloved lyre helped calm her.

“I did not know it could be heard, I am sorry,” Crispina murmured. To her surprise, Commodus let out a sigh of relief that puzzled her. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing, it is just...” the boy began, before stopping himself. “I thought you were something else, that is all.”

“What else could I be?”

Commodus shook his head, looking over his shoulder at the increasingly encroaching shadows in the room. Crispina was surprised to see that, for the first time since she had known him, a mute fear appeared in his green eyes.

“A lemur...” he muttered. “Or maybe a larva: any of those things that the darkness hides...”

The girl couldn’t help but shiver, wishing he hadn’t uttered those words. Quintius used to tease her by telling stories of ghosts, wandering souls who were still lost in the world of the living. According to him, lemures were apparitions of those who had suffered a violent and unjust death, eager for revenge, and larvae were much worse...

Larvae had never been human beings.

She hadn’t taken Marcus Aurelius’s son for a boy who could share her same fears.

“I was afraid of the dark too,” Crispina confessed.

“What are you saying? I am not afraid of the...” Commodus snapped, turning toward her.

“I was until my brother told me about Orpheus and Eurydice,” the girl finished saying.

Something new awakened on Commodus's face that Crispina wouldn’t have thought possible: curiosity. The emperor's son was older, three years older than she was, and when they met, he had struck her as the type of child who never seemed impressed by anything. To now have his curiosity was a victory that made Crispina feel very proud.

“Orpheus and Eurydice,” Commodus repeated, taking a seat on a wooden bench. “The name sounds familiar from my tutors’ lessons...”

“Orpheus was the son of the god Apollo, very skilled with the lyre...” Crispina began to explain, sitting next to him. “Legend says his music calmed the beasts and healed the wounded. It was with his music that he managed to win the love of the nymph Eurydice...”

Commodus let out a snort and rolled his eyes.

“Until she died from a snake’s venom…”

There was the boy's attention again.

“Orpheus embarked on a journey to the underworld, determined to beg Hades for his beloved’s return, and the music he played for the god of the underworld moved him so much that he agreed, with one condition: Eurydice’s spirit would follow him on his way back to the world of the living, but he was not to look back at her, not even once. If he did, Eurydice’s soul would vanish, and he would never see her again…”

Silence hung in the room, only broken by the sound of the wheat fields swaying in the evening breeze. Some slaves entered the room, causing Commodus to look at them with suspicion and shrink slightly. The distrust in his green eyes didn’t disappear until they lit the torches attached to the columns and left the room with the same stealth they had entered.

Only then did he turn his face back to Crispina.

“Well, what happened next?” Commodus asked with a haste that surprised the girl. “Did he manage to bring Eurydice back?”

He was close enough to her that he could easily guess her thoughts, and inside, Crispina began to think that maybe she hadn’t chosen the best story to tell a boy who had just lost his mother.

“Did he?” Commodus insisted.

“Orpheus and Eurydice crossed the underworld together,” the girl sighed. “Eurydice’s spirit followed her husband’s steps, just as Hades had promised. But, just as they were near the exit, Orpheus could not contain his curiosity and looked back, causing Eurydice to disappear… I suppose no one can return from the world of the dead…”

Commodus clenched his jaw and nodded slowly. Crispina watched him for a few moments, feeling sorry for his situation: she missed her mother without having known her; she couldn’t imagine what Marcus Aurelius’s son must be feeling.

“I am very sorry about your mother.”

The boy’s eyes widened like those of an owl, and for a moment, Crispina thought she had offended him. Commodus pressed his lips together and looked away from the girl.

“Orpheus was an idiot…” he replied, swallowing hard. “Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to look back? Why did he have to do that?”

The emperor’s son’s voice had been rising with each new question, so Crispina remained silent, not quite sure what would happen next. What if he started breaking things, like she sometimes heard him doing at dawn? The boy’s hands were gripping the edge of the bench so tightly that his knuckles turned pale, and despite all his efforts, he couldn’t stop a broken sob from escaping his throat, his shoulders shaking silently.

Crispina looked at him in astonishment as Commodus hunched his head between his shoulders: he was crying. She had never seen an older boy cry, not even when they fell in the atrium, scraping their knees against the mosaics.

Moved by compassion, the girl gently placed a hand on his back, a simple gesture that was enough to make the boy’s sobs grow louder.

“Why has my father sent me here?” Commodus protested through his tears. “I want to be with him! I want my sister!”

Crispina felt her heart clench: she regretted that Marcus Aurelius’s son had to be far from his father and sister while feeling so sad. She hesitated for a moment, but finally, the girl moved on the wooden bench, drawing closer to him and wrapping him in an awkward hug, while bracing herself for him to push her away.

But he didn’t.

He continued crying for his dead mother, for being far from his sister, for having become an apparition in the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens. Crispina kept her head resting on his shoulder, silently holding onto the secrets she had discovered about her guest when she least expected it.

No one witnessed this, so when Crispina came down for dinner, nothing surprised the slaves and Gaius Bruttius Praesens himself more than the emperor’s son following her. Embarrassed and looking down, he finally took a seat at his host’s table. The girl felt the questioning gazes of her father and brother on her, but she remained silent as she reached out for the fruit platter and moved it closer to Commodus so he could help himself as well.

A naturalness that was once unimaginable soon settled between them, as if Marcus Aurelius’s son had joined them at the table every day.

Both Gaius Bruttius Praesens and Quintius tried to fill the silence left by Crispina, talking to the boy about topics that might interest him. They were amazed when Commodus eventually accepted Quintius’s invitation to train with him, although only with wooden swords, no matter how much Marcus Aurelius’s son insisted on using iron ones.

The former consul had no way of knowing what had caused this change in attitude; the only thing he was certain of was that his youngest daughter had something to do with it. When he passed the platter of grapes to Crispina, Gaius Bruttius Praesens gave her a look of approval that made the girl smile.

She watched Commodus as he talked with her brother and felt certain that one day, Marcus Aurelius would look at him with the same pride that her father showed when he looked at her.

Chapter Text

The passion his father felt for the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens was something beyond his understanding. Finally facing the last leagues of the tedious journey from his beloved Rome, Commodus shifted in his seat, causing a knowing smile to appear on the face of his sister Lucilla, seated directly across from him.

“You would do well to hide that pout, dear brother…” Lucilla smiled, placing a hand on his knee. “You know how much this trip means to our father.”

“Yes, he returns Gaius Bruttius Praesens his firstborn son after his honorable exploits on the banks of the Danube,” muttered Commodus with some disdain, his gaze lost in Lucilla’s blue eyes. “He is making such a gift to his dear friend that even his own children travel in a separate carriage.”

“Come now, do not be unfair, Commodus,” the young woman replied, playing with her chestnut curls. “You know well that the decision for you and me to travel separately was yours and yours alone: it was not your intention for either Quintius or Maximus to share our secrets.”

The smile that had been forming on his face as he listened to Lucilla's playful and melodious voice vanished the moment she uttered the soldiers’ names. The strange devotion that Marcus Aurelius showed toward his friendship with Gaius Bruttius Praesens had led him to visit his villa in Volceii repeatedly, although Commodus believed that at least a couple of years had passed since the last time. For this reason, he thought he knew Lucius Bruttius Quintius quite well and had to admit he didn’t have much against him.

Quintius was a good fellow and a loyal soldier, someone who had instructed him in the art of combat with the patience befitting the finest of teachers.

But Maximus Decimus Meridius...

Even though he spent more time at the borders of the empire, chaining one victory after another for the glory of the empire, Commodus knew how to read his father’s clear gaze well. He remembered the gleam of infinite pride in it, the same he had always longed to provoke for as long as he could remember, while his father introduced that exceptional soldier from Hispania.

He also remembered the pleased and enigmatic smile that would appear on Lucilla’s red lips every time the Spaniard's eyes had the audacity to rest on hers.

Both things together were more than he felt capable of bearing.

“Here it is…” muttered Commodus indifferently, pulling back the curtain of the small window of the carriage. “The majestic lands of our beloved Gaius Bruttius Praesens…”

“Oh, do not be like that…” Lucilla scolded him gently, letting out a laugh that sounded like a bird’s chirp. “We have spent happy days at Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ villa. Besides, are you not excited to see Bruttia Crispina again?”

The young man let out a small laugh of disbelief and shook his head to himself. Crispina was a sweet girl, but she was far from being a reason to leave Rome and all the pleasures that the capital of the Empire offered to someone like him. The countryside and agriculture were not meant for an emperor's children, and as much as she scolded him, he knew that Lucilla also preferred to spend her summer afternoons with other pursuits.

If he closed his eyes, he could still make out her naked silhouette through the delicate fabrics hanging from the entrance lintel to the baths. The aromatic vapors rising from the waters, sprinkled with flower petals, mingled with the frescoes of mythological stories decorating the walls, making him believe he was in the presence of a naiad…

Commodus smiled softly to himself as he drew back the curtain of the small window.

“We are stopping now.”

“Wait until we come to a complete stop!” Lucilla called after him, but her brother had already opened the latch, jumping onto the dusty road.

The young man walked alongside the emperor's carriages, which had begun to slow down, trying to glimpse his father’s figure behind the curtains. He wanted to offer his arm to help him down from the vehicle; Marcus Aurelius would never admit it, much less in front of his children, but Commodus had noticed a certain change in him since the last wound he had received in his campaign on the banks of the Danube.

Commodus, who at seventeen had already been called to join his father’s army, had witnessed how it all happened firsthand: the way Marcus Aurelius was wounded in the leg, and how his own legs seemed unable to come to his aid, not with the barbarians still so close.

It had been Maximus who had saved the day.

“Father, allow me to…” Commodus began to say as he saw the door of his father’s carriage open.

Too late, there was the emperor, held by the strong arm of Maximus.

Maximus the Invincible.

Commodus felt his jaw clench, something that even the friendly pat on the shoulder from Quintius did not alleviate.

"Back home..." murmured Quintius, tilting his head back and letting the sun’s rays, which seemed never to leave his father’s lands, come out to greet him. “It has been two years since I last walked these lands, and it seems not a single day has passed.”

The emperor's son couldn’t hide a grimace as he saw a moved smile forming on Quintius’s lips while he gazed at the cypress-lined path leading back home. The relentless hum of the wheat fields surrounding the villa was now joined by the joyous chirping of crickets, both under the spell of the afternoon breeze. If they didn’t set off now, Commodus feared they wouldn’t return to Rome that night.

A sigh then escaped from Quintius’s lips as he stepped forward along the path. He had reached the first line of cypress trees when he raised his hand, shielding his eyes from the sun. Commodus squinted, searching for what had caught the soldier’s attention: in the distance, the house of the former senator remained as mundane as in his memories, so empty it irritated him.

Slaves were walking back and forth, absorbed in their daily duties, some of them leading farm animals... And there, by the rose bushes, was what must have been a new and interesting addition to the service of Gaius Bruttius Praesens's family.

A slender young girl was standing with her back to the newcomers, unaware of their presence. She held a basket against her hip and was observing the roses, surrounding them carefully, gently touching their pink petals. Her long blonde hair found its echo in the wheat fields surrounding the villa and in the sun, which seemed to caress it tenderly, turning it a shade close to gold.

It was then that Commodus realized the mistake he had made: the simple white tunic the girl wore, falling in soft folds down to her ankles, had deceived him. No slave would have gold-thread details on their clothes, nor would they tie back some of their blonde curls with white silk ribbons…

Blonde curls that echoed those of Quintius.

The girl, finally feeling observed, turned her face towards them, across the path, and the basket of herbs she was holding against her waist fell to the ground. Quintius quickly started running along the path, kicking up small clouds of dust with each stride. Similarly, the girl rushed to meet him, her white tunic feverishly dancing around her legs, her blonde hair whipping through the air.

Even from that distance, Commodus could hear the sob of emotion that escaped the girl's lips as she embraced her older brother, who lifted her off the ground, spinning her around as if she weighed no more than a feather.

“Moments like these make everything we do worthwhile, Maximus…” murmured Marcus Aurelius, pleased by the scene unfolding before his eyes. “To be able to bring Rome’s sons back to their loved ones, knowing they have fulfilled their duty and that their homes remain safe.”

“Yes, Caesar,” Maximus nodded.

Commodus clenched his jaw again as they approached the place where the siblings had reunited. Quintius and Crispina were still swaying in an embrace that seemed endless, stirring a feeling of envy in him, as he could not recall any occasion when anyone had given him such a warm welcome.

When the siblings finally separated, the emperor's son understood Quintius’s confusion upon glimpsing Crispina in the distance, as he himself had difficulty recognizing her.

Had it been so long since the last time he saw her?

Her figure was still far from that of a woman, but it was clear that she was no longer the girl who lived in his memories. Her cheeks were not as round, she was quite tall, and her blonde hair no longer settled for just brushing her shoulders; it now cascaded down her back as well. Her warm brown eyes, accompanied by the tears of sunlight that sprinkled her cheeks, were the only thing Commodus felt he could have recognized anywhere in the Empire.

“Quintius...” murmured the girl, cradling her brother’s face as if she were gazing upon a miracle. “You have come back…”

“Can this be my Crispina?” Quintius laughed. “Tell me, sweet girl, what have you done with my sister?”

An excited laugh escaped Crispina's lips as she wrapped her arms around her older brother again. She had beautiful eyelashes, Commodus thought as he watched Crispina close her eyes and place a kiss on Quintius’s cheek: they weren’t as long and dark as Lucilla’s, but they made a lovely contrast against her pale face and blonde hair.

Only then did the younger daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens seem to notice that her brother was not the only one in whose presence she stood. Stepping away from him again, the girl let her brown eyes roam over those gathered, still too surprised to utter a word, much to Lucilla's amusement.

Commodus had shifted his weight from one leg to the other, coming to the conclusion that there was no way they would return to Rome on time when Crispina's brown eyes fell on him.

“Commodus!” Crispina exclaimed with genuine surprise. “How wonderful to see you!”

The smile had not yet faded from her freckled face as she moved toward him, hugging him tightly. The young man, firmly enveloped in his hostess's arms, cast a surprised look at Lucilla, who simply smiled, and then at his father, on whose tired face a serene smile was beginning to form. He wasn't going to lie; he had expected a bow, a gesture befitting his status, not this. Commodus eventually raised his arms, embracing Crispina as well, though without the same enthusiasm.

After all, he had to remind himself that this happiness wasn't meant for him; it was merely the leftover joy she felt from seeing her brother again.

But he couldn't deny that it was pleasant for someone to welcome him like this.

He closed his eyes, momentarily losing himself in the soft scent of roses that surrounded the young girl. It wasn't a strong perfume like the one he could sense in every step of Lucilla; instead, it was lighter and warmer, mingling with the scent of olive leaves and the sun's rays. It was such a pleasant aroma that he almost protested when Crispina pulled away from him.

"I am so glad to see you again," the girl insisted.

And it seemed she genuinely meant it.

Only then did the young girl seem to realize the situation, observing her new and unexpected visitors more carefully. Quintius, Lucilla, Commodus, the emperor himself...

A blush appeared on Crispina's cheeks, and she quickly knelt on the dirt of the path.

"Caesar..." murmured the girl, bowing her head deeply. "I am so sorry, I did not notice your presence, I..."

"You do not need to apologize, Bruttia Crispina," Lucilla said kindly, approaching the young girl and helping her to her feet. "Now get up from the ground before that beautiful dress gets ruined."

Commodus shot a knowing glance at his sister; he knew her well enough to know she couldn't really mean her words about Crispina's simple attire, the one that had initially led him to mistake her for a slave. But the girl didn't seem to notice anything strange in Lucilla's words, as the excited smile still hadn't left her face.

"Your arrival is more than welcome," Crispina affirmed, unable to stay still. "By all the gods, my father is going to go mad with pure joy."

She had barely finished speaking when the girl dashed down the path back to the villa, calling out to the slaves nearby who were curiously watching the scene and instructing them to fetch the master of the house at once. Commodus felt tense at Crispina's lack of awareness: not even the daughter of a senator was exempt from turning her back on the emperor of the greatest empire in the world. 

Maximus Decimus Meridius had also noticed this, and he had even taken a few steps forward with the intention of bringing back the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens when Marcus Aurelius raised his hand.

A simple gesture that made the Spaniard stop immediately.

"She is still a stranger in the world..." the emperor said, a kind smile on his face. "She turned fourteen last summer. Her father is only just beginning to realize that soon he will have to find her a husband: let her be a child while she still can be one."

Although he was relieved that Maximus didn't scold Crispina, Commodus couldn't help but frown, realizing once again that his father had no trouble bestowing his kindness and understanding on the mistakes of those who were not part of his family.

Who was he trying to fool?

Anyone but himself.

The chosen location by Gaius Brutius Praesens to entertain Marcus Aurelius and his family, for bringing his only son back safe and sound, was the atrium of the villa—the central courtyard connecting the rest of the house's rooms. He ordered triclinia to be brought and arranged around the small central pond, along with the best fruits of the latest harvest displayed on the finest marble platters decorated with floral motifs. This was an occasion to celebrate, the host made clear, as his son was returning home after two long years, having become a hero of the Empire.

Commodus shook his head and stifled a snort behind his wine cup. Gaius Brutius Praesens spoke with the undeniable pride of a father, but the emperor's son did not believe that his emotional words did justice to Quintius's actual performance on the battlefield: he was a good soldier, yes, but not a hero. But that didn't seem to matter to anyone there, who raised their cups to Quintius's health, who was trying to break free from his father's embrace.

He could feel Marcus Aurelius' reproachful gaze on the back of his neck, but Commodus decided to ignore it and ordered the nearest slave to fill his cup again. If this gathering was going to drag on, he would need it. Not only did the praises for Quintius seem never-ending, but the emperor had insisted that Maximus take a seat with them, as if they were on the same level. The Spaniard himself did not seem entirely comfortable, maintaining his firm, military posture despite the relaxed environment.

The emperor's son then turned his gaze to his older sister, reclining next to Crispina a bit further away. He felt relief to see that Lucilla was entertained, having a lively and light-hearted conversation with their host's daughter, who listened devotedly to her every word. Lucilla looked truly beautiful under the light of the oil lamps attached to the columns, her blue eyes shining in a way that rivaled the stars' glow.

Then something changed in Lucilla's gaze. A mischievous smile spread across the young woman's lips as she leaned towards Crispina's ear to whisper a secret that Commodus knew all too well. Crispina's rosy lips parted slightly in surprise, and she shot a fleeting glance at Maximus before Lucilla called her attention back, laughing.

This gathering was becoming more than he could bear.

"I would say the worst skirmish we had to participate in, right, Maximus?" laughed Quintius, patting the Spaniard on the shoulder. "Was that one at the edge of the forest... Yes, you know which one I am talking about..."

Commodus tensed up immediately, turning his face towards the two soldiers. Maximus himself seemed to be warning Quintius with his eyes to stop talking, but the host's son and proclaimed hero of the evening had drunk too many cups of wine to stop now. Commodus knew well which skirmish he was referring to, and it was not one he wanted anyone but those involved to know about.

"Come on, Maximus! It is not possible that you do not remember—it was the first one Commodus joined us in..." Quintius laughed again, this time pointing at him with the palm of his hand.

"Nothing noteworthy happened," Commodus declared, draining the cup of wine in his hand.

Marcus Aurelius seemed to realize what was happening, as did Lucilla and Crispina, who had stopped watching the scene as something amusing and were now doing so with the prudence of someone seeing a lion approach. Quintius, on the other hand, had no intention of stopping there.

"It is no wonder you do not remember; you were barely there..." the blond young man added with a shrug. "You remember it, do you not, Maximus? Yes, it was when that runaway horse of one of the barbarians passed near us... The sound of its hooves galloping shook the nearby trees, and Commodus moved aside so quickly that for a moment I thought he had been hit by an arrow... The horse did not even have a rider! Anyone would think it was the first time he had ever seen a horse in his life..."

He thought he saw a fleeting smile cross Maximus' lips, who often boasted about his horses in Hispania.

"Quintius, you have had enough to drink..." Crispina spoke over her brother's laughter.

Commodus felt his cheeks burn as he stood up. The day had not come when he would need a girl to come to his defense.

“I challenge you to a duel, Quintius,” Commodus declared defiantly. “First blood.”

“That will not be necessary…” Marcus Aurelius began to say, making a move to stand up.

“And I accept the challenge, for my honor,” Quintius agreed before anyone else could interfere.

The challenge had been accepted: neither of the participants could refuse; it would be a stain on the coward’s honor that would be difficult to erase. The Spaniard looked at the emperor, who maintained a stoic expression in the face of these developments. The onlookers fell silent as the slaves brought the weapons Quintius had requested. Commodus was tense, he couldn’t deny that, but at the same time, he felt confident: Quintius had drunk enough for this to be an easy victory.

He cast a quick glance at Lucilla, looking for her approval, but he found only a coldness that further ignited his anger. The emperor’s son squared his shoulders and took the sword that one of the slaves handed him, swinging it in the air to test its lightness. It wouldn’t be too difficult; all he had to do was catch Quintius off guard enough to leave him with a nice mark that would remind him of whom he owed loyalty and respect.

The two young men left the atrium, positioning themselves across from each other in one of the column-lined hallways. They were about to strike when something unexpected happened. At the emperor’s signal, Maximus sprang up, as fast as a gazelle, drawing his own sword and placing himself between the two young men. Quintius halted abruptly, his sword raised, stunned; Commodus, however, let out a cry of frustration and tried to dodge Maximus by slipping under his arm.

Caught by surprise from behind, the Spaniard struck downwards with his elbow, hitting Commodus’s head and causing him to drop his sword onto his outstretched leg.

He managed to hear the gasps of the onlookers before darkness consumed him.

The first thing that reached him was the soft chirping of crickets outside the window, the night breeze slipping through the curtains, and then the pain.

That sharp pain.

Commodus opened his eyes, startled. He did it so quickly that all he could see before him was a curious dance of shapes and colors, of light and shadow, so he forced himself to close them again. He muttered a curse and brought his hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt it throb, sending new waves of pain coursing up and down his body. And yet, he didn’t think that was what had woken him.

“Well, I hoped to be able to do it while you were still sleeping.”

His heart skipped a beat, and he opened his eyes again. He was lying in a bed that wasn’t his own, and Crispina was sitting at its foot. She was still wearing that white tunic embroidered with gold thread, but she had used the white ribbons that had once hung from her hair to tie it back, clearing her face, and it suited her well.

“Where am I?” Commodus demanded to know.

“You do not remember?”

The young man glanced around the room: he hadn’t been wrong to assume this wasn’t his chamber. It was a much simpler room, but not a humble one. The furniture that decorated it seemed to be made of olive wood, some with decorative details in ivory, and the seats were upholstered in leather. However, it was the small niche dedicated to the household gods that made his confusion fade.

He was still in the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens; this was the same room he had stayed in years before.

Commodus’s eyes searched for Crispina, but they revealed something else to him. He was lying in a bed, yes, but he could also see that he was covered by linen sheets, except for the bare leg in front of which his host’s daughter had taken a seat.

There was an open wound.

“No, do not move!” Crispina warned him as she saw the young man begin to sit up with such speed that it looked more like a spasm.

He only managed to bend over himself before a blinding pain made him clench his teeth, forcing him to fall back onto the bed. A grunt of frustration escaped his lips, which did not seem to trouble the girl, who simply poured some water over the wounded leg.

“I asked them to bring it to me as cold as possible, so you will feel less pain.”

“What happened?” Commodus demanded to know, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Maximus had the good sense to step in between you two before you did something you would regret,” Crispina explained while pouring a little more water and examining the wound. “Unfortunately, when you dropped your sword, it fell on your leg and gave you quite a nasty cut.”

Maximus.

Hearing that name again made him angrier in a way he didn’t fully understand. The teenager ran his hand through his dark hair, feeling a slight bump on the top of his head. Then he remembered the blow, Quintius' stories about his participation in skirmishes along the Danube, Lucilla’s disapproving look…

His father’s gaze.

“Quintius has wronged my honor…” Commodus murmured with a hoarse voice.

“Quintius has been an idiot,” Crispina replied sharply, as she took a spool of black thread and began threading a needle. “You both have.”

“How dare you…”

The girl gave him a firm look that made it clear she was not open to any rebuttal. Commodus’s eyes shifted from her brown eyes to the needle she held between her fingers.

“What are you going to do with that?” the young man asked.

“I am going to stitch up the wound,” Crispina murmured, gently feeling the edge of the cut. “Fortunately, the sword was not very sharp, and it is not a deeper wound, but it will not heal properly if I leave it as it is.”

“And why do you have to be the one to do it?” Commodus retorted. “This is not some embroidery you can…”

Crispina looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“I have been stitching wounds since I was skilled enough to thread a needle and the sight of blood stopped frightening me,” she explained, not intimidated. “Believe me, it is a very useful skill when your brother trains every day for war.”

“Why you?” the emperor’s son insisted.

“A physician could do it, but it will take hours for him to arrive, assuming we can get him out of bed in the middle of the night,” Crispina continued. “Or I can do it myself, which I would have made considerable progress on already if you would kept quiet and trusted me.”

Commodus forced himself to keep his lips sealed, still fixated on the needle Crispina held between her fingers. He felt his head starting to wake up, and he didn’t want her to stitch the wound with a full awareness of what was happening. He had to make the most of the pain while it was still just an echo. The young man finally nodded, lying back down on the bed but not taking his eyes off Crispina.

“Fine, take a couple of deep breaths, like I am doing,” the girl instructed him. “It is important that you stay relaxed: if you are tense, it will be much harder for me…”

“Do what you have to do,” Commodus snapped, cutting her off.

“Very well, as you wish…” Crispina replied with a shrug.

He felt the girl carefully blowing on his wound, clearing away any cold droplets of water that might have settled. After what seemed like an eternity, she gently pressed the needle into his flesh. Commodus clutched the sheets and bit the inside of his cheek to avoid crying out; he didn’t know where his father and sister were, but after what had happened that afternoon, he wasn’t about to let them hear him cry like a child.

“Easy now…” the girl murmured, brushing her hand briefly near the wound. “You are brave, and soon this will be nothing more than a bad memory.”

A new grunt escaped the emperor’s son’s lips.

“Only a girl like you would say I am brave after what happened this afternoon. I have been humiliated…” Commodus complained, trying to hold back the pain.

“It takes courage to challenge my brother to a duel with swords: sometimes I think he was born wielding one…” Crispina responded. “But it was not honorable to do so after several cups of wine.”

“I did not think he would accept,” the emperor’s son lied.

“I figured he would, but I think you got carried away, Commodus,” Crispina replied as she took another stitch, whispering softly when she noticed the young man tensing up again. “If you had used your wits, if you had used words, you could have disarmed him without needing a sword.”

Crispina threaded more black thread and held the spool in her hand for a moment before continuing her task. Commodus took advantage of the fact that the girl wasn’t looking at him to study her better. Her profile was outlined under the light of the oil lamps, showcasing a straight nose and delicate lips. He was surprised to find her beautiful, not in the way he had always admired Lucilla, but in a way he hadn’t expected in the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens.

“Tell me, Commodus,” Crispina said, turning her face toward him. “Do you remember the myth of the Labyrinth of Crete?”

“You and your stories about the Greeks: it is true that some things never change,” Commodus muttered, gritting his teeth from the pain. “Can you not use more cold water?”

“A little around the wound if it soothes you, but not on the wound itself,” she said, dipping a piece of cloth into the bowl and carefully applying it around the cut. “A long time ago, in the middle of the sea, there was the island of Crete where a powerful king named Minos reigned. To hide a betrayal by his wife, Minos had a magnificent labyrinth built beneath his palace, where he imprisoned the Minotaur, a creature that was half man and half bull, born of the queen…”

Crispina couldn’t know, of course, but something about that story reminded Commodus of something he’d rather forget. Forcing himself to push the image of the unfaithful queen from his mind, Marcus Aurelius’ son focused on his hostess’s words. He had to admit that Crispina was a natural storyteller: he recalled well the time she had told him the story of Orpheus and Eurydice in his father’s library.

With her words, the girl had managed to spark his curiosity, clearing his troubled mind of the demons that tormented him. For a few moments, he forgot that he had been abandoned in a senator’s villa, far from his family, while Rome mourned his mother’s death. Likewise, Crispina seemed to cast a spell on him with her words, making him forget the humiliation suffered that afternoon and the throbbing wound that she tended to with great care.

“As a tribute for an offense from the past and to feed the beast, a neighboring kingdom had to offer young subjects who were confined in the darkness of the labyrinth, with no chance of escape,” Crispina continued as she worked. “But then something happened that Minos had not anticipated: his own daughter, Princess Ariadne, fell in love with Theseus, one of the tributes…”

“I figured something like that would happen…” Commodus muttered with annoyance, eliciting a laugh from Crispina.

“Do not make me laugh, it does not suit you,” the girl replied, still focused on the half-stitched wound. “Ariadne could not bear the thought of losing Theseus to the creature’s jaws, so the night before the sacrifice, she gave him a spool of thread she had been working on…”

“A spool? She might have done better to provide him with a sword…”

“Theseus tied one end of the spool to the entrance of the labyrinth, and after he had dealt with the beast, he followed the thread through the labyrinth so he could find his way out again. If he had relied solely on his strength, I doubt he could have made it out,” Crispina concluded. “What I am saying is that not everything depends on brute strength: you are intelligent, I know you are, you could have gotten out of that situation without having to wield a sword… Besides, I believe there are many forms of courage.”

Commodus said nothing but continued to watch as the girl carried on with her task, the needle’s pricks now a distant annoyance. He had never thought of it that way, but he believed there was truth in Crispina’s words and found an unexpected comfort in them. Marcus Aurelius was trying to mold him into a scholar confined to a library, something he wasn’t, but there were other ways to show his ingenuity and cunning.

“See, it was not so bad?” Crispina said, cutting the thread after securing the last stitch. “It was not a very deep wound, thankfully. Try to rest tonight; tomorrow I will bring you a cane to help you walk.”

Commodus began to worry at the thought of the girl leaving him alone in this room that brought him such bitter memories and that would only worsen as the flames dancing in the oil burned out. But the mention of the cane was even worse.

“No way am I going outside limping like an old cripple…” the emperor’s son snapped.

The words that escaped his lips sounded harsh even to his own ears, and he regretted it, as Crispina had been attentive and patient with him. The young girl, who had already gotten up and was starting to push some rebellious strands of hair from her forehead, fixed her brown gaze on him. For a moment, he feared he had offended her, that she would leave the room as silently as she had entered, but she did none of that.

Crispina touched her chin, weighing her words. Commodus had expected her to tell him it wasn’t so bad and was grateful she didn’t. Her blonde eyebrows remained furrowed in a gesture of concentration that faded as the glimmer of an idea appeared in her brown eyes, making her break into a satisfied smile.

“Well, forget the cane,” Crispina began, sitting for a moment on the edge of his bed. “Tomorrow you can take my arm if you wish and lean on me. We will take a walk together through the rose gardens, the ones I have been so insistent on showing you that all you have managed to say is yes. You will not be a cripple, but a young man of education and grace who pleases his hostess.”

It was an idea.

It was a very good idea.

Such an image would help to redeem the poor impression he had made the previous afternoon due to Quintius and, above all, Maximus. Besides, of all that Gaius Bruttius Praesens could offer him, nothing interested him more than Crispina’s company until the visit ended.

She, after all, seemed to understand him.

He managed a nod, prompting a new satisfied smile from Crispina, who leaned carefully toward him, running her hand through his dark hair.

“See, the swelling seems to have gone down: tomorrow you will feel much better,” the girl murmured, then glanced at the nearest oil lamp. “Do not worry about the dark; the flames will last well until dawn, but you must promise me you will try to get some sleep.”

He wanted to assure her that he promised, but he found that his pride held his lips back. He watched as Crispina ran her hand over her face, trying to dispel her sleepiness, and prepared to leave the room.

“Crispina…”

The girl turned her face over her shoulder, questioning with her gaze.

“Thank you,” the emperor’s son finally said.

It wasn’t a word he was used to saying, but he was glad it had escaped his lips as he saw the soft smile appear on Crispina’s face.

“You do not need to thank me…” she replied, pulling aside the curtain that hung from the doorframe. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Commodus responded, though he wasn’t sure she heard him as she had already left the room.

Maybe his father hadn’t been entirely wrong in accompanying Quintius to his parents’ house. The emperor’s son, just before falling asleep, was surprised to find himself thinking about how much he had enjoyed seeing Crispina again after two years and realizing that, despite how different she seemed, she was still that childhood friend wrapped in her stories and roses.

Chapter Text

Saturnalia had always been his favorite festival.

Marcus Aurelius was a man little inclined to the lavish celebrations so common under the rule of other emperors, something his son Commodus regretted. He would often close his eyes and fantasize about that other Rome, the one where rose petals and colorful ribbons danced in the air before resting on the sands of the Colosseum, increasingly stained with blood and vibrating with the roar of the crowd in the stands.

That Rome, which Marcus Aurelius had relegated to memory, came alive again during Saturnalia. The entire capital of the empire was flooded with music, wine, costumes, and all the pleasures a man could dream of. Since leaving childhood behind, Commodus had taken part in those celebrations where the night seemed endless, hidden from prying eyes thanks to his favorite costume.

No story about the great heroes of the past had fascinated him as much as that of Hercules, a demigod who performed incredible feats and was revered for it. In him, Commodus saw the glory he so longed for himself, and so the costume he wore during Saturnalia represented that hero. With a leather breastplate that reflected the demigod's feats over his tunic and the authentic lion skin cape brought from Africa, Commodus felt the world was made for him and gave himself over to everything a few gold coins could offer.

It had been at the end of the festivities, on the morning of the day when they would reach their peak, that his father had summoned him. It was strange for Marcus Aurelius to remain in Rome so long between campaigns, but Commodus believed that his father found it harder to part with his volumes of science and philosophy than with his own family.

Even though his father did not turn to him when he heard him enter the library, the nineteen-year-old stood tall, trying to show his best posture. Sitting at an oak table, Marcus Aurelius continued to glide the quill over the parchment for what seemed an eternity to his son, until he finally turned towards him, letting out a sigh filled equally with weariness and disappointment.

In the emperor’s gray eyes, Commodus read a silent reproach that struck him like the worst of illnesses.

In the commanding voice of one accustomed to giving orders, his father informed him that he would not be celebrating that final night of festivities in Rome, saying that he knew well enough that Commodus had already had his share of fun. Commodus felt his cheeks burn and his muscles tense in pure indignation: he hadn’t done anything that most young men didn’t do during Saturnalia. He wondered which one of the immaculate senators he had encountered in those places — where neither wine nor women were lacking, nor young boys for those with such preferences — had tattled, all the while knowing they were likely rewarded with praise for betraying his most intimate secrets to his father.

He was being banished once again, as had happened on other occasions.

And once again to the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens.

He blinked to dispel the irritation in his green eyes when Marcus Aurelius informed him that Lucilla would not be accompanying him, as her place was in Rome with her husband and son. He remembered how his sister had assured him that her love for him would not be affected by the presence of a husband, but that didn’t mean Commodus had stopped seeing that useless Lucius Verus for what he truly was.

An intruder in their lives.

Not even the arrival of his nephew into the world had diminished the animosity he felt toward his brother-in-law, a man who was fortunate in ways he could never imagine.

This was how he found himself once again at the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens, accompanied on the journey by a messenger who had to deliver a letter to their host. The presence of that starving wretch had irritated him the entire trip: why couldn’t he deliver the message himself? Why was he still being treated as if he were a child?

Or worse yet: someone unworthy of trust.

Commodus clenched his teeth at the memory and drained the cup of wine he held in his hand, glancing around. At least a dozen oak tables covered with white linen cloths and more delicacies than he had expected dotted the grounds surrounding his host’s house. Although night had long since claimed the sky, the torches and bonfires spread throughout the estate defied the darkness, outlining the shapes of the olive trees and casting silver glints on the water of the fountains.

Even the marble statues dedicated to various deities seemed to be sharing secrets amongst themselves, taking advantage of the interplay of light and shadow created by the fire.

Although it could never compare to the crowds of Rome, the truth was that the celebrations at the villa of the former senator were more attended than he had anticipated. People around him came and went, wrapped in their costumes, laughing, singing, and refilling their wine cups in a loop that seemed never-ending. He would be lying if he said that this whirlwind brought him any pleasure; on the contrary, he felt a sense of secondhand embarrassment seeing how these slaves and laborers believed the world was at their feet, even if just for one night.

He was sure that if the customs of Saturnalia didn’t allow slaves to live falsely as free men during the festivities, he wouldn’t be having such trouble spotting Bruttia Crispina.

He checked that the contents of the pouch he carried were intact and raised his head again above the crowd, trying to find the blonde-haired girl. It had been the thought of her name that had brought him some relief after learning of the punishment his father had imposed on him. After what happened with Quintius on one of his last visits, Commodus had stubbornly clung to the idea that Crispina, who had turned sixteen the previous summer, was the only one in that family worth his attention.

“Io, Saturnalia!” bellowed the proclaimed king of the festivities, standing atop an almost empty table.

The typical Saturnalia greeting was met with laughter and applause from those gathered, and with a silent look of displeasure from Commodus. The idea of the world turning upside down during the festival had its charm: men could dress as women, women as men, gifts with little material value showed the most affection...

But the idea of proclaiming a slave as the king of the celebration, whose every order had to be followed without consequence…

Commodus let out a snort and stood up, dodging a man dressed as Aphrodite who had just stumbled into a nearby wine barrel. He checked to make sure the lion skin that served as the cape for his Hercules costume hadn’t gotten stained, then began walking through the grounds, eager to turn his back on a celebration that combined the worst aspects of those in Rome without offering even half the pleasure.

Or perhaps he had spoken too soon.

A group of girls dressed as nymphs ran past him, carrying long garlands of flowers in their hands. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that the dark curls trailing behind one of them looked very much like Lucilla’s. Commodus slowed his pace, watching her closely, trying to discern if her mask revealed eyes as blue as his sister’s.

But it was a detail he was willing to overlook: he had shared a bed with women who, while not as beautiful as Lucilla, were similar enough for him to abandon himself to the fantasy of making her his.

The memory of his father’s disappointed gaze cooled his spirits, causing the young man to grimace: he had to watch his steps, for it would be much more difficult to hide his secrets at the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens.

If not impossible.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to look away from the young women, making his feet move in any direction that would take him farther from there. He had barely taken a few steps when he felt a weight fall on his back, hands covering his eyes, and his heart skipped a beat.

He was about to reach for the small gladius he carried, his blood boiling at the thought that one of those drunken slaves had dared to lay a hand on him, but then he heard that voice next to his ear.

“I was starting to think the rumors about your arrival were just that: rumors…”

If it hadn’t been her voice, the scent that always seemed to follow her would have given her away: the smell of damp earth and the perfume of roses. Commodus pulled her hands away from his eyes, turning to finally find before him the one thing that promised to make these Saturnalia celebrations bearable.

“Crispina,” Commodus murmured, feeling the balm of her presence. “Can you tell me what exactly are you dressed as?”

The young woman, who wore a green silk mask decorated with olive leaves, laughed, tossing her head back and letting the emperor’s son raise one of the hands still joined to his to spin her around. He did so carefully, taking his time to better observe not just her outfit, but also the magic that the years had worked on her.

Crispina wore her blonde hair braided with golden threads that mimicked vines, tied in such a way that, from afar, he might have mistaken her for a boy. Her green linen tunic, with wide sleeves reaching her elbows and embroidered with vines and leaves that wrapped around her body, was also the length typically worn by men, stopping at the knee.

A slight blush now crept up his cheeks, and he knew it had nothing to do with the cold night air. The girl standing before him seemed both familiar and completely unknown: little remained of the child who had first spoken to him about that Greek myth in her father’s library. Now he faced a young woman who surely turned many heads as she passed by. And he had to admit, the outfit suited her well, revealing legs that...

“Has my costume outwitted you?” Crispina asked, bringing his gaze back to her eyes. “I cannot believe it.”

“Careful,” the emperor’s son warned, catching her as she lost her balance, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “Are you supposed to be Proserpina?”

The young woman rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“How could you not know, Commodus?” she complained. “I am Orpheus, my soul is bound to nature, and I wander the underworld searching for my wife, Eurydice.”

She pronounced the words with such mock severity and formality that Commodus couldn’t help but let a half-smile spread across his lips.

“Where is your lyre then? You cannot be Orpheus without a lyre.”

“I must have left it somewhere around here,” she murmured, waving her hand dismissively. “Now, I am going to guess what you are.”

Commodus was surprised when Crispina took another unsteady step forward, bringing herself even closer to him, forcing her hands to rest on his breastplate to keep her balance. The strangeness of the gesture faded as he felt the girl’s delicate hands trace the figures etched into the leather: her fingers were fine and graceful.

For the first time, he wished the armor was made of something more fragile.

“The Twelve Labors of Hercules,” the girl nodded, pointing at the relief of the image depicting the demigod taming the Cretan bull. “It is a beautiful breastplate and… by all the gods, is it real?”

Crispina’s attention was now on the lion skin Commodus wore draped over his back like a cape. He watched her cautiously: there was something strange in her behavior, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. His pride in what was one of his most prized possessions won out, and he turned slightly so that the girl could get a better look.

The daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens didn’t seem as enthusiastic this time. She hesitated before stroking the fur, testing its firmness.

“It was a gift from the consul of Africa to my father,” Commodus told her. “I would have preferred if it came with the head, so I could wear the jaw over my hair, just like Hercules himself.”

Crispina’s lips trembled as she nodded to herself.

“I am relieved he forgot it. I would have felt too sorry for the animal and would not have been able to appreciate its beauty in the same way.”

Her voice was almost mournful now, a far cry from the excitement that had filled her words just moments earlier. The young woman sighed and brought a hand to her forehead, lowering her head as her knees buckled again. Commodus quickly held her up as she muttered a clumsy apology, resting her cheek against his breastplate. Alarmed, the young man took the opportunity to untie the ribbon of her mask, letting it fall to the ground without her seeming particularly aware of it.

He gently pushed her back by the shoulders and lifted her chin until their eyes met. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, but he couldn’t miss the odd flush now accompanying the golden tears on her cheeks, nor the scent of wine escaping her lips.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” Commodus asked, barely able to believe he was asking the question.

“Io, Saturnalia!” bellowed a man out of nowhere, raising a cup of wine. He stumbled past them, pushing the girl as he passed, causing her to lose her balance again.

“I asked you a question, Crispina,” the son of Marcus Aurelius insisted, though he thought he already knew the answer.

He couldn’t believe what he saw in the way Crispina avoided his gaze, a gesture he had seen many times during the Saturnalia festivals, but which he found hard to accept in the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens. Young, unmarried girls were not allowed to drink during the celebrations, for it opened the door to men taking advantage of them, thus ruining their honor and reputation.

If that happened, only the girls would be blamed for allowing such a situation to arise.

“Leave me alone,” she protested, trying to walk away.

Commodus held her tighter, still searching for her gaze. He was hurting her, judging by the way she pressed her lips together, so he forced himself to loosen his grip, despite the anger he felt telling him to do the opposite.

“Crispina,” Commodus spoke with a hard edge in his voice. “How could you be so foolish? And wandering around by yourself…”

“It is Saturnalia!” she snapped, pulling away from him. “Do not tell me you have never had a little fun during Saturnalia…”

He watched her stagger over to a nearby fountain, where she collapsed onto the stone edge. Commodus looked around: everyone seemed too caught up in their own affairs to pay attention to the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens, but still, he felt the need to make sure no one noticed what was happening.

“Crispina,” Commodus called as he sat down beside her.

“Your hair is longer than the last time I saw you,” she murmured, running her hand through his hair. “Look, you have got curls, just like Hercules in the statues…”

“It was not very wise of you to overindulge in wine, Crispina,” the young man said, moving just far enough to be out of her reach. “You know as well as I do that you should not even be tasting it until you are married.”

The daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens shrugged, her head bowed.

“I just wanted to stop thinking for a while…”

Crispina’s confession took him by surprise. What could possibly trouble a girl like her, coming from such a well-positioned family, with everything she could ever want? Commodus kept watching her sad expression, so out of character for her, when he realized the fallacy in his own thoughts. The same could be said of him by anyone looking at his life from the outside, and yet…

“Citizens!”

Both of them turned to see the proclaimed king of Saturnalia, crowned with laurel leaves, his face flushed from too much wine, being hoisted onto the shoulders of a group that cheered his name, drawing the attention of all the nearby revelers.

“Io, Saturnalia!” shouted the king of the festival, once again greeted with cheers from his subjects. “The gods bless this night of wine, song, and beautiful women. There is even time for apparitions! But I am not talking about ghosts, my friends, no… tonight, we have in our midst the children of gods! Look over there by the fountain: none other than Hercules and Orpheus! What poet would not give an arm to overhear their confidences under the cover of night? Let us drink to them!”

Commodus’s face tensed as he glared at the slave, drunk on the power of a single night. Beside him, Crispina smiled faintly, still too dazed for the words of the Saturnalia king to be more than a distant echo. A group of young men approached the man on the shoulders, laughing as they handed him another cup of wine, much of which he spilled on those carrying him.

“What a wonderful night, my friends!” the slave laughed, emptying the new cup of wine in just a few gulps. Commodus thought he would turn his attention to something else, but to his displeasure, the man’s drunken gaze landed back on them. “But look! It seems the roles have reversed! The warrior dresses like a poet, and the poet, on the other hand, looks ready for battle. Who would have guessed such firm legs on someone who spends their time strumming a lyre under the sun!”

The insolence of the Saturnalia king made Commodus’s cheeks burn, and he clenched his teeth in a surge of anger that drove him to his feet.

“How dare he…” the young man muttered, ready to confront him.

“Commodus” Crispina called him, clumsily tugging at his cloak. “They are just words.”

“Or perhaps our poet has been preparing to cross the River Styx in search of his beloved Eurydice, oh, love!”

The laughter around them grew louder and more unbearable. Commodus had always enjoyed such jests during the Saturnalia, but this celebration in Volceii was becoming even more intolerable than he had anticipated. He wondered what kind of treatment Caius Bruttius Praesens gave his slaves to make them feel free to behave like this, even during the Saturnalia.

“It seems that our beloved Orpheus is afraid of the water, too scared to cross it and fulfill his destiny” the slave crowned with laurel leaves sang mockingly. “Subjects! Into the water with Orpheus!”

Commodus barely had time to understand, let alone prevent, what happened next. The group of young men who had gathered to listen to the nonsensical ramblings of the Saturnalia king howled with glee and immediately charged toward them, knocking him down to the ground.

By the time he managed to get back on his feet amidst the crowd, frenzied by wine, Crispina was nowhere in sight.

But he could hear her scream.

His heart skipped a beat, and a bitter sensation rose in his throat as he tried to push through the crowd that had formed a small human wall between him and Crispina. The laughter of those around him deafened his ears, and he heard them start a countdown that ended with a final scream from Crispina and a loud splash.

The crowd erupted in applause, celebrating the fulfillment of the Saturnalia king's order, and Commodus finally broke through. Crispina was trying to stand but without much success, her hands slipping on the mosaic tiles decorating the bottom of the fountain. Her hair had come undone, now soaked and tangled, falling down her back and shoulders.

Commodus cursed under his breath as he jumped into the fountain, gritting his teeth when the icy water, which reached his knees, hit him.

“Come on, get up” he said, wading through the water toward Crispina and taking her by the elbows. “You are going to catch a cold.”

Helping her to her feet was easier than he expected, as the young woman clung to him as if he had been sent from the heavens. Despite the cold that made her teeth chatter and her body shiver with every breath, Crispina looked around, trying to cover herself with her arms as she noticed some people pointing at her.

It only took a glance for Commodus to realize that her wet costume now revealed a figure he had only imagined before. Who knew if some of those brutes had taken advantage of the situation to touch her inappropriately? A blush of rage rose to his cheeks, making him tremble. He quickly unfastened his cape and wrapped it around Crispina, pulling her close to shield her from the lecherous stares.

“Have you no honor?” the emperor's son snarled at the revelers, who laughed and prepared to continue the festivities elsewhere. Commodus' eyes locked onto one of the first men who had rushed to obey the Saturnalia king's command. “You. Come near her again, and I will make sure you return to your master with one less hand.”

“Come on, it is Saturnalia!” a young man dressed as if he had just left a Gallic barbarian village chimed in. “A little joke never killed anyone, not like the plague that is everywhere on the borders with Germania.”

“Commodus…”

The young man turned to Crispina: her chin was trembling, and he doubted it was only from the cold.

“Help me get out of here, please” she pleaded, her voice breaking.

“Do you want me to take you home? he asked. He wasn’t sure he could sneak her away without anyone noticing until they reached her room, but Crispina shook her head. “Then where?”

“To the sea” she muttered, still shivering. “Please, take me to the sea.”

Chapter Text

Crispina hadn’t made good decisions that night, and Commodus believed that her request to take her to the seashore was just another mistake. They had managed to leave behind the frenzy of the celebrations, yes, but the winter cold was more intense where the waves came to caress the shore before retreating and returning to meet again in an eternal dance. The girl continued trembling against him as they began to walk on the sand, so he tried to cover her better with the lion's cloak and drew her closer to him.

"I am not going to fall," Crispina grumbled.

"I do not think you are going to fall," Commodus murmured, weary, "but you are soaked and shivering. Come, let us go closer to the bonfire."

"No, to the seashore!"

"We are at the seashore, but let us sit by the fire," he repeated with annoyance, using all his patience as he guided her steps.

He thanked the gods that several bonfires had also been set up along the beach. The flames made the piled wood crackle as they danced against the night, casting golden glimmers on the dark surface of the sea and, as the emperor's son could see, on Bruttia Crispina’s wet hair as well.

The girl clumsily separated herself from him, sitting in the amber circle drawn by the firelight on the sand. Crispina huffed as a new wave of shivers shook her, curling up on herself. Commodus’ gaze was lost in the way Crispina's fingers traveled down her legs to untie the soaked straps of her sandals, though the memory of the daring words from the king of Saturnalia left a bitter taste in his throat.

"I still do not understand how you could have been so foolish, what were you thinking?" Commodus blurted out to Crispina, who had wrapped her arms around her legs and was hiding her face between her knees. "That kind of behavior is beneath you, you are the last person I would have expected it from."

The image of Lucilla reclining on her favorite couch came to his mind. It was a picture so powerfully engraved in his memory that he could almost see her before him now. The way she rested her head on her hand, the playful smile on her lips, and the gleam of complicity in her blue eyes as she held a cup of wine, dressed as the goddess Aphrodite. She too had discovered the pleasures of that drink much earlier than allowed during a Saturnalia, but she had known how to disguise it with the mischievous charm that characterized her.

What had seemed like a delightful challenge in Lucilla appeared as clumsy carelessness in Crispina, and it irritated him.

"I did not take you for that kind of careless girl," Commodus murmured, sitting down next to her and letting his eyes wander for a moment toward the sea horizon; at that time of night, he struggled to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. "You will be fortunate if all of this does not reach your father’s ears."

It wasn’t until he heard a pitiful sob that Commodus realized Crispina was crying. He watched her cautiously, the new words of reproach he had been crafting dying on his lips. The girl let out a sigh and lifted her tear-streaked face, holding her forehead in her hand.

A strange feeling overcame the emperor's son. He was still very upset by Crispina's actions, but at the same time, he felt a certain pity seeing her cry. Perhaps he had formed foolish ideas about her, but it had seemed inconceivable to him that a girl like her, so full of light and with a family that loved her so, could cry so bitterly.

The image of a boy who had just lost his mother came to his mind, a boy who had only been able to mourn her in the solitude of his chambers until a certain blond-haired girl had given him the affection and attention his own family had denied him. Marcus Aurelius' son shifted on the sand, moving closer to Crispina and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

At his touch, the young woman began to cry harder and curled up against him, seeking refuge in his chest. Commodus clenched his jaw at the feel of Crispina's wet clothes and her numb skin against his: the green tunic she wore clung to her like a second skin, preventing her from getting warm.

"I have shamed my poor father in his own home," she lamented between new sobs that shook her shoulders. "The shadow of dishonor now weighs upon me."

"I do not think dishonor is something that can ever touch you," Commodus finally said, adjusting the lion’s skin over Crispina’s shoulders. "I know you are the object of your father’s and brother’s adoration."

A bitter taste filled his mouth as he said those words: he remembered well the pride with which Gaius Bruttius Praesens always spoke of Quintius, and that serene expression of happiness when his eyes rested on Crispina. Both gestures were foreign to him, no matter how hard he tried to provoke them in his own father.

"Forgive me, I did not realize I was still wearing it," Crispina spoke, lifting her face and starting to remove the cloak from her shoulders. "You can take it back: no one will recognize you as Hercules if you return to the celebrations without the Nemean lion."

"Keep it," he replied, adjusting the garment back over the girl's shoulders. "I am not going back: Saturnalia is over for me."

He remained silent despite Crispina’s curious gaze on him. The girl rested her head against his chest again, curling up against him. Commodus felt a warm sensation wash over him and hesitated before resting his cheek on the girl’s wet hair, watching as the waves foamed against the darkness of the night.

Without moving away from his side, Crispina grabbed a handful of sand in her hands, letting it slip through her fingers until it fell back onto the beach.

"I have remembered something," the senator’s daughter murmured. "Even here by the sea, I cannot stop thinking about it..."

"What torments you, Crispina?" Commodus asked.

“There is something Maximus Decimus Meridius advised my brother,” the girl began to explain, unaware of the flame of resentment that ignited in her companion. "He told him that, no matter where he fought, he should always take some earth from the place and carefully pass it through his hands: that way, he would build a barrier against sweat, making it much harder for his sword to slip."

The emperor’s son looked away from the girl’s hands, indignant: why did she have to mention that Spaniard? He felt renewed shame as his gaze fell on the scar left from their last encounter, and he tried to hide it by bending his legs, but all he did was draw Crispina’s attention.

"The scar remains, but do not worry," the girl said, looking at the old wound. "You can wear it with the pride of a medal: soldiers long for wounds they can weave stories around when they return from the battlefield."

"It is not the only scar he left on my family," Commodus said with frustration.

Crispina raised her face toward him, looking at him with those large brown eyes that seemed to read him like few others did.

"Lucilla, right?" Crispina said, causing the emperor's son to look at her in alarm. "Do not worry, your sister told me everything that afternoon."

He could barely believe it: he had always thought Lucilla's extravagant infatuation with the Spaniard soldier was a well-guarded secret, one he feared might come to light. Yet, he felt a strange relief realizing he could speak freely with Crispina about what had happened back then.

"Were you surprised?" Commodus asked, recalling the long, sleepless nights when he could think of nothing else but his sister in Maximus’ arms.

"I admired her," Crispina replied, causing Commodus’ shoulders to tense with anger.

"For giving her affections to a man like him?"

His young friend sighed, perhaps sensing his change in mood.

"Commodus," the girl said, sitting up a little. "Lucilla knows, just as I do, that our fates are tied to our parents' wishes. Mine has always urged me to limit my affections to what he consents to, so I admired your sister for ignoring all that and following what her heart dictated."

"It did not dictate very wise decisions. She could have become nothing more than gossip whispered from ear to ear, even beyond Rome’s walls."

Commodus remembered very well how it had all ended. Lucilla had always been his most loyal companion, never keeping secrets from him—until her blue eyes had settled on Maximus Decimus Meridius. She had hidden her affair with him just as she had hidden her tears when it all ended, turning the memory of that relationship into her most precious possession.

One she wasn’t willing to share with him.

It pained him, making him wonder if perhaps she didn’t love him as much as he loved her.

"I doubt Lucilla ever acted in a way that would turn her into mere gossip, Commodus," Crispina said, making the emperor’s son’s cheeks flush despite the cold. "Your sister has always been a beautiful woman, aware of her charm, but also intelligent and sensible: when I was a child, I wanted to be just like her. We were all thrilled by the news of her marriage to Lucius Verus, and by the birth of her son."

The tension caused by speaking of Maximus began to fade when Crispina mentioned his nephew, little Lucius, and a rebellious smile spread across his face. When Lucilla told him she was expecting a child, he had forced himself to feign joy, all the while struggling to contain the fury he felt toward his brother-in-law for stealing the future Commodus had always considered his own.

He had felt sick imagining Lucius in bed with Lucilla, a feeling that only intensified when he saw the tears of joy on his father's face upon hearing the news that he was to be a grandfather. He began to suspect that he would never be able to inspire that same pride and endless joy in his family.

Then he had seen little Lucius Verus, and everything had changed.

"Your expression gives you away, Commodus," Crispina murmured with a playful smile, pulling him back to the present. "Even a blind man could tell that you adore that child."

"He is so perfect," Marcus Aurelius's son said, remembering how Lucilla had told him that the boy looked just like him when he was little, inviting him to imagine that Lucius was his son, not Lucius Verus’. "He sleeps with the peace of someone who knows they are loved, but..."

"But?"

"They will not let me spend as much time with him as I would like," Commodus admitted. Lucilla kept insisting that the boy was too young to be away from her for long, but he knew there was more behind such a worn-out excuse, something he could sense in his sister's conciliatory gaze. "They do not think I can take care of anyone."

It pained him to say those words because he knew there was truth in them. He saw the hesitation in his father’s eyes, no matter how much he denied it, whenever Commodus insisted on spending more time with the boy. Yes, maybe Lucius was too young to hear stories of heroes and gods or to play with wooden swords, but Commodus wanted to be a good uncle to him.

To be the loving father figure he had wished for himself.

He feared Crispina might try to tell him he was wrong, offering the same empty words of comfort his family always did.

But she didn’t do any of that.

"You are taking care of me tonight," the girl whispered, as if confessing a secret. "You noticed something was wrong and stayed by my side the whole time, even if it meant ruining your costume or missing the rest of the party. You are capable of caring for someone, Commodus. You are good at it, even if that person has had enough to drink to make it difficult."

A laugh escaped from Commodus, something he had thought impossible moments before, as his green eyes locked with Crispina’s brown ones. He felt relief seeing that the effects of the wine were lighter now on his friend and that they could have a conversation like this. The daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens was a special young woman, someone who had always offered him genuine affection and comfort.

"Will you not tell me what you were so desperate to forget?" the emperor’s son asked.

Sadness once again took over Crispina’s face, and Commodus regretted having asked the question. Her lips trembled, and her brown eyes filled with tears, so much that she had to take a deep breath before she could continue speaking.

"I am so scared," she finally admitted. "We have not had any news from Quintius for a long time. My father insists that it is normal, but I cannot help feeling uneasy: I think he might be hurt, sick, or…"

The girl pressed her lips together, shaking her head as though her fears were too terrible to speak aloud. Commodus watched as fresh tears rolled down his friend’s cheeks. He hated that Quintius, the fool, caused such sadness in his younger sister, enough that she sought to forget it by drinking too much wine.

"Quintius is surely fine," Commodus forced himself to say. "There is no reason anything has happened to him. Often, soldiers fighting at the borders of the empire rely on others returning home or travelers heading to Rome to send their letters. These are difficult times, and I imagine it’s not always easy to find either."

"Is that true?" Crispina asked, barely holding back her tears. "I have heard rumors of a great plague."

"Do not believe everything the rumors say, Crispina," Commodus murmured, bitterly recalling how quickly rumors spread through Rome and the look of disappointment on his father’s face. "You would be surprised at the vile things the common people love to share during idle times."

The girl sniffled and remained silent, still unconvinced. Marcus Aurelius’ son considered his options with some unease: his position gave him ways to find out the whereabouts of a particular battalion or a specific soldier serving in it. He knew it would be a nuisance to get involved in the paperwork, but through it, he could contact some military officers.

That way, his father might see him taking on responsibilities.

"Perhaps I can find out where Quintius is right now if it would bring you the peace that’s eluding you."

"Would you do that?" Crispina asked, her voice barely a breath. "Would you really do that?"

Commodus felt a fresh blush rise to his cheeks as he saw in her brown eyes a powerful sense of relief, one so strong that he couldn’t help but be moved by it—especially knowing that his words had caused such a change. The easy promises, so often spoken but not so easily kept, died on his lips under Crispina’s gaze.

"I swear it," Commodus said with a sincerity that surprised even himself. "I will write to you as soon as I know his whereabouts, if that is what you wish."

"I do," Crispina quickly replied, nodding her head. The tears had left her brown eyes, and he hoped he would never have to see them there again. "I will never be able to thank you enough."

Words seemed to slip away between the two of them on that Saturnalia night by the sea, as the emperor’s son felt something similar. With her so close, his green eyes couldn’t stop wandering over Crispina’s face, as though she wasn’t the girl he had known since he was ten years old. And, in a way, she wasn’t: he had never seen her the way he saw her now.

He cursed those who had insulted her because he wished he could have looked at her longer, adorned in her Saturnalia finery. Her rounded face had sharpened a little with adolescence, sculpting features that stirred tenderness and longing in him, while still retaining her freckles. He had always admired the warmth in her brown eyes, so different from Lucilla’s. He felt the temptation to brush more of her damp hair from her face just to observe her more closely.

And her lips…

Commodus stifled a sigh of desire and forced himself to look away, grateful that Crispina was gazing out at the sea at that moment. What was he doing? His father had sent him to Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ villa as punishment for what he considered immoral actions during Saturnalia; he couldn’t give him more reasons to despise him in the senator’s house.

At least Crispina seemed more at ease now. Unaware of his thoughts, the girl sighed and took the hand Commodus had resting on his knee. The young man felt his breath catch as she brought it to her lips, kissing it gently. He had seen many times how senators and generals kissed the emperor’s hand as a sign of loyalty and respect that went beyond life and death.

But all Commodus could think about at that moment was how much he wished to feel that fervor on his lips and not on his hand.

"You are your father’s worthy son, Commodus," Crispina murmured, turning her face toward him. "He must be very proud of you."

There was no malice in her words, but they still hurt him more than any sharper remark could have. A frown of displeasure crossed the young man’s face, puzzling his host’s daughter. He had barely spoken to Crispina about his relationship with his father, only about how much he longed to please him.

But perhaps tonight was the right time to confess his secrets.

"I will never be good enough for my father," Commodus finally admitted, releasing words that had been trapped inside him for years. "I try, the gods know I try because I pray to all of them. Desperately. I wait for a kind word, an affectionate gesture… But I know I am not the warrior he wanted, nor the scholar he dreamed of. Once…"

The young man paused, biting the inside of his cheek before continuing.

"Once, during one of his military campaigns, he sent me a letter to Rome. I rushed to read it because I had been waiting for weeks, hoping he would respond to the results of my latest lessons. I expected some words of genuine pride, some acknowledgment of all my effort… But all I received were some of his philosophical reflections."

"What did he say?" the girl asked with interest.

"He spoke to me about what he calls 'the four great virtues,' those that every man of worth must hold within him," Commodus recalled, with a hint of sarcasm. "Wisdom, justice, fortitude, and temperance. I felt each one of them accusing me because I know I possess none of them, just as he knows."

"Commodus…" Crispina murmured.

"Do not try to comfort me; you know as well as I do that none of them truly belong to me," the emperor’s son replied brusquely. "You know me well… I do not have any of them."

A silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the waves and the crackling of the fire. Commodus felt his chin tremble, once again wounded by his father’s words, prepared for Crispina to try to cheer him up with empty words—false reassurances that his father was surely proud of him, words that would leave him feeling alone and misunderstood in his pain, something he was used to.

"Prove him wrong."

Crispina’s words surprised him, making him turn his face back to her.

"Fathers can sometimes be cruel without realizing it," she began, "mine too. My father always says Quintius is his pride and I am his joy. My brother has been away so long that now I am responsible for both feelings, and it can become a heavy burden. Commodus, maybe you do not have the skills your father values so much, but he would be mistaken if he did not see the ones you do have—those that make you who you are."

"And who am I, Bruttia Crispina?" Commodus asked mockingly.

"You have ambition; you have never stopped trying to improve and earn your father’s pride, which is more than many can say," Crispina spoke with conviction, wanting to show him how much she believed in her own words. "I told you when I stitched your wound—you are clever and do not need brute force to solve a problem, and I also told you there are many forms of courage. And the gods know how much you love your father, your sister, your nephew… Do you think none of those virtues matter?"

The only thing Commodus could think in that moment was how impossible it was for him to stop looking at Crispina, not even for a second. His heart was clenched, his spirit moved.

"Maybe you are not what he dreams of, but you are worthy in ways he cannot even imagine," Crispina affirmed.

The young man blinked, speechless at her words. He hadn’t expected them to soothe his open wound the way they had. Crispina had brought peace to his spirit, and he wondered if he had ever felt such strange tenderness for anyone as he did now for her.

A pained expression crossed Crispina’s face, and she closed her eyes, bringing a hand to her forehead. To Commodus’ surprise, she let herself fall back onto the sand.

"Is it normal for my head to hurt this much?" she complained.

Commodus smiled faintly and shook his head. The night was growing darker and colder, and it would be wise to escort Crispina home soon.

But not without giving her his Saturnalia gift.

The young man reached into the satchel he had brought with him and pulled out a yellow-hued rose, which he had cut that very morning from the palace gardens.

"Crispina…" Commodus called, lying down beside her on the sand.

"Hmm?" she murmured, still with her eyes closed and her hand on her forehead.

"Happy Saturnalia."

A look of confusion crossed the girl’s face before she turned toward him. Commodus smirked as he saw surprise take over Crispina when she opened her eyes.

"I told you that in the imperial palace gardens, roses of this golden hue grow," he reminded her as his friend delicately took the rose, as if afraid of breaking it. "When we first met, remember?"

Crispina gently stroked the golden petals, twirling the stem between her fingers. Commodus watched with satisfaction as she brought the flower to her face, inhaling its scent, while her eyes sparkled with quiet wonder.

She, too, had been rendered speechless by beauty that night.

The girl looked up at him, as if she had just woken from a dream, her pink lips searching for words that were hard to say.

"I have nothing to give you," Crispina murmured, embarrassed. "What could I give you in return for a rose?"

"A kiss?"

The words slipped from Commodus’ lips before he could stop them, but he didn’t regret saying them. On the contrary, he felt his heart pounding, urging him to continue, to appear confident. Crispina seemed bewildered and repeated Commodus’ question, as if trying to understand its meaning.

Then, the emperor’s son noticed how the girl’s brown eyes rested on his lips, and for a few seconds he wished to turn into eternity, unable to think of anything but the blush of her cheeks, the scent of roses, and what the touch of her lips on his might feel like.

"Crispina," Commodus sighed, leaning toward her and brushing a strand of her golden hair aside.

He could barely think clearly now as he caressed her cheek, drawing her closer, but the scent of wine still escaping from her lips made him hesitate.

He couldn’t do it.

He observed Crispina, who kept her eyes closed, trying to soothe the headache from too much drinking, barely aware of what was happening. It wasn’t something that would have stopped him in other Saturnalias, with many other women, but Crispina was…

He was still trying to unravel the endearing mystery that was his earliest friend.

"Come on, Crispina," Commodus murmured, reluctantly pulling away from her and standing up. "Your father will be wondering where you are, and you should have been in bed long ago."

A groan of pain escaped Crispina’s lips in response.

"Come on," the young man said as he took her by the elbows, helping her to her feet. "You do not want to get home covered in sand, do you?"

It was then, as Crispina leaned clumsily on him, that the emperor’s son noticed a curious figure nearby. The alarm he felt at the thought of how much those eyes might have seen dissipated when he realized it was only a slave in the service of Gaius Bruttius Praesens. No matter how much this woman had spruced herself up for the festivities—those in which they were led to believe they were on par with their masters—Commodus could recognize people of her station instantly.

"Slave!" Commodus called, motioning for her to come closer. The woman, fearful, obeyed at once. "Escort your lady back to her father’s house. Make sure she gets a hot bath and clean clothes before bed. There is no need for your master to see her like this, am I clear or should I repeat myself?"

"Yes, my lord; no, my lord," the woman hastily replied, rushing to meet Crispina and supporting her by the waist. "Come, my lady. We will enter through the west gate."

Commodus hadn’t expected the sense of relief he felt as he watched Crispina nod and allow herself to be guided by the slave, leaning on her. The young man glanced up at the night sky and the stars that had been accomplices to their secrets: that powerful shade of blue reminded him of Lucilla’s eyes, and a wave of joy washed over him at the thought of seeing her soon.

But he also remembered how his lips had betrayed him, asking Crispina for a kiss in exchange for a rose.

He turned his gaze back to his friend, who was leaving the beach with the slave, and felt moved as he saw Crispina protect the rose he had given her, pressing it to her chest. The emperor’s son was used to reacting poorly when those he gave gifts to during Saturnalia had nothing to offer in return, but he realized it didn’t matter to him in the case of Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ daughter.

She had given him so much that night, something to hold on to when melancholy overtook him.

And if all that failed, he could still remember that final glance Crispina gave him over the arm of her slave.

And the shy smile that accompanied it.

Chapter Text

Crispina pressed her lips together as the slave combing her long blonde hair tugged once again. She noticed how the woman held her breath as she pulled the brush away from her mistress's head.

“I am so sorry!” the woman assured, her anguished expression reflected in the mirror before them both. “Did I hurt you too much?”

The young girl, about to celebrate her seventeenth birthday, forced a smile and shook her head.

The slave stifled a sigh of relief as best as she could, apologizing once more while scolding herself for her clumsiness and promising that she would finish the crown of braids quickly so that her mistress could enjoy her day at the beach. Crispina nodded as the woman began to pass the bone comb through her hair again, this time with great care.

It was strange how a night of memories, both confusing and elusive, had so drastically altered her fortune, casting her father's villa into a realm where silences and sidelong glances reigned supreme.

She did remember certain details from that Saturnalia night: Commodus’ presence stood out as clear as day above the other fragments. She remembered crying in front of him, embarrassed for having indulged too much in wine, and how, instead of judging her as harshly as she judged herself, he had comforted her and stayed with her until the end of the night, the point where her memories blurred.

She smiled slightly at the thought of her earliest friend’s sad words about his family’s opinion of him—that he couldn’t take care of anyone. There might have been a time when she, too, would have agreed, seeing him as a sullen child who scorned his hosts' hospitality. But not now. She felt indebted to him in a way she knew Commodus would never expect to be repaid.

As for everything she had considered family up until that night, though…

The slave averted her gaze as she realized Crispina's brown eyes had met hers in the mirror. She remembered her from that night, at the point where memories felt like they were mixed with dreams. She thought she could still feel the discomfort that overcame her while still with Commodus by the shore, a discomfort so intense that even sitting had become unbearable. The emperor’s son had ordered that woman to escort her home without her father seeing her in that state.

And after that…

All that came to her were mere sensations: the sharp pain in her head, the murmur of the ocean waves, the rough caress of sand beneath her feet. She also recalled the scent of herbs floating in a tub of warm water and how the slaves had helped her shed that cold second skin her clothes had become, submerging her carefully in a bath that brought a nameless peace.

Like a child again, she wanted nothing more than to curl up and drift off under the comfort of the warm water until her headache disappeared.

She also remembered how they poured bowls of water over her blonde hair, washing it with oils and fragrances, making sure it didn’t tangle. Unable to fight the weight of her eyelids or the fire burning in her head, Crispina barely remembered being helped out of the tub, how they dried her naked body and dressed her in the simple linen tunic she wore for sleep.

Somehow, her steps followed one after another, guided by her slaves, while a strange mix of shadows and colors danced behind her closed eyes. What did remain in her memory with unusual clarity was the sense of utter well-being that filled her as they laid her on the soft feather bed in her room.

Crispina clumsily nestled between the sheets as the slaves tucked her in carefully, spreading her blonde hair across the pillow to keep it from tangling during the night. In the hands of one of them lingered the scent of one of the fragrances used for her bath—a familiar perfume that made her think of the color of olive leaves, so like the eyes of…

From her exhausted lips, a name had slipped, though she didn’t remember it now—a name that made the slave’s hands pause for a moment before finishing with the blankets.

Though the events of Saturnalia seemed written in wisps of fog, it wasn’t the same with what happened the next day.

The sun was high in the sky when Crispina’s brown eyes began to open. The young girl raised her hand clumsily, trying to shield her gaze from sunlight that felt more intense than ever. She pressed her forehead against her palm, frowning as she noticed that the headache from the previous night lingered like an echo. Finally, she let out a weary sigh and observed her empty room.

It seemed odd that the slaves hadn’t come to wake her at the usual time, shortly after the rooster crowed. She swallowed, feeling the dryness in her mouth, and slowly sat up from the bed. The touch of her bare feet against the cold marble tiles seemed to bring her back to reality, helping hazy ideas to begin linking together and making sense in her mind.

Saturnalia.

Her Orpheus costume.

The flames of the bonfires.

The emperor's son.

Then, she heard the familiar voice of one of her slaves. She turned to see the woman standing at the doorway: it was the same one who had helped her bathe and prepare for bed the previous night. She might have wondered why she looked so solemn if it hadn’t been for the woman telling her that her father awaited her in the library.

After she had washed her face in cold water, and the slave had helped her dress and comb her hair, the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens made her way to her father’s most treasured room in the villa. She was surprised to find that the discomfort from the previous night seemed left behind in her bedroom. Crispina walked through the column-lined corridors with a steady pace, the winter breeze whispering through the rooms, making her feel more clear-headed and even in better spirits.

Something she would not have believed possible just days before.

Gone were the nights when worry had tormented her, keeping her from sleep, pressing on her chest until she sat up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath. Fear had ripped through her dreams, coloring them in deep darkness, where only cold and distant wastelands lay beyond the empire's borders.

With a single promise, Commodus had restored peace to her spirit.

The emperor's son would find out where Quintius was.

All would be well.

The gentle aroma of scrolls stacked on oak shelves swept over Crispina as soon as she crossed the threshold of the room. She let her brown eyes roam among the columns and frescoes painted on the stone, admiring the tranquility and beauty of a place that still piqued her curiosity as it had when she was a stubborn child.

“Father…” the young woman called when she saw her father leaning over a marble-topped table, carefully gliding his quill across a scroll. “Here I am—what do you want from me?”

As long as she lived, Crispina would never forget how Gaius Bruttius Praesens’s back bent over the letter he was meticulously writing, as if bearing a great weight upon it. Unease gripped her as he looked up, and she saw the grave expression reflected in those light eyes she hadn’t inherited.

Disconcerted, Crispina looked to the slave who was attending her father, hoping to find answers to her father’s strange silence. But the slave avoided her gaze. Thousands of thoughts raced through her mind as her breath faded in her chest. Could it be that they had received news of Quintius?

“Father,” she repeated fearfully, watching him finally straighten and stride toward her.

She had barely parted her lips to form a question she was afraid to voice when Gaius Bruttius Praesens slapped her hard across the cheek, forcing the breath she’d held to escape in a stifled gasp. She had just looked back at her father when he struck her again, equally hard, on the other cheek.

This time, her surprised cry sounded more like a sob, and Crispina covered her freshly stung cheek with her hand, looking at her father with fearful, tearful eyes as he pointed at her with severity.

“Do not cry,” Gaius Bruttius Praesens warned, his face twisted in an expression of cold, contained rage that his daughter did not recognize. “You had better not shed a single tear while you listen to what I have to say.”

There was such firmness in the former senator’s order that Crispina felt the tears dry up in her brown eyes, fearing to provoke her father further. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, trying to swallow the lump in her throat as she kept her gaze fixed on him. His pronounced brows, now streaked with silver, furrowed over his eyes, making his look even harsher.

“Foolish, spoiled girl,” he hissed. “Do not you dare shed a single tear, for the one most wounded by your reckless actions is me. Did you think I would remain ignorant of what goes on in my own house? Of what my own daughter does?”

Crispina remained silent, her heart pounding desperately in her chest.

"I never thought you had so little judgment," murmured Gaius Bruttius Praesens, shaking his head, as though even he couldn’t believe he was chastising her in this way. “Strolling around entranced by wine, letting all my guests witness the shame you brought upon me? Jumping into one of the fountains during my celebrations like a common drunkard?”

The girl struggled to hide the confusion that threatened to cross her face: what was he talking about? She couldn’t deny the first accusation, much as she would have liked to, but she hadn’t jumped into any fountain. She now remembered all the hands that had forcefully grabbed her, some attempting to slip beneath her tunic, and how they had thrown her into the water despite her pleas to be left alone.

By command of the King of Saturnalia.

Crispina’s brown eyes left her father’s face and landed for a moment on that of the slave standing a few steps behind him. She hadn’t noticed him when she entered, but now she recognized him as the one they had crowned as king of the festivities, whose orders were to be obeyed until dawn. His expression was far from jubilant now; instead, he looked upon his master’s daughter with shame and a silent plea in his eyes.

She knew what awaited a man like him if she told the truth about what had happened: a flogging would hardly suffice for one who dared cross such boundaries, even during Saturnalia.

Crispina kept silent and felt the cold dagger of disappointment within her.

“I have nothing left but to thank the gods and offer them the best of my harvests, to give thanks that our guest did not notice your abhorrent behavior… I hope you feel a fraction of the shame you have made me feel, Crispina. Your brother is risking his life beyond the empire’s borders, bringing honor to his family, while you are here doing quite the opposite.”

Though her lips trembled again at the mention of her brother, Crispina swallowed and asked about something that puzzled her.

“Commodus is gone?”

A bitter laugh escaped Gaius Bruttius Praesens as he ran his hand over his face, visibly weary. His daughter thought she now saw in his eyes the genuine sorrow of having to reprimand her, and that hurt her more than a thousand slaps ever could.

“He began his journey back to Rome early this morning,” her father explained. “He was the perfect guest during the festivities, and I will let his father know as much. It was an honor to have him grace us with his presence. He only lamented not seeing you last night, and he asked permission to write to you once he arrives home. I granted his request.”

The ghost of a smile trembled on Crispina’s lips, once again feeling that balm in her soul that the emperor’s son brought. First, it had been his promise to find her brother, and now he protected her, even when the very slaves who had seen her grow up were too cowardly to do so.

Gaius Bruttius Praesens sighed, running a hand over his head, the menacing figure he had assumed to reprimand his daughter dissolving under the weight of worry and shame. When he lifted his face to look at her again, Crispina could see that glint in his eyes, a mixture of how deeply he loved her and how profoundly she had disappointed him.

“You are free to leave now,” murmured the former senator. “Reflect on what I have said.”

It was an isolated experience in a lifetime of fatherly warmth and devotion, yet somehow it brought a strange coldness between father and daughter. One that made their conversations less frequent and more trivial over the days, weeks, even months that followed. Both went about their daily tasks and duties but steeped in a silence that had never defined their home. Every time she looked into her father’s eyes, Crispina saw a kind of sorrow she couldn’t decipher.

She didn’t know if he was still disappointed in her or, perhaps, if he felt that disappointment in himself.

What Crispina did know, as surely as the sun rose in the east every morning, was that everything would change once Quintius returned home.

Every time her brother’s face appeared in her memories, Crispina couldn’t help but smile, full of affection and longing in equal measure. She missed hearing him practice with his sword under her window and the way he’d ruffle her blonde curls—so much like his own—despite her insisting she was no longer a child.

What she had never confessed was that a part of her wanted to remain a child forever so he would keep telling her stories beneath the olive trees, small enough to be carried on his back. In her brother's presence, Crispina found all the warmth that had now left her home.

Quintius could be boastful, something Commodus remembered with bitterness and suspicion, but this was not his most defining trait. He genuinely cared about those around him, and he regretted leaving a poor impression on Commodus, whom he had once mentored in his early childhood.

They could mend their differences when Quintius returned home; Crispina was sure of it.

“My lady, you are ready.”

The slave’s voice brought her back to the present, to that strange summer day, one more day of waiting for her brother’s return. Crispina turned her head from side to side before the mirror, ensuring that not a strand was out of place.

“Has my father required anything of me today?” Crispina asked as she stood, placing the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and holding her lyre beneath her arm. “Is he expecting me at any particular time?”

“No, my lady.”

She had known the answer before the slave gave it, yet she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Crispina nodded and left her room, leaving the maids behind. She only took a deep breath when the afternoon breeze rushed to greet her as she stepped outside.

That soft caress made the wheat fields sway in an endless rhythm, as if they were greeting her with affection. Her spirit felt lighter now as she adjusted the satchel, which held her lunch, and began walking westward, toward the part of her father’s lands that bordered the sea. By the sea, time seemed to stop, and no harm could reach her there; it was why she had asked Commodus to take her there on the night of Saturnalia.

A smile spread across her face as she passed by her rose bushes and saw the small yellow ones, a gift from the emperor's son, still blooming strong and beautiful. She had feared the flowers wouldn’t survive the winter chill, withering before they even had a chance to bloom, so she had covered them with warm earth and dry leaves to protect them from the cold.

She remembered how one of the slaves had remarked, seeing her sitting before the rose bushes on an especially cold day, that she hadn’t shown such devotion to her roses since the day she had been obliged to cut them as a gift for the emperor.

Crispina paused as she noticed something growing among the roses, something she hadn’t seen in previous days. Dropping her satchel to the side, she ran toward her beloved roses, kneeling beside them to examine the small plants she had seen from afar.

They were dandelions.

She often saw them growing among the wheat stalks but never beside her roses. Although she found them delicate and beautiful, she remembered how the slaves would pull them up when they spotted them, saying they competed with nearby plants for water and sunlight. Carefully avoiding the thorns on the rose stems, Crispina reached for the closest dandelion.

She held it before her face for a few moments before gently blowing on it, sending its white seeds floating away on the afternoon breeze. She knew she had to protect her roses, but she couldn’t help feeling a tinge of sadness watching something so beautiful drift away into nothingness.

Once again, Quintius’ memory brightened his sister’s face; he had also told her stories about dandelions.

One summer afternoon not too different from this one, her blond-curled brother had knelt in the middle of the wheat fields, holding a dandelion at Crispina’s eye level when she couldn’t have been more than six years old. He had told her that dandelions were little pieces of cloud that had fallen from the sky and needed help to return home, which could be done by blowing on them. In return, if you made a wish, they would ensure it came true.

Crispina smiled nostalgically as she twirled the tiny stem between her thumb and forefinger. She remembered how, as a child, she had wished for all sorts of childish things from dandelions—dolls, or for her music tutor to fall ill so she wouldn’t have to attend lessons. But now, she knew exactly what she wanted to wish for.

If only, Crispina thought as she watched the dandelion seeds scatter after blowing on them, her brother would come home soon.

Then she remembered something else she had heard about those little plants. She had been talking with other girls during the Saturnalia night, and they had explained how, if you thought of the person you loved before blowing on a dandelion, its seeds would drift in the direction where that person was, proving they returned your love.

The young woman couldn’t help but feel unsettled, wishing the blush forming on her cheeks would fade as quickly as the dandelion seeds had. As if she could see her father’s reproachful gaze before her once more, Crispina lowered her head, trying to stifle the soft fluttering in her stomach that bewildered her whenever that other name came to mind.

The one who spoke to her of the greenness of olive leaves.

The one who spoke to her of promises that freed her from endless torment.

The one who had slipped from her lips while her slave tucked her in on Saturnalia night.

Crispina swallowed hard, ashamed: her older brother was battling for the glory of Rome, and there was nothing more important than that. It was on such matters that her attention should be focused. Yet, at the same time, she waited eagerly for the letters Commodus sent, even if only to tell her that he still knew nothing of Quintius, or to talk about his daily routines and how he felt. She never delayed in replying and would reread each letter until the next one arrived.

When it did, it was as if he were there beside her.

She felt less alone.

And there it was again, that feeling that unsettled her, dancing before her in the form of a dandelion. How silly and naive she felt… Crispina blinked, clearing the irritation from her eyes, still gazing at the tiny plant swaying before her brown eyes.

It waited for a name.

The young woman blew softly on the dandelion, sending its white specks floating along the path lined with cypress trees leading to the villa.

The same path where a rider was now approaching.

Crispina stood up at once, her heart beating rapidly. She couldn’t believe she had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the sound of hooves on the pathway or seen the dust stirred up as he rode closer. Gathering the folds of her tunic, she ran to meet him, leaving her satchel and lyre behind.

She was surprised not to recognize the man’s face when she reached him; he wasn’t the one who usually brought her letters from Commodus. But his attire told her that he, too, carried news from the imperial palace in Rome.

“My lady…” murmured the messenger, extending a rolled scroll to Crispina.

“Soldier…” she replied, taking the message. “You are free to leave your horse in the stables to drink and recover from the long journey. You are also welcome to enter the kitchens and ask for food to regain your strength; tell the slaves the daughter of their lord has ordered it.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the man replied, giving her a final look before heading toward the stables.

Crispina watched him go, unable to fully grasp what she had seen in his eyes before he turned away. Her fingers untied the cords holding the scroll, and she spread it open, reading the first lines with her full attention.

It was Commodus’ handwriting, which initially brought her relief, but then she felt her heartbeat quicken as she noticed that the formal tone of the letter was strange for her friend. The words she read before her were just as odd, lacking any meaning for her, so she read them again and again, despite their few, sparse lines.

No matter how many times she read them, their meaning wouldn’t change.

They spoke of honor and courage, of valor and sacrifice for the glory of Rome.

They spoke of…

A painful sob tore from Crispina’s throat, welling up from the depths of her being, clawing and tearing its way out. Her fingers trembled over the written words, her eyes spilling tears before she could even understand what was happening.

She thought of brown eyes that would never open again, of blond curls that would no longer be touched by the morning sun.

Of brothers who would never return home.

Crispina fell to her knees on the dusty path, curling in on herself as she clutched the letter to her chest, trying to contain a pain beyond pain. The slaves working in the wheat fields raised their heads at the sound of her scream.

And the dandelions danced toward the sunset.

Chapter Text

There was something about Lucilla's beauty, pale and distant, that seemed to be heightened when sorrow flooded her face.

The morning was gray and cold in Rome, one where winter was slowly bidding farewell to the hills on which the imperial palace stood. The brisk winter breeze hadn’t stopped him from venturing into a secluded area of the gardens, where he often practiced hand-to-hand combat with members of the Praetorian Guard, but the mute and distant expression of his beloved sister had.

He had spotted her in one of the grand peristyles upon returning to the palace after his training, still with sweat trailing down his bare chest and his dark curls tousled by the morning air. Lucilla was keeping company with the flowers, sculptures, and other beauties scattered throughout that interior courtyard surrounded by columns, reclining on her favorite triclinium. Since the untimely death of her husband, Lucius Verus, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius had sunk into a somber mood that only little Lucius seemed capable of dispelling.

“It is still early, dear sister,” murmured Commodus as he approached her, causing Lucilla to offer a sad smile at the sound of his voice. “Has our father troubled you again with matters of the Senate?”

The soft smile on Lucilla’s perfect lips deepened as she shook her head.

“Not this morning,” Lucilla murmured while toying with a fold of her blue tunic. “I fear this morning our father has other plans…”

Since the death of Lucius Verus, Marcus Aurelius had returned to Rome to spend a few weeks before going back to Germania, where he had witnessed more sunrises than in his own land. To distract his only daughter from the loss of her husband, the emperor had invited her to join his Senate meetings, seeking her opinion and advice.

This had not troubled Commodus, who had turned twenty the past summer, as he had feared his father would only seek to burden him with tedious and endless tasks during his stay in Rome. Since the purpose was to divert Lucilla’s mind while she grieved, Commodus had been entrusted with caring for little Lucius.

He had not expected to feel so strongly for someone as small as his nephew. He adored watching the peacefulness of his sleep, how his slumber was undisturbed when Commodus carried him through the colonnaded halls of the palace… He could hardly wait to see the person the boy would grow into, a child to whom he could teach swordsmanship and tell the same stories that…

“Commodus…”

Lucilla’s voice calling to him always managed to pull him out of his musings, even the most restless ones that disturbed his peace. But this time, it felt as though it had roused him from a sweet daydream, only to bring him into an even sweeter reality—the playful smile of Lucilla, lighting up the sorrow in her gaze.

“Are you not going to ask me what those matters are?” Lucilla asked. “Knowing how much you miss his presence when other affairs demand him, I am surprised you do not wish to know his plans for this morning…”

“There is no need, sister; I feel as if I can see him at this very moment,” Commodus replied bitterly. “I do not think I would be wrong in guessing he is locked away in one of the libraries, immersed in his studies of science and philosophy while dealing with Senate petitions…”

“You know him well, brother,” the young woman agreed, this time reaching out to take a few grapes from a nearby bowl. “But he has informed me that he wishes to discuss something with you today. Although, if I were in your place, I would consider dressing first.”

The young heir to the throne felt as if the heavens brightened with the arrival of a warmer sun, even though gray clouds still covered the skies of Rome. He heard Lucilla laughing behind him as he hurried to his chambers, commanding the slaves to prepare the baths and bring him garments worthy of a meeting with the Caesar. Commodus, who enjoyed spending long hours in the warm, scented waters of the baths, hastened to make himself presentable as quickly as possible for his audience with Marcus Aurelius.

All he had ever longed for since he was a boy was to feel the shelter of his father’s powerful presence. He had no intention of making him wait when, at last, it seemed he required something from him.

He walked briskly through the halls of the imperial palace, ignoring the slaves who bowed deeply as he passed. Yet he hesitated when he reached the threshold of his father’s favorite library. From the room wafted the scent of parchment, so closely tied to the aged emperor, and the faint scratch of a quill against paper.

For a moment, Commodus tried to summon a courage that always seemed to elude him. Then, he stepped into the room, his eyes searching for his father. The young man had always been filled with fears, but none robbed him of sleep more than the thought of achieving every goal he set for himself and still failing to please Marcus Aurelius.

It did not take long for him to find his father’s hunched figure before one of his lecterns. The emperor let out a sigh of weariness as he set the quill aside. Commodus’ heart ached at how much his father had aged in recent years and how, even so, he seemed unwilling to abandon his battles and return home.

“Ah, Commodus…” murmured the Caesar upon noticing his presence. “Come closer; I must speak with you about an important matter.”

“Father…” the young man greeted, bowing his head and stepping forward to kiss his father’s cheeks.

When he pulled away, Commodus studied his father’s serene blue gaze. Despite his advanced years, he did not inspire frailty. Instead, he seemed to embody a strength beyond physical might and a wisdom that transcended the scrolls surrounding him.

“The privilege of life…” Marcus Aurelius murmured, almost to himself.

“Father?”

“I know you well, Commodus,” the Caesar continued, shaking his head. “I know you do not always delight in abstract discussions, but it is vital that we reflect together on the privilege of life itself: to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love…”

The young man remained silent, doing his best not to grimace. How he wished his father would set aside his philosophical riddles when they were together—they only made him seem even more distant.

“Well then, my son, answer your old father this question…”

“Whatever it is, Father,” Commodus agreed immediately.

“Tell me, do you feel inclined to marry?”

He had not known what to expect from that meeting, but it certainly was not this. There it was again—a feeling he hated: being rendered speechless by one of his father’s questions.

It vexed him to feel nervous, and he clenched his jaw as the sensation crept over him. He knew this moment would come sooner or later, and he was already far behind other young men his age. Yet Commodus couldn’t help but meet it with reluctance. He wasn’t unfamiliar with female company and knew all too well the pleasures women could offer, but those fleeting encounters were a far cry from what it meant to have a wife.

He had barely had time to enjoy the absence of Lucius Verus from the imperial palace and Lucilla’s life. He had been the shoulder on which his sister had shed her tears, had felt her breath against his neck, and his mind reeled at the thought of what other moments they might share now that Lucius Verus would never return.

“Does my question leave you speechless?” Marcus Aurelius spoke, pulling him from his thoughts.

“No, Father, not at all,” Commodus hurried to reply.

Now that he thought about it more calmly, a potential marriage didn’t necessarily mean an end to everything. Plenty of wives knew their place and stayed there—silent and submissive—while dedicating themselves to bearing children and enjoying the comfortable life their absent husbands provided. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all: it would please his father, and perhaps even giving him another grandchild might transform their current relationship into something warmer and closer.

He felt the horizon opening with possibilities.

“It would be an honor for me to accept the wife your good judgment chooses for me,” Commodus said, feeling a gentle solace as his father’s lips curved into a faint smile. “May I ask when you will share your decision?”

“My son…” the emperor murmured, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That decision was made long ago.”

Marcus Aurelius’ smile, though fleeting, was enough to calm his nerves. But Commodus feared those new words carried a certain unease he was unwilling to show.

“Truly?” Commodus asked for confirmation. He had imagined his father would wait to hear his opinion on the matter before beginning his search for a wife. “So soon?”

“It is not a decision made with the haste it may seem to you now, Commodus. I assure you, that is not the case,” Marcus Aurelius said, shaking his head.

The young man nodded, trying to conceal his mild unease.

“May I know the name of the woman who will be my wife?”

“Once the luncheon is held, where her father and I will formalize the proposal…” the Caesar continued, “…you will marry Bruttia Crispina.”

An unexpected flush warmed his cheeks, and his heart skipped a beat.

Crispina.

He was going to marry Crispina.

He forced himself to maintain a firm posture, though his mind kept returning to her—over and over again. To the one with whom he had shared so many confidences and games among the wheat fields over the years.

The girl with the roses.

His earliest friend.

His future wife.

It had taken only her name from his father’s lips to turn his world upside down. He hadn’t expected his father to have such a clear candidate, much less that it would be Crispina—sweet Crispina.

He wouldn’t have minded a marriage based solely on political agreements with the daughter of some senator, provided she was attractive enough and sensible enough to understand her role in the story. But all that changed if the woman was to be Crispina.

She was a lovely girl—she always had been—but nothing had prepared him for the serene beauty he had seen in her during the past Saturnalia. He had been irritated by the idea of what drunken men might do to her in their state, but he suspected even a man with gentle intentions would have enraged him. He also remembered how, that night by the sea, he had surprised himself imagining what it would be like to kiss her lips and tangle his fingers in her golden hair.

“Does my decision displease you?” Marcus Aurelius asked, breaking the loop of thoughts and emotions in which his son was caught.

“No…” Commodus quickly answered, shaking his head vehemently. “It is just that…”

“She will be a good wife for you,” the elder continued, nodding as if meditating aloud. “She is a well-educated girl, loyal and affectionate by nature. You know her well, as she knows you, from many years past… Perhaps it is bold of me, but I have always sensed a certain mutual understanding between the two of you, which guided me to make this decision—a decision with which Gaius Bruttius Praesens is more than satisfied.”

“Does she know about this?”

A shadow of sorrow and regret seemed to descend upon the most powerful man on earth.

“The death of her brother is still a fresh and painful wound,” Marcus Aurelius said with a heavy heart. “Neither her father nor I thought it wise to broach such matters with her now. We decided to first ensure your willingness before disrupting her mourning.”

Commodus couldn’t claim that the news of Quintius’ death had saddened him in the least. On the contrary, he had felt a certain relief at the thought of never having to endure his presence again, whether on the battlefield or during his visits to Volceii. Though in his younger years he had sought Quintius’ company and counsel, the memory of Lucius Bruttius Quintius that lingered most strongly in Commodus’ mind was of the way he had humiliated him one distant afternoon in front of his family and that Hispanic soldier his father seemed to regard with near-paternal affection.

This was why he had stopped writing to Crispina. He didn’t know how to console her for a loss that meant nothing to him, and now it irritated him to think of her suffering for someone so undeserving.

“Well, if all is in order…” Marcus Aurelius murmured, turning back toward his marble desk.

“Father…” The word escaped Commodus’ lips before he could stop it.

It was a recurring wish in his prayers to the gods, but now more than ever, he longed for a different kind of relationship with his father. He didn’t want to appear before him as a fearful man prone to overthinking, even though that was precisely his nature. He knew well how much his father admired qualities that were the exact opposite of his own.

The truth was, the news of his imminent betrothal to Crispina unsettled him more than he dared admit—even to himself. He had been more than willing to marry a stranger, but he was beginning to realize that what disturbed him so much about marrying the daughter of Gaius Bruttius Praesens was the possibility that she might not welcome the arrangement.

He cared little for the feelings of a stranger, but those of his earliest friend…

And what did he feel for her?

He recognized small embers of affection and desire during his last visits to Volceii, embers that had been subdued by the constant and intoxicating presence of Lucilla. But now that Crispina was to become his wife, he felt those embers flare into roaring flames within his chest, causing a strange sensation in his stomach.

“Crispina…” he murmured at last.

“Commodus,” the elder interrupted, raising his palms as if to call for silence. “Tenderness, when it is sincere, is a force unmatched in all the world… And Crispina is a girl of tender yet genuine nature.”

Once again, he spoke in riddles and philosophy, words that brought the young heir no comfort but rather growing unease. His lips had betrayed him during Saturnalia, asking Crispina for a kiss in exchange for a rose, and now he struggled not to tremble at the thought of becoming her husband. He feared that such a union might make her miserable, her tears falling as bitterly for their marriage as they now did for her fallen brother.

His passions had been so consumed by his veneration for Lucilla that it unsettled him to realize that, alongside them, he had always harbored certain feelings for Crispina.

But naming that kind of affection frightened him more than any battalion ever could.

Sleepless nights had never been foreign to Commodus.

As a child, he had been terrified by the whisper of curtains in the dead of night and the shadowy corners of his room. He would scrutinize the darkness around him with as much intensity as he wished to fall asleep, feeling an unpleasant pressure in his chest at the thought that some lamia might be lurking under his bed.

Now that he was long considered a man, the silence and gloom of his chambers at night brought with them cruel words that forced him to relive all his failures and painted dire futures deep in his mind. The face of his father, always reflecting profound disappointment in those piercing eyes, alongside the perfect and unattainable features of Lucilla, were the ones that haunted him most when sleep eluded him.

But since that morning when he had been informed of his imminent betrothal, his sleeplessness had taken on a new cause. He watched the flickering dance of the lamps he didn’t dare extinguish, his mind repeating the name of his future wife over and over again. He cursed and tossed under the covers, resting his head this way and that on the pillow, all in vain. The image that now came to his mind most often harmonized perfectly with the silence and secrecy of the night.

He had not gone directly to bed that Saturnalia night spent at the villa of Gaius Bruttius Praesens. After leaving Crispina in the care of her slave, he had wandered around the house, observing the ongoing festivities without finding anything that invited him to join. His intent had been to retire to the quarters prepared for him, but he took advantage of the quiet and the dimly lit hallways to ensure that Crispina was well.

He knew where her quarters were, so he approached the threshold of her room cautiously, making sure his steps made no more noise than faint whispers. He gently parted the thin linen curtain hanging from the doorframe with his fingers as his green eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. Moonlight streaming through one of the windows allowed him to glimpse the girl curled up in her bed. She slept peacefully beneath the shelter of several blankets, her blonde hair spilling across the pillow.

The slave had done her duty well.

Only then had he retreated to his own quarters. Yet the memory of that sleeping Crispina, in the privacy of her chamber, now returned to his mind with growing insistence. His face burned each time he imagined she was not lying in her room far away in Volceii, but under the same sheets where Commodus now found no rest.

Thus, the weeks that passed until the date of the social luncheon between their families felt like the longest Commodus could remember. The gathering had been arranged in one of the grandest halls of the imperial palace, where the splendor of its mosaics and Corinthian columns took one’s breath away while intimidating visitors with its magnificence—a reflection of the empire his father continued to expand through one war after another.

The couches had been arranged around a dark wooden table draped in a fine white linen cloth. On its surface rested various ceramic vessels offering exotic fruits, sweets, and the finest wine for the occasion. However, the opulence was accompanied by a ceremonial air produced by incense burners in the corners, intensifying the dull ache in Commodus’ head.

“Commodus, you would do well to stop pacing back and forth like a crab,” Lucilla murmured with an amused smile as she took a sip of her wine. She was already seated on the couch, reclining slightly, waiting for the arrival of the former senator and his daughter. “It would be a shame if you wore down the marble after all the effort the slaves put into making it shine.”

The emperor’s son shot his elder sister an accusatory look before checking that their father remained hunched over some documents that demanded his attention even on such a day. Marcus Aurelius stood at a distance, near the doorway, speaking with Senator Gracchus, unwittingly granting his children a moment of privacy, which Commodus silently appreciated.

“I do not appreciate your remarks, sister,” Commodus whispered as he approached Lucilla. “So many sleepless nights, so many racing thoughts, they are going to drive me mad.”

“I still fail to see the cause of such lost sleep,” Lucilla replied, a faint smile lingering on her lips. “It is not as if our sweet Crispina could refuse to marry you.”

The emperor’s son paused before one of the windows framed by columns. His sister had intended to soothe him with her light jest, but Commodus doubted Lucilla knew just how much her words had deepened his turmoil. He busied himself with the purple toga adorned with golden motifs that he wore, ensuring that the leather belt decorated with gold plates remained in place. The attire, along with the cape draped over his shoulders and fastened with golden clasps, gave him a sense of security amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

It reminded him of who he was, who he had always been.

The son of Marcus Aurelius, the future emperor of Rome.

And yet, he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling.

He couldn’t help but wonder, over and over, what Crispina thought of all this—whether she had repeated his name in her mind with the same intensity with which he had remembered hers, whether her brown eyes had also been deprived of sleep as his had.

That endless chain of thoughts and speculations was interrupted by the echo of hurried footsteps on the mosaic floors of the nearby halls. A slave quickly appeared at the threshold of the chamber, interrupting the conversation between Marcus Aurelius and Senator Gracchus.

“The former senator and consul of Rome, Gaius Bruttius Praesens, has just arrived at the palace. He is accompanied by his daughter, lady Bruttia Crispina,” announced the slave firmly, projecting his voice to be heard clearly throughout the room.

“Let us not keep our guests waiting, then…” murmured Marcus Aurelius with a calm smile, dismissing Senator Gracchus with a simple wave of his hand. “Children, gather around the table.”

There she was.

After so much time, there she was.

Commodus swallowed hard in a futile attempt to maintain his composure, cursing the vulnerability he felt, which displeased him so much, as he made his way to the seat at his father’s right. Lucilla, on the other hand, emanated all the poise and elegance that seemed to inhabit her with every step she took. The news of her brother’s impending engagement seemed to have lifted a great burden from her delicate shoulders.

The young man positioned himself beside his father at the triclinium reserved for the imperial family, anxiously watching the threshold of the room. Gaius Bruttius Praesens appeared shortly thereafter. Commodus had heard of the toll that losing a child could take on a person, but nothing had prepared him for the change he saw in the former senator.

His hair had turned gray and receded to the back of his head, and the lines on his face had deepened. In the man’s blue eyes—eyes his daughter had not inherited—there was a weariness and an unnamed sorrow that immediately unsettled Commodus, as did the downward curve of his lips, even on a day such as this.

That was not the look of a father who should feel honored to marry his only daughter to the emperor’s son and heir to the throne.

“Gaius…” Marcus Aurelius said, extending his arms to cordially embrace his old friend. “Once more, I offer you my condolences and deepest sorrow for the loss of Quintius. His absence weighs heavily on a day like today.”

“His spirit is with us in every corner of this room,” replied the senator in a subdued voice, holding Marcus Aurelius’ hands in his own. “The general under whom Quintius served, Maximus Decimus Meridius, honored us with a visit to Volceii, attempting to ease our grief and recounting my son’s final days. His unexpected visit surprised us just weeks after Commodus’ letter brought us the most grievous news.”

“I understand he acted swiftly and with sound judgment; he is a man of honor,” the emperor nodded. “No father could feel greater pride.”

Commodus felt the old wound ache and lowered his head, realizing his father was not speaking of him.

“Brother…” Lucilla whispered as she hurried past him.

The young man managed to lift his face again, disconcerted, just in time to see Crispina enter the room. Her steps were hesitant, as though she felt the need to ask permission to attend her own betrothal. Though only months had passed since Saturnalia, it felt to him as if centuries had gone by. Once more, Commodus felt disoriented, struggling to remain stoic as his father had so often reminded him. Lucilla stepped forward to greet Crispina.

He had known her all his life, yet Commodus could not recall ever seeing her as utterly beautiful as she appeared now.

The young woman wore a long, delicate linen tunic in soft peachy-pink tones, adorned with silver floral patterns on the short sleeves and the belt that accentuated her slender figure. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves and tied back, with a fine silk veil of the same hue cascading from her head.

Unaware of Commodus’ thoughts, Crispina let out a wistful sigh and closed her eyes as Lucilla embraced her, offering words of comfort and condolences for her brother’s death. Commodus watched as the young woman’s face contorted with grief while she returned Lucilla’s embrace, the latter cupping Crispina’s face in her hands as they pulled apart.

Gaius Bruttius Praesens had been right—Quintius’ spirit was indeed present in the room. It had taken hold of every corner, commanding all attention, just as it had on that distant afternoon when Commodus had been humiliated. Now, on the day his betrothal was to be formalized, Quintius’ presence polluted the air in the same way, curving his father’s lips downward and filling his sister’s eyes with sorrow on what was supposed to be a joyous occasion.

Damn him.

Him and Maximus Decimus Meridius, about whom the consul and the emperor continued their conversation.

Crispina offered a brief, fleeting smile when Lucilla kissed her lovingly on the cheek and wiped away a tear that had escaped her chestnut eyes. Only then did the young woman’s gaze meet his, across the table separating the two families.

“My lord…” Crispina murmured, performing a deep bow that struck him as strange.

Where were the arms that had once embraced him in haste? Where were the warm words she had whispered into his ears then, never letting go? Commodus swallowed again as his father urged those present to take their seats.

Perhaps, after all, this would be a marriage like any other.

In recent years, Commodus had attended numerous Senate sessions with his father. Marcus Aurelius sought to involve him more in matters of governance and diplomacy, but the young man found them extraordinarily tedious. It was for this reason that he quickly realized this social luncheon felt far too much like those Senate meetings.

Marcus Aurelius and Gaius Bruttius Praesens continued discussing arrangements—Crispina’s dowry, which season would be most suitable for the wedding, and whether it should be a grand or modest affair given Quintius’ passing. Meanwhile, all Commodus could do was seek Crispina’s gaze across the table. Yet the young woman kept her eyes fixed on her hands, elegantly clasped in her lap, her posture both graceful and distant.

“What do you think, Commodus?”

His father’s question pulled him abruptly from his thoughts, making him suddenly aware of all the eyes now resting on him.

Including, at last, his future wife’s.

“About holding the wedding in the summer…” Lucilla interjected, coming to his rescue. “If the weather is as pleasant as last summer’s, it will be a lovely occasion.”

“I was thinking…” the young man began, feeling his father’s watchful gaze upon him, “that it is such a beautiful morning, and I would like to show Crispina the orchids that adorn the palace.”

Crispina lifted her face, looking at him with curiosity. Before anyone could interrupt, Commodus rose from his seat, inviting the young woman to do the same. She glanced at her father, seated to her left, who offered her a gentle smile and nodded his approval. Commodus felt a spark of relief as Crispina stood and followed him out of the room.

Let his father keep his pacts, his documents, and his transactions.

He had to speak with his future wife.

Even under the close watch of the slaves’ gazes, Commodus felt as though he could breathe anew as he and Crispina left the opulent hall behind. They began walking through the palace’s columned corridors. The young woman herself seemed to relax slightly, as though part of her sorrow had been left behind, seated beside her father.

“I know I mentioned this in the letter I sent you, but…” Commodus began, breaking the tense silence between them as they walked side by side, “I deeply regret Quintius’ loss.”

A faint, sad smile appeared on Crispina’s lips.

“Until now, I never knew what it was to feel abandoned by the gods,” she murmured in a subdued voice. “I prayed to all of them for my brother’s safe return. I even made wishes on dandelions…”

“Dandelions?”

“They are just stories,” Crispina replied, brushing it off, though Commodus could see a glimmer of guilt in her brown eyes. “None of the gods listened, nor did the dandelions… But I always knew you would keep your promise, even if not in the way I had hoped.”

Commodus nodded, wishing he could close this chapter of the conversation. That wasn’t what he needed to talk about. Everything felt so strange… He glanced at Crispina’s hand, so close to his during their walk, yet something as simple as holding it—or even brushing it lightly with his own—seemed an insurmountable chasm.

Their impending engagement had turned them into strangers.

This was madness.

“I have wanted to talk to you for so long,” Commodus finally said. “I missed speaking with you…”

“I was surprised when your letters stopped,” Crispina murmured, turning her face toward him. “I did not know why. I feared you might have fallen ill or that your father had sent you back to Germania… Commodus, was all of this your idea?”

“No,” he hastened to reply.

“Oh…” was all the young woman said.

Again, the silence returned. Commodus glanced over his shoulder, his expression darkening when he realized one of his father’s closest slaves was following them. The man kept enough distance to allow them some semblance of privacy, yet monitored their every move. It irritated Commodus in ways he could barely articulate.

Crispina continued walking beside him, her renewed sorrow evident. Commodus yearned to erase it from her face more than anything. Without realizing it, their steps had brought them toward one of the balconies overlooking the sprawling imperial gardens.

“Crispina…” Commodus murmured, drawing the young woman’s attention. “Come, I want to show you something.”

In the young woman's gaze, Commodus found equal parts curiosity and caution, but finally, she nodded. He stepped ahead toward the balcony, placing his hands on the marble balustrade and silently gesturing for Crispina to join him. The sunlight poured through the columns, illuminating her as she approached. Squinting slightly, Crispina adjusted to the brightness, and a gasp of wonder escaped her pink lips.

Before her stretched a vast green expanse bordered by distant, gleaming white colonnades that reached for a radiant blue sky. Trees swayed in the morning breeze, birds flitted from branch to branch, exchanging melodies. Statues of various gods stood among vibrant, diverse flowers—some Crispina had never seen before—each garden bed carefully bordered by stone paths that wove through the grounds.

“The rose gardens are there,” Commodus indicated, pointing to the spot.

A look of astonishment and delight spread across Crispina’s face as she turned to him, her expression filled with incredulity.

“I… I never imagined there could be so many kinds of roses,” she admitted, a spark of renewed enthusiasm lighting her face.

“And none of them are as beautiful as you.”

The scenery faded to nothing the moment the emperor's son uttered those words. Crispina turned to him, searching his expression for mockery or jest—but found neither. His gaze was filled with determination and a vulnerability that caught her off guard.

A blush spread across her cheeks as his hand slid along the marble balustrade to brush against hers, a fleeting touch that made her heart skip a beat.

“Commodus…” Crispina murmured, her voice a whisper.

“Crispina…” he interrupted, stepping closer, lost in her warm brown eyes. “I know you are grieving for Quintius, and this is not the ideal time to bring it up, but… I understand this marriage is our parents’ decision, and I know you will abide by your father’s wishes. But… do you think you could ever love me?”

The emperor’s son hated himself for those words, which made him feel so small, so vulnerable—so unworthy of being the heir to the greatest empire in the world. His emotions, torn between desire and a need for control, had betrayed him. Bracing for the response he dreaded, he was taken aback when Crispina broke her silence.

“Yes.”

One simple word silenced everything around him and, most importantly, the cruel voice in his own mind. He locked eyes with her again, her warm gaze now accompanied by a timid yet radiant smile that sent his heart racing.

“Yes?” he repeated, seeking confirmation.

A soft laugh escaped Crispina’s lips. In that moment, she was both the childhood friend he had always known and someone entirely new. She was no longer just the daughter of a senator—she was his future, and he was more than ready to explore this new chapter with her.

“A thousand times, yes,” Crispina replied, the shadow of her grief lifting momentarily in the presence of their shared connection.

Commodus’ heart pounded wildly in his chest, and even his breath betrayed him as he absorbed her answer. He feared it was all too good to be true, a dream that might shatter at any moment.

“Crispina…” he whispered, leaning closer to her.

“My lord.”

A curse escaped his lips as the slave’s voice broke the moment. Crispina stepped back, putting a respectful distance between them, lowering her gaze in an attempt to hide the blush that had overtaken her cheeks. Commodus clenched his jaw, directing a dark glare at the slave, who appeared both fearful and resolute.

“My lord, my lady,” the slave said, now addressing Crispina as well. “The emperor and the noble Gaius Bruttius Praesens request your presence in the hall. Your walk has gone on too long, and they have sent me to escort you back.”

“Since when does a slave give orders to the heir to the throne?” Commodus snapped, causing the man to lower his eyes but remain steadfast.

“The emperor’s command, my lord,” the slave replied.

“It does not matter, Commodus,” Crispina interjected, seeking his gaze. “We must return.”

Her calm, steady demeanor disarmed him. Her warm brown eyes silently pleaded with him not to further chastise the slave. After all, they both had to obey Caesar’s orders. Yet Commodus couldn’t shake the bitterness of having their intimate moment interrupted.

“Lead the way, slave,” Crispina addressed the man, her tone measured and firm. “Our walk has indeed taken long enough. You may guide us back.”

“My lady,” the slave murmured, bowing his head before turning to lead them back the way they had come.

“Slave!” Commodus called, halting the man in his tracks. The servant turned to face him once more. “I order you to keep your eyes forward and fixed on the path.”

The man pressed his lips tightly together, as if to remind the heir of his father’s authority, but ultimately obeyed. He turned back, walking ahead and keeping his gaze firmly fixed ahead.

“Commodus, what…” Crispina began, but the young man turned toward her, taking her by the chin.

The kiss arrived without a warning, silencing the young woman’s words and stripping her of any possible reaction. At first, Commodus slid his hand to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer as his lips met hers with a mixture of fervor and longing. He quickly realized, however, that although Crispina was startled, she did not resist. Letting out the breath she had been holding, the young woman allowed her lips to respond hesitantly, sending another wave of elation through the heir’s chest.

He became acutely aware that this was Crispina’s first kiss. Her inexperience contrasted with the passion he displayed, but it was her gentleness that caused the intensity of the kiss to soften. What had begun as an impulsive gesture, driven by his natural impetuosity and the thought of this beautiful woman becoming his, transformed into something more profound. He felt Crispina’s hands rest lightly on his arms, then slowly slide upward with a shy grace until they reached his shoulders. Seeking both support and greater closeness, she reciprocated the kiss as though she too wished this moment would never end, as if she had longed for it as much as he had.

They only parted when the need for air became unavoidable, their faces remaining just a breath apart. Commodus searched Crispina’s gaze, watching as she brought her fingertips to her lips, as if to confirm that the kiss had truly happened.

The excited gleam in her soft brown eyes, combined with the smile she struggled to suppress, spoke louder than any of the Senate’s endless speeches ever could.

Crispina would be his.

In some way, she always had been.

Chapter Text

The morning of her wedding day had arrived, and Crispina still wondered how it was possible to feel so happy and so miserable at the same time.

The young woman remained immersed in this internal battle as the slaves around her carefully adjusted every part of her bridal attire. She was already wearing a delicate white linen tunic with discreet gold thread embroidery, and at that moment, one of the women was bringing the ceremonial mantle, a magnificent cream-toned silk garment edged with embroidery designed to resemble wheat.

Crispina liked to think that it represented the wheat fields of Volceii, which had been her home until just a few weeks ago.

Marcus Aurelius and her father had finally agreed on the Ides of August as the date of her wedding, two weeks after her eighteenth birthday and two weeks before Commodus’ twenty-first. The priests hoped that, as a date dedicated to the god Jupiter, he would grant his blessing to the young couple and ensure a future of political stability for the empire.

The young woman regretted that the emperor, who had once again departed for Germania, could not be present on her wedding day. But she had to be honest with herself and admit that that was not the main issue that saddened her face on such a radiant summer day, one she had awaited with barely contained excitement since the day of her betrothal.

She had never thought it possible that her brother would not be present at her wedding.

A faint sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the young bride’s thoughts. She lifted her face as the slaves around her secured the silk mantle over her shoulders with golden brooches. She knew it was the usual effect Lucilla, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius, had whenever she entered a room. Still, Crispina felt her spirits brighten at the sight of her, accompanied by her closest slave.

“Oh, Lucilla,” Crispina smiled, leaving the women around her behind and enveloping the emperor’s daughter in a heartfelt embrace. “The gods have been kind to me: it feels as though the sun shines again now that you are here.”

She felt Lucilla’s pleased smile against her cheek before they parted.

“You are too kind, Crispina; it is you who rivals the most beautiful summer day,” replied the emperor’s daughter, a serene smile on her lips. “Now, let me see you: you must show me what the slaves have done in my absence.”

A smile escaped the lips of the future bride as she turned carefully, allowing Lucilla to study every detail of her attire. In such matters, she valued no one’s opinion as much as that of her future sister-in-law, who was renowned for her grace and beauty wherever she went.

“The colors suit you well; they bring out your golden hair,” Lucilla remarked, adjusting a stray golden strand that seemed to escape the intricate arrangement of small braided strands holding her hair in place. “It brings me joy to know I have arrived in time to help you with your jewelry and veil—I will accept no excuses. Besides, I have a very precious gift to give you…”

Although the moments Crispina and Lucilla had shared over the years were fewer than those she shared with Commodus, the young bride knew the emperor’s daughter understood her well and could read her like an open book. Crispina had been about to tell her there was no need for her help, that the slaves had almost finished their work...

But the truth was, she longed for Lucilla’s company on such a special morning. Hers was the friendly face Crispina had yearned to see since dawn.

Marcus Aurelius had made every arrangement for Crispina’s arrival in Rome, including the imperial palace chambers she would occupy and who would assist her on her wedding day. The emperor had assumed that, in the absence of a maternal figure to help her dress, Crispina’s nerves would be eased if, among the palace’s entourage, there were also slaves who had always served her in Volceii.

For once, Marcus Aurelius could not have been more wrong.

The memory of her father’s slaves’ silence after witnessing him harshly reprimand her for a fault she had not committed still lingered in her like an open wound. But just as sunlight breaks through the clouds on a rainy day, the young bride’s spirits lifted when she saw the bouquet of yellow roses that Lucilla’s slave held in her hands.

“My brother wishes for these roses to adorn the floral diadem for your bridal veil,” Lucilla said, observing the moved smile that had appeared on Crispina’s lips. “He made me promise, and he will be gravely displeased if he sees I have not kept my word.”

Yellow roses.

Sisters to her Saturnalia gift.

The ones Commodus had assured her could be found in the imperial palace gardens when they were only children who could barely tolerate each other.

And now she could hardly wait to become his wife.

“Commodus will have nothing to reproach you for, I promise,” the young woman murmured, accepting the flowers and inhaling their sweet aroma. “They are so beautiful…”

“Careful, sister,” the emperor’s daughter laughed, her laughter like a bird’s song. “The blush in your cheeks might lead the slaves to mistake it for cinnabar pigment.”

Crispina joined in the laughter, feeling her worries fade now that Lucilla was there. Moreover, being called “sister” was a balm she hadn’t expected. After Quintius’ death, she had resigned herself to never hearing anyone use that word for her again. Though his absence split Crispina’s soul between joy and sorrow, the first emotion triumphed over the second with Lucilla by her side.

“Hurry,” Crispina ordered, addressing one of the gathered slaves and carefully handing her the bouquet of roses. “These flowers must decorate my diadem, as per my future husband’s wishes.”

The woman pressed her lips together, and Crispina saw a hint of reluctance in her expression. Yet the slave made a slight bow and withdrew to begin her task. The murmurs of the other slaves soon reached Crispina’s ears, though they all pretended to be busy when her brown eyes settled on them.

“Do not worry, dear sister,” Lucilla laughed again, taking Crispina’s arm and guiding her across the spacious room to a wooden screen. Only when they were behind it, out of the slaves’ view, did the emperor’s daughter continue speaking, this time in a low voice. “I fear the servants take pleasure in secrets and whispers: many believe you and my brother are tempting fate.”

“What do you mean?”

Lucilla arched one of her fine eyebrows as a conspiratorial smile spread across her lips.

"That my father underestimated how well Commodus knows the palace where he grew up."

A sudden blush crept over Crispina’s cheeks, provoking Lucilla's laughter. The bride-to-be could barely suppress a smile as she motioned for Lucilla to keep quiet. Marcus Aurelius had left strict instructions that the future spouses should not meet until their wedding day. This was why Crispina was permitted to walk freely alone, provided she stayed within the wing the emperor had assigned for her and her slaves.

But Lucilla was right.

Commodus knew the place that had raised him far too well.

She vividly recalled how he had surprised her by appearing behind a column during one of her solitary strolls, eliciting a gasp of shock that was swiftly muffled by the kiss she had so longed for during his absence. Commodus had wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close against the column to keep them hidden from prying eyes.

Her breath caught even now as she remembered the eager way his lips had claimed hers, the way she had instinctively learned to surrender, her hands moving to thread through his dark hair, clutching his tunic to draw him closer still...

"Now you are in Rome, dear sister," Lucilla whispered. "Here, the walls have eyes."

"And apparently tongues as well, did they see all of that in a few roses?" Crispina retorted, though her words were softened by Lucilla’s continued laughter. "Perhaps they would find better fortune divining futures in the streets of Rome."

"Well, your roses have certainly added to their unease," Lucilla replied, nodding toward the other side of the screen. "They believe it brings bad luck if the bride does not gather her own flowers on the day of her wedding."

A huff escaped Crispina’s lips as she shook her head in frustration. She had gone to great lengths to follow every endless rite and tradition expected of her: every offering, every prayer… Yet it still wasn’t enough for the watchful eyes of the slaves who scrutinized her every move, eager for her to make a misstep.

"If memory serves, tradition also dictates that the bride must be carried in a procession on foot from her home to her husband’s… Should I have walked from Volceii to Rome overnight?"

"Pay no heed to such whispers; the same happens at every wedding. Now, let me help you finish getting ready," murmured Lucilla as she took a beautiful belt and began to tie it carefully around the younger woman’s waist. "This particular tradition, however, is quite interesting: they call it the Knot of Hercules, and I will not tie it too tightly because they say it is bad luck if your husband cannot untie it tonight."

Lucilla’s candidness about certain matters was something Crispina was used to, but she couldn’t help tensing when her future sister-in-law touched on this particular topic. She turned her face away, hiding the flames of embarrassment that refused to leave her cheeks. She wasn’t entirely ignorant—she believed she understood what was expected of her on her wedding night—but the thought of it left her nervous and intimidated.

The two young women now fell into a comfortable silence. Lucilla gently turned Crispina’s face to one side, applying a fragrant ointment of lilies and lavender to the skin of her neck, then helped her put on a pair of pearl earrings that had once belonged to Crispina’s mother. Marcus Aurelius' daughter took a few steps back, watching the bride with a critical but affectionate eye, adjusting the folds of the tunic so they cascaded down her slender figure like a waterfall of light.

"You look stunning, Bruttia Crispina," Lucilla murmured with a warm smile. "I cannot wait to see my brother’s face when he sees you at the ceremony. He will be more than pleased. Now, all that is left is for the slaves to finish your floral diadem so we can place the veil and..."

Her words trailed off as her gaze landed on Crispina’s neck.

"Accept one last gift for your wedding, dear sister," Lucilla said after a moment. "I have a pendant of great value that would look beautiful adorning your neck. Let my slave and me fetch it from my quarters."

"Lucilla, I cannot possibly accept—"

"I insist, and I will not take no for an answer," Marcus Aurelius' daughter interrupted firmly, silencing Crispina’s protests. "Our lives will change starting today; let this be my small gesture for you, the first of many."

Crispina finally smiled in defeat, nodding as Lucilla promised to return shortly before leaving. She wasn’t wrong when she said their lives would change, in ways Crispina had never dared to imagine. She had expected her father would arrange for her to marry some unknown young man with whom she would have to learn to live, fulfilling her duty as a wife by learning to love him and bearing his children, regardless of her own feelings.

But with Commodus...

She felt as though the gods had granted her the greatest of blessings.

And yet, that cruel voice resurfaced, asking if she had so easily forgotten her brother.

Her smile faded as she peered beyond the screen, hoping Lucilla had returned. She didn’t like being left alone with her thoughts, nor did she find comfort in the company of superstitious slaves. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, Crispina decided to leave the sanctuary of the dark wooden screen and crossed the room, determined to find her future sister-in-law.

"My lady," one of the slaves called, noticing her intention to leave the chamber. "It is essential you remain here until the ceremony begins and your father comes to fetch you. We cannot risk anyone seeing you in your bridal attire."

"Commodus’ quarters are on the far side of this vast palace, and I imagine he is as busy as I am, so you do not need to worry," Crispina replied without breaking her stride. "I will return shortly. I wish to be with my sister."

A fresh wave of murmurs reached Crispina’s ears, but she ignored them as she crossed the threshold of her chambers, cautiously peeking into one of the palace’s wide hallways. She knew Lucilla’s quarters weren’t far and believed she could find her way, so she quickened her pace, almost tiptoeing.

Though she didn’t share the superstitions of the slaves, she felt a sense of relief upon confirming that the corridors and rooms she passed were empty. It was likely most of the guards and servants were occupied overseeing the halls where the ceremony and subsequent banquet would take place.

She began to wonder if she had been reckless, that perhaps she should have waited for Lucilla behind the screen, when she heard Marcus Aurelius’ daughter laughing in a nearby room.

Thank to the gods.

Crispina had already set her steps toward the room’s threshold when unexpected words made her stop abruptly.

"My dear Tulla..." Lucilla’s voice addressed her slave. "You are not the only one who questions the wisdom of this marriage, I assure you. I myself expressed my doubts to my father before he returned to Germania."

Taking great care not to make a sound, Crispina pressed herself against the wall, moving closer to the doorway where delicate curtains swayed softly in the morning breeze. The strangeness of Lucilla’s words had an odd effect on her: they confused her, yet at the same time, she felt compelled to listen further.

"I do not think it is a coincidence that my father chose this exact moment to return to his battles in Germania," Lucilla continued, her steps echoing lightly in the room. "He insists on giving my brother the benefit of the doubt, but something inside him must tell him I am right. That is why he has decided not to attend the wedding—so he will not have to bear responsibility for whatever might come of it. My father has always found distance to be the best hiding place for his poor decisions."

"I cannot help but feel uneasy," the slave’s voice replied. "She seems so full of hope..."

"Poor fool," Lucilla responded, clicking her tongue. "Crispina is a naive girl who has never left her father’s villa. She has no idea how the world works... much less what Commodus is truly like."

Crispina held her breath, one hand pressing against the nearest wall. Her heart pounded, as if trying to help her make sense of what she was hearing. It made no sense—Lucilla had always been kind to her, even before her betrothal to Commodus. Why would she say such things?

"My father insisted that it was time for Commodus to settle down, and he also assured me that Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ daughter should have been married long ago," Lucilla went on. Crispina was taken aback by the coldness in her voice, which matched the harshness of her words. "Tulla, you know how much Commodus has always longed for genuine affection. I fear that has led him to develop a little obsession with Bruttia Crispina, but that does not make this marriage sensible. Only a fool would think so."

The young bride pressed her lips together, trying to steady herself.

"Tulla, you know this new distraction benefits me: it brings a peace I did not think possible, and for that, I thank the gods. But I am not pleased that it comes at the expense of a poor, silly girl like Crispina," Lucilla repeated, heedless of the icy dagger her words had become in her future sister-in-law’s chest. "Do you know what I have heard from Gaius Bruttius’ slaves? They claim they heard her murmur my brother’s name in her sleep during the last Saturnalia. If only she knew why my father sent him there, the real reason he wanted him away from Rome during the festivities..."

A gasp escaped the slave’s lips.

"So the rumors are true?"

"What he did to that poor girl from Hispania..." Lucilla murmured, her soft footsteps making Crispina shrink further against the wall. "My father is no fool; he sees clearly where others are lost in darkness. He knew well of my brother’s exploits during the Saturnalia, the kinds of establishments he frequented—that was no secret. But... that business with the Hispanic girl cost him many sleepless nights and required enormous effort to cover up what he did."

Crispina clutched her chest, biting her lips so hard she nearly drew blood. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her breath grew shallow. She longed to run back to her quarters, to avoid hearing any more vile words, but her feet wouldn’t obey her.

"My father called him an immoral man," Lucilla said, lost in thought. "Yet still, Tulla, my heart yearns to give him another chance. You have seen him with Lucius; you know how much he adores my son. Perhaps my father is right... Perhaps this wedding, someone who loves him, is exactly what Commodus needs."

A bitter, incredulous smile played on Crispina’s trembling lips as she listened to Lucilla backtrack, despite everything she had just confided to her slave—even though she had warned Crispina countless times about the slaves' love of gossip and how such things should be ignored.

"Let us not deny that the one who has truly played his cards well is Gaius Bruttius Praesens," Lucilla laughed, as if trying to lighten the grim atmosphere her words had created. "My father insists he has always been a man uninterested in power and intrigue, that is the reason why he retired to that shepherd’s nest in distant Volceii. But, no matter what my father says, I believe Gaius Bruttius Praesens is the one Fortuna has truly blessed: he has a dead son to offer to Rome’s glory and a living daughter to place in my brother’s bed."

That final remark forced a strangled gasp from Crispina’s lips. She pushed herself away from the wall and strode quickly back toward her quarters, no longer caring if the sound of her sandals on the mosaics betrayed her presence. She couldn’t breathe, her chest felt tight in a way entirely unlike the sleepless nights and stolen kisses she had known just days before.

What was all this? Where was the sister she had always believed Lucilla to be, the woman she had once wished to emulate as a child? What did they mean by his escapades during past Saturnalia? What was that terrible thing he had done to the girl from Hispania?

Her skin grew colder with every unanswered question, the battle raging in her mind becoming fiercer and more relentless. Her heart quivered under the sharp sting of Lucilla’s betrayal—how could someone who had so lovingly helped with her wedding preparations speak such venomous words to a mere slave? Yet what unsettled her most was the way Commodus had been described by his own sister.

She recalled the conversation with her future husband during the last Saturnalia, when he had confided in her how little faith his family had in him, how little trust they placed on his shoulders. But the man Lucilla had described was...

Vile.

Crispina shook her head, trembling as she stepped back into her chambers. She felt the curious stares of the slaves upon her, but she couldn’t care less now—not when she had to unravel the poisonous enigma Lucilla had planted in her mind.

Commodus couldn’t be as Lucilla had described.

In fact, she knew he wasn’t.

She had known him since she was a child, and had seen both his light and his shadows. She hadn’t always liked him, especially at first. But though he was vain and capricious, he remained the best man she had ever known.

A person like the one Lucilla described would never have inquired after Quintius’ condition just to ease her sorrow.

He couldn’t be.

It was because of that promise that Crispina had begun to realize there was no one in her life like him, no one she would rather belong to if he asked.

Perhaps the gods had punished her daring with the cruelest deception. Perhaps Lucilla wasn’t the loving elder sister she had longed for, and Commodus...

She shuddered to think that she might not truly know who Commodus was.

Because who could know him better than his own family?

What had she gotten herself into?

Tears brimmed in Crispina’s brown eyes until they overflowed. She hurriedly covered her mouth, trying to stifle a sob that alarmed the slaves. They rushed to her, eager to wipe her tears with silk handkerchiefs, and the young bride couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. She sank onto a footstool one of them brought, while another fanned her face gently with her hand.

"Do not fret, my lady," one of them said as Crispina continued to cry. "It is just nerves—it happens to every bride."

"What is going on?"

Crispina instinctively shrank upon hearing Lucilla’s voice again, as though it pierced her. A shiver ran through her entire body, making her tears all the more bitter and uncontrollable. The rustle of Lucilla’s rich robes against the mosaic floor preceded her appearance. She crouched down to meet Crispina’s tearful gaze.

"Crispina, what is the matter?" asked the daughter of Marcus Aurelius.

The young woman pressed her lips together, shaking her head as she accepted a silk handkerchief from one of the slaves to dry her tears. Though unease consumed her, she didn’t want anyone to know the true reason for her distress.

"I miss my brother terribly," Crispina lamented.

And it was true.

Now more than ever.

Lucilla offered a sorrowful smile, one filled with apparent compassion but which Crispina found false and malicious. Then, leaning in, she kissed Crispina’s cheek for a long moment, as if to comfort her. Crispina closed her eyes, biting her lips to suppress the urge to pull away and wipe the serpent’s kiss from her skin.

"This is a joyful day," Lucilla assured her as she straightened. "Your brother would wish for nothing but your happiness, just as I do."

"I feel fine," Crispina murmured as she took a deep breath and wiped her tears away. "It was just nerves, nothing more."

"I understand, but there is no need to feel nervous," Lucilla said, taking the floral diadem that a slave handed to her. "See how beautiful these roses have turned out in your headband? Your brother will be with you in every step you take, and I assure you, you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen. Everything will be fine."

The young woman finished drying her tears and accepted the hand of a slave who helped her stand. She inhaled deeply, trying to summon courage as the memory of her brother grew stronger in her mind. Lucilla smiled again as she fastened the pendant she had promised around Crispina’s neck.

When the emperor’s daughter turned to assist the slaves with arranging the long saffron-colored veil, Crispina clutched the pendant in her hand. Taking advantage of the moment, as the women lifted the veil to drape it over her, she tugged forcefully until the clasp broke. She hurt her neck in the process, but she didn’t care.

She didn’t want to wear any of Lucilla’s jewels on her wedding day.

She concealed the pendant in her fist while Lucilla and the slaves carefully laid the delicate silk veil over her gathered hair, covering her face. Crispina closed her eyes, trying not to think about the conversation she had overheard, though it seemed impossible. When she opened her brown eyes again, they had to adjust to the vision through the veil’s golden hue.

Golden as the light that seemed to have abandoned Bruttia Crispina’s chambers.

The winter campaigns in distant Vindobona, to which he had been sent so many times by his father’s command and whose battles he had always sought to avoid in any way possible, had never made him tremble as much as these moments before his wedding.

As Commodus paced back and forth through the grand peristyle where the ceremony was to take place, he glanced again at his toga, even though the slaves had assured him time and again that it was immaculate. It was in the same imperial violet tones he had worn on the day of his betrothal, reserved for the imperial family, with magnificent motifs of wheat sheaves running along the sleeves and hem.

Before departing once again for faraway Germania, his father had assured him that wheat symbolized good fortune and abundance, but Commodus could only think of how much it reminded him of Crispina’s golden hair.

When his father informed him that he would be unable to attend the wedding due to the need to immediately suppress new rebellions among the Germanic tribes, Commodus once more felt the cold dagger of disappointment pierce him. He would not lie—it had been difficult to maintain a stoic expression and impassive figure as he felt his father abandon him once more. But he also realized that this new wound did not hurt as much as it once might have.

Never before did he think he had come so close to true happiness as on this day.

With Crispina by his side, he would never feel alone again.

Feeling unsettled now as the image of his betrothed resurfaced in his thoughts, the emperor's son sought his reflection in the waters of the impluvium. What he saw floating amidst the array of aquatic flowers was the future: himself standing in a magnificent hall, clad in an imperial toga and wearing a floral crown upon his dark hair. If he squinted enough, the small rosebuds would disappear, giving way to the coveted laurel leaves.

Commodus, Emperor of Rome.

Someday.

The young man let out an impatient huff as his green eyes swept across the room. Long floral garlands hung between the columns, lively flames danced atop the oil lamps on their pedestals, and woolen rugs covered the ceremonial area...

And roses.

Placed in large ceramic vessels throughout the room, they offered their beauty and fragrance to all the guests gathered there. Their petals already adorned the mosaic floor and floated on the still waters of the impluvium. He had insisted on having roses of every possible color brought in, save for one.

Yellow.

That hue was reserved exclusively for the floral diadem of his future wife.

A half-smile formed on Commodus’ face as he recalled the freckled, stubborn girl who, so many years ago, had been so displeased about having to hand him a mere rose. Perhaps his father had been right with all his philosophical riddles—it was true that fate played strange games with the lives of mortals. He would never have believed anyone who told him that insufferable little girl would one day become his wife.

And even less that it was something he would gladly accept.

The sunset had already begun to paint the Roman sky in shades of pink and orange, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin. The small altar, adorned with offerings and incense, was ready at the far end of the room, where the priest meticulously performed the preliminary rites. The sound of lyres filled the air, and the guests already seemed to have had more than a few cups of wine.

It wasn’t going to be a large wedding, something that hadn’t bothered him much when his father had informed him. Commodus knew well the sort of guests who attended such events in their social circle—senators and other influential men of Rome. With Crispina being the daughter of a former senator and himself the heir to the throne, the presence of those vultures disguised as doves was all but guaranteed.

And there they were, already lost in their chatter, their murmurs, and their schemes.

It was something that deeply irritated him.

"Are you nervous?"

Commodus turned, annoyed at the interruption of his thoughts. But his lips curved into a smile when he saw his sister approaching, draped in her stunning purple tunic with silver embroidery that flattered her so well. Her bright blue eyes sparkled under the flickering light of the torches battling against the dusk, creating a beautiful contrast with the jewels adorning her ears and neck.

Once, the sight before him might have taken his breath away. But now… Only a blind man could deny her beauty and natural charm, but for the first time in his memory, he regarded her from the distance of one who would never possess her.

And he was fine with that.

"Why should I be?" he replied, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Everything has already been arranged."

"Perhaps you can fool someone who knows you less well than I do, dear brother," Lucilla smiled, taking his hand and making evident the slight tremor that ran through it. "Calm yourself; soon, you will see Crispina."

"Have you seen her?" the emperor’s son asked, his natural impatience unmistakable.

"How could I not deliver your roses? Do you truly think me so mean-spirited?" Lucilla laughed, studying him intently. Whatever she saw must have pleased her because her expression softened into another affectionate smile as she rested a hand on his cheek. "She is just as nervous as you are; if that comforts you."

Commodus allowed himself a satisfied half-smile. It was a strange sensation to grow accustomed to these new emotions that, in one way or another, had always resided within him, though unknown. But he wouldn’t deny that they pleased him, even if they had to exist within the confines of political arrangements and formalities that he found utterly unnecessary and monotonous.

"And Lucius?" the emperor’s son inquired, prompting another affectionate smile from Lucilla.

"I told you the first time you asked, as well as the second and third: Lucius is far too young to stay up through celebrations that promise to last well past midnight," Lucilla replied with patient warmth. "I will have him brought if his presence means so much to you, but I fear you will spend your wedding night trying to put him to sleep if that happens."

Commodus let out a brief laugh as his gaze roamed the room again. The murmurs around the peristyle had shifted; even the musicians had ceased plucking the strings of their lyres. Yet, much like the rolling waves of the sea, the whispers returned stronger than before, soon erupting into thunderous applause.

It could only mean one thing.

"And here comes the bride," Lucilla murmured, cradling her brother’s face in her hands and kissing his forehead. "I am so happy for you, brother. May the gods bless this day."

She left as she had arrived: enveloped in a cascade of purple and silver hues, like the night that now began to claim the skies over Rome. Commodus drew a deep breath and straightened his posture, thinking of how his father would want him to appear on such a day—not as a frightened child seeking refuge in his sister’s arms, but as the man entrusted with the fate of Bruttia Crispina.

The young woman who had just entered the peristyle on her father’s arm.

All the strength Commodus had sought to imbue himself with risked dissolving at the sight of Crispina in her bridal attire. The saffron-colored veil, held in place by the yellow rose diadem he had ordered for her, reached her waist, and though her face was barely visible through it, he was deeply moved by the grace in each step she took toward him.

And yes, he could tell she was nervous.

As much as, or perhaps more than, he had been.

Because now, seeing her, he felt he had no reason to ever feel uneasy again. How could he, with Crispina at his side as his wife? She had told him she could come to love him, and he felt it as the greatest certainty, one he had never expected the gods to bestow upon someone like him.

As Gaius Bruttius Praesens guided his daughter to his side, a new thought struck Commodus. Perhaps it was inappropriate to draw such comparisons on his wedding day, but his thoughts couldn’t help but link his sister to his future wife. While Lucilla walked in cold, distant purple beauty, Crispina radiated the sunlight that had been absent from Rome’s sky.

A light that spoke to Commodus of the summer days he had spent with her at that villa by the sea, where wheat fields swayed in the breeze.

Where Lucilla was the fiercest winter, Crispina was the embodiment of summer.

He had wanted to whisper words to her as she reached his side, to catch her gaze through the veil or even remove it and kiss her in front of everyone present. But he could do none of those things. Gaius Bruttius Praesens took his daughter’s hands and kissed them fervently before leaving them alone at the altar, disappearing among the other guests.

Crispina then turned to him, and their eyes met for the first time that day. Now he could see her more clearly, even through the veil. A brief smile escaped his lips, meant to reassure her, but the priest’s discreet clearing of his throat from behind the altar made them both turn toward him.

The ceremony was about to begin.

Those rites, though essential to appease the gods and legitimize their union before the senators gathered there, seemed exceedingly tedious to him. They had felt interminable on the day of Lucilla's wedding to that fool Lucius Verus, and he quickly realized they were no less grueling on his own wedding day.

He repeated the vows the priest recited, doing so when prompted alongside Crispina, her voice reaching him through the veil and the scent of roses.

A fragrance that was steadily unraveling his concentration.

"Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus," the priest called, snapping his attention back when he thought it was already lost. "Extend your right arm."

The young man obeyed.

"Bruttia Crispina..."

Gaius Bruttius Praesens stepped forward immediately, carefully placing his daughter’s right hand upon Commodus’s. Few things could have jolted him back to reality more forcefully than the sensation of Crispina’s skin against his. He seized the moment to brush her palm with a gentle caress, one no one else could see, feeling her tense ever so slightly at his touch.

She was still nervous, and he found it so endearing that he could scarcely bear it.

"Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius," Commodus recited, repeating the priest’s words while seeking Crispina’s gaze.

"Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia," Crispina echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The priest released doves into the Roman night sky, now fully enveloped in darkness, as a symbol of good fortune, and declared before all present, and the gods themselves, that Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus and Bruttia Crispina were now husband and wife. The guests quickly erupted in applause, breaking the stillness of the moment, and Commodus felt both relief and excitement as he turned toward Crispina.

A shower of rose petals began to fall over them, but he paid it little mind. Instead, he carefully lifted Crispina’s veil, drawing it back over her head to finally behold her face. The young woman’s warm brown eyes met his, recognizing each other amid a day that had been long and exhausting for everyone. Crispina’s gaze was slightly glassy, perhaps from the emotion of the ceremony.

The thought made Commodus’s heart stir.

Their eyes had barely met when the emperor’s son cradled his wife’s cheek with one hand and placed the other at her waist, kissing her on the lips, unable to bear another moment apart. He had kissed her more times than anyone present could ever suspect—and far fewer than he longed to—but in that instant, everything around him ceased to matter. Even the guests’ applause faded into a distant echo barely audible to his ears.

Though Crispina responded to his kiss with the tenderness and delicacy he had grown so accustomed to, he couldn’t ignore the tension that lingered in her. Internally, Commodus cursed all those present. If only they could be alone as they had been in the past, hiding behind the palace columns to steal kisses and caresses, silencing their sighs on one another’s lips.

Alone as they had been by the seaside that night when everything changed.

But they would be.

If it were entirely within his power, Commodus would gladly forgo the banquet set to follow the ceremony—a feast that, as Lucilla had said, promised to stretch deep into the night.

What truly interested him lay ahead.

He burned with desire at the thought of carrying Crispina in his arms and laying her down on the marital bed where they would consummate their union. He had longed for her for so long that every second separating him from that moment felt like an eternity, one that made him believe he could die a thousand deaths before finally making her his.

He understood that, in weddings among the upper classes such as theirs, it was customary for trusted slaves to bear witness in the chamber to affirm that the marriage had been consummated.

Though he yearned to be alone with her, the mere thought of witnesses inflamed his heart and quickened his breath.

Bruttia Crispina was now his wife.

It was time for all of Rome to know.

Chapter Text

Night had long since claimed the Roman sky, gradually silencing the voices of the guests who lingered, reluctant to leave the festivities. Commodus watched as those senators, whose judgment his father had valued so highly, laughed louder than decorum allowed, their faces growing redder with each passing moment. They stumbled through the room, yet somehow managed to keep their wine from spilling—a skill that seemed almost miraculous.

It was a pitiful sight.

The emperor’s son cast a weary glance at his sister, who offered him a conciliatory smile before rising from the shared triclinium. The young woman clapped her hands sharply, cutting through the chatter and drawing all eyes to her.

"Senators, it has been a true honor to have your presence on the day of my brother’s union," Lucilla spoke with the poise and dignity that years had instilled in her. "The gods have blessed Commodus and Crispina’s marriage with such esteemed guests, but I fear it is time for us all to retire and rest…"

"And for the newlyweds to go to the bridal bed!"

Even without turning to look at her, he could guess the flush of Crispina’s cheeks. Seated beside him on the spacious triclinium reserved for the bride, groom, and their closest family, the young woman seemed to shrink in response to the fresh wave of laughter that followed the remark, shouted by one of the more wine-addled senators. Commodus felt his own cheeks burn as well, though for entirely different reasons.

"Come, Crispina," Commodus called to his bride, extending a hand toward her.

She had barely glanced at him when one of Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ slaves appeared, insisting that Crispina should precede him to the private quarters so her intricate bridal hairstyle could begin to be undone. Commodus exhaled sharply in frustration but finally waved her off with a dismissive gesture, watching as his wife departed the room, hurried along by the slave’s words.

Her absence left a certain bitterness in Commodus’ soul, one that had been growing throughout the banquet alongside a dark suspicion.

"Did you notice it?" he asked, leaning toward his sister. "She barely looked at me the entire feast."

"Commodus, I told you—she is nervous," Lucilla replied with a soft smile, attempting to downplay the situation. "I do not know any young bride who has not been overwhelmed by nerves on her wedding day."

"This is more than simple nerves," Commodus retorted sharply, raising his voice slightly without realizing it. The son of Marcus Aurelius glanced around to ensure the guests remained engrossed in their own conversations before continuing. "She spent the whole banquet lost in her thoughts, with no trace of joy on her face for all the world to see. The senators will think she is fulfilling her duty as reluctantly as a lamb led to temple sacrifice. Even I am starting to believe it."

"Come now, Commodus," his sister laughed, brushing his face gently with her hand. "Do not let your dark musings cloud a day like this, or you will end up with a headache. You have to understand—it has been a difficult day for her: so many changes in such a short time, and she has barely had time to recover from the blow of losing her brother…"

Commodus clenched his jaw, straightening his posture as he fought to appear stoic. The thought that Crispina’s mind, even on her wedding day, might still dwell on Quintius was more than he could bear. His arms trembled as he struggled to contain the anger swelling within him: though Lucilla’s words had aimed to calm him, they had only deepened his suspicion about how little affection his new wife truly felt for him.

"Commodus," Lucilla called him again, rising to her feet and tugging at his toga so he would do the same. The young man’s brooding gaze swept over the senators departing the peristyle, lost in their murmured conversations. He wondered how many of them were already whispering about the peculiar behavior of the bride.

"I know you are no friend to the gossip of servants," Lucilla continued, "but if hearing this would bring you the peace you so sorely lack, you should know that Gaius Brutius Praesens’ slaves claim they heard Crispina sigh your name in her sleep during the Saturnalia you spent in Volceii."

Commodus turned to his sister, incredulous. He had replayed every moment he had shared with Crispina during those Saturnalia celebrations in his mind, including the memory of the young woman sleeping peacefully in the sanctuary of her chambers. Yet, he knew all too well the slaves’ penchant for crafting false rumors to inject meaning into their otherwise futile lives.

"The slaves possess an overactive imagination they should channel into the tasks their masters assign them," the emperor’s son finally said as he rose to his feet.

"Good night, brother," Lucilla bid him farewell, ending the conversation even though he had wanted to confide further in her. "Let go of these dark thoughts and go to your wife. You will see that everything will seem different in the morning."

He frowned as she kissed his cheek—a gesture meant to placate him as if he were a small child. He watched her walk away between the columns, bitterness welling up in his chest as he realized she was abandoning him once again when he needed her most. Draining what was left in his wine goblet in one swift motion, he decided to retire to his chambers as well.

He couldn’t wait for the night to end.

Anger accompanied every step he took across the mosaic-covered hallways of the imperial palace, his mind swirling with thoughts of Crispina’s shift in demeanor. Perhaps he had been so intoxicated by the feelings that had blossomed within him that he had forgotten his marriage was, at its core, a transaction between two powerful men.

Yet it had been a comforting fantasy to believe he had found, in Crispina’s arms, the affection he had craved for as long as he could remember.

Lost in his racing thoughts, Commodus barely noticed when he arrived at the threshold of his chambers. The night breeze stirred the curtains draped over the entrance, and he approached, his steps becoming nearly silent, almost feline. He took hold of the fine silk and carefully drew it aside, peeking into the room.

These chambers had always been his own; their high, silent walls had served as his refuge when he felt the world was failing him. He had to admit the slaves had done their duty, transforming them into quarters fit for a married couple. The lamps near the bridal bed were lit, and the offerings had been made; the whiteness of the sheets gleamed under the flickering flames.

It was a magnificent sight, bathed in the starlight of the Roman night visible beyond the main balcony flanked by Corinthian columns. And yet, Commodus felt that all this beauty paled now that his eyes had settled on his young wife.

He felt his heart betray him, moved by the sight of Crispina seated in profile as one of Gaius Brutius Praesens’ slaves carefully unwound her intricate hairstyle. Commodus’ gaze followed each golden curl the slave let fall over the bride’s shoulders and back, spilling like the sunrise over the city of Rome.

Crispina, dressed as a bride in his chambers, distractedly caressing the yellow rose petals of her wedding diadem, seemed even more beautiful now that she felt so out of reach—knowing she would never be his in the way he had so desperately desired.

This was more than Commodus could bear.

"My lord," the slave murmured, exhaling softly as she noticed his presence. She bowed and stepped away from Crispina.

Commodus tensed at being discovered by a slave, and even more so when Crispina turned her gaze toward him as well. The son of Marcus Aurelius found himself wishing, with surprising fervor, that he could trade every one of Rome’s victories to the gods in exchange for seeing the same spark of emotion in Crispina’s brown eyes as he had in days past. But all he could see now was a caution and fear that revealed her true feelings more plainly than words ever could.

"My lord."

Two male voices startled him. Turning his gaze to the other side of the room, he spotted two men he didn’t recognize. They must have been slaves from Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ villa, sent by their master to witness the consummation of the marriage.

As if the humiliation of the ceremony hadn’t been enough, now he was to endure curious eyes in his own chambers.

Very well, so be it.

Commodus pushed the curtain aside and stepped fully into the room. The air was heavy with the scent of oil lamps, incense, and, above all, barely suppressed tension.

The apparent serenity of the night was becoming suffocating.

"Wife," Commodus finally called to Crispina, extending his hand toward her across the room.

The young woman’s restless eyes managed to cast one last glance at the slave, who chose to ignore her and left the heir to the throne's chambers after another reverent bow. Letting out a sigh, which Commodus took as an attempt to summon courage, Crispina rose, placing the floral diadem and saffron-toned veil on her seat.

Their eyes had barely met again when the two slaves of Gaius Bruttius Praesens stepped toward the young woman, eliciting a new expression of alarm on her face. Commodus felt his jaw clench as he watched one of them—a dark-haired man with sun-kissed skin—slowly push her golden hair aside, exposing one of her shoulders. His companion, who seemed to hail from distant Britannia, mirrored the action on the other side of Crispina, who pressed her lips together and sniffled softly.

The slaves’ hands now wandered over the young woman’s shoulders, reaching the golden clasps that held her ceremonial mantle in place. With a closeness that made Commodus’ throat tighten, he saw one of them slide his fingers into the folds of the fabric to undo the clasp. The mantle fell at Crispina’s feet, leaving her clad only in her white tunic embroidered with golden thread and the belt that accentuated her feminine figure.

With deliberate movements, one of the slaves removed the brooch fastening her tunic, causing part of the garment to slip down and hang from the belt, exposing one of the young woman’s breasts. Barely containing the storm brewing inside him, Commodus watched as the other slave mirrored his companion's actions, removing the other brooch and further revealing Crispina’s nudity.

His thoughts did not deceive him when they whispered that the slaves were lingering over their task far longer than was acceptable or proper. He even thought he detected a furtive caress on one of Crispina’s breasts, prompting her to press her lips tighter and let a single tear escape from her brown eyes.

This was more than he was willing to endure.

"Out," Commodus ordered, speaking over the fury that burned in his throat.

"My lord?" one of the slaves replied, his voice weak with surprise.

"Out," the emperor’s son repeated, this time swiftly unsheathing the ceremonial gladius that hung from his belt. His hand trembled with rage as he pointed the short sword at one slave and then the other, as if he could gut them even from that distance. "The next one of you filthy scum who dares to touch her will leave this room with his hand lodged in his throat."

The servants exchanged a look of terror before hastily complying with his orders, stumbling over themselves as they bowed and scurried away. Now that her father’s slaves were gone, Crispina let out a sob that tore from her throat, curling into herself as she hurried to cover her nakedness with her long golden hair.

Nothing would have pleased Commodus more than to approach her and hold her tightly, to stop her tears and shield her from prying eyes, but the last thing he wanted was to cause her even bitterer tears. He cast a glance over his shoulder to ensure the slaves had truly left; if they were lurking nearby, he would see to it that their eyes were gouged out.

His heart pounded wildly as he looked back at Crispina, able to discern the shape of her breasts even beneath her golden locks. He felt tempted—deeply tempted—to go to her and act as a husband should with his wife on their wedding night. But the immense affection he still felt for her kept him rooted in place, giving her time to compose herself and dry her tears.

"In these past months, I have spoken with my father more than I have in my entire life," Commodus began once Crispina started to calm down, raising her reddened brown eyes to him. "His treatises on science and philosophy breathe life into a fragile body worn by time, more than his victories on the battlefield ever could. More than I ever could. On one occasion, he told me to accept the things destiny binds me to... and to love the people destiny brings me, with all my heart."

The young man’s voice broke, and his face twisted as a curse escaped his lips. He couldn’t break down now—it would be the ultimate and gravest humiliation: a grown man weeping like a child on his wedding night.

"Commodus..." the young woman called him, but he quickly shook his head, silently asking her to stop.

"He spoke of love as if it were a gift," the emperor’s son continued, his voice more strained than he would have liked. "Tell me now, wife: is that your nature? A beautiful gift and nothing more?"

He hadn’t anticipated the surprise that overtook Crispina’s face at his words.

“Commodus, what are you saying?”

The young man let out a disbelieving laugh.

“I need to understand all of this, Crispina,” he demanded. “Do you resent the decision of our parents so much? Does my company cause you such suffering?”

Commodus was startled to see that his words seemed to wound her.

“How dare you imply such a thing?” Crispina retorted, stepping toward him.

“Do not feign outrage,” the emperor’s son shot back. “What else could your attitude suggest if not that? Not a word on our wedding day beyond those spoken to the priest, not a glance, even as I longed for yours. We have known each other for a long time, Crispina. I would have deeply appreciated honesty from the start if… if what I feel for you is not reciprocated.”

The young woman pressed her lips together, pained, but she held his gaze regardless. Commodus noticed unspoken words lingering on her lips, but at last, Crispina took a breath and asked the question she had been trying to suppress:

“Commodus, does your love for your sister surpass what you feel for me?”

He didn’t think any other question could have shaken him as much as that one. He dared not utter a word that might betray him as his mind raced with fleeting thoughts: Had Crispina uncovered his secret passion for Lucilla?

“Now it is you who speaks in riddles, wife,” the young man replied, determined to keep his secrets to the end.

“It is what I fear, that your brotherly love will keep you from believing me. I overheard Lucilla speaking privately with one of her slaves this morning,” Crispina began, wringing her hands for courage. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, but she was taking a long time to return to my quarters and… I heard her talking about our wedding.”

“What did she say?”

Crispina hesitated before continuing, studying the green eyes of her husband.

“Lucilla was cruel in her words,” the young woman finally admitted, her voice breaking and her cheeks flushed with shame. “She spoke of me as a foolish and naïve girl who has never left her father’s villa and does not know what she is getting into. She said Fortuna smiled on my father by giving him a dead son to offer the emperor and a living daughter to offer the heir…”

Crispina’s face twisted with renewed pain, forcing her to take a breath before continuing, her unshed tears shining again in her brown eyes. Despite how distressed she was, Commodus couldn’t help feeling as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders: the young woman didn’t seem to suspect the forbidden passion he had always harbored for his sister—thank the gods.

“It seems she shared these impressions with your father, but he would not listen,” Crispina continued, a sad smile appearing on her lips. “I imagine she thinks all of this is too much for me, that I might not be worthy of you. And she also mentioned something… something that happened with a girl from Hispania during a past Saturnalia.”

Commodus was grateful that Crispina had lowered her gaze, as he would have been unable to hide the shock that silenced his face. He had thought that was something forgotten, a matter that had left his father’s mind as quickly as it had left his own... Yes, he had been excessively harsh with that girl, driven by the anger stirred by that region of the empire and a certain general hailing from those lands. But he was certain it was nothing the girl hadn’t already grown accustomed to.

“What did you do to that young woman?” Crispina asked, lifting her gaze once more to her husband, and in her eyes was a determination he knew all too well.

“I am a man,” he defended himself. “You cannot expect you to be the only—”

“That is not what I am asking, Commodus,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “Did you harm that girl?”

The emperor’s son felt threatened but also determined to resolve this matter. He wouldn’t allow the shadow of a whore to come between him and his wife.

“Yes, that girl existed, but I did not harm her.”

Commodus was surprised to find that his words sounded genuine even to himself. Crispina’s face relaxed a little, though confusion still danced in her beautiful brown eyes.

“Lucilla said…”

“Lucilla only wants the best for me, but she lost her husband very recently,” Commodus interrupted her. “All these festivities, these celebrations… they remind her of happy days that will never return. I beg you to forgive her if her troubled mind makes her repeat words that reflect nothing but vile rumors from the slaves—lies that should have been buried long ago and not taken as truth by my own family.”

Crispina let out a sigh of relief that sounded like a barely-contained sob. The young woman placed a hand on her heart as an unnamed peace began to fill her brown eyes—a feeling Commodus’ soul also longed to share.

The only thing still standing between them was a doubt that grew weaker in the son of Marcus Aurelius’ mind with each passing moment.

“Crispina,” he called, rushing to her side. “Does this mean that... becoming my wife does not make you unhappy?”

“Commodus,” Crispina murmured, deeply moved, lifting her hand to caress his face with immense affection. The touch made the young man close his eyes, allowing himself to be lost in her tenderness. “Do you remember what we talked about the day of our engagement? When I mentioned dandelions?”

“You said they were just stories…”

“There are those who believe dandelions grant wishes to those who whisper to them before blowing on their seeds,” the young woman continued, her voice trembling at her husband’s nearness. “To think of you as mine was an honor I did not even dare to dream of, so I only confessed it to the dandelions…”

Commodus felt a warm surge within him that left him breathless, compelling him to open his eyes again and meet Crispina’s gaze: so welcoming, so close…

So sincere.

“My love, even if my destiny had been entirely in my own hands,” Crispina smiled, her brown eyes brimming with restrained emotion. “It would still have been you.”

“Crispina…”

Her name left his lips in a husky voice, charged with a desire coursing through his entire body. He closed the small distance that remained between them, holding her in his arms and resting his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice pronouncing his name once more, her gentle hands caressing his flushed cheeks. He could have died in that moment and embraced death willingly, lost in the rose-like fragrance of Crispina, in the warmth of her skin beneath his hands…

Skin that felt goosebumped and trembling, like the maiden she was.

It felt like the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, but he tried to temper the burning passion urging him to take her to their bed and claim her immediately. He opened his eyes again, cradling her youthful face in his hands with the same tenderness she had shown him.

Never before had he had to play the role of a lover. He had never found reason to. The courtesans he frequented knew their place well and understood exactly what to do to please him. Virgins had never interested him—so prone to nervousness, tears, and awkwardness when it came to satisfying him. Yet something within him now emerged, making him want to be gentle and patient with his wife.

His wife.

He could scarcely believe how fortunate he was.

“You have always told me stories, Bruttia Crispina,” Commodus whispered in her ear, brushing his face against hers and feeling her shiver with longing. “Allow me to tell you one now…”

He guided Crispina carefully to turn, her back resting against his chest. Before them, framed by the columns of the spacious balcony, stretched the Roman night, studded with stars that watched over the imperial gardens shrouded in the shadows of dawn. Commodus placed a light kiss on his wife's temple as his hands gently cradled hers, noticing how her initial tension softened under his touch.

"You know I have always been curious, my wife," he murmured against her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her locks while his fingers traced small circles on her skin. "And distrustful, especially when it comes to slaves."

Crispina remained silent, allowing Commodus to focus on the rhythm of her breathing. His caresses trailed slowly up the fine hairs of her slender arms, each touch soothing and deliberate. He hid soft kisses and sighs among her golden curls, his hands traveling naturally to her bare shoulders.

"I could not stop thinking about you that Saturnalia, Crispina," he confessed, carefully brushing her long blond hair away from her shoulders. "Even after leaving the beach. Your scent, your eyes, your lips... they haunted me, pounding in my mind over and over"

"Commodus..." Crispina sighed.

"Let me finish my story," he interrupted her, pressing a calculatedly slow kiss to the corner of her lips as his hands ventured lower, skimming along her collarbone. "I needed to make sure none of your father’s slaves dared to disturb you again. I had to know you were safe… So, I searched the darkness of your chambers as you slept."

A stifled gasp escaped Crispina's lips as Commodus' hands closed over her breasts. He pulled her even closer, holding her tightly against him as she shivered under his touch, so much so that he doubted she could remain standing much longer.

"I saw you that night," he whispered in her ear, brushing her earlobe with his lips, "lost in your sheets, sighing my name..."

His mouth traveled down her neck, leaving a trail of kisses that grew more intense as he savored the taste of her skin. Just as he was losing himself in the moment, he noticed a small wound on the back of her neck, perhaps caused by the friction of a necklace. 

"Was this what you dreamed of, Bruttia Crispina?" Commodus murmured against her skin, his voice hoarse with desire, before letting his tongue trace the small wound on her neck.

Crispina flinched and pulled away, freeing herself from the intimate embrace. Commodus clenched his jaw to stifle a curse, watching as her flushed cheeks and wide brown eyes betrayed her startled emotions. He had allowed his passion to overtake him and frightened her with his final gesture.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, intending to offer words of apology and reassurance. But Crispina met him halfway, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him with a devotion that stole his breath away. Her lips moved against his with hunger, and Commodus, stunned by her boldness, momentarily froze before responding in kind. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, finding his, and his body tensed at the unexpected daring of his young wife.

Surprise quickly gave way to fervor. He moaned softly against her lips, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her closer. The kiss enveloped him completely, leaving him disoriented, unable to think of anything beyond her. For the first time, he, who had always been in control, was undone by a kiss filled with tender passion and trembling honesty.

No one had kissed him like this before.

As if he were truly loved.

"It is you," Crispina whispered breathlessly as she pulled away. "It has always been you."

Commodus cupped her face and kissed her again, this time with unrestrained desire. He reveled in her soft gasp against his lips, in the way her delicate fingers threaded through his dark hair, pulling him closer. This was unlike anything he had experienced before; the whores he had frequented only feigned surrender, their bodies rigid and their minds willing the encounter to end quickly.

But Crispina...

He was intoxicated by her, lost in the taste of her lips and the perfume of her skin pressed against his. His hands left her face, trailing down her side in soft strokes, mapping the curves of her body. He smiled against her lips when his fingers encountered the “knot of Hercules” tied at her waist. With a barely contained urgency, he untied it, letting the sash fall aside as her bridal tunic slipped to the floor, leaving her completely naked before him.

Lifting her into his arms without breaking the kiss, he carried her across the chamber and laid her gently on the marriage bed. He paused, taking in the sight of her—her body bare against the sheets of his bed.

"Gods, you are a beauty, Crispina," Commodus murmured, reclining beside her and pressing another kiss to her lips. He noticed the slight tremble in her body under his touch as they lay on the bed, prompting him to pull back and look into her eyes. "Are you afraid?"

The young woman was nervous, but she did not shy away from his gaze.

"No," she finally whispered. "I have never been afraid of you."

A tender smile softened Commodus' lips. He leaned down once more to kiss her, his touch gentle as he sought to reassure her. This moment felt uncharted, even for him. He could not recall a time when he had allowed himself to be so vulnerable. His life had always been a performance of strength, a display of stoic endurance as his father had so often demanded, projecting a confidence he rarely, if ever, truly felt.

But with Crispina, there was no need to hide—there had never been a need.

His lips traced those of the young woman, capturing each of her sighs, while his hand explored her body with caresses he had dreamed of since he knew he was going to marry her. It was impossible for him not to surrender to that tenderness, to the love that his now wife professed to him. He didn't want to harm her in any way; all he desired was to make her feel as loved as he felt in those moments.

His hands couldn’t tire of exploring the softness and warmth of Crispina’s skin, tracing the curve of her breasts, the firmness of her abdomen... A muffled gasp escaped the young woman’s lips as Commodus’ fingers ventured to more intimate places. He began trailing kisses along her jawline while his caresses grew more intense, deeper, making Crispina tilt her head back, sinking it into the pillow as new sighs laden with desire escaped her lips.

Hearing those first moans of pleasure from Crispina, knowing they were his and only his, sent a shiver of renewed passion coursing through him. Perhaps the slaves could hear them—he hoped they could—but they would never be able to cause them.

She was his and his alone.

A protest escaped the young woman’s lips when Commodus’ fingers left that place that so desperately demanded attention, her hips moving instinctively in search of his touch. The sound was silenced by another kiss as the young man adjusted himself over his wife.

"Undress me," Commodus whispered against her lips.

Crispina locked her gaze onto his green eyes before beginning to explore the violet-toned tunic he wore. She placed her hands on his shoulders as he continued to kiss her and touch her everywhere, the young woman searching for any hidden clasp or fastening.

"I...," Crispina sighed, "I do not know how to do it..."

He stroked her golden hair before kissing her on the forehead, guiding her hands to each of the clasps that held his toga in place. Amid new kisses and caresses, Commodus soon noticed how the firmness of his garments loosened, Crispina's hands exploring his fervent skin and pushing aside the fabric that had become such an unwelcome barrier.

He cast the toga aside, trailing kisses over Crispina’s breasts that once again drew soft sighs from her, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. Now that he was as bare as she was, he allowed himself to explore the shape of her legs with fervor, as if he longed for nothing more than to memorize them. His breath hitched at the thought of them wrapped around his waist, and he decided that was a torment he could no longer endure, not even for a second.

Positioning himself better over her without ceasing to kiss her, he grasped her hips and aligned himself between her legs. He had no doubt that he was ready to become one with her, yet he tried to be gentle, mindful that this was a new sensation for his wife. A deep groan tore from his throat as he began to enter her, feeling Crispina’s body tense slightly, reclaiming some of its forgotten rigidity, even as a soft whimper escaped her lips.

"Shh, calm down," murmured Commodus, quickly returning to her lips, trying to comfort her. "Do you want me to stop?"

He was relieved to see Crispina shake her head after taking a deep breath, as he doubted he would have been able to stop even if she had asked him to. His green eyes remained locked on hers as he continued to ease himself into her, eager to witness every one of her reactions. Crispina’s hands stayed on his shoulders, guiding him despite the discomfort she felt, until he was finally fully inside her.

The young woman let out a moan of pleasure as Commodus brushed his nose against hers, drinking in her sighs. He kissed the trail left by a furtive tear on Crispina's face, before kissing her on the lips again. Guiding her legs around his waist, he began to move against her, making her back arch as her head sank into the pillow, her lips shaping his name in a way that drove him mad.

As their passion grew, so did the intensity of his movements, both of them lost in a desperate dance they never wanted to end. Though it seemed impossible to be aware of anything other than Crispina’s hands exploring his back and her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, Commodus became faintly aware of a sound coming from outside the chamber.

He leaned toward Crispina, who seemed unaware of anything, kissing her cheek, and glanced over his shoulder in a way that she couldn’t see. Through the silk hanging from the bed’s canopy, Commodus caught sight of the silhouette of two shadows against the mosaic floor, hesitating at the entrance to their chambers.

The slaves of Gaius Bruttius Praesens.

The young man felt his jaw clench with rage once more. While the idea of having witnesses during the consummation of the marriage had previously struck him as somewhat thrilling, he couldn’t say the same now. The slaves must have returned to their master, and he must have ordered them back to ensure proof that everything was proceeding as planned.

Proof?

Was that what they wanted?

Ignoring those two shadows, Commodus turned his face back to his wife and decided to stop holding himself back. He didn’t believe he could any longer anyway. He thrust forward with force, burying himself in her as he had longed to, drawing a cry of surprise from Crispina’s lips. He feared he had hurt her, but she quickly returned to kissing him, seeking his touch with even greater desperation.

He craved to keep feeling her sighs mingling with his own, but Commodus forced himself to let his lips return their attention to Crispina’s neck, trailing his tongue along her skin as his movements grew more intense. His mind abandoned thoughts of the slaves and the anger he felt toward them, as he was incapable of feeling anything beyond Crispina’s embrace and the shared moans that filled the space between them.

When he felt his breath falter, the climax on the verge of overtaking him, he nearly pulled away from her abruptly—until he remembered he shouldn’t. He had never intended to sire bastards, but with his wife, children were not something to avoid.

They were more than expected.

A deep groan escaped him against Crispina’s neck as she dug her nails into his back, throwing her head back in a silent cry of pleasure. He continued moving against her as waves of ecstasy coursed through him, until a final groan left his lips and he collapsed over the young woman.

He struggled to catch his breath as Crispina's hands found their way into his dark hair, caressing him with tender affection. Soon, the touches were accompanied by a soft kiss on his forehead. Commodus raised his face, seeking his wife's gaze. Her warm brown eyes locked onto his, and a brief, soft laugh escaped her lips.

"I have a request to make of you," she said.

"Anything..." he assured her hastily, his voice still hoarse.

"You have exiled my father’s slaves from our chamber," Crispina began, her words mingling with the shared breaths between them. "I beg you, exile in the same way the judgments your father and sister may pass on you. They do not see you as I do: from this night onward, your worries will be mine. I will place my fate at your feet and follow you as my lord and master."

Tears welled up in Commodus’ eyes as he traced his fingers over her face once more. He couldn’t believe he had ever doubted her—perhaps the only genuine affection he had ever known in his life.

"I will lay the world at your feet," Commodus whispered, his voice trembling with emotion, and the words made Crispina smile, her lips trembling with the intensity of her feelings. "Together, you and I will build a dynasty of such colossal magnificence that no history book will ever be able to contain it. The scholars of the days to come will speak your name with the same reverence with which I do now."

He barely had time to marvel at the radiant smile on her lips before Crispina kissed him again. She pulled him closer, running her fingers tenderly through his dark hair. He allowed himself to be enveloped once more by her arms, caring little whether the slaves lingered nearby or intended to remain stationed outside their door for the rest of the night. He didn’t even worry about the moment when the flames dancing in the oil lamps would finally burn out, plunging the room into the darkness he had always feared.

He would never fear the dark again.

Not if he was in Crispina’s arms.

Chapter Text

The words of Marcus Aurelius had accompanied her throughout her life, as they had for most citizens of the empire. Rare were the occasions when the emperor remained in Rome long enough to make public appearances, yet the people loved him, knowing that his absences were in the name of peace and the glory of the empire. They cherished every one of those wise words the elder offered them.

She remembered that he had once referred to Rome as a delicate and wonderful dream.

And how much truth there was in those words.

Crispina walked along the wide paths of the imperial gardens, letting the warm morning sunlight greet her. She had always found peace in nature and believed she had grown accustomed to its beauty, yet it continued to leave her speechless in her new home. She loved the whisper of the leaves swaying to the song of the birds that flitted restlessly from branch to branch, as well as the fragrance of the flowers dancing with the breeze of the newborn day.

And the roses...

She felt she could never grow used to the splendor of those roses.

A smile full of affection and wonder graced her lips as she approached the first row of rose bushes, their petals swaying in the early breeze as if greeting her. She had shed bitter tears when she had to leave her beloved rose bushes in Volceii, but she had learned to love these with the same devotion. It was impossible not to fall in love with these roses, especially when so many happy memories were tied to them.

The young woman knelt in front of the rose bushes, carefully gathering the folds of her blue tunic as she gently worked the soil with her fingers. Many had reminded her that there was no need for her to dedicate her time and attention to tending the roses, as they had slaves and servants for such tasks, but she ignored those words and came to them each morning.

Crispina stood, dusting the soil off her hands, and let her brown gaze drift among the various shades of roses. But one in particular caught her attention. She had barely reached out to touch the petals of a nearby yellow rose when someone encircled her waist from behind. She stifled a gasp of surprise that quickly turned into soft laughter as she felt herself lifted off the ground in that embrace, spun around gently.

"I thought you were training with the soldiers, husband," she said when her feet returned to the earth of the path.

"And I thought you were still in bed, wife," Commodus murmured into her ear. "You cannot imagine my despair at finding I was so mistaken."

A new smile, brimming with affection, appeared on Crispina's lips as she tilted her head slightly, allowing Commodus to rest his cheek against hers. She could feel his skin, warm and damp with sweat from the training sessions he subjected himself to with the Praetorian Guard at the break of dawn, as well as his bare chest pressed against her back.

"I tried to return to sleep," Crispina admitted, "but I fear your absence made it impossible."

She felt the pleased smile that spread across Commodus' face before he buried a kiss in her golden hair. Crispina closed her eyes at the touch of his lips, letting herself be enveloped by the rosemary scent of the perfumes her husband often wore, and allowed herself to be gently swayed in his embrace.

"I wanted to see if it had rained last night; that was what it seemed like to me..." she began to say.

"Were you truly thinking about that last night?" Commodus asked, his voice a whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "Whether or not it was raining?"

"You were asleep," she continued, her voice soft. "Your face reflected such calm, such peace… I was saddened by the thought that the patter of rain against the walls and roof might disturb your rest. I prayed to the gods to let you sleep, to guard your dreams as tenderly as I did… But I also thought about how much the rain would benefit the roses."

"You and your roses," murmured the emperor’s son, his voice still buried against her golden hair as he pulled her closer. His hands left Crispina’s only to begin stroking her through the fine linen of her tunic. "You smell of them, as always. Of your sweet roses and the morning dew. By all the gods, you have been sent to cloud my reason..."

"Well," Crispina laughed, turning her face slightly toward him, "I am afraid, my dear, that you smell exactly as a soldier does after rigorous training at such an early hour."

Commodus stifled a laugh against her hair, drawing her even closer as his hands wandered through the folds of her tunic.

"You could order a hot bath to be prepared for me," he suggested. "You might even join me, wife, to make sure the scent is truly gone..."

"Behave yourself," Crispina whispered, feeling his caresses grow more insistent. "The slaves could see us..."

"Do you think that would stop me, Crispina?" Commodus whispered into her ear, his lips brushing her earlobe gently. "Eyes are made for seeing—let them look."

The young woman smiled to herself and closed her eyes again, letting him continue to caress her and hide kisses and sighs into her golden hair. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t pleased by the direction their conversation was taking. She felt she could never have enough of him, just as he seemed incapable of satisfying his hunger for her.

They had barely left their chambers during those first weeks of marriage, and when they did, they would sneak behind columns and sculptures to steal kisses and touches with the same urgency and fervor as when they had been only betrothed.

"Do you know what I think we should do?" the emperor’s son spoke then. "Visit the Gardens of Sallust someday. Or perhaps travel to the island of Capri. Your love for roses and the sea is so great, I am not quite sure how to please you. I fear I cannot bring the beautiful song of the sea from Volceii to Rome, wife."

"The beautiful song of the sea from Volceii?" Crispina laughed, turning her face to look at him. "The boy I met would never have said such a thing. He was so vain he even disdained the most beautiful roses a little girl had to offer."

"That vain boy was the emperor’s son and heir to the throne," Commodus pointed out with a smirk she knew all too well. She would have known his intentions even if he hadn’t turned her, bringing them face-to-face. "But you will be pleased to know that time has humbled him—he has completely lost his reason over the girl with the roses."

He claimed her lips with urgency, his hands tracing the line of her jaw in a touch laden with yearning. She responded at once, with fervor and tenderness in equal measure, placing her hands on his shoulders. She smiled against his lips as she felt his hands leave her face to wrap around her waist, pulling her closer, allowing her to drape her arms around his neck. Commodus could sometimes be rough, but she had grown accustomed to that intensity just as he had grown accustomed to her gentleness—so much so that it seemed he could not live without it.

She brushed her nose against his when they parted, remaining just a breath away. His green eyes roamed her face with reverence, allowing Crispina to see that faint glimmer of vulnerability that surfaced only when he was with her. It contrasted so starkly with the authority and strength he displayed to the rest of the world that the young woman couldn’t help but feel moved in his embrace, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"I do not have the strength to wait for any bath, wife…" Commodus murmured in a husky voice, drawing her closer and lowering his head toward her.

"I apologize for the interruption…"

Their lips had barely brushed again when that charming voice uttered those words of apology. Crispina couldn’t help but tense at the sound. She quickly pulled away from her husband’s embrace, turning to face Lucilla. She was startled to find that Marcus Aurelius’ daughter stood just a few steps away. Neither she nor Commodus had noticed her presence until that moment.

"Sister," Commodus murmured, his voice barely audible. He, too, seemed unsettled by Lucilla’s sudden appearance. "I did not expect to see you here this morning."

"I am afraid, dear brother," Lucilla continued, a smile still etched on her lips, "that your lovely bride has made you forget important commitments. Tell me, do you not remember what day it is today?"

Crispina took advantage of her husband’s silence to study Lucilla more closely. Even dressed in dark, sober tones befitting someone walking the halls of her own home, Lucilla was so marvelously beautiful that no other young woman in Rome seemed capable of comparing to her. She had always heard of Marcus Aurelius’ daughter as an enchanting enigma everyone was desperate to unravel, but Crispina hadn’t truly believed it until the morning of her wedding.

She felt the hairs on her arms stand on end as she recalled the fear and tension that had overtaken her after overhearing Lucilla’s words to one of her slaves. Now, she regretted that such dark emotions had tainted her wedding day—the very day an indescribable happiness had taken hold of her life.

"I do not recall this day being of any particular significance," Commodus replied, his voice suddenly colder, more distant.

A melodic laugh escaped Lucilla’s lips as she shook her head slightly, as if gently chastising her younger brother for his poor memory.

Only then did she seem to notice Crispina.

"Good morning, Crispina, dearest sister," Lucilla said with that ever-present smile. "Do not worry, I will not deprive you of my brother’s attentions for long."

Crispina met her gaze, even though she wished for nothing more than to look away. She marveled at Lucilla’s ability to display one emotion while feeling something entirely different inside. But she reminded herself that Commodus adored his sister with true fraternal devotion. She didn’t want to hurt him by making her mistrust of Lucilla obvious.

"It is indeed a splendid morning," Crispina replied, trying to be as affable as possible.

"As splendid as a day like today can be," Lucilla responded, this time meeting Commodus’ eyes. "By all the gods, brother, is it really possible that you do not know what day it is today?"

Crispina turned her gaze to her husband and saw his expression harden. She hadn’t thought it possible for him to look at his beloved sister with such coldness, but in his green eyes there was a contained defiance and fury that turned Lucilla’s simple question into an enigma Crispina longed to understand.

"What is the matter?" the young woman murmured.

"Crispina, my dear, please excuse us for a moment," Lucilla said, taking Commodus by the arm with her characteristic natural elegance. She had already begun guiding him toward the palace when Marcus Aurelius’ daughter addressed her again. "I am sure your roses will appreciate your care while I speak with my brother."

Crispina clenched her jaw as she watched the siblings walk away, leaving her behind as if she hadn’t been there in the first place. Although she knew her roses would indeed soothe her nerves after such an awkward moment, she couldn’t tear her brown eyes away from Commodus and Lucilla, who were now speaking face-to-face. Crispina tilted her head slightly, as if that might help her overhear the conversation the children of Marcus Aurelius were sharing in whispers.

While Lucilla’s face maintained its usual composure and grace, Crispina could see her husband’s expression growing increasingly tense, his features contorting with agitation as their discussion progressed. She didn’t realize just how heated their exchange had become until Commodus barked a final remark before storming away, descending the garden steps in long strides.

It was as if he had completely forgotten about her.

"Commodus!" Crispina called out, but he was already too far away to hear her.

Within moments, her husband had disappeared from view.

"What happened?" she demanded, hurrying toward Lucilla. The tension she usually felt in her sister-in-law’s presence dissolved, replaced by worry for her husband.

Lucilla’s blue eyes remained fixed on the lush path where her brother had disappeared, her gaze concealing the secrets of their shared conversation. Their bond was so deep, forged over many years, that Crispina couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. Shaking off the dark feeling, she addressed her sister-in-law again:

“What is the matter?”

When Lucilla finally looked at her, it was as though she had woken from a dream, only now realizing Crispina was still there. A soft smile appeared on her beautiful face, and she shook her head, exuding a calmness that seemed strange after arguing with her younger brother.

“Do not worry, sister,” Lucilla said, unaware of how much Crispina disliked being addressed as such. “You know my brother: his mood is fickle, and you can imagine what a day like today means to him.”

“A day like today?”

She felt her sister-in-law studying her face for a few moments, the incredulity becoming more pronounced in those clear blue eyes she had inherited from her father.

“Of course, Crispina,” assured Marcus Aurelius’ daughter. “Anniversaries of a loved one’s death are always difficult: you must know that well.”

Although a strange sensation washed over her as Lucilla casually referred to Quintius or her deceased mother, Crispina forced herself to follow Marcus Aurelius’ example—to display stoicism, even though she felt intimidated by her sister-in-law’s presence and her own ignorance of the situation.

“Is today the anniversary of the empress’ death?” Crispina asked.

A soft laugh escaped Lucilla’s lips as she locked eyes with her sister-in-law.

“Of course, sister. What else could it be? Did Commodus not tell you?”

“Commodus does not speak of her,” Crispina replied, holding Lucilla’s inquisitive gaze. How could she not know something like this?

Lucilla clicked her tongue and observed her with sweet condescension.

“You are still so young, Bruttia Crispina,” murmured Lucilla, nodding slightly. “There is much you do not yet understand about the world or my brother’s nature. I believe you were just a newborn when you lost your own mother, but the death of a mother is always hard to accept—especially considering… well, certain circumstances.”

Crispina felt confusion taking over her expression, but she couldn’t help it. Now she understood what Commodus meant when he said his father spoke in riddles, for she felt his daughter was doing the same.

“Circumstances?”

Lucilla’s blue eyes widened further, reflecting surprise at her sister-in-law’s ignorance—an ignorance that seemed to amuse her, even on such a day.

“You truly know nothing, do you?”

Crispina remained silent, holding Lucilla’s gaze, unwilling to show even a hint of the embarrassment she felt. She hated feeling so small, like the foolish girl her sister-in-law seemed to think she was. She was on the verge of yielding and lowering her eyes when Lucilla clicked her tongue and gave her a soft pat on the shoulder.

“Perhaps it is better this way: you should not yet know so much sorrow, sweet Crispina,” Lucilla said tenderly. “My brother’s nature is complicated, especially when matters like this trouble his spirit, as you know. It is best to give him space to manage his emotions and welcome him back with open arms when he is ready to grace us with his presence.”

Marcus Aurelius’ daughter had already turned away, retracing the dirt path that had brought her there, when the words Crispina had been holding back finally escaped her lips.

“Perhaps what Commodus has always needed is precisely the opposite,” Crispina said, as her sister-in-law turned to look at her. “Sorrow is no stranger to me, Lucilla, just as your brother’s sorrow is not. I know such heavy emotions only become more unbearable when one carries them alone.”

She couldn’t find the words to describe how much it irritated her to see that calm, condescending smile linger on Lucilla’s face. Lucilla clearly considered her even more foolish than she’d initially thought, listening to Crispina’s words with the silent amusement of someone watching a child babble their first, incomprehensible sentences.

“You can try, sister,” Lucilla said again. “But do not feel bad if you fail in your purpose—after all, you must know it is nothing personal.”

With that, she ended the conversation. Marcus Aurelius’ daughter turned her back on Crispina and walked away down the path, her figure gradually disappearing among the towering floral bushes that lined the way. Only then did Crispina allow herself to sigh, placing a hand over her heart to calm its rapid beating. Lucilla’s true nature remained a cold, unpleasant revelation she was forced to endure day after day.

But she didn’t want to waste more thoughts on her sister-in-law.

Crispina turned her gaze to the path Commodus had taken, striding away until he was out of sight. The imperial gardens, sprawling across the hills of the Palatine, were not flat terrain; they cascaded over various levels, each with its own distinct character—flowered walkways, small lakes, groves of cypress trees. Crispina herself had yet to explore them entirely and had no idea where her husband might have gone.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t look for him.

Letting the fragrance of the roses soothe her, she began walking down the same marble-paved path where she’d seen Commodus disappear. Her mind kept circling back to her conversation with Lucilla as her brown eyes scanned the undergrowth for any sign of her husband. She was venturing into an area she hadn’t frequented much—more secluded—but she thought she’d overheard the slaves mention it before.

“Commodus?” she called, straightening her posture as her gaze moved from one statue to the next.

No response.

After what felt like an eternity, the path began to widen slightly, opening into a secluded but meticulously maintained part of the gardens. It was a beautiful clearing covered in soft grass, dotted with busts of past rulers and small stone benches. The scent of wildflowers was intense and full of spring’s vitality, but the air carried a silent sorrow—a forgotten melancholy that hung in the atmosphere.

Crispina felt her heart lighten when she spotted Commodus, though her relief was tempered by the sight of him standing in front of a marble bust. It depicted a woman, her shoulders draped in flowing silks, her serene gaze and pale beauty immortalized in stone by the artist’s skill.

She had seen the woman in person only once, but she would recognize Faustina the Younger, empress of Marcus Aurelius and mother of her husband, anywhere.

“For a moment, I thought I would not find you. I am glad I was wrong,” Crispina said, stepping closer to him.

She spoke gently, hoping not to startle him. But Commodus seemed so absorbed in the stone gaze of his mother that he didn’t respond. Reaching his side, Crispina rested her hand softly on his back, seeking to comfort him.

“Are you all right?”

The emperor’s son let out a sharp exhale, stepping away from her touch before turning to face her.

“Tell me, wife…” Commodus’s voice carried an edge of hesitation, as though debating whether to continue. “Do you think it is possible to love someone with all your heart and, at the same time, hate them with equal intensity?”

It was not a question she had expected, and for a moment, Crispina didn’t know how to respond.

“I should have realized the anniversary of your mother’s death was near,” she began, nodding as she thought aloud. “I recall it was also summer when your father sent you to stay with us in Volceii. I understand how days like these can bring back pain with renewed strength—it is only natural that you might feel anger at her leaving, Commodus, but she did not want it this way. She loved you, and—”

Her words were cut off by a bitter laugh from Commodus. He sank onto a nearby stone bench, rubbing his face with one hand.

“I remember those days,” Crispina continued calmly. “I mean when my father told us you would be visiting. I have to admit, I was not thrilled about the idea of you coming to our villa, not after our first meeting…”

A faint smile played on Commodus’ lips, as though he couldn’t help but lose himself in the memory of those childhood days.

“I remember how you hid away, not wanting anyone’s company,” Crispina continued. “For the first few days, you were like a ghost to me—sounds and sobs coming from a distant room.”

“And you were to me,” he murmured, lifting his gaze toward his wife. “Lyre chords in the dead of night.”

A soft smile appeared on Crispina’s face, one that quickly found its echo in her husband’s. Both of them were clearly thinking about those two children in Gaius Bruttius Praesens’ library who ended up sharing stories, secrets, and tears they felt they couldn’t confide in anyone else. The memory of that meeting, which had brought such solace to her soul, seemed to work its magic on Commodus too. He let out a sigh, bowing his head once more.

“You do not know the truth about my mother’s final days, Bruttia Crispina,” the young man murmured. “You are unaware of how wicked she became, and how she left my father, my sister, and me bound to miss her just as fiercely as we tried not to curse her name.”

“What could have happened for the empress to leave behind such a tangled legacy?” Crispina asked.

Commodus clung stubbornly to his silence for a moment before he began to speak.

“My mother stayed with us—Lucilla and me—when our father left on one of his many military campaigns. I remember how she held us as we slept, how she assured us that the heavens and all their stars existed only to watch over our dreams until morning,” he began, his voice distant as he recounted his memories. “The news from the battlefield was scarce. You know how difficult it can be to reach someone on the other side of the empire…”

Crispina nodded, letting him continue.

“One day, after weeks without a word from our father, my mother heard a rumor that made her go pale. She kept it to herself, assuring Lucilla and me that there was nothing to worry about,” Marcus Aurelius’ son continued, his expression darkening. “I remember hearing whispers of a new plague spreading through the war zones, but I thought it impossible that anything could happen to my father—he was the emperor. But my mother thought otherwise.”

“She believed your father was ill somewhere?” Crispina ventured.

“She believed he had fallen victim to the plague in Germania,” Commodus corrected her, his barely contained anger resurfacing in his features. “She did not doubt it for a second—it was almost as if she expected it. She boarded the first ship bound for North Africa without hesitation, not even to say goodbye or offer an explanation.”

“For what purpose?”

“To crawl into the bed of Avidius Cassius, the governor of Egypt, and promise him with her serpent’s tongue that she would do everything in her power to make him emperor if he swore loyalty to her.”

Commodus spat the words with such venom it seemed he’d nearly choked on them. Consumed by shame and rage, he bowed his head, forcing his hands to stay clasped on his knees. Crispina wouldn’t have been surprised if, under different circumstances, he had sprung to his feet and hurled Faustina the Younger’s bust to the ground.

She, however, felt overwhelmed by her husband’s words, even as they brought clarity. She recalled the strange demeanor of Quintius and her father whenever they mentioned the empress, as though they shared an unspoken secret, and how both her brother and she had been instructed never to speak Faustina the Younger’s name in Commodus’ presence.

Now she understood why.

“She committed treason by swearing loyalty to another as emperor…” Crispina murmured.

“And as a wife,” Commodus interrupted, raising his face to her again. His green eyes, now reddened with tears he would never allow to fall, bore into her. “She lacked nothing to run off and warm another man’s bed with promises of honor and glory she herself never knew.”

“She believed your father was dead,” Crispina said, trying to soothe her husband’s anger and make sense of the Empress’s actions. “Perhaps she feared for your safety—yours and Lucilla’s—and that drove her to madness.”

“That is precisely what my sister says, but I strongly disagree with her opinion. I would not want to have to disagree with yours too, wife,” Marcus Aurelius’ son warned, standing and stepping toward Crispina. “My mother acted like a whore, abandoning her children to wallow in another man’s bed the moment she thought my father was dead. When word finally came from Germania that my father was alive, she could not bear the shame that fell upon her. Days after Avidius Cassius was executed for treason, she took her own life.”

Crispina held her breath, maintaining the intense gaze Commodus fixed on her, as though daring her to contradict him. She could scarcely believe what her husband had recounted, yet it seemed to explain so much about his nature—the way he kept his thoughts and feelings hidden, the mistrust he harbored when meeting new people, as if letting his guard down would leave him vulnerable to harm…

“Do you sympathize with her, wife?” Commodus asked, his voice low and probing. “Does my story move you?”

She knew him too well to miss what he was truly asking, and she had to summon all her composure to keep her indignation from showing as her heart skipped a beat.

"I would never do that to you, never," Crispina assured him. "If your story moves me, it is because I hurt for the boy who had to endure all of that. Your father should not have sent you to my father’s villa after your mother’s death. He should have shown you love, been there for you and your sister."

Commodus let out a weary sigh, shaking his head and averting his gaze. The conversation was becoming too much for him. He stared into the horizon, trying to gather his thoughts as he slowly sat back down on the stone bench.

"My father is a wise man; everyone says so," Commodus began after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps he acted wisely in making that decision—after all, it was because of that that the girl with the roses stopped seeming like a nuisance to me."

A soft smile graced Crispina's lips as she moved closer to him, gently running her hand through his hair. Commodus sighed, pulling her into an embrace and resting his cheek against her abdomen.

"All of that is in the past now. It cannot reach you or torment you anymore," Crispina whispered, her voice imbued with the strength of a promise. "Stay here with me."

"I do not want to lose you," Commodus admitted, his voice cracking for the first time. "If you ever did something like what she did…"

"Look at me," Crispina commanded softly, tilting his face up toward hers. "I love you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Push those dark thoughts away; you will never have reason to doubt me. Trust me, as I trust you."

"And do you trust me, wife?"

"I would entrust you with my life, a thousand times over," she said, caressing his cheeks tenderly as she sought to ease the tension between them. "Darling, you forget how stubborn the girl with the roses can be."

A brief laugh escaped from Commodus’s lips, instantly lifting the mood. Crispina watched with satisfaction as even something as simple as his laughter could make the day seem to bloom anew, radiant and full of light. Commodus gently pulled her closer, guiding her until she had no choice but to straddle his lap to avoid falling to the ground.

Which, of course, was precisely what Commodus intended.

The intensity of his gaze revealed his intentions, feline and unwavering as he looked at her. He raised his hands, bringing her face closer to his and kissing her lips. Crispina felt his fingers weave through the white ribbons in her hair, tugging at them delicately until her blonde curls cascaded down her back.

"The slaves do not seem to put much effort into your hairstyles anymore, wife," Commodus murmured, his breath warm against her lips.

"I fear they have realized it hardly matters—they never last long anyway," Crispina admitted, her cheeks flushing with heat. "We should head back…"

"We are not going anywhere."

The training with the Praetorian Guard was paying off, as Commodus managed to rise from the stone bench without releasing her from his arms, though only enough to lay her gently on the grass of the clearing. Crispina stifled a gasp as she felt the morning dew against her back, while Commodus trailed kisses down her neck, each one more intense than the last.

"I thought you wanted a bath, husband," Crispina laughed, attempting to reason with him, though she knew her breathless sighs betrayed her as his touch overwhelmed her senses. "Do you not think so?"

"What I think is that the baths are much too far away," Commodus murmured, their eyes meeting, the unmistakable spark of newlywed passion lighting up his green gaze. "And you are far too beautiful."

The young woman smiled as her husband kissed her once more, surrendering to her beneath the morning sun. Lucilla might consider her ignorant in many matters, but there was one thing Crispina knew with absolute certainty.

Commodus always found a way to get what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Everything around him urged him to stop paying attention to those accursed vellums.

The timid midday breeze ruffled his dark hair as he rested his face on his chin, pretending to study the parchments that covered the surface of the marble table. He could only thank the gods that the table had been set in the gardens of the imperial palace, for he would have hated to spend such a splendid morning confined within its walls.

Commodus glanced up discreetly, studying how Lucilla devoted every thought to those finely written lines. He found her beautiful even with her brow furrowed in concentration, so still that he could not even hear the characteristic tinkling of her silver earrings.

Taking advantage of the fact that his sister’s attention was focused on their father’s missives, he looked around once more, noting again how autumn’s mantle had slowly descended over the imperial gardens. The place still retained its magnificent, timeless beauty, but lately, daylight abandoned them earlier than usual, the fragrance of flowers and ripe fruit danced in the increasingly cold air, and the leaves of the tall pines had turned the color of his wife's eyes.

Crispina.

Obeying the warm sensation that always accompanied her name, Commodus let his green eyes drift silently toward her. The young woman was in the company of little Lucius, both seated in the shade of the plum trees on a stretch of fresh grass not far from where Lucilla and he were. It was unusual to find Crispina away from her beloved rose gardens, but she had developed a passion for the fruit of that tree ever since she had decided to taste it a few weeks ago.

He could barely suppress a half-smile at the thought that he found impossible to resist her, and even less so now when her lips still held the sweet, fresh taste of plums.

Lucius had planned to spend the morning with his mother until she announced that the emperor had sent some highly important vellums that she had to tend to with Commodus as soon as possible. Moved by the child's tears, Crispina had kissed his cheek and promised to play with him in the gardens and tell him stories until his elders had fulfilled the duty entrusted to them by his grandfather.

Entertaining a child as young as Lucius could be a difficult task, and it was true that Crispina’s face bore traces of fatigue, yet her smile never faded as she rocked the boy in her arms. Though they were too far for him to hear her words, Commodus thought he could not be mistaken in assuming that Crispina was telling the boy a story of the Greeks, judging by the child's enchanted expression, as if he feared missing a single word.

Those stories had cast the same spell on him in distant Volceii, so many years ago.

Though he doubted those old myths of heroes and gods had ever enchanted him as much as the young girl who told them.

“Commodus?”

Lucilla’s voice acted on him as if waking him from a dream, gently bringing him back to reality. Turning his face toward her, he found those beautiful blue eyes he had admired for years gazing at him with a hint of reproach.

For an instant, he felt as though he were holding his father’s gaze.

“Sister?”

“Is it possible that you have not heard a word I have said?” Lucilla asked, leaning over the table. “I have been speaking at length about my thoughts on this outbreak of plague in the outskirts of the city. I thought you were listening. You know these gardens like the back of your hand—what could still capture your attention so much?”

He did not need to say a word: Lucilla’s light eyes found the figures of Crispina and Lucius on the grass, beneath the shade of the plum trees. If any further words of reproach had formed in Lucilla’s mind, they vanished in an instant. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius let out a soft smile and shook her head to herself.

“Well… One day you will have to stop blaming her for your lack of attention, my dear brother, but now return to these vellums,” Lucilla continued, gesturing toward the parchments spread across the table. “The sooner we tend to them, the sooner you may devote yourself to other matters you find more… pleasurable.”

Commodus let out a brief chuckle, but the truth was he could hardly think of anything other than Crispina. His father was being cruel by beginning to delegate such responsibilities to him now that he was newly married.

A man who truly enjoyed the company of his young wife.

“As I was saying, I find it appropriate to send physicians to the outskirts of the city to examine those afflicted by this disease more closely,” Lucilla said in a calm, assured tone that reminded him, once again, of their father. “In that vellum before you, there is a list detailing the most common symptoms of the plague…”

“Extreme fatigue, nausea and vomiting, dizziness and fainting…” Commodus murmured with boredom. “I find it hard to believe that a disease more typical of barbarian tribes and their vile customs could reach a city as magnificent as Rome.”

“You would do well to remember how little judgment these afflictions have when choosing a new victim: they make no distinction between old men or newborn children, between crippled beggars or robust senators… Rome is accustomed to the absence of our beloved father, but it is thanks to our intervention in matters such as these that the citizens will find solace in our presence.”

Commodus nodded to himself, weighing his sister’s words. There was so much he longed to give the city that had seen his birth… He knew Rome was a daughter as neglected by its emperor as he himself had been, and for that reason, he believed he understood the sentiments of its people and what they yearned for in the figure of Caesar.

He was certain that the citizens of Rome would have less fear of potential threats, both military and of illness, if only they could turn their attention to other matters—ones that would remind them of the empire’s glories rather than filling them with distant and likely unfounded terrors. The imperial gardens were situated in such a privileged space that it was possible to admire from them the full splendor of the city of Rome, and that included, of course, the brightest jewel in its crown.

The Colosseum.

He would give anything to organize games where the people could find entertainment and escape. He dreamed of hearing his name roared by the crowd, of holding the power of life and death over the gladiators with a mere movement of his thumb… If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost perceive the scent of the sand, of the blood…

And of roses.

“Do I have your approval, then?”

The young man reached for a nearby quill and signed his name carefully at the bottom of the document that required his authorization to tend to those afflicted by the plague. He would not lie—the whisper of the quill’s tip scratching delicately over the vellum sent a slight shiver through him, making him feel as though he held real power, a small taste of what he would wield one day.

“I am glad to see you attending to these matters in our father’s absence, my dear brother,” Lucilla smiled, signaling one of the slaves to take the vellum and deliver it to the Senate. “I have no doubt that he, too, will be most pleased to see that you have handled the situation as it deserves.”

He did not know if his sister was naïve or merely trying to encourage him, but the truth was that his mind was soon flooded with memories of past moments when he had believed himself to be up to his father’s expectations, only for it never to be enough for Marcus Aurelius. Still, he had sensed a slight change in their relationship in recent times.

Perhaps the day his father finally opened his eyes was closer than he thought.

“The sun, though it hides shyly behind the clouds, is still high in the sky—it is time to free your wife from my son’s company,” murmured Lucilla, a half-smile playing on her lips. Commodus knew that smile well: elegant and playful at the same time. “Lucius’ temperament can be excessively restless, and it would be too much for our dear Crispina, even if her new life in the palace had not made her lazy.”

Commodus smirked and shook his head slightly before turning his gaze toward Crispina and Lucius. At that moment, the young woman was holding the boy in her arms, with no small effort, lifting him so that he could reach the elusive fruits from the highest branches. It was strange not to find his wife tending to her beloved roses in the early hours of the morning, but Commodus would be lying if he said he did not prefer seeing her as he found her now when he returned from his training.

Still asleep in the bed they shared, tangled in the sheets, her golden hair spread across the pillow, and her linen tunic slipping from her shoulders.

“Brother, may I ask you a question?”

“Ask whatever you wish, sister,” murmured Commodus, his gaze still fixed on Crispina and Lucius.

“Do you love her?”

That simple question was enough to make everything around him seem to freeze—even the whisper of the leaves and the song of the birds fell silent as he turned his green eyes toward his sister’s blue ones.

“She is my wife,” Commodus replied.

“I know she is, but that is not what I asked you,” Lucilla countered, allowing herself a brief smile that soon faded. “Tell me, do you love her? Truly love her?”

His heart quickened under his sister’s inquisitive gaze, though the sensation was not unpleasant—rather, it was intriguing. Lucilla enjoyed playing with people, but he wondered if, just this once, she was abandoning that habit to show a rare moment of vulnerability and uncertainty. Was that what he glimpsed behind her question?

For as many years as he could remember, he had loved Lucilla with equal parts fervor and silence—he had watched her every movement and admired her beauty, incomparable, too much for any man.

But not for him.

There had been no trace of amusement in that question; Lucilla truly wished to know her brother’s true feelings for his wife. But why? Commodus felt his heart skip a beat at the thought that, believing him lost and beyond her reach, Lucilla might have realized that she longed for him with the same intensity with which he had desired her since childhood.

If only she would say it…

His chain of thought was interrupted when Lucius bumped into him, holding a generous handful of plums in a fold of his purple-toned tunic.

“Lucius!” Commodus exclaimed, letting out a laugh that relieved some of the tension building inside him. He studied the child’s excited, freckled face before continuing. “Did you have a good time with Aunt Crispina?”

“She told me how Hercules stole the apples from the garden of the… of the…” The boy nodded enthusiastically before stumbling over a name that refused to form on his lips.

“The garden of the Hesperides, Lucius,” Commodus reminded him patiently as he took one of the plums the boy carried. “I remember that story, and though memory is not my strong suit, I would swear that is the penultimate of Hercules' feats. Are you not curious to hear about the last one?”

“Aunt Crispina says she is not feeling well,” Lucius answered offhandedly while starting to place the plums on the table.

“Is that what your aunt said?” Lucilla’s voice interjected.

The child nodded again, and Commodus turned his gaze toward the area where Lucius and Crispina had spent most of the morning. Sunlight filtered through the leafy branches, delicately caressing his wife’s face, and yet, she looked excessively pale. She remained standing with her hands on her waist, her chest rising and falling in what seemed like labored breathing.

A strange sensation gripped Commodus’ heart. His wife and nephew had spent a peaceful morning, free of any strenuous activity that might explain such fatigue. He watched as Crispina reached out, almost blindly, until she found a low-hanging branch to support herself. He called her name, and despite the distance, she met his gaze.

He even thought he caught a faint smile on her lips before it vanished, her eyes lost focus—and she collapsed onto the grass.

The sound of his own footsteps had never seemed so loud as in that moment.

He paced back and forth in front of the entrance to the bedchamber he shared with Crispina, where the physicians were tending to her after her collapse in the gardens. Lucilla had hurried to distract Lucius—who had not witnessed the scene—guiding him inside the palace with promises of stories and games. That left Commodus alone, wringing his hands while his thoughts stormed through his mind, each darker than the last.

The shock still weighed heavily on his chest, and recalling the matters he had discussed with his sister did nothing to calm his growing unease. He had not given those parchments the attention they deserved, but he did remember the symptoms of that illness he refused to believe could threaten Rome.

And somehow, his troubled mind saw all of them in his wife.

His jaw tightened, his anxiety rising by the moment. He let out a frustrated huff, just as he leaned against a column, when one of the physicians pushed aside the curtain hanging at the threshold of their chamber.

“Well?” Commodus demanded immediately, stepping toward him. “Is she all right?”

He pressed his lips together, realizing he feared the answer this man might give him—the uncertainty itself was a torture that seemed destined to last at least a few moments more.

“Your wife insisted on informing you herself, my lord,” the physician replied with a slight bow, while his colleagues left the room.

Commodus would have gladly struck the man with all his might and sent him to the deepest pit of the Colosseum, but his desire to see his wife overpowered his rage. His legs moved on their own, striding toward the entrance, brusquely pushing aside the silk curtain.

Crispina lay on a couch positioned beside the wide balcony that overlooked their quarters. She sat upright with the help of down-filled cushions, while wool blankets covered her legs to shield her from the cold that had begun to creep into the capital of the empire. The young woman gently rubbed her temples, breathing steadily.

Commodus felt his heart skip a beat at the weak smile his wife offered him upon realizing his presence.

“My lord…” Crispina murmured, reaching out her hands toward her husband.

“My Crispina,” the young man responded, hastening to her side and carefully taking a seat at the edge of the couch. “By the gods, your hands are cold… Tell me, what happened to you in the gardens? What is it that only you can tell me?”

A new, gentle smile formed on Crispina’s lips as she lifted a hand to caress his cheek with deep affection.

“Commodus…”

“Do not treat me like a child,” the emperor’s son snapped, feeling anxiety seize him once more. What was happening? Why such secrecy? “You would do well to tell me what ailment afflicts you, wife—whatever it is, I must know.”

“I will fulfill your wish, then, my love,” Crispina smiled. “But I beg you not to consider it an ailment, for it is not one: Commodus, I am with child.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. The words, though clear as day even in the young woman’s faint voice, seemed devoid of meaning to the heir to the throne. His mind had been so preoccupied with imagining terrible reasons for his wife’s collapse that he had not allowed himself to consider that perhaps—just perhaps—it could be something else.

Looking back now, the things that had seemed odd in recent weeks began to make sense: the way Crispina continued to sleep well into the morning, how she seemed to tire more easily, and the devotion she had developed for the fruit of the plum trees.

They were going to have a child.

The future emperor of Rome was going to have an heir.

“Are you certain?” he asked, needing to be sure, feeling a new emotion coursing through him—an unnamed joy so immense he feared it was too good to be true. “Can this be real?”

“I am, and so are the physicians,” Crispina laughed, her brown eyes shining with emotion—eyes that had never seemed as beautiful to Commodus as they did in that moment. “They say we can expect the child’s arrival with the first flowers of spring.”

Overcome by emotion, Commodus rushed to envelop Crispina in a strong embrace, one she eagerly returned. He felt blessed in a way that had always seemed foreign to him. He was accustomed to the gods bestowing their favors upon the most unexpected individuals—it was a pleasant surprise to see that, for once, they seemed to have turned their gaze upon him.

He closed his eyes, losing himself in Crispina’s scent of fresh roses and the soft touch of her hands on his back. He felt shame now, recalling how that very morning, he had toyed with the idea that Lucilla might begin to see him as he had always seen her. None of that mattered anymore—Crispina and he were going to be parents. She had brought happiness into his life, and he was fortunate to call her his.

“Gods, I love you so,” Commodus confessed in a breath before pulling Crispina into a hurried kiss, losing himself once more in the softness of her lips and the sweet taste of plums.

As they parted, he took his time studying the bewildered expression on his wife’s face, which soon gave way to a tender smile.

“You had never told me that before,” Crispina murmured. “I believed I did not need to hear it, for I never doubted your love for me… But hearing it from your lips makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the entire empire.”

“You are, and you will continue to be for the rest of our lives, Crispina,” Commodus promised, taking his wife’s hands and kissing them fervently. “Tell me all that you need, all that you desire, and I will gladly lay it at your feet.”

“I need nothing more than what I already have—only you,” the young woman replied, caressing her husband’s face once more. “You, always beside me. That is more than I could ever wish for.”

Commodus smiled before cradling Crispina’s face in his hands, drawing her into another kiss that felt insufficient for all that he longed to give her. Willingly, he would offer her all the glories of the empire, all the battles his father had won in the lands where darkness and cold reigned…

The young man pulled away from his wife, suddenly feeling flustered.

"Commodus, is something wrong?" Crispina asked, leaning toward him.

He managed to shake his head, offering her another smile. He recalled how much he had wanted to please his father by marrying the woman he deemed appropriate. Even before knowing that his future wife would be Crispina, Commodus had desired nothing more than to satisfy his father, believing that he could achieve this by giving him another grandchild.

And now that Crispina had given him the news, he realized how long it had taken for Marcus Aurelius, with his gaze always laden with disappointment and reproach, to appear in his mind.

It had been a pleasant feeling not to be under his shadow, and he could hardly wait to see his father's aged face light up with joy upon receiving the news.

The emperor would never again look at him with eyes of disappointment.

"Crispina, we must name him Marcus if he is a boy," Commodus hurried to say, once again taking his wife’s hands in his. "That child could know no greater honor than to bear the name of the emperor."

"I knew your request even before you spoke it, and I gladly agree to it," Crispina smiled, still looking tired. "But in return, you must grant me the favor of choosing the name if our child is a girl."

A playful smile appeared on Commodus’s face.

"Wish granted, wife."

"Though I must contradict you, my love," Crispina murmured, leaning toward him as if to share a secret. "I know how much you admire your father and how you long to make him proud, but you are mistaken in thinking that the greatest honor our child could have is to bear the emperor’s name."

"I do not understand you, Crispina."

"If our child is a girl…" Crispina began, squeezing Commodus’s hands affectionately. "Nothing would make me happier than to name her Aelia."

Aelia.

It was one of his own names.

Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus.

Commodus stared at his wife, speechless and mesmerized, watching as her eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the effect the name had on him. He realized now that this had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision—Crispina must have been thinking about it for quite some time, perhaps even before she knew she was pregnant. This request was a surprise his wife had planned long ago as a way to honor him.

"The greatest honor our child could have is not to bear the name of Marcus Aurelius," Crispina said, shaking her head gently. "It is to bear the name of their father."

The emperor’s son forced himself to blink in a futile attempt to rid his eyes of the stinging sensation welling up in them. He had never thought it possible to cry out of happiness, yet now he felt he could.

A shower of blessings rained upon him, filling his life with warmth and light—with the love he had always longed for but had never found within his family.

All of that was in the past now. He and Crispina were going to build their own family.

"Crispina," the young man managed to murmur, wrapping his arms around his wife and nestling against her.

She held him close, kissing his forehead and gently running her fingers through his dark hair. He cared little if their slaves found him in this moment of vulnerability, surrendered in Crispina’s arms—because right now, he doubted there was a man in the entire empire more fortunate than he was.

Not even that Spaniard his father insisted on celebrating as if he were his own son.

This child was going to change his life.

And he could hardly wait for their arrival.

Chapter Text

On mornings like that one, it was impossible not to remember Vindobona.

Commodus blew into his cupped hands, trying to warm them. In that sun-drenched land cradled by the sea that he called home, the idea that a winter as cold as that on the empire's frontier could exist seemed almost absurd.

And yet, there he was: his gaze lost in the marine horizon of Ostia’s harbor, shivering beneath his furs at the icy breeze the waves carried from across the sea. It was almost as if distant Vindobona were calling back the soldiers returning home on ships rocked by the gentle swells, tempting them with promises of honor and glory that could end in death amid mud and snow.

A pleased smile crossed the emperor’s son's face as he recalled a recent conversation with his wife. They were lounging in a triclinium in one of the palace’s inner courtyards, Crispina resting her head on his lap, letting him toy with her golden curls while she caressed her swollen belly.

“Have I ever told you about snow?”

She had lifted her brown eyes toward him, full of curiosity: everything beyond the borders of Volceii and Rome itself was a mystery to her, one he delighted in unraveling bit by bit. He had spoken of those bitterly cold nights when the skies poured pale, soft flakes over the sleeping soldiers. He’d compared their descent to petals falling from flowering trees.

“It sounds almost like something out of a myth…” the young woman murmured, mimicking the snow’s fall with her fingers. “I wish I could witness such a miracle one day.”

If it were within his power, nothing would please him more than to blanket Rome in white, just to light up Crispina’s eyes. Now more than ever, when she was about to give him the most precious gift he could have ever imagined. He could hardly believe they were going to have a child. With that news, life seemed to have begun anew: there he was, far from Rome, at the end of winter reviewing troops recently arrived from Vindobona by order of his father, who had begun entrusting him with new responsibilities upon hearing of the arrival of a new grandson.

An order that pleased him far more than poring over dull scrolls full of text.

“My lord…” a general said, approaching and bowing his head.

Commodus nodded and walked alongside him toward the long rows of soldiers who had just disembarked. They were late: the port officials had assured their arrival two days prior, and yet here they were. These men, returning after facing the darkest side of Rome’s glory, would one day tell their grandchildren they made a future emperor wait.

Commodus' gaze swept across the lines of men who stood tall in his presence, trying to show their best selves—even those whom war had deprived of limbs. He still did not see in their eyes the same admiration that had once burned there for Marcus Aurelius, he thought bitterly, but it was a start. In time, they would come to realize that the old emperor had only been a promise of something far greater, more respected—

And more loved.

“Sons of Rome,” Commodus addressed the soldiers, pausing as he walked and casting his gaze along the line, ensuring he studied each of their faces. “She welcomes you with open arms and thanks you for your sacrifice and effort in expanding her glory—and that of the emperor.”

The men straightened even more at the mention of Marcus Aurelius. They raised their weapons and struck them against their shields in recognition—an honor the emperor was too far away to hear. How strange it was, Commodus thought, to see the roles reversed.

Now it was his father who remained behind the imperial palace walls, and he, the son, who stood face to face with the soldiers.

“I know well what you have given for Rome, and I promise that all of it shall be repaid in full,” the young man continued. “You have lost friends, health, and precious time with your families, but I assure you it has not been in vain. History will remember your names—just as I will. Soon I shall need men of brave and loyal heart willing to follow their emperor to the end. And I promise such loyalty will be generously rewarded.”

Again, the clash of swords against shields, louder even than at the mention of Marcus Aurelius. Commodus smiled with satisfaction and raised his hand in salute to the gathered ranks. How easily soldiers' loyalty could be won: one need only promise them the wealth and glory the gods had reserved for their emperor.

“My lord,” a voice to his left.

Commodus turned, annoyed—he’d been so swept up in the emotion of his subjects’ recognition that he hadn’t noticed the arrival of a mounted messenger. The man, barely able to breathe from exertion, handed his reins to a nearby general and approached in uneven strides.

“My lord,” the man repeated, bowing swiftly and holding his helmet under one arm. “I bring a message from the emperor.”

“Does my father wish to address his armies?” Commodus muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Even confined to his vast palace libraries, he couldn’t let him enjoy a few moments of glory.

“No, my lord,” the man replied, shaking his head. “This message is for your ears only.”

A puzzled look crossed Commodus' face before he inclined his head, offering his ear to the messenger. The man leaned in and whispered words that made his heart leap:

“The emperor commands you to return to Rome: the child is on the way.”

The young man searched the messenger’s face to confirm he’d heard correctly before a wide smile spread across his own. The man’s expression remained downcast, the look of one who had ridden for hours bearing urgent news—but there was no room for such gloom today. Crispina was in labor: the physicians must have miscalculated, or perhaps his child was simply eager to be born.

“Soldiers,” he addressed his armies once more, “remember this day with renewed glory—for yours are the first ears to hear of the imminent arrival of a new heir to the throne…”

He noticed the messenger shifting his weight uneasily from one leg to the other, but Commodus paid him no mind: the news was far too great to be shared in whispers. The men, fresh from war, seemed to share the sentiment—swords and shields clashed in celebration, the sound so deafening that the young man had to raise his hand, calling for silence.

“I am sorry you have not yet had the chance to behold the future empress, Bruttia Crispina,” Commodus went on, undeterred by the messenger’s clear discomfort. “For she is the most beautiful woman you shall ever lay eyes on, and her beauty has only grown in these past months, as she carries our child within her: she is the most radiantly beautiful woman in all of Rome, and soon you shall meet her, and our child as well.”

Once again, that lively clatter of swords against shields rose up, now joined by voices chanting his name and that of his young wife.

“Such extraordinary news can only be met with an extraordinary celebration. So go to the tents and fill your bellies with food and drink, for these are assured on a day as magnificent as today...”

“My lord,” one of the generals approached, trying to be heard over the cheers that met Commodus’ words. “This was not planned: these men are expected back home, and there is no food or drink for such a celebration...”

“The Emperor said it was urgent...” the messenger repeated.

“Since when has lack of supplies ever been an issue for our armies? Do they not deserve such a feast after their sacrifices? Does my child not deserve it?” the young man shot back, fixing both men with an icy stare.

“That is not what I meant, sire...” the general hastily replied.

“Then bring provisions from nearby cities if need be, and let them also hear the good news,” he said, now addressing the messenger, who looked too overwhelmed to even meet his gaze. “Return to Rome and let my father know of the joy this news has stirred among his people, the joy of the arrival of his grandchild.”

“But, my lord...” the messenger insisted, his voice growing fainter.

“Return to Rome at once,” Commodus ordered him, continuing to speak as he saw that this fool was toying with the idea of interrupting him again. “That is an order not open to reply. Tell my father that the soldiers returning from war were greeted with the finest of news, to be followed by the grandest of celebrations.”

The messenger’s lips remained tightly pursed and his eyes anxious, as though he were struggling to carry out such a simple command. Yes, Marcus Aurelius had ordered him to bring his son back to Rome, but how could he leave the men without sharing such news with them?

So that they could all, together, give thanks to the gods for the arrival of the young Marcus.

Or of little Aelia.

“To my wife...” the young man began to say, then fell silent as he realized no words in his mind could capture what he wished to express for Crispina. “I order that our chambers be filled with yellow roses, her favorite: have them brought from the city, for she holds so much love for the ones that grow in the palace. Send her all my love, to her and our newborn. Tell her I will come to her side as soon as I have given the sons of Rome the farewell they deserve.”

“My lord...” the man mumbled, casting him a sidelong glance before turning around and grabbing the reins of his horse.

Commodus had seen fear in the eyes of that poor man, and he couldn’t help but feel even more pleased by it. Times were changing: his father grew old in the imperial palace while he stood by the troops… And Crispina, his sweet Crispina, was giving him an heir.

He took a goblet brimming with wine and raised it high so all could see it, immediately greeted by applause and chants of his name.

This was a happy day.

It promised to be the happiest day of his life.

The celebrations that followed could only be matched by the grand news that had sparked them. Commodus let out a weary breath as he rubbed his temples, swaying gently in the carriage climbing the main road up the Palatine Hill: he could still hear echoes of music and the soldiers’ jubilant cries ringing in his head.

Now a smile of disbelief tugged at his lips as he recalled how that general had tried to convince him such a celebration was impossible with so little time to prepare. As the food and wine began arriving, the soldiers themselves had even brought whores from nearby cities. They had fallen into their laughter and their arms, whether inside a tent or in some forest nook.

He himself had not been so different only a few years earlier, a time that now felt as distant as another life entirely. Though he hadn’t given himself over to the revels as he might have then, Commodus hoped the soldiers understood that he sympathized with them in a way his aged father never could.

He jumped from the carriage energetically when it stopped, though the spell of the wine made him stumble slightly. He ignored the guards rushing to greet him, his green eyes fixed on the figure waiting at the top of the stone steps.

The Emperor.

Gone were the days when those pale eyes looked upon him only with disappointment and reproach —with that newborn, a new chapter in his relationship with his father was beginning, he believed it with all his heart.

Which is why nothing could have prepared him for the slap his father delivered across his face upon reaching him.

“Fool,” Marcus Aurelius muttered through clenched lips, caring little, if at all, for the presence of the guards. “Did I not send for you nearly two days ago? What kept you in Ostia for so long?”

Commodus clenched his jaw and turned his face back toward his father, hoping to awaken some hint of remorse in him: how dare he humiliate him in front of the soldiers? Hadn’t he been diligent and willing to take on all the new responsibilities the old man had entrusted to him?

“Father,” Commodus murmured, searching for a kind gesture. “I merely gave the soldiers the welcome they deserved after so long away from their homeland, even more so after the messenger brought such magnificent news. They had just returned from war, Father: they deserved something to celebrate...”

“The soldiers were expected at home and you at yours, son” the Emperor replied with disgust, as though he still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I summoned you and you ignored me, choosing instead to unleash a bacchanal of wine and whores in which the reputation of Rome’s finest sons was tarnished. Your family needed you here, your wife needed you here... What kind of man are you?”

The young man felt his face burn, but said nothing. Any trace of intoxication he might have still felt vanished completely, replaced by a creeping, unjust shame that took hold of him more and more with each passing second.

“How is Crispina?” Commodus asked after clearing his throat slightly.

The image of his wife brought peace to his spirit: he knew she would never judge him with the same harshness as his father—she never had. He only hoped she was well enough to hear his torment. The thought that both she and their newborn awaited him in their chambers stirred a quiet happiness within him.

One that Marcus Aurelius did not seem to share, judging by the gravity etched into his face.

“Follow me.”

The old man turned around and began walking through the palace he knew so well, prompting Commodus to hurry after him. The echo of their sandals on the marble floor joined the whisper of water in the fountains and impluviums, his slender and regal shadow merging with the shadows of twilight on the painted myths adorning the stone walls.

The entire palace was submerged in a silence and darkness ill-suited to such a momentous occasion. Where were the garlands of laurel, ivy, and roses? And the statues of the household gods? He hadn’t heard any songs or celebrations upon passing through Rome...

Was his father extending his punishment even to his newborn grandson?

Was he going to treat him with the same disdain he had always shown to him?

“Father, I would like to know the reason for this silence,” said Commodus, halting in place and forcing his father to do the same. Rage pulsed in his chest at the thought that not even his child was enough for the emperor. “For I fear it is misplaced when the news that hastened my return to Rome is of such extraordinary nature.”

Marcus Aurelius met his gaze in the hallway’s dim light, broken only by the dance of flames in torches and oil lamps. The soldiers guarding the palace were so still they could have been mistaken for statues—silent witnesses to that confrontation between father and son.

Yet Commodus was only trying to decipher the sorrow reflected in his father’s blue eyes.

“What is going on?” the young man pressed.

“It was too soon.”

The emperor’s words fell over him dark and heavy, sliding down his spine with an icy caress and tightening around his throat before he could even begin to understand what was happening.

“Too soon,” Commodus repeated, his voice barely an echo among the marble columns.

“The child was meant to arrive with the first days of spring, that was what the physicians said,” Marcus Aurelius reminded him with solemn calm, all trace of reproach now gone. “I am afraid the infant did not survive.”

The icy grip around the young heir’s neck tightened, and a soft, pitiful sound escaped his lips. He blinked and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, trying to mask the blow his father’s words had dealt him.

Everything around him faded away, leaving him alone in a growing, wordless despair that filled him more and more with every passing second.

As his father’s words became more real.

His memories were cruel now, flooding his mind with days and nights spent with Crispina, imagining their future child. She had hoped the child would have his green eyes; he, her golden curls...

A child they would now have to offer to the flames in the temple where the ashes of their ancestors lay.

“Where is Crispina?” Commodus asked, trying to mask the crack in his voice. “Where is my wife?”

Once more, silence was the only answer.

One that howled in his ears like a wounded animal in its death throes.

“Father?” the young man insisted, feeling the cold seep deeper into his bones.

“Crispina has been very brave, my son. Exceptionally brave,” the emperor finally said, a flicker of compassion in his pale eyes. “It was a long and arduous labor... The physicians did all they could, but I fear that if her fevers do not subside, the gods may claim her too.”

Commodus shook his head before he could stop himself. He hated showing weakness and vulnerability in front of a man who had always demanded more than he could give. Yet still, the silent plea escaped him, laid bare before the most powerful man in the world.

A man who, however, had no power over Crispina’s fate.

He couldn’t comprehend what was happening—it was madness, it made no sense... Yes, he knew childbirth was difficult and dangerous. He knew many women never rose again from the birthing chair. But not Crispina.

That fate couldn’t be hers.

That fate couldn’t be his.

“Son, do you understand what I am saying?”

“I want to see her,” Commodus said over the knot in his throat that threatened to choke him. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, forcing back the tears that had welled up in his green eyes but that he would never allow to fall. “I need to see her. Please.”

That was a request the Caesar saw fit to grant.

But even then, he did not offer the comforting embrace Commodus' soul so desperately cried out for.

A new darkness seemed to have taken hold of the imperial palace after learning of the loss of his son.

Each step he took toward the chambers prepared for the birth felt heavier than the last, the flickering dance of the oil lamps casting sinister shadows over the frescoes depicting the deeds of the gods… Gods who now seemed to have abandoned him.

Marcus Aurelius gave him one last look, filled with nameless sorrow, before stopping at the threshold of the room where Crispina lay. Commodus walked forward, feeling fear stiffen his limbs. He looked to his father once more, but the old man merely let out a sigh of grief and turned to leave, signaling to his slaves to accompany him.

His father was abandoning him when he needed him most.

Once again.

When his father’s figure disappeared into the shadows of the palace, Commodus fixed his gaze on the curtain hanging from the entrance to the chamber. Summoning a courage he had never possessed, the young man pushed the fabric aside with a firm sweep of his arm. The murmurs of the physicians ceased the moment they saw him, and they bowed deeply, hiding the worry and sorrow etched into their faces.

“Brother…”

The young man barely had time to react before Lucilla’s arms wrapped around him tightly and urgently. He managed to return the embrace with difficulty as his sister let out a small sigh, accompanied by tears, while his green eyes scanned the room with a mix of curiosity and fear. It was a room he had never set foot in before, as it was reserved for childbirth, where only midwives and physicians were permitted when needed.

He disliked the lack of grandeur: the silk curtains drawn to create dim lighting, the furniture too simple for his tastes. He had only just begun to notice the scent of incense and medicinal herbs when his eyes fell upon the birthing chair, surrounded by a vast pool of dark blood. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he realized that was the true, prevailing scent in the room.

The smell of cold sweat and blood.

The smell of death.

“Crispina…”

Her name escaped his lips, urgent, as his eyes finally settled on the sight he had dreaded most: the bed where his wife lay. Crispina was covered by fine linen sheets and thick wool blankets in a vain attempt to warm her. He had never seen her so pale, her blonde hair darkened by the cold sweat that clung to her forehead, and her lips… Those lips Commodus had so often claimed now bore a purplish hue that made the heir to the throne shudder with terror.

“Wife…” Commodus whispered again, as Lucilla stepped back to let him approach the young woman.

He moved toward the bed as if guided by someone else, paralyzed by a dark feeling he had never wished to know. He watched the breath that left her lips—no more than a labored sigh—saw her legs twitch in weak spasms, and her hands resting one over the other on her still-swollen, now-empty belly.

He barely brushed one of her hands with his fingers before withdrawing them as if burned, clenching his jaw with tension, biting the inside of his cheek so hard that the taste of blood soon filled his mouth.

“She is so cold,” the young man murmured, his voice barely audible over the lump in his throat. “Why is she so cold?”

“Commodus…”

Even Lucilla’s voice seemed incapable of breaking the dark trance in which he was trapped.

“Brother,” Marcus Aurelius’ daughter spoke again, carefully choosing her words. “It was a boy. Do you wish to see him? To say goodbye?”

Only then did Commodus tear his eyes away from Crispina and notice something he had not seen before: a small cradle where an even smaller figure lay, carefully wrapped in linen cloths. His jaw tensed again and his eyes filled with tears that burned with pure, contained rage.

His chest swelled with nothing but the deepest contempt for the traitor who had caused such suffering to the one who had harbored and loved him from the very beginning. What kind of creature came into the world already dead, seeking to drag its poor mother into the same darkness from which it never should have emerged?

Knowing Lucilla would disapprove of such thoughts, Commodus kept silent and returned his gaze to Crispina: she looked as if she had already left, and her body was still breathing for some reason none of them could explain.

She couldn’t be dying.

Not her.

She was only eighteen. He wanted to see her turn nineteen and twenty. And thirty and forty.

“Take my wife to our chambers,” Commodus ordered firmly.

Though he had expected it, he still despised the incredulous silence that followed his words. He lifted his glassy gaze to the physicians—those who were supposed to care for her and yet had left her languishing in that place reeking of death. His father had said the messenger had been sent to Ostia nearly two days ago—what had they done for Crispina in all that time?

The midwives avoided his eyes, instead seeking guidance from the one who was said to be one of the most renowned physicians in the empire. Yet even he could not avoid hesitating under his lord’s gaze.

“My lord…” the man began, stepping forward with caution.

“Did I not speak clearly?” the young man snapped, stopping the physician in his tracks. “How dare you even look me in the face?”

“Your wife is very weak, my lord,” the man persisted, pleading on behalf of his patient. “Her life hangs by a thread, and it would be a mistake to—”

“I have already made one mistake: leaving her at the mercy of your incompetence,” Commodus interrupted again, confronting the physician. “I assure you, if anything happens to her, you will be lunch for the lions…”

“Brother,” Lucilla interjected then, placing her hands on her brother’s shoulders and stepping between them. “Have some sense—Crispina needs to rest…”

Commodus could not recall ever looking at her with the coldness he did in that moment—cold enough to make Marcus Aurelius' eldest daughter fear him.

“How curious: Father said that she needed me”.

Despite everything, Lucilla held his gaze for what felt like an eternity before turning toward the physicians and the gathered slaves, who were watching the scene unfold, holding their breath. The young woman squared her shoulders with natural elegance and walked toward them then, seeking counsel on how to move her sister-in-law to her private chambers.

Even though her words were met with reluctance, no one dared to contradict her. Commodus' gaze sharpened when one of the physicians looked over at Crispina, and he thought he could read in his eyes that it no longer mattered where she rested.

Not when her fate already seemed sealed.

He couldn't stand it another second.

The physicians had barely begun advising Lucilla when Commodus turned toward the bed where his wife lay and harshly pulled back the blankets covering her, hurrying to lift her into his arms, wanting to protect her from that room where death reigned. He would have ordered the slaves who stared at him in alarm to be flayed alive, especially when stifled gasps escaped their lips as Crispina let out a faint whimper of pain when he pressed her against him.

"I am here," he whispered into her sweat-soaked hair, trying not to think about how little she weighed, how frail she felt in his arms. "We are going home, Crispina."

Lucilla rushed the slaves ahead to start preparing the chambers as quickly as possible. Those women, paralyzed by unease, went before them in that grim procession through the darkness of the palace—one in which the emperor’s son carried his dying wife in his arms while small drops of blood marked their path across the marble corridors.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of their chambers, he saw that a couple of slaves had already turned down the bed, and Commodus laid Crispina down gently before the women hurried to cover her again with linen sheets and thick woolen blankets, resting her head on a soft feather pillow.

All around him, the physicians and slaves were drawing the curtains to block out the cold dawn breeze and placing braziers in strategic corners of the room, all while murmuring instructions about what to do if Crispina had a crisis in the middle of the night. But Commodus wasn’t listening. All he could do was remember how faint Crispina’s breath had felt against his chest, and although her skin remained cold, how he could feel the fire burning beneath it, consuming her little by little.

He waited until the sound of the slaves’ footsteps began to fade before taking a seat at the edge of the bed, holding Crispina’s lifeless hands in his. He felt Lucilla’s presence a bit longer, until the soft rustle of her tunic’s fabric against the marble tiles told him she had left as well.

Finally, they were alone.

Only then did he allow himself to blink, letting the tears that had reddened his green eyes slide down his cheeks—and even then, he felt ashamed for appearing so weak, even before the closed eyes of his young wife. He was terrified at the thought of losing her: all his life, Crispina had been the breath of fresh air amidst the suffocating Roman intrigue.

She was the gentle touch of summer sunlight and the whisper of secrets laced with the song of the sea, the knowing smile that spoke without words and the skin that shivered under his touch between linen sheets.

Could that be what the gods had planned for him? A fleeting happiness and a lifetime of loneliness and memory?

No. He refused to accept it.

Even if it meant defying the stars and those who hid behind them.

He barely noticed letting go of Crispina’s hand and moving around the bed to slide under the covers beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close in a desperate embrace. He felt her slack head fall to the side, her sweat-drenched cheek resting against his forehead. It was against her neck, certain that only the gods were watching them now, that his throat tore with a sob he rushed to smother against Crispina’s fevered skin.

Anxiety drove his heart mad at the thought of losing her.

And yet, the shadow of Marcus Aurelius refused to leave his mind, tormenting him with that cold, disappointed stare. Commodus couldn’t help but wonder if the emperor had expected something like this from the very beginning.

A weak son with a weak wife.

And an even weaker heir, born dead.

“Crispina…” Commodus whispered to his wife, lifting his face to look at her more clearly. “Listen to your lord and husband: I forbid you to leave…”

He bit his lip fiercely as the words left his mouth, hard enough to taste his own blood. He feared that the anger he felt toward the gods would enrage them and they would choose to take his wife the moment he closed his eyes.

Perhaps even Quintius, whose vile memory had lingered throughout their betrothal and their wedding, was there with them in that room, eager to wrap his younger sister in death’s cold embrace.

He drew her closer still, holding her tightly, as if he could already see spectral arms making the bed curtains sway. All his life, he had searched the marble faces of those who dwelled beyond the stars, hoping they would guide him, hoping to make his father proud… They had not listened then, but now he longed for them to hear him.

Bruttia Crispina was his—only he held the right to her fate.

The gods had no claim to take her from him.

And yet, they could.

They would.

He clenched his jaw as hot, heavy tears once again spilled from his green eyes, and he couldn’t help but shudder as he curled against Crispina once more, kissing her neck and feeling again just how cold her skin was beneath his lips.

“Crispina…” the young man spoke again, caring very little now whether some cruel gods—those who allowed an old man to cling to a glory that was never enough while a young woman of eighteen could die trying to bring new life into the world—might be listening. “Do you remember Orpheus and Eurydice, Crispina? I fear the darkness too much. I will not be able to follow you if you leave. Stay.”

His face wet and sticky with tears that would not stop falling, Commodus closed his eyes and curled even closer to the young woman, whispering prayers into her neck, desperate for them to be heard. An hour or two might have passed—perhaps the whole night—murmuring one plea after another, until exhaustion took hold of him and he fell asleep beside Crispina.

He believed he had only closed his eyes for a couple of seconds when he felt slender fingers slowly running through his dark hair. Still half-asleep, Commodus pulled Crispina closer, thinking that his sister Lucilla was trying to wake him, ready to speak the worst news from her lips.

Then he realized her skin felt different to the touch.

Warm again.

Commodus lifted his face with a gasp, his green eyes meeting Crispina’s brown ones. She could barely keep them open, but even through her lashes, he recognized that warm hue.

And she was still stroking his hair.

“You came…” Crispina whispered, a faint, incredulous smile forming on her cracked lips.

She had barely finished speaking when Commodus cupped her face in his hands, kissing her with a fervor that might have been too intense for someone so weak. But none of that mattered now—he had saved her from that room filled with the scent of blood, where the physicians had wanted to keep her so she could follow their dead child into the afterlife.

The memory of their loss twisted Commodus' face into a grimace of pain, which Crispina noticed. He had barely pulled back when the young woman’s hands reached feebly for her now-empty belly, as if hoping that all that had happened was nothing more than a terrible dream.

But the cruel truth pierced her heart, and she broke down in weak sobs, with the little strength she had left.

“Crispina…”

“It was not the right time, I knew it was not…” the young woman wept, her shoulders barely shaking with each tear. “I tried to hold on, I prayed, I screamed but… Please, Commodus, forgive me: I am so sorry…”

Commodus quickly wrapped his arms around her again, more to avoid watching her cry than to comfort her. She had nearly died, and all she could think about was that treacherous creature she had carried in her womb. He felt his jaw clench once more and placed a solemn kiss on his wife’s golden hair.

“We are young. We will have more children,” Commodus assured her, still holding her. “I promise you.”

He felt Crispina’s hands rest gently on his back, too weak to return the embrace with more force. After a few moments, Commodus pulled away with a mixture of tenderness and firmness—Crispina had awakened when many thought it impossible, but that didn’t mean she was anywhere near recovered.

“You must rest now,” murmured the son of Marcus Aurelius, brushing her still-damp blond hair from her forehead. “If there is anything you want, anything I can do…”

“What was it?”

Three simple words were enough to silence everything around them. Commodus looked into Crispina’s brown eyes, now more open, though still reflecting her frailty.

“Our baby.”

He knew what she meant without needing further explanation, and again, his throat tightened.

“A boy,” Marcus Aurelius’ son finally said, after a moment.

A shadow of renewed sorrow seemed to fall over Crispina’s delicate figure, her face twisting in a pain deeper than any seasoned warrior could bear. He knew his words wouldn’t be enough—this loss would haunt her wherever she went, even if he had managed to bring her back from the brink.

“Marcus, our son…” the young woman murmured. “I wish to see him.”

“That will only make your suffering unbearable, Crispina,” Commodus replied, shaking his head. “You need to rest and recover. I am here by your side.”

“Just once,” she pleaded, her pain deepening at the thought of never knowing her child. “That is all I need.”

Commodus studied her in silence, unable to break it without exposing his own emotions and vulnerability. He hadn’t even been able to look at that tiny figure wrapped in linen in the cradle without feeling nothing but hatred—for trying to steal Crispina from him. But he knew his wife’s heart was capable of forgiving even those who deserved it least.

A mistake he would never make.

He stood by the bedside as the slaves—who seemed to believe they were witnessing a miracle of the gods, seeing their lady awake once more—carefully placed the linen-wrapped child into Crispina’s still trembling arms. She cradled him delicately, letting her frail fingers gently peel back the cloth that covered the baby’s face.

Though he looked away, he heard another sob escape Crispina’s lips—one that, this time, was also filled with a strange sense of wonder, even in such a dark moment.

“I do not understand, I cannot understand…” Crispina murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “He is so perfect… Why was he not enough?”

Commodus had been asking himself that very question his entire life.

Crispina whispered lullabies to her forever-sleeping baby until the break of dawn.

Chapter Text

He could read it in the guards’ eyes—he could feel that they were afraid of him.

And it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

He was well aware of his flaws, so perfectly opposed to the virtues his father had always cherished and celebrated in his soldiers. The stoic and unwavering thought that defined both the person and the imperial reign of Marcus Aurelius still lingered in a Rome that, in Commodus' eyes, had long been abandoned by its leader. For that reason, the emperor’s son had always suspected that even his own personal guard judged his shortcomings in silence and submission.

But not now.

Not on that early winter morning, when the sun’s rays had yet to dare break over the Roman horizon.

Commodus gripped his gladius tightly, not even blinking as he studied the stance of the soldier before him—a young man even younger than he was, a new recruit stationed at the palace. To the nervousness of the novice was now added the terror of having to face his lord in sword combat.

“My lord…” the captain of the guard spoke, trying to intercede for the boy.

“Silence,” Commodus snapped, not taking his eyes off his opponent for even a moment.

He saw the young soldier’s feet hesitate—and that was when Commodus lunged at him with a force that caught the boy off guard. He barely managed to lift his shield to intercept the blow, staggering under the gladius’ impact. Although training usually consisted of measured strikes and well-rehearsed, elegant moves, Commodus fought that morning as if he were truly fighting for his life and for his empire in far-off Vindobona.

Or in the Colosseum itself, defying seasoned gladiators.

The young soldier’s clumsy defense, startled by the ferocity of his lord’s assault, nonetheless seemed to awaken something in him. He gripped his sword more firmly, clenched his jaw, and feinted—a move Commodus evaded with a swift spin, landing another strike to the soldier’s side, which the boy blocked, barely.

“My lord…” the captain insisted again, more urgently this time.

But Commodus didn’t seem to hear him.

He could feel his heart pounding violently in his chest, breath escaping between clenched teeth, and an unnamed tension pulsing in his temples. That tension whispered dark thoughts that only fueled the frustration burning through him since he’d awakened in the darkness before dawn.

You are not good enough. You will never be good enough.

Even though the roar of rage that escaped his lips might have revealed his intentions, it still caught the young soldier off guard. Commodus aimed not for the chest, as was customary in drills, but for the legs. The sweat pouring down his brow and into his eyes as he lunged forward was the only reason the boy ended up with just a gash on his leg instead of being left crippled.

The young man collapsed onto the grass, dropping both his shield and gladius, his trembling hands pressing over a wound that had already begun to bleed profusely, the scarlet flow slipping through his fingers and staining his pale skin. Not a single soldier dared to speak. They watched the scene in stunned silence until Commodus—still holding his sword aloft—finally let it fall to the ground and took a few steps back, putting distance between himself and the boy.

“Well done, soldier. You fought with courage and honor,” Commodus said, eyes fixed on the blood seeping from the wound. Only then did he look toward the captain of the guard. He was pleased to see that, though surprised, there was a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes. “Take him immediately to have his wound treated. Let him rest until his recovery is complete.”

“My lord,” the captain replied, this time bowing deeply and signaling to his men to help their injured comrade to his feet and escort him away.

Commodus watched them leave the training field. The wounded soldier left behind a faint trail of blood—something that sent a strange thrill through the emperor’s son, making his skin prickle in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. If the slaves didn’t clean it up quickly, the dark stain would remain on the tiles—a pleasing reminder for days to come.

The day Commodus, future Emperor of Rome, had managed to bring down a soldier of the Praetorian Guard.

If, that is, he ever felt inclined to look back on such grim days.

He inhaled deeply as shadowy memories crept back into his mind. He dipped his hands into a basin of cold water placed on a pedestal and washed his face. He let the icy touch calm his flushed skin and soothe his spirit, even pouring it over his head, soaking the small dark curls that always formed when he went too long without a haircut.

“Are you expecting to be summoned to Vindobona soon?”

He didn't expect the comfortable solitude he’d found himself in to be broken at such an early hour—when stars were still visible in the ever-lightening sky—least of all by the voice of his sister. Commodus lifted his gaze to Lucilla: the daughter of Marcus Aurelius stood only a few paces away, watching him with those beautiful blue eyes that looked as though they had been stolen from the night sky.

She was still wearing the undyed linen tunic she usually slept in, though she’d thrown a soft blue mantle around her shoulders to shield her bare arms from the bold, curious eyes of the slaves. Her chestnut curls tumbled over her shoulders, swaying lightly in the morning breeze. He had no idea what had prompted her to come looking for him so soon after waking, not even bothering to summon her personal slave, but whatever the reason, he welcomed it.

He didn’t get to see Lucilla like this every day.

“You have not answered my question, brother,” she reminded him, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I do not recall seeing you train with such fervor since you were old enough to be called to the front. Judging by what I just saw, one might think you expect Father to summon you at any moment.”

A faint smile curved Commodus’ lips. He wiped his face with a scrap of cloth and picked up the gladius from the grass. It pleased him greatly that Lucilla had seen him fight like that, displaying skill far superior to that of a member of the Praetorian Guard.

“Father would not summon me to the front even if I were the last man left in Rome,” he muttered, eyeing the sword’s edge, still streaked with blood.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Commodus—you know that is not true. There are rumors that we will soon have news from him,” Lucilla replied as she stepped closer, wrapping her mantle more tightly around herself. “Besides, he has summoned you to the front many times before, and you have gone… even if you somehow managed to arrive once the battle was already over.”

“A happy coincidence, sister, nothing more,” the young man replied. “The goddess Fortuna shelters the children of her beloved emperor beneath her mantle.”

He realized how cruel and ironic the statement sounded the moment it left his lips, as if he had uttered a blasphemy.

If Fortuna had taken anyone under her wing in recent years, it certainly wasn’t him.

Least of all his wife.

“How is Crispina today?” Lucilla asked then, as if reading his thoughts. “The palace rose gardens are a strange sight in her absence.”

Commodus turned his eyes to Lucilla. The fact that they so often seemed to share the same thoughts brought him comfort, even in times like these, when the days broke gray and cold, as though mirroring the mood of the imperial family. That mutual understanding he shared with his older sister was a small consolation amidst all the misfortune he and Crispina had endured in recent years—a reminder that the deep bond between them was one that went beyond mere blood.

It seemed written in the stars.

“She walks longer and steadier with each passing day,” Commodus said, lifting his chin slightly with pride at the thought of how his wife’s recovery had not been as long this time as on past occasions. “Every night, the slaves prepare hot baths for her, scented with lavender. That fragrance helps her relax and sleep soundly through the night, undisturbed by bad dreams.”

“It gladdens me to know her body is healing,” Lucilla nodded, a gentle expression on her face, “but I was asking mainly about her spirit. A loss like the one she has just suffered again can be devastating for any woman, and, well, Crispina…”

“Crispina is strong,” Commodus cut her off quickly, clearly displeased by the hint of condescension he detected beneath Lucilla’s gentle tone. “She has always been much stronger than you give her credit for, sister.”

Unfazed by her younger brother’s shifting moods, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius simply regarded him calmly. She didn’t fear him—she never had—but she did know which arguments were worth having with him, and which were better left untouched.

“I know her nature well, Commodus. We spent a great deal of time together when Crispina was just a child,” Lucilla replied. “I only meant that perhaps her sorrow is something she might need to talk about with another woman, and I would gladly visit her in your quarters one day. I do not know if you have ever spoken with her about our brothers, about the losses our mother had to endure…”

“She is not like our mother,” Commodus snapped, cutting her off.

Once again, he felt unsettled—his face tense, his muscles taut. The memory of his traitorous mother was like a poisonous shadow, capable of darkening even the brightest day. He could feel it now creeping over his spirit, and there was nothing he wanted less than for Lucilla to dare place his wife and his mother on the same level: Crispina possessed a light that seemed entrusted to her alone, a warm, affectionate, and loyal nature that had always been painfully absent in the late empress.

“I only worry for her,” admitted the daughter of Marcus Aurelius, her face reflecting the purest sincerity. “There were no secrets between us when we were younger and used to visit her in Volceii. I have felt her grow more distant for some time now, and I would like her to know that I am her sister. I have been so for four years, but I have always felt for her an affection not unlike the one I feel for you…”

Lucilla seemed to drift off for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. Commodus said nothing: he remembered all too clearly what Crispina had told him through tears on their wedding night—the mistrust that had taken root in her heart toward Lucilla after overhearing her whispering with one of her slaves.

A sentiment that had worked to his benefit and had endured over the years.

Part of him felt sorrow that his sister didn’t understand why her sister-in-law kept her at arm’s length now, maintaining only a polite cordiality that lacked the closeness of years past, but on the other hand… He had nearly lost Crispina even before she had become his, and he wasn’t about to tempt fate by encouraging a better relationship between the two women.

“Well,” Lucilla continued, stepping closer to her brother and placing a conciliatory hand on his shoulder, “then all Crispina needs is what she already has: rest, and you by her side. It would be wise to wait a while before trying again, though I am certain she will make a full recovery soon. Let her know that Lucius asks about her every day with such impatience it is bound to make me jealous—he misses her stories dearly…”

A faint smile appeared on Commodus’ lips at the mention of his nephew. Little Lucius, nearly eight years old now, was becoming quite the young man. He loved spending time with the boy, whether dueling with wooden swords through the palace halls or telling tales of times long past that, despite his efforts, never quite matched Crispina’s stories.

The smile slowly faded from his lips as he thought again of his wife, and he cast his gaze toward the balcony of their chambers. Lucilla must have noticed the change in his mood, for she gently cupped his face in her hand, and he locked eyes with her, feeling everything else vanish around them.

It was all too easy to lose himself in his sister’s blue eyes—clear as the waters of the purest spring, deep as the night sky on the brink of dawn.

He found himself thinking that, in these dark times, those eyes seemed like a beacon guiding him through the shadows.

“Lucilla…” Commodus murmured, moving a little closer to her.

“I should return to my chambers,” Lucilla interrupted softly, putting a little distance between them with a gentle smile, “before dear Tulla throws a fit upon finding I have gone out without waking her to tidy me up. Be sure to take it easy today, brother, and give your mind a moment’s peace—you have already done your duty to the Empire by training at such an early hour. Go on, have a bath prepared: a couple of hours in the thermal pools will help clear your head.”

He was still under the spell of her eyes and her smile as he watched her walk away through the tall, flowering hedges of the palace gardens. His lips had almost betrayed him—why? What words had they tried to speak? He was captivated by how every detail of her seemed perfect to him, as though sculpted by the gods themselves—even now, as she walked away fresh from bed, without the care of a slave to comb her long chestnut curls or paint her face with hues that seemed made only for her.

“By the way, brother,” Lucilla called from a distance, turning back toward him, “I do not know if you remember, but I asked you a question the morning we found out Crispina was pregnant for the first time. You never answered me then, but I think I have known the answer for a while now.”

“And what is that answer?” asked Commodus, though he struggled to recall the question she referred to.

A smile played upon Lucilla’s beautiful lips.

“You do love her.”

He received that last remark with mixed feelings as his sister left the imperial gardens: his heart still stirred at any mention of his wife, and yet, those words sounded like a curse when spoken by the one he had desired for as long as he could remember.

Commodus let out a huff and splashed his face with cold water once more, trying to shake himself free from the dreamlike state in which he was immersed. It was a fleeting thought, but he found himself regretting having summoned the Praetorian Guard so early in the morning: the sun had yet to rise, and the day ahead promised to be long and uninspiring.

It wasn’t long before he heard his father’s voice inside his head, as clearly as if he were standing right beside him, urging him to use those early hours to review the Senate’s records or to cultivate his mind with one of the many volumes of science and philosophy that made up his personal library.

But Marcus Aurelius was no longer there.

The last time he had seen him was during the ceremony in which he and Crispina had to give their firstborn to the funeral pyre in a temple not far from there.

The emperor had departed once again for Germania before the smoke had even stopped rising into the afternoon sky.

Without looking back even once.

Years had passed, and Commodus still remembered the tremble in his hand from the emotion he’d felt as he wrote to inform his father of Crispina’s new pregnancy—twice more, after that first one. He remembered well how happiness had returned to his wife’s face each time the physicians confirmed the good news, and how it had rekindled his own hope that such tidings might finally bring Marcus Aurelius back to Rome.

He had been deeply pleased by the idea of seeing his father grow old at home, surrounded by grandchildren, and finally certain of leaving the empire in his hands.

But none of that came to be.

Crispina’s first pregnancy had been the only one to progress far enough to know that the baby was a boy; the other two had been no more than fleeting joys, cruelly shattered by blood-soaked sheets and cries of horror in the dead of night.

Your family needed you here.

Those had been his father’s words, after striking him for failing to return in time from Ostia.

Yet Marcus Aurelius had not hesitated to leave him behind after the loss of his firstborn, leaving him to drown in a confusion and sorrow deeper than he could ever express in words… and a fury and resentment that grew with each passing day, feeding one another. Jaw clenched, Commodus hurled the basin, still holding a little water, against the mosaic pathway, watching as it shattered into pieces beyond repair.

There was something he hated about rage, he thought as he strode across the gardens toward the palace, and that was the pain it always brought with it—a pain he had never been taught to show. His father had always kept an impassive face, even in the worst of times, such as the early deaths of several of his children or the betrayal of his own empress and wife, but Commodus found himself incapable of doing the same.

His body betrayed a truth that longed to be revealed, tightening the muscles of his arms, locking his jaw, and filling his green eyes with tears that only further exposed his weakness. He couldn’t understand why the gods seemed to have turned their backs on him—first giving him an absent and distant father, and then robbing him of his heirs before he could even hold them in his arms.

Sometimes he feared those emotions would drive him mad.

He had been so lost in thought that he wasn’t even aware of where his steps were taking him, and so he couldn’t help but feel surprised when he found himself standing at the threshold of his chambers. It was only then that his movements became cautious and silent, as he gently pushed aside the silk drapes hanging from the doorway. In truth, he couldn’t say that his surprise was entirely genuine.

After all, whenever he felt he could take no more, he always rushed to her side.

A single oil lamp still burned, casting light and shadow across the dim room before a sky that was growing steadily brighter. Commodus moved through the space without making a sound, his eyes never straying from the bed.

From the woman who lay resting there.

Crispina was still asleep beneath the linen sheets, curled up on herself except for one hand resting on the side of the bed where he usually slept. The young man tilted his head slightly and approached her, studying the steady rhythm of her breathing—it pleased him to see it was calm and peaceful; the nightmares that had begun to torment her after her last loss were giving her a reprieve.

She had lost some weight, and under her eyelids lingered faint violet shadows that refused to part from those freckles her father had once called “sun’s tears,” but Commodus would be lying if he claimed he didn’t feel for her the exact same longing that had stirred in him almost unnoticed as their friendship had grown ever closer.

Even though Lucilla’s shadow still insisted on carving out a place for itself in his heart, his wife moved him in a way he still couldn’t put into words. Now that he was beside the bed, Commodus let his fingers wander slowly through the loose blonde curls of the young woman’s hair, tracing paths in which he longed to lose himself.

He remembered the flush on her freckled cheeks after he kissed her for the first time, the sighs he caught with his lips on their wedding night, and the way her fingers still intertwined with his beneath linen sheets.

Lucilla had been right.

He loved her.

He loved her with a fierceness born of the fear of losing her.

Anger threatened to surge through him again now that the image of blood-soaked sheets and Crispina’s heartbroken sobs returned. His heart betrayed him, trying to push away those grim memories, urging him instead to slip beneath the sheets and draw her to him, seeking refuge in her arms, kissing her skin and losing himself in her as though they would never be parted.

But that same fierceness spoke even louder, overpowering every other emotion.

Commodus let out a sigh filled with frustration and desire, circling the bed and sitting on his side as he began to undo the ties of his sandals. He heard Crispina sigh in her sleep behind him and shift slightly at the awareness of his presence, but Commodus forced himself not to turn toward her.

As he lay down on the bed, his skin shivered when Crispina, still lost in dreams, moved across the mattress in search of his touch, curling up against his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. He had exaggerated her physical recovery in front of Lucilla: the truth was that it was still very difficult for his wife to move without feeling pain. Yet she sought refuge in his arms as though it were the only thing she needed in the world.

Absentmindedly, Commodus allowed himself to stroke her blonde hair as he reflected on how now the scent of lavender from the warm baths she was given each night had begun to overpower that of her beloved roses. Still, it did not displease him, nor did it make him desire her any less—the fragrance of lavender took him back to their wedding night, for he remembered perfectly how her skin had been perfumed with those same flowers.

That night, he had begun to kiss the skin of her neck as if by doing so he might also taste that irresistible scent.

Clenching his face in one final gesture of restrained anger, Commodus gently yet firmly removed Crispina’s arms from around him, shifting as much as he could toward the edge of the bed, out of her reach. He heard new sighs from his wife behind him and felt her stir, trying to find him again, but sleep soon weighed heavier once more, stilling her movements.

Commodus clenched the pillow beneath his cheek and closed his eyes, forcing himself to try to sleep again.

The gods had a strange sense of humor.

His Crispina was one of the most beautiful creatures Rome had ever known, but now he knew she wasn’t perfect—perhaps she would never be able to give him the heir he had always dreamed of, not without endangering her own life.

And still, he longed for her.

Even if now, under the inquisitive eyes of the gods, he promised himself never to touch her again.

Chapter Text

The perfume of her roses was nothing but an echo of the refuge she used to find in them.

Dancing alongside it was the scent of sea water and sunlit wheat fields in Volceii. Her heart stirred at the memory of those childhood days, when the world was a new place, full of hopes and dreams waiting to be discovered: there was no sorrow for which she could not find comfort in her father's arms, nor a tear so bitter that Quintius could not make it vanish with a gentle caress upon her child’s face.

The roses also spoke to her of vain little boys and unwanted visits, of best friends found in the most unexpected places, and of strange feelings blossoming beneath the moonlight of a winter’s night. They brought back memories of golden, unexpected gifts, of floral crowns adorning her blonde hair on her wedding day, and of kisses stolen behind marble statues.

They moved her soul by whispering of a happiness without name—

And of the deepest sorrow.

Crispina poured the water carefully from a small ceramic amphora, ensuring the liquid spread evenly around the roots of the rose bushes. The rose garden of the imperial palace had evolved greatly over the four years she had been living in Rome: the flowers now grew beautiful and strong under her care, to such an extent that they had even begun to climb over the stone arches and nearby statues.

It was a sight full of wonder that would have filled her soul with joy in brighter times.

Even with her brown eyes still lost in the dance of the flowers swaying in the morning breeze, the young woman resisted lifting her gaze to see how the roses clung to what seemed to be their favoured statue, wrapping it as no ceremonial mantle ever could. Her spirit urged her to show strength, and so at last she allowed her eyes to follow the rose-laden vines and meet the gaze of her marble-and-stone self.

She remembered very well the morning Commodus had guided her to the rose garden blindfolded, years ago. Then, she had stifled a smile of excitement as she asked him not to let go of her hands while she allowed herself to be led, even though she knew very well the path her husband was taking her on: she walked that stretch of the imperial gardens far too often not to recognise it, even with her eyes closed.

The warm earth of the path tickled her toes as it crept into her sandals, and the soft perfume of the roses seemed to rush forward to meet her, as if they already missed her. There had been no statue in that spot the day before, so her surprise was all the greater when Commodus undid the knot that held the silk ribbon over her eyes and invited her to open them.

At first, she thought it was the goddess Proserpina looking back at her from the stone pedestal, clad in a delicate marble tunic that left one breast bare—but then her eyes stopped on the wavy hair and those features so very like her own. Crispina felt the breath leave her lungs as she met the gaze of her stone twin: she had never had a bust dedicated to her before, let alone such an exquisite sculpture, more fitting for a goddess.

It had only been a few weeks since they’d received the news that she was expecting their first child, and she imagined Commodus wished to please her above all else, but she couldn’t help feeling small before such a deified image of herself.

“What do you think?” her husband had asked, eager to hear her opinion.

“It is…” Crispina found herself at a loss for words. “It is a magnificent sculpture: she is very beautiful.”

Commodus had studied her silently before turning his gaze to the stone sculpture. Only then did a faint smile appear on his lips as he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his cheek against hers while they both contemplated the newest addition to the rose garden.

“No, she is not—you are,” murmured Commodus by her hair. “Do you think Narcissus’ reflection was more beautiful than Narcissus himself?”

“Your memory is not as fickle as you sometimes claim, husband,” Crispina smiled, feeling the warmth of his arms. “You remember my stories word for word.”

“Because they are yours,” he replied gently. “They used to slip from my mind the moment my tutors’ voices faded—but never yours. Never yours.”

She remembered the tenderness with which he had caressed her barely rounded belly, both of them feeling the future stretch out before them, full of promises and possibilities that would vanish all too soon, like little Marcus.

So small, so sweet, and so early in his coming.

Crispina’s face tightened into a silent expression of pain that she forced herself to suppress: she knew how little Commodus liked to find her looking sorrowful, and she didn’t want to burden him with more weight than he already carried. She set the water amphora aside and picked up a small sickle to prune the dry branches, her thoughts drifting once again to the past, hoping to find in it something that might help her make sense of the present.

She remembered how, when they were only children in Volceii, Commodus would sometimes confide in her about the dark thoughts that crept into his mind—cruel words that took on the voices of his loved ones, wounding him and dragging him into a deep melancholy from which he saw no escape. Crispina had comforted him as best she could, always affectionate and understanding, despite never having felt such sorrow herself.

But the loss of her children had taught her a painful lesson.

Those fears her childhood friend had once confessed to her—fears that seemed to grow with the fall of night—were not so different from the ones she now experienced every time a new pregnancy failed. She remembered how, clinging to her feather pillow in the middle of the night, she had shed silent tears she didn’t want to disturb her husband’s sleep with. And somewhere in the depths of her mind, a dark whisper had slipped in, chilling her to the bone.

It should have been me.

Startled, she had turned to look at her husband in the dim light: he slept peacefully, unaware of the dreadful thoughts tormenting her mind. She remembered clearly the loneliness and unease that had seized her after such a thought—feelings that only deepened when she realized that these were the very kinds of thoughts that had haunted Commodus from time to time.

He must have suffered so much...

She had wanted to show him those dark ideas were nothing but lies, wanted him to see himself as she had always seen him. Since that night, she had sought refuge in his arms with renewed desperation, as if she could erase his pain—and her own—by drawing near to him. Whenever she curled up against him, any sorrow that might have taken hold of her lost its power, and she felt safe, protected, as though nothing could harm either of them ever again.

And it was for that reason that now, as her husband seemed to avoid her, a dark sadness hovered over her like a vulture circling the dying.

Commodus no longer came to meet her in the rose gardens after training with the Praetorian Guard, nor did he wait for her hidden behind marble statues to steal kisses and caresses that made her cheeks burn. More than once in the past months, she had dined alone because her husband had buried himself in studies or Senate documents with a dedication that had never been part of his character before.

The more she sought him out, the more he drew away.

Crispina sighed and let the sickle fall onto the damp earth, hurrying to wipe away a warm, stray tear that had filled her brown eyes, carefully brushing it from her cheek. She had thought she knew true sorrow—life had tested her in ways she could never have imagined when she was just a girl lying among the wheat fields of Volceii, looking for shapes in the clouds.

But she didn’t know what to do with this kind of sadness—the kind that whispered she was losing her husband because she had failed him.

A stifled gasp escaped her lips when small arms wrapped tightly around her from behind, startling her and making her graze her hand on a rose’s thorn.

“I saw you from far away!” exclaimed little Lucius, pulling back and looking up at her with bright eyes. “I thought maybe I would not find you here, but I am so glad I did… Aunt Crispina, are you bleeding?”

Crispina offered him a gentle smile and shook her head, downplaying the red scratch on the back of her hand. She had been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t even heard her nephew’s hurried steps as he ran toward her.

“Do you think it is fatal?” Crispina asked, crouching down to meet the child’s gaze, letting mock concern fill her voice, making the boy laugh. “Will the physicians be afraid to treat it?”

“Physicians are not afraid of anything,” the boy declared with the certainty only children possess. The freckles dotting his face stood out more vividly in the sunlight. “My mother says some of them even served in Vindobona, treating soldiers’ war wounds. It is good they are here, because then they will know me already if I ever end up on the front…”

The enthusiastic smile never left his face, unaware of the cold shiver that ran down his aunt’s spine.

“On the front? Do you think the war with the Germans will last that long?”

“I hope it does!” Lucius nodded with a broad grin. “I have been practicing a lot with my wooden sword, and I know I am getting better.”

A sad smile now bathed Crispina’s face. Commodus had told her stories about what he had seen in distant Vindobona: how the nights were so cold one sometimes thought they would never see sunlight again, how many soldiers succumbed to their wounds in the mud despite having survived brutal battles…

Quintius riding off on his horse, never to return.

“You sweet child, you know nothing of war,” Crispina finally murmured, giving her nephew an affectionate caress and rising to her feet once more. “Your grandfather fights so persistently so that children like you may never be called to the front. Cherish the protection the emperor offers you, even so far from home.”

Lucius didn’t look entirely convinced, but he eventually nodded. Only then did the child’s gaze fall upon the marble statue behind the rose bushes.

“Those roses will soon cover the statue completely—it is just like in real life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is not that the goddess Proserpina?” Lucius asked, puzzled.

Crispina let out a soft laugh and shook her head.

“Your uncle made the same mistake during a Saturnalia feast, a long time ago…” she replied, a note of nostalgia in her voice. “Where is he? Have you seen him today?”

The faint hope that Commodus might be somewhere near the gardens, perhaps on his way to see her, faded as soon as the boy shook his head, rekindling a quiet sadness in his aunt.

“I was at the Senate this morning, but I slipped away as soon as I could,” the boy said proudly, flashing his brightest smile. “Mother says it is important I learn to listen to wise men, to learn about the reality of Rome.”

“Your mother is very wise, Lucius,” Crispina nodded. “Then may I ask why you are not with the senators now? If I recall correctly, they are still meeting at this hour.”

“It is just so boring,” the boy protested, letting out a huff that made the young woman smile. “Well, not always—sometimes they talk about how the army is progressing in Germania, but today they were only arguing about a noble who wants to repudiate his wife so he can marry again.”

“Well,” the young woman murmured, gently stroking the boy’s blond hair, “then take it as a sign that little news is coming from distant Germania. Rejoice in that—it means your grandfather is safe, and perhaps will soon return home.”

“What a thing to say!” Lucius laughed, moving closer to her and the roses. “Nothing can happen to Grandfather! Everyone says he is the greatest warrior Rome has ever known. Maybe someday they will compose songs about him, stories you can tell me while you play the lyre.”

Her nephew had pointed to the stringed instrument carefully propped beside the roots of the rosebushes. Crispina feared she had neglected her old friend, and so she had tried to make amends by carrying it with her whenever she came to tend the flowers. It made her feel closer to Volceii, to the childish happiness she had once known there. It gave her hope that these dark days would, eventually, pass.

She recalled how one of the slaves who tended the gardens had told her that many scholars believed music greatly benefitted plants, which grew more beautifully and more strongly when nurtured by the delicate notes of a soft melody. That detail had sparked her curiosity, yet Crispina felt her spirits dampen as that dark voice returned to whisper in her mind.

This time, it assured her that those roses would be the only thing she could ever hope to make grow.

“Aunt Crispina, are you sad?” Little Lucius’s voice pulled her back to the present. “I am sorry if I said something I should not have. My uncle gets sad too sometimes when I talk about Grandfather…”

“No, sweet Lucius, of course not,” Crispina began, placing a hand on his small shoulder. “It is just that…”

“Ah, there you are, Lucius!”

The clear and ever-charming voice of Lucilla broke the moment between aunt and nephew. The boy’s face lit up as he turned to the daughter of Marcus Aurelius, who was walking toward them dressed in a beautiful sky-blue tunic that made her eyes stand out even more. Lucius dashed across the small distance separating them and threw himself into her arms with the kind of energy only a mother knows.

“I went to the Senate to find you,” Lucilla said, returning the embrace and gently raising the boy’s chin to look him in the eyes, “imagine my surprise when not even the senators could tell me where my little one had gone…”

“I came to see Aunt Crispina,” the boy said with enthusiasm, glancing back at her for a moment. “I wanted to see if she was done with the roses so she could tell me a story about the ancient Greeks…”

“Another one? By the gods, Lucius, at this rate there will not be a single Greek myth your aunt has not told you yet…”

It was a familiar and harmless scene, like so many others Crispina had witnessed, but that morning she felt a renewed wave of longing and melancholy for what had been lost… and for what she feared might still be lost. Feeling her brown eyes begin to sting again, Crispina turned her back on mother and son, pretending to focus on her beloved roses.

“Lucius, my dear,” she heard Lucilla murmur, “why do not you go find your uncle and tell him we are waiting to have lunch? The sun is high in the sky, and we should enjoy the fresh air before winter gains strength and forces us to linger beside braziers behind closed doors.”

Crispina let out a sigh and brushed a blond strand from her forehead as she heard the boy’s quick steps fade into the distance. She was whispering silent prayers to the gods when it happened—the one thing she had tried to avoid.

“Sister.”

The young woman closed her eyes, biting her lower lip as rebellious tears slid down her cheeks despite her efforts to wipe them away. She did not wish to be alone with Lucilla, much less speak to her, but even a blind man would have seen that was precisely why her sister-in-law had sent Lucius off to find Commodus. It wasn’t long before she felt Lucilla’s delicate hand on her shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.

“I am fine,” Crispina said quickly, cursing herself for how broken her voice sounded. “I hope Commodus is not still training with the guard—the mornings are cold and…”

“Crispina…”

She hated how hearing her name spoken by the one she had once looked up to as a role model still brought a faint balm to her soul. There had been a time when she would have entrusted all her secrets to the emperor’s daughter—before discovering her true nature. The young woman tried her best to avoid her sister-in-law’s gaze, no matter how much the other sought it.

“Crispina, my dear sister, look at me,” Lucilla spoke calmly, gently turning her face toward her and tenderly wiping the tears from her eyes. “It is all right, do not worry. I am here. You do not have to hide your feelings from me.”

The young woman took a deep breath, trying to draw strength from it, but only managed to let more bitter tears spill down her cheeks. Lucilla whispered soothing words as she continued to dab her tears away with a silk handkerchief. With her so close, Crispina was able to study her sister-in-law’s eyes: they were beautiful, clear as a spring sky—but they also seemed cold and distant.

She remembered Quintius’s eyes—the one who had truly had the right to call her “sister.” His eyes were brown, just like hers, and in them she had always found a warmth that made her feel at home, a genuine concern for her wellbeing and happiness. Those brown eyes had seemed to read her soul, able to uncover any secret that troubled her and, at the same time, capable of healing any wound within it.

In his gaze, there had never been judgment, nor condescension, nor false concern.

Quintius would have given his life for his sister’s happiness.

That thought made Crispina’s face twist with sorrow, fresh tears falling again.

“I beg you, Lucilla…” the young woman began, gently pulling away from her sister-in-law. “I wish to be alone.”

She had already begun walking away from the rose garden, letting her steps take her anywhere, when her sister-in-law’s new words made her stop immediately.

“I know why you seek solitude.”

Crispina let a few moments pass, using them to calm the rhythm of her breath, before turning once more toward the emperor’s daughter.

“Crispina, dearest, I know it has been long since we have had the chance to speak as sisters,” Lucilla began, always poised and always elegant. “I do not know if you realize it, but I have always seen you as such—even long before our fathers decided to bind your fate to my brother’s. I know these are difficult times for you, and that you suffer—I see it every day. But please understand that you do not have to suffer in silence. You are my sister, and I want nothing but the best for you.”

She wished Lucilla would stop calling her “sister,” and yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel grateful. Lucilla’s voice was so sweet, her words so seemingly sincere, that it would have been easy to surrender to her illusions—if not for that one word. Lucilla’s concern was a mask, one designed to lower the defenses Crispina had been forced to raise in her presence.

“I have also spoken to Commodus about this…”

That sentence made Crispina raise her chin and flush with anger: how dare she discuss such intimate matters with him, matters that concerned only the two of them?

“Have you?” Crispina cut in, unable to hide how much it had upset her.

“Sister…”

“My brother is dead,” the young woman snapped, the harshness and truth of her own words wounding her. “He was the only one who could call me that.”

A smile—one filled with confusion and disbelief—crossed Lucilla’s face, making her appear, if possible, even more beautiful.

“Crispina…” Marcus Aurelius’s daughter began, clearly startled by her sister-in-law’s demeanor. “I do not understand…”

“I remember the morning of my wedding,” Crispina interrupted again, this time stepping closer as the words she had kept bottled up for the past four years spilled from her lips. “Believe me, I remember it with absolute clarity: I was so nervous, so far from home and everything I had ever known, and all I wanted was for you to be there—as a sister—to calm my nerves and tell me everything would be all right…”

Lucilla listened in silence, letting her speak, though she didn’t seem to understand why she was doing so.

“You know what? I always wanted to be like you, Lucilla,” Crispina admitted, nodding slowly to herself. “I was just a little girl, enchanted with her roses, when you first came to Volceii, and I already looked at you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. So elegant, so intelligent… Few things made me happier than knowing you saw me as your equal, your sister… Someone I could trust with my secrets, someone I could always rely on…”

“But Crispina, of course—” Lucilla said quickly, taking her by the forearms and looking her in the eyes. “Everything you are saying is true. I care for you deeply, and I know you love my brother above all else. We are family, and I will always—”

“Then I heard you speaking with one of your slaves on the day of my wedding.”

At first, confusion returned to Lucilla’s face—but it slowly gave way to an expression of recognition. And in her sister-in-law’s eyes, Crispina read something she had never expected to find.

Shame.

“Crispina…” Lucilla began to murmur, shaking her head.

“I went looking for you, because I did not want to stay alone with the slaves who had watched me grow up in my father’s house. I trusted you more than I trusted any of them,” the young woman continued, unable to stop herself. “My soul was torn between the joy of belonging to your brother and the grief of losing mine. All I longed for was the comfort of your company, so I was on my way to your chambers when I heard you laughing with your favorite slave…”

“Crispina…”

“You dared to share with a slave your doubts about whether your father had made the right decision, questioning if he had acted wisely or even sensibly,” Crispina’s voice rose now, daring her sister-in-law to deny what she was saying. “You even went so far as to imply that Commodus—your own brother, who has done nothing but worship your every step—was an immoral man…”

“Crispina, there are things—”

“You said my father was lucky to have a dead son to give to Rome and a living daughter to put in the heir’s bed! How could your lips utter such cruelty?”

She didn’t know how she’d managed to speak those last words without breaking down, but Crispina’s voice finally gave way to a sob filled with sorrow that she couldn’t hold back. She hid her face in her hands for a moment, drying the hot tears from her cheeks before Lucilla could even attempt to do so herself. But to her surprise—and a touch of grim satisfaction—Crispina found that the daughter of Marcus Aurelius, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words.

Lucilla was a master at concealing her thoughts, but even so, Crispina could tell she was carefully choosing what to say next. Her cheeks betrayed her, blushing even beneath the powdered oyster shell she used as makeup.

“Crispina,” Lucilla finally spoke again, calmly, as if afraid she might be interrupted. “It was never my intention that those words—”

“To what? To reach my ears?” Crispina cut in, unable to stop herself. “I assure you, they did—when I needed you the most. And they made me wonder what other words I have not heard.”

The daughter of Marcus Aurelius shook her head with the ghost of a smile on her lips, a smile that sparked a fresh wave of anger inside the younger woman.

“My dearest Crispina, please, calm yourself,” her sister-in-law went on with a gentle voice, one that only made Crispina feel more exposed. “They were just words. Slaves enjoy it when we share confidences with them, even if they are not true. It makes them feel closer to their masters than they truly are. It is useful to secure their loyalty because—”

“At my expense? At Commodus’?” Crispina challenged, unable to believe what she was hearing. “At my brother’s?”

She wouldn’t lie: there was something deeply satisfying in being able to silence Lucilla, who always seemed to have an answer for everything—answers delivered with such serenity they made one feel mad for disagreeing.

“My words can be sharp at times,” Lucilla admitted with a slow nod, “but that does not mean they are meant to cause harm, Crispina. It is true that at first I may have had certain doubts, but—”

“Lucilla…” Crispina replied with a sigh. “I am tired of riddles and games. You have no idea how exhausting it has been to see your kind smile and gracious gestures toward me all these years, knowing what you are capable of saying behind my back when you think I am not listening.”

“Just stop for a moment, Crispina,” Lucilla asked, this time with a smile of disbelief playing on her lips that cut deeply into her sister-in-law’s heart. “Is that the reason for your strange behavior all this time? A few whispered words shared with slaves four years ago?”

She had barely finished the sentence when Crispina felt her cheeks flush with a new kind of embarrassment—one that made it hard to meet her sister-in-law’s gaze. Why did she have to say it like that? Once again, she felt small—like a child throwing a tantrum that the adults must soothe with promises of treats.

“Crispina, sister ,” Lucilla spoke again, placing emphasis on the last word, “for I am truly your sister—I am not your enemy, and it saddens me that you have spent all these years clinging to a resentment that, from my side, does not exist. You are no longer in Volceii. In the streets of Rome, and even within the walls of this palace, you will sometimes hear things that displease you. And you would do well to learn to discern their true nature and meaning.”

The emperor’s daughter spoke with such confidence and dignity that Crispina once again felt as if she were seven years old, not twenty-two—the age she had turned just this past summer.

“I understand you are going through difficult times—times that would weigh heavily on any woman, on any wife—and that may have made you more sensitive to certain matters. But believe me when I say that I am not your enemy, Crispina,” Lucilla continued. “And as for Commodus… I was mistaken. You have brought peace to his soul, and he feels for you a devotion he has never shown to any of the gods. I hope you are more at ease now: I have given you my explanation, though it was unnecessary. You should have known to read beyond mere words, Crispina…”

“What is going on?”

Both women turned at the sound of that clear, childlike voice—it belonged to none other than young Lucius. Crispina quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks upon seeing the confusion in her nephew’s eyes, feeling a fresh wave of shame coloring her cheeks as she noticed the boy was holding his uncle’s hand.

“Brother,” greeted Lucilla with the broadest of smiles, walking toward him. “Where have you been? We have been trying to guess your whereabouts all morning…”

She heard Commodus mutter something about the pine gallery, near the thermal baths and offering especially magnificent views of the Colosseum. But as he spoke, his green eyes didn’t leave Crispina’s tear-streaked face for even a moment.

And what his wife read in those eyes brought her no comfort.

There was hardness in them, a silent reproach at suspecting some kind of confrontation with Lucilla, a fierce desire for Lucius to dismiss the awkwardness of the situation. She knew him well enough to recognize the unspoken command to compose herself—especially in front of his nephew—so Crispina turned around discreetly, as if something among the roses had caught her attention.

Even so, she couldn’t help glancing back after a few moments. Commodus and Lucilla appeared to have successfully diverted Lucius’s attention, talking about small outings they could take that afternoon or promising to show him new wooden sword fighting techniques. This eased Crispina’s spirits—until her brown eyes met her husband’s again and she saw once more that they were full of reproach.

Lucilla may have spoken with wisdom and serenity, but there was one thing in which she had been wrong.

She had claimed that Commodus felt a devotion for his wife greater than for any god.

But Crispina could read it in his green eyes.

That devotion had died with the last of their children.

Chapter Text

The snowflakes descended around her, swaying in a delicate dance until they rested gently upon the earth, covering it with their snowy mantle. The air carried a wintry fragrance, fresh and wild, bringing peace to her spirit.

Crispina kept her gaze lifted toward those pines whose height defied everything she had ever known, stretching their slender branches as though they longed to tear apart the gray clouds that had conquered the sky. The young woman walked through the forest clearing, letting her curious brown eyes wander over all that was still a mystery to her.

It was the first time she had ever seen snow—a miracle she had never expected to behold in lands as warm as those where she had been born—and she felt wonder flooding her at the sight of that distant, ethereal beauty.

She hardly even felt the cold, something unthinkable considering she was barefoot.

Only then did she lower her gaze, and her breath froze in her chest in a sudden moment of horror.

Her bare feet were buried up to her ankles in snow, earth…

And blood.

So much blood.

Crispina let out a strangled cry and stumbled backward. She tried in vain to escape the amalgam of dark soil and coagulated blood, a mixture that seemed to grow denser the more she fought to flee from it. When she looked around, she distinguished the broken bodies of Roman soldiers lying beneath the ceaseless snowfall.

In their pallor they resembled marble statues, their lives ebbing away in small crimson streams that flooded the earth of Vindobona. A sudden darkness seized her, coursing through every fiber of her body in icy caresses that smothered her breath, when her brown eyes fell upon the green eyes she loved so deeply. He, too, was covered by that shroud of snow, yet she would have recognized those eyes anywhere—even now, when the light of life had left them.

The scream of horror rose within her, shaking her with such force that it wrenched her awake.

Crispina tossed among the linen sheets, flinging them aside as though they burned her skin. Her heart was pounding violently and her breath still faltered as her eyes adjusted to the gloom reigning in her chamber. The flames of the lamps had long since died, and all that surrounded her was silence and darkness, broken only by the light of the moon.

The young woman ran a trembling hand over her face and felt the tears brimming in her eyes. The weight of sleep must have prevented her from screaming as loudly as she had imagined, for she had not awakened her husband. When she turned her gaze to his side of the bed, she realized he was not there.

“Commodus?”

Crispina soon distinguished a figure standing on the broad balcony that opened onto the gardens, his silhouette outlined by the soft moonlight as he gazed at the horizon before him. A sigh of relief escaped her lips and she quickly left the bed, moving toward him.

“Thank the gods,” Crispina murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around his back, seeking refuge in the warmth of his body.

The young man did not answer, nor did he even seem startled by the unexpected presence of his wife. She, still holding him close, tilted her head to study his face: his green eyes seemed to struggle to remain open, with shadows painted beneath his lids that filled Crispina with sorrow.

“Commodus…” she called to him again. “What is it?”

Only then did he seem to awaken from the trance that held him.

“Sometimes I wonder what it is he seeks out there,” Commodus murmured, almost more to himself than to his wife. “With such fervor, with such desperation… Why is all that he abandons with every campaign never enough?”

Crispina sighed and lovingly ran her hand through his hair: it was clear she was not the only one whom the boundaries of the empire tormented that night.

“Do you need to speak of it? Your sleepless nights are no secret to me, and if in any way I can ease your burden, I would gladly do so.”

The only reply she received was silence—nothing more.

She would be lying if she claimed she had not expected it, but this new routine between them pierced her chest like a sharp dagger: she could not bring herself to believe that four years of marriage had been enough for the trust and affection Commodus had once felt for her to vanish into thin air.

“Commodus, this silence between us must end,” Crispina finally pleaded. “We are husband and wife, and before that you were my best friend. You never hid your secrets from me, nor I from you, no matter how painful they were. Speak to me.”

She waited for her husband’s reply, but it never came: all she could hear was the distant song of crickets and the dawn breeze stirring the trees of the imperial gardens. He seemed as distant from her as when she had met his lifeless eyes in that terrible nightmare.

Troubled by the memory, Crispina wrapped her arms more tightly around him, nestling her cheek against the hollow of his shoulder blades.

“Promise me you will never set foot in pursuit of an enemy,” she whispered. “The whole world knows and envies the glory of Rome: you have nothing to prove at the edges of the empire.”

A dry, bitter laugh escaped Commodus’ lips.

“It will be the emperor who fulfills your wishes, wife: he will never call me to the front to share in that glory. There are others whose company he prefers for such matters.”

“Commodus, promise me,” Crispina insisted.

“Very well,” he finally murmured, weary. “I yield to your wishes.”

He spoke with a bitterness he could not conceal, as he did with all his emotions, but those words nonetheless brought Crispina a measure of peace. He had promised her, and that was enough. The young woman sighed, resting her cheek once more against her husband’s skin and breathing in his scent with care. There it was again—that sensation of home that always accompanied the warmth of his body beside hers.

Seeking to shield him from the chill breeze of dawn, and guided by a new sensation that had begun to blossom within her, Crispina let her hands glide in soft caresses along Commodus’ arms, tracing the fine hair that covered them, every curve, every muscle… She brushed her nose against the hollow between his shoulder blades where she had found refuge, losing herself in his rosemary fragrance.

Her lips soon joined in those tender caresses upon his skin, while her hands moved now to his bare chest. She could feel perfectly well how Commodus’ body had tensed at the touch of her lips, and how goosebumps rose along the path her hands traced, and yet he remained motionless and sunk in the deepest silence.

Perhaps his melancholy had carried him to a place even she could not reach.

Disheartened, Crispina lowered her face: she could hardly believe they had come to this. The young woman drew in a deep breath and rose on her tiptoes, brushing the back of his ear with her nose and placing a soft kiss there—a farewell before returning to bed.

Then she heard the stifled gasp that escaped Commodus’ lips.

“Do it again.”

The young man’s hands found hers, intertwining their fingers across his chest as though he feared she might abandon him. Now she could feel how fast his heart was racing, how erratic his breathing had become. Crispina smiled to herself, ready to fulfill her husband’s desire—though not without making him suffer a little first. She placed a kiss upon his shoulder and let her lips slowly wander along his neck while Commodus clasped her fingers more tightly.

When she reached his ear once more, Crispina let her lips linger there, at the edge of his dark hair, prolonging the sweet torment that made her husband shiver beneath her kisses and caresses. Feeling the fire that pulsed inside her, she sighed with longing and gently caught his earlobe between her teeth, provoking a moan from Commodus’ lips.

Crispina fell silent when she saw her husband abruptly tear himself from her embrace, stepping away and looking her in the face for the first time that night. She could not help but feel a flicker of shame under the dark, reproachful gaze he cast upon her—one that made her feel as small as a sparrow.

She did not understand. She had thought it was going so well…

It was not until Commodus took that first step toward her that she realized what gleamed in his green eyes was not reproach.

It was desire.

Crispina had barely grasped what was happening when Commodus’ hands seized her face with sudden urgency, pulling her toward him and claiming her lips in a kiss they had not shared in so long. The young woman clung quickly to his shoulders to keep her balance, struggling to make room within herself for the overwhelming surprise and passion that flooded her. Commodus’ lips devoured hers in a shared breath that, somehow, left them both gasping.

As though it were never enough.

The young woman wound her arms around her husband’s neck, deepening the kiss that grew in urgency with every passing second. She felt the heat burning in her cheeks, the stammer of her breath now that Commodus was holding her tightly against his waist, drawing a moan of longing from her lips. Only now, with him in her arms, did she understand how terribly she had missed him: how she had endured so long without kissing his lips was a mystery she had no desire to solve.

In a swift movement, Commodus gripped her waist firmly, lifting her so she could cling to him, and pressed her against one of the sturdy marble columns that guarded the balcony. She did not know what had brought on this change in him, but she did not wish to think about it—not now, not when she felt his uneven breath at her neck and his hands roaming her body with a hunger that left her breathless. Crispina seized the moment when their eyes met to kiss him again, as she had longed to do for so long.

A kiss that, for some reason, brought it all to an end.

Commodus’ movements slowed, his caresses froze, and his lips only received the kiss Crispina gave him. Realizing what was happening, the young woman pulled her face back just enough to look into his eyes.

“What is it?”

Commodus did not utter a word, but began to withdraw from her little by little, releasing his hold that had kept her pinned against the column. The young woman let her back slide down the marble until she was seated upon the cold tiles, her linen tunic disheveled and her blonde curls spilling over her back and shoulders, yet her gaze never left her husband.

To find the same cold, distant look that had become so common in Commodus over the past months sent a shiver down her spine.

“What is it?” Crispina pressed again, feeling a new unease take hold of her.

The heir to the throne did not take his green eyes off her, immersed in a fierce silence that seemed to awaken the worst in his nature.

“Have I done something to upset you?” the young woman asked, pleading.

Commodus ran a hand along his jaw, never ceasing to look down at her.

“You should not have spoken to Lucilla that way, wife,” Commodus declared.

A sigh of disbelief escaped Crispina’s lips.

“What place could your sister possibly have in what we were doing?”

“It was not right,” the young man insisted, his gaze distant and dark. “You know it.”

Rage began to beat furiously in Crispina’s heart. She could barely endure the constant presence of Lucilla in their lives, but for Commodus to punish her in this way, blindly siding with his sister without even asking about her own feelings, was more than she was willing to bear.

“You are right, husband: I do know,” Crispina spoke fiercely. “I should have slapped her face, to see if that would shake off that air of eternal condescension and false affability that decorates her expression.”

She knew her words would anger Commodus, but nothing prepared her for the way he looked at her then. His eyes had turned so cold it hurt to meet them, and he clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening in a futile attempt to contain the fury devouring him. Silenced, Crispina watched as the young man took a single step toward her, and in that instant, a sensation emerged that she had never before felt in his presence.

Fear.

“For the sake of us both, wife,” Commodus spoke again, as if spitting out that last word, “I am going to ignore the disgrace you have uttered.”

The weight of those words had barely fallen upon Crispina—making time stop and everything around her turn colder—when Commodus strode from the chamber after casting her one last look of profound rejection. The young woman pressed her lips together and wrapped her arms around her knees as she felt her eyes slowly begin to fill with tears.

She could not believe what had just happened.

A sob escaped her throat, and she hugged her knees tighter, hiding her face against them so the slaves would not hear her cry.

The stars, as cold and distant as the eyes of the heir to the throne, kept company with Crispina’s tears until the arrival of dawn.

He always longed for the light that came with his beloved company, but in that precise moment Commodus missed spending time with his nephew more than he could ever put into words. He knew that playing soldiers of Vindobona with him would help him distract himself and silence the cruel voice reigning inside his head, yet even listening to the child’s laughter echoing across the imperial gardens like birdsong acted as a balm upon his spirit.

He shifted upon the couch placed on the garden terrace from which he and Lucilla watched the boy play among the flowers, despite the light winter breeze. At Lucius’ side stood Crispina, showing him the statues that decorated the paths and narrating the heroic tales hidden behind their marble faces. She seemed especially beautiful to him that morning: she wore a tunic of bluish hues with a fine matching veil that made her golden hair stand out…

It was then that the sibilant voice returned, so like his father’s, making him clench his jaw and avert his eyes.

He had suffered humiliating defeats on the battlefield, but none had struck him as fiercely as the one he had endured at the hands of his own wife. Crispina carried neither shield nor sword, yet a few caresses and the warmth of her kisses had sufficed to shatter all the defenses and distances Commodus had built between them.

He had been on the verge of ruining everything.

The only solace left to him was having regained his senses in time to avoid greater harm.

“Lost again in your thoughts, brother? Or in her golden curls?”

Lucilla’s voice freed him from the prison of his thoughts, as it always managed to do. Though her lips danced with their characteristic playful, provocative smile, her blue eyes saw beyond what he wished to show. She read him intimately; Commodus knew Lucilla had always felt the heat of the flames burning within him each time their eyes met.

That was why she could also now see the torment consuming him at the improper distance that had grown between Crispina and himself.

His Crispina.

“No cloud is destined to darken the skies forever, brother,” Lucilla spoke then, a conciliatory smile tracing her delicate lips. “None of them, however dark or heavy they may seem, holds such power. Least of all before a light as powerful as the sun.”

Commodus let out a bitter laugh as he took another sip of wine. Lucilla knew that Crispina and he had problems, but she must have imagined they merely quarreled like an irritable old couple or that the flame of their bond had waned in merely four years of marriage. None of that was true, but there were reasons Commodus had no desire to share with anyone.

Not even with Lucilla.

He let his eyes wander again over the gardens in a vain attempt to occupy his mind with other matters, but the light calm he had felt vanished the moment he caught sight of the palace prefect. That man’s presence always came hand in hand with problems, whether announcing unwanted audiences, the approval of tedious ceremonies, or other matters Commodus had no wish to attend to.

Yet that disinterest left him when he noticed two Praetorian guards escorting his steps.

“Lucius!” Lucilla called to her son, rising gracefully to her feet. “Come with us, and bring your aunt with you: the sun, though timid, is high in the sky, and it is time we were served our meal.”

The young man felt peace when his sister’s blue eyes settled upon his, silently urging him to keep calm. In an instant they had traveled years back in time, to that other moment when the prefect had appeared accompanied by the Praetorian guard to inform them of their mother’s death.

“Prefect,” Commodus spoke, rising as the man came to meet him. “The day has dawned serene and calm, inviting rest. What reason brings you before us with such ceremony?”

He saw that the man was not intimidated by the look that swept him from head to toe, nor by the studied cadence with which he spoke: he remained upright in his posture and did not avert his gaze. Commodus noticed Crispina and Lucius arriving as well, hand in hand, watching the encounter with curiosity.

“My lord,” replied the prefect, bowing deeply before presenting the bronze cylinder sealed with wax that he carried in his hands, “a message of utmost importance has arrived from the region of Vindobona, addressed to the imperial family and to select members of the Senate. I await your instructions, my lord.”

“Of the Senate?” Commodus repeated, trying to disguise his surprise.

“Indeed, my lord,” the prefect nodded. “They have already been gathered, though discreetly, without knowing the reason. I await your permission for them to be summoned to join the imperial family to hear the contents of the message.”

The young man let his eyes travel over the faces of his family gathered there. He sought neither support nor comfort in them, but rather to make them feel secure knowing that he was in command, to make them proud of it. The same approval he had always sought from his father. Something within him stirred, making him lift his chin with confidence and turn his eyes back to the prefect as though he were more than accustomed to his presence.

As though he were even bored by it.

“Permission granted.”

The prefect whispered brief instructions to the two soldiers, who nodded and left the terrace with firm, resounding steps. Commodus turned his gaze back to the two women: however much she hid her feelings behind a mask of impassivity, the young man knew her well enough to see that Lucilla was unsettled. Crispina too seemed so, with even more reason, for in the four years they had been married she had never lived through a situation like this.

But they both knew that the sudden presence of the Praetorian Guard rarely brought good news.

“Lucius, darling,” Crispina whispered to the boy, crouching down to his height and caressing his face tenderly. “Go with your mother, we will continue our walk after lunch: I shall tell you again of the twelve labors of Hercules, if you so wish.”

After a shared smile of complicity between aunt and nephew, Lucius hurried to meet his mother, speaking with abandon about all he had done that morning. While Lucilla listened fondly to her son, Commodus and Crispina’s eyes met once more. The young man hated how, when that happened, everything around them still seemed to fade away and all that remained were the two of them.

There was the bond that had blossomed between games among the wheat fields and secrets on the beach, their eyes reading in each other what their lips kept silent.

Crispina knew him well enough to realize that, despite his effort to appear otherwise, he was worried.

Commodus watched as the young woman’s shoulders straightened slightly while she lifted her chin with care. His wife came to him, walking in elegant steps, and placed herself at his side before the palace prefect. He felt the brush of her bluish tunic against his hand before Crispina intertwined her fingers with his, stirring a warm caress within his heart.

He was tempted to seek her eyes again with his, to give her a quiet smile or even kiss her cheek in gratitude for the unconditional support she showed him and the courage she instilled in him with that simple gesture. But as he felt the prefect’s eyes fixed upon their joined hands, Commodus felt humiliated, like a child running to seek refuge in his mother when faced with something beyond him.

The firm steps of the soldiers across the gallery mosaics tore him from his thoughts and from the anger that had begun to resurface in his chest. Senators Gaius and Falco now made their appearance as well.

Commodus should have guessed it would be precisely them.

While both men enjoyed the advantages their privileged—and undeserved—position gave them, Gaius’ soul seemed divided between his frenzy for ever more splendid lovers and his zeal in defending the Senate’s nature as the true heart and reason for Rome. Falco, for his part, denied himself no luxury, but with discretion; his sharp eyes analyzed everything around him in silence while he decided which side or stance might bring him greater profit.

“My lord, my lady…” Gaius greeted.

Falco gave a deep bow to the imperial family.

“Wife,” Commodus spoke to Crispina, seeing his chance to restore the image of strength and composure that she had undermined by taking his hand, “I believe you have not yet had the opportunity to meet them. These men are—”

“Senators Gaius and Falco,” she nodded, to the surprise and mute irritation of her husband. The young woman offered a cordial smile. “I remember them. Long ago they used to visit my father in Volceii, though I fear I was too young to exchange any words with them: my interests danced then among wheat fields and rose petals.”

“You have a fine memory, my lady,” Gaius nodded, a gleam in his eyes that did not please Commodus. “I fear mine betrays me, for I remember only a round-cheeked, freckled child playing under the summer sun: the vision I have before me now, I assure you, I shall not so easily forget.”

The young man could not help but tense at those words, tightening his fingers more firmly around Crispina’s.

“Save your flatteries, Gaius,” Senator Falco said. “Though it is indeed a true pleasure to see you again, my lady, and to be able to offer belated congratulations upon your marriage, I imagine the matters that bring us here are of another nature.”

“Indeed so,” Lucilla nodded, stepping forward and addressing the prefect. “We are all gathered. Is there any reason to delay the reading of such an important message?”

“None at all, my lady,” the man replied, breaking the seal and drawing the parchment from the cylinder. Commodus cast his sister a look of silent reproach she did not see: he would have wished to be the one to give the order. “From our camp in distant Vindobona, I send wishes of good health along with this missive. As you well know, the circumstances on the northern frontiers demand my particular attention, but now I find myself in need of the presence of those whose prudence and judgment I so value and who have so wisely guided me in the past. For this reason, I order that my children Commodus and Lucilla depart to meet me in these distant lands as soon as they receive this letter and conditions allow. In particular, it is essential that Commodus arrives before I commence what I hope will be the final battle against a people that resists being conquered…”

He would not lie. Considering the circumstances under which the prefect had last needed the custody of the Praetorian Guard, Commodus had expected to receive terrible news about his father’s health. Yet Marcus Aurelius still lived, and seemed healthy enough to continue his custom of speaking in riddles. Relief gave way to the irritation born of uncertainty.

Why did his father summon him now? What reason could he have to call him to Vindobona after so many years?

“I beg you, my children, and you members of the Senate listed in the annex, do not underestimate the importance of the matters we are to discuss, for the future of our provinces and of Rome itself will be influenced by what is decided once I have your presence. Until then, I trust that Rome remains stable under the administration of those who remain there. I trust they shall preserve the order and dignity of the Empire. May the gods guide and protect you in your journey.”

Those words, though expressed with Marcus Aurelius’ usual secrecy and serenity, began to seem to Commodus like a blessing in disguise. His father wanted him to enter battle, required also Lucilla’s presence and that of two of the most powerful senators, and insisted that the destiny of Rome depended upon what was to be discussed in that gathering…

By the gods.

Could it be…?

Had his moment finally come?

An unnamed emotion coursed through Commodus from head to toe, flooding him with a boundless joy he did not believe he had ever known before. He longed to burst out laughing, to order the most lavish and endless festivities Rome had ever beheld, to sacrifice the most magnificent beasts to the gods in gratitude for finally inspiring some measure of common sense in his aging father.

He felt an imperious desire to kiss Crispina.

Yet, far from all the emotions battling fiercely within him, the prefect and the senators awaited his reply to his father’s message, as did the rest of the imperial family. Lucilla, on this occasion, must have understood that it was he who ought to speak; in Lucius’ eyes he could read a silent admiration at the thought of his uncle entering battle…

Crispina pressed his hand gently.

“So it shall be,” Commodus declared, his voice firm and regal, feeling as though in the space of mere instants the greatest empire in the world had bowed at his feet. “I order that preparations be made for our departure at the earliest opportunity. The commands and wishes of Caesar shall be fulfilled.”

The thrill raced through him all the more fiercely as he watched the senators obey at once, nodding to his command. It was the first time—but he was certain it would not be the last. The prefect again bowed deeply as he rolled the parchment, giving instructions to the nearest slaves to begin arranging the journey. It would be long and arduous, but what awaited him upon arriving in those faraway, ever-cold lands would be the most glorious reward he could ever have imagined.

Lucilla had crouched beside little Lucius, assuring him that both he and his aunt Crispina would be in charge of everything during her absence. She urged the boy to be good and obedient, promising she would ask his aunt whether he had behaved properly upon her return. Though the boy clearly disliked the idea of being separated from his mother for so long, in the end he nodded firmly and promised he would do as she asked.

That, moreover, he would see to it that nothing should harm his aunt Crispina while they were away.

A brief laugh escaped Commodus’ lips at the child’s remark. Now that the attention of those present was more divided, the son of Marcus Aurelius at last allowed himself to turn to his wife, scarcely able to contain the emotion surging within him. He longed to see in her brown eyes that gleam of pride and admiration she had once given him in days past; he yearned for his wife to cradle his face between her hands with a smile she could not restrain and bid him good fortune on his journey.

But he found none of that.

The words of Marcus Aurelius seemed to have silenced those of Crispina, who remained with her gaze fixed upon the parchment as though she could not believe the message it contained.

“Wife,” Commodus urged, coldly guiding Crispina’s face toward his own with a caress. “Will you fulfill your duty to Rome and to me? Will you care for Lucius and see to the affairs of state in my absence?”

He hoped these words would awaken her, make her realize that their lives were about to change into those of gods, but the look his young wife returned to him was laden with unease…

And also with reproach.

“Will you?” he pressed, gripping her chin more firmly. Rage swelled inside him at his wife’s silent lips. “Will you obey the wishes of your lord and husband?”

At last those words seemed to reach Crispina, who blinked and drew in a sharp breath. After a few moments—moments that to him felt like eternity—the young woman pulled away from him with resolve, meeting his gaze in defiance. Commodus felt his cheeks burn as he noticed the questioning eyes of the senators upon him, as well as his sister’s, all of them sunk in the deepest silence. A silence that made Crispina’s defiance greater than if she had shouted at him.

“Crispina…” Commodus hissed, trying to seize her hand.

She pulled away again, as though she stood before the vilest of serpents.

Then, under the watchful eyes of the senators and her sister-in-law, Crispina lifted her chin in open challenge and turned, striding out of the chamber. Her blue veil danced behind her, as if mocking Commodus in a final farewell before vanishing into one of the adjoining galleries.

The sound of her sandals upon the mosaics shattered the tense silence that had filled the room.

Commodus felt something sink within his chest, poisoning what should have been his moment of glory. He glimpsed the senators exchange a silent, amused look—something that sent a cold shiver across his arms, locking his muscles and tightening his jaw.

Crispina.

How dared she?

Commodus fixed his green eyes on the gallery through which his wife had departed: her absence clawed at him from within, provoking the cruelest shame. A sensible man would have struck up a cordial, casual conversation with the senators, perhaps speaking of the journey’s preparations, inquiring of the prefect about its likely length, and ignoring his wife’s actions.

But he had never been a sensible man.

The strict, stoic education he had received guided his movements, sketching a forced smile across his lips as he muttered the sparse words with which he dismissed the senators. He avoided Lucilla’s inquisitive gaze, for it only fanned the rage roaring inside him, until it howled loud enough to deafen everything around him.

He let that feeling take the reins and traced the very steps his wife had taken, leaving the chamber in pursuit of her.

Chapter Text

The senators had strange customs — that was Rome’s worst-kept secret.

Despite his recent encounter with Gaius and Falco, it was not the image of either of them that came to his mind now. Senator Gracchus, one of the oldest members of the Senate, was known for keeping in his service only slaves who could neither hear nor speak. An eccentricity that Commodus had at first met with a half-smile of disbelief, wondering how useful a servant could be if he could not hear orders — but then it had made him reflect on what kind of secrets the old Gracchus might fear would come to light.

Now, however, he had to admit that such an oddity had its virtues.

At that very moment, he would have gladly ordered that all the palace slaves be blinded, so that none of them could witness what was happening.

The son of Marcus Aurelius strode through the palace corridors, his anger burning hotter with every step as humiliation consumed him. The slaves he passed hurried to step aside with quick bows, but he could not have cared less about any of them.

His hands trembled as he cast a suspicious glance to either side of the gallery he had entered with stealthy steps. Only moments had passed; he did not believe Crispina could have gone far. His breath burned in his throat, though his face remained the mask of composure and strength his father had always demanded of him — breath that nearly failed him when he caught sight of that blue fold spilling like a stream of silk and linen from behind a column.

His heart sank as he crossed the distance between them, driven by a dark impulse. He seized Crispina’s arm with the speed of a serpent and dragged her out of her hiding place until she stood before him. He could think of nothing but the shame that the woman who had sworn to love him above all things and obey him in every decision had brought upon him — he even ignored the brief cry of surprise that escaped her lips as she was exposed.

“What do you think you are doing?” Commodus hissed through his teeth.

“What do you think you are doing?” she shot back, unflinching.

The young woman tried to push him away, but it only made her husband grip her arm tighter.

“You have made a fool of me in front of the senators, the palace prefect — even my own family…”

“I am your wife, I am your family! Let go of me!”

“Where has it ever been seen that a decent wife leaves the room without her husband’s permission?” Commodus pressed, pulling her closer the more she struggled. “Where has it been seen that she defies him when the highest honor of the Empire rests upon his shoulders?”

“And where has it been seen that a decent man breaks a promise made to his wife?” she retorted. “You are nothing but a liar and a traitor!”

The words Commodus had been ready to keep spitting out died on his lips. His wife held his gaze, her brown eyes blazing with defiance, her cheeks flushed with the tension of the moment. Though he couldn’t help but feel a brief sting of admiration at seeing that Crispina did not fear him, that feeling vanished like the flame of a candle at her last accusation.

Commodus dug his fingers deeper into Crispina’s arm and pulled her roughly, forcing her to follow as he strode again through the palace corridors, eager to continue their confrontation away from the eyes and ears of the slaves. He could hear Crispina protesting behind him, still struggling to break free, which only made him walk faster until they reached the threshold of their chambers.

With a sharp gesture, he threw her inside. The blue linen of her tunic flared as Crispina stumbled, tripping over a footstool. She turned back toward her husband, her face a mixture of indignation and shock.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Wife, you are making a scene,” Commodus interrupted through gritted teeth, closing the distance between them. “How dare you accuse me of such vileness?”

“You swore you would not take a single step in pursuit of an enemy,” Crispina reminded him, stepping closer as well. “Is your memory so short, husband? It was only a few nights ago, within these very walls of our chambers — you made me a promise, Commodus, you promised me…”

“My father is no enemy, wife,” the young man replied, his tone still steeped in menace. “You yourself have been kind enough to remind me of that dozens of times…”

“You promised! You promised you would not seek out an enemy — and you lied! You promised we would have more children — and you lied! You have broken every single promise you have ever made me!”

The heir to the throne stood before her, his face tight with rage, listening as Crispina’s reproaches repeated again and again — though each time with less force. Her voice seemed to falter more with every accusation, her lips trembling as if they could no longer bear the weight of her words, her eyes impossibly bright…

But Commodus did not stop accusing her with his stare.

He could not believe what she was doing to him.

“Tell me something, wife,” Commodus whispered, his voice a controlled murmur. “Do you so desperately wish every soul in this palace — all of Rome, if you could — to know that even my own wife does not respect me?”

A fleeting, joyless laugh escaped Crispina’s lips.

“Do you so desperately wish all of Rome to know that you no longer love me?”

Something broke in her voice as she hurled that final question at him, as though it were too dreadful to be spoken aloud. Commodus saw her brown eyes fill with tears before she turned away from him, trying to stifle a strangled sob.

He was still furious with her, yet that last accusation shook him, making him forget — for a moment — what had happened before the senators. He watched as Crispina ran her hands along her arms on the other side of the chamber, as if searching for some refuge from her own words. Commodus was still trying to process them when his steps carried him toward her once more.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice lower now, almost confidential.

“I do not wish to argue with you any longer, Commodus,” she warned, shaking her head. “I cannot take it anymore…”

“No, you cannot do that,” the young man cut her off at once, seized again by renewed anger. “I am the one who cannot take it anymore, Crispina — I! Do you not see? You kept all my secrets when we were children, and now you cannot see the truth? All my life, I have heard whispers and murmurs in the shadows wherever I went. I have endured every kind of slander, Crispina — but none like the one you have just spoken. Many have accused me of crimes I did not commit. Do you not become one of them now.”

Crispina turned her face toward him, exhaustion etched into her features — and sorrow clouding her brown eyes.

A sorrow that pierced Commodus like the cruellest of daggers.

“What are you talking about, Commodus?”

“What you accuse me of, wife,” he said fiercely. “It has never happened.”

Though Crispina’s expression softened slightly as the moments passed, there was still a trace of disbelief in her eyes that continued to grate on him. There was something Commodus despised in himself — how quickly his own weakness, the one he tried to suppress with all that he was, rose to the surface once his anger began to fade.

His father had always commanded him never to show weakness in the face of misfortune, to conceal whatever he felt within for the sake of appearing strong and stoic. Once again, he was failing in that purpose — and though he could almost feel his father’s look of disappointment rising within his mind, nothing had ever hurt him as much as the sight of Crispina’s sad eyes, and the realization that he was losing her.

That perhaps he had already lost her — just when he needed her most.

He could not allow that.

“Crispina,” Commodus continued, forcing himself to speak past the tight knot in his throat and summoning what remained of his anger to keep his voice steady. “A scene like the one today—before the senators, before Lucilla and Lucius—must never happen again. You also made a vow before the priest on the day of our wedding, with the gods as our witnesses: you swore to love and honor me above all things until the end of our story. Now that I have a duty to fulfill toward my father and toward Rome, I need you to love me more fiercely than ever… even if it is nothing more than a façade.”

The young woman’s lips parted, but no sound came. Whatever words she might have said dissolved under the weight of his gaze. Commodus could see the confusion still flickering in those warm, luminous brown eyes.

“Have you nothing to say?” he demanded, breaking the silence between them.

“Commodus,” Crispina spoke at last, turning fully toward him. “There is something I must tell you, and it is important that you listen—because in every word I speak there lies nothing but the most absolute truth.”

The young heir swallowed hard but said nothing, feeling his muscles tense as if bracing for a blow. He thought he already knew what she would say—her defiance before the others had spoken louder than a thousand words. How could she betray him like this, now, when he was on the brink of everything he had ever wanted?

Crispina drew a slow breath, letting her gaze wander across the room they shared before returning to his.

“The gods—you know this well—have tested my strength in ways I could never have imagined when I was still a child in faraway Volceii,” she began softly. “First with my brother, and then with our children…”

Her voice faltered, her eyes filling again with tears, but she pressed on.

“I have lived in terror these past months,” she confessed. “I know the gods turn a deaf ear to my prayers, no matter how desperately I utter them. I needed to feel safe, and so I turned to the old tales I once loved as a girl. I have spent long hours alone in reading, Commodus—reading every myth I already knew and discovering new ones—and in each of them I found the very thing I feared most. Eros and Psyche, Pyramus and Thisbe, Paris and Helen, Achilles and Patroclus, Orpheus and Eurydice…” Her voice broke again as she named the last two of them. “In none of their loves, nor in the nameless passions that drove them, have I found even a fragment of what you mean to me.”

Her words silenced him completely—but this time for very different reasons. This was not what he had expected to hear, and once again Crispina needed neither shield nor sword to leave him defenseless. He watched the fleeting, sorrowful smile that curved her lips as she shook her head to herself.

“The farther you drifted from me, the more I sought comfort in those stories,” she continued. “But those refuges were filled with thorns—they only wounded me more deeply by reminding me of the happiness I had lost…”

“Crispina…” Commodus murmured, unsure what to say.

“And now you say I have accused you unjustly, that you have never stopped loving me,” Crispina interrupted, stepping toward him, her eyes flashing with renewed fury. “Do not play with me, husband. Long ago I stopped waiting by the rose bushes after your training, just as I stopped fighting sleep in our bed waiting for you to come to me. You do not even touch me anymore. I was surprised—truly surprised—when you kissed me with such ferocity the other night, before recoiling from me in disgust…”

“Crispina…”

“If, after everything I have said, you still have the audacity to claim you love me,” she cried, standing a breath away from him, her voice rising, “then tell me—why? Why do you do this to me? Do you enjoy tormenting me?”

“Crispina, I will not trade your life for more dead children!” Commodus shouted, louder than her.

He could not have stopped her even if he had tried. She struck him across the face—once, then again—each slap sharp and echoing in the chamber.

“Do you not dare speak of them that way,” she warned, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glassy with tears. “They are our children, our little ones…”

“And I never thought such happiness was possible until I saw you lying on that bed, Crispina,” he retorted instantly, cutting her off. “So pale, like a statue of marble, so cold, like the snow you long to see—and everyone around me already mourning you, ready to bury you beside our son. Do not expect me to endure that again, Crispina. It is something I cannot bear.”

The young woman’s face contorted with a pain deeper than any wound of the flesh, her bright brown eyes glistening with tears unshed under the soft glow of the oil lamps.

“I can bear anything, Commodus,” she said at last, her voice trembling but steady. “I can survive anything… except losing you. That would kill me.”

The young heir bit the inside of his cheek fiercely, but it was useless—he could feel his eyes growing glassy as his wife’s words reached him, their powerful truth seeping slowly into the cracks of the walls he had forced himself to build between them to keep her safe. His father’s warnings echoed in his mind, urging him once more to remain stoic and impassive, but he could not—not when that warm, bright sensation, like sunlight itself, was taking hold of him in her presence.

The sensation of knowing, beyond all doubt, that he was loved—above everyone and everything.

“At last we understand each other, wife,” murmured Commodus, his voice trembling slightly as it danced with the tears threatening to fill his green eyes. “Your greatest fear is also mine.”

A weak sob escaped Crispina’s lips before she closed the few steps between them and threw herself into his arms, nestling against his chest like one seeking shelter from a storm. Commodus’ arms wrapped around her instantly, before he even realized it. He drew her close until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began, desperate to share with her that warm, overwhelming feeling of home that only she had ever awakened in him.

Not his father, nor even Lucilla.

Crispina.

His wife.

Commodus cursed his clumsiness and poor judgment as he kissed the golden hair of the young woman with reverence. All he had ever wanted was to keep her safe, to ensure she was always by his side—and for that very reason, he had almost lost her. He had allowed himself to be led by fear and insecurity, by those dark whispers inside his head that told him Crispina would not miss him, that she did not love him as deeply as he loved her.

Never had he been so grateful to be wrong.

“My life, my love…” murmured Crispina against his chest, her voice still breaking as tears traced her cheeks. “I was terrified at the thought that you might no longer love me…”

“How could I not?” replied Commodus, pressing another kiss to her golden hair. “You—what you feel for me—is the only truth I have ever known.”

A brief laugh slipped through Crispina’s tears, and she fell silent for a few moments before speaking again.

“What we have is the greatest of treasures,” she whispered, lifting her face toward him and cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that made him shiver. “I know how marriages work, Commodus—agreements between old men, two strangers, and a life ahead to endure. But you… Commodus, you and I love each other. Somehow, I think we always have. It is something that was never demanded of us, and yet, it happened. Is that not a wonder? We have been happy together, and after four years, I still cannot believe my fortune in knowing you are mine.”

“Crispina,” he breathed, testing the softness of her hair as though for the first time. “I have been a fool.”

He hated himself the moment the words left his mouth, feeling once again that he had failed in what Marcus Aurelius had always required of him with quiet disappointment: composure, Commodus—never let them see what you truly feel. Yet it did not seem a failure in Crispina’s eyes. She saw him as he was, with his light and his darkness, and asked nothing more of him than what he already was.

And she loved him for it.

That familiar self-loathing began to fade, weakened under the warmth of Crispina’s brown eyes and gentle hands.

“Scholars must err if they are to gain the wisdom that makes them immortal,” Crispina replied, tracing the outline of her husband’s lips with her fingertips. “What we have is extraordinary—we must tend it, we must protect it.”

Commodus managed a nod as he gazed into her soft brown eyes, his fingers tangling idly in her golden curls. This beautiful, strong young woman—compassionate, intelligent, unafraid to defy him—was his wife. She would stand by his side through the best and worst of his life, and the thought filled him with an immense, soothing relief.

She would always love him.

He would never be alone.

“Crispina,” he murmured, “I do not know what to say.”

“You do not need to say anything more.”

How did she do it? How was it possible for her to reach the deepest corners of his soul—those whose existence he hadn’t even known until she arrived? His hand moved, brushing Crispina’s chin as though for the first time, rediscovering her after so much distance. His fingers traced the soft outline of her cheeks, lingering on the smoothness of her skin and the honest warmth of her brown eyes.

He knew what he wanted to do, but the memory of the last time he had kissed her haunted him: it had been so rough, so full of anger at his own inability to resist her. Crispina covered his hand with her own, holding it against her cheek as she leaned closer, her nose brushing his with delicate intimacy, their breaths mingling for an instant. Commodus bent toward her, kissing her lips with a hesitance that made him, for a fleeting moment, feel ashamed—like an inexperienced youth, not a man who had known the taste of other lips, the touch of other skin, the warmth of other embraces.

But none like Crispina’s.

That young woman from Volceii, he now knew with utter certainty, was the thing he had loved most in his life.

He felt her hands draw him gently toward her, accepting the kiss he was not sure he deserved. The young man encircled his wife’s waist, deepening the kiss, which grew tenderer and more intoxicating with every heartbeat. Crispina sighed against his lips, returning the kiss with devotion, letting her hands drift slowly beneath the folds of his imperial tunic.

“Crispina…” Commodus gasped, breathless—her name now a prayer on his lips.

Those eyes again.

Those beautiful brown eyes.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Crispina whispered.

Commodus cupped her cheek, caressing her as if she might shatter at any moment.

“Every night,” he said solemnly, the weight of a vow in his voice. “All nights.”

A tremulous smile illuminated Crispina’s face. Commodus was still lost in her when she raised her hands carefully to her hair, feeling for the pins and the veil that crowned it. He held his breath as she began to free herself—one by one, the pins fell, and the golden waves cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. The blue silk of her veil slipped from her hair, gliding down until it lay forgotten on the floor.

He let his fingers sink into that waterfall of gold that smelled faintly of roses, recognizing her, assuring himself that she was real, letting each touch bring back a memory of their shared life.

“My Crispina,” Commodus murmured before kissing her again.

He drew her close, knowing he would die if he did not—this time without fear. He kissed her with hunger, with reverence, with every emotion that burned inside his heart, yet with a tenderness that deepened as the kiss slowed and grew more profound. Crispina’s hands only left his dark curls to wander once more beneath his tunic, stealing his breath, tracing his fevered skin as she undid the last barrier between them.

Commodus’ fingers slid over Crispina’s shoulders, pushing the light blue fabric down her arms, revealing the pale skin that glowed in exquisite contrast to her golden hair under the lamplight. He buried his face against her neck, breathing in the scent of roses, freeing her from the rest of her garment even as he covered her throat with slow kisses that trailed toward the hollow of her collarbone. A fresh wave of desire surged through him at the sound of her soft gasp, her fingers tangling once more in his dark curls.

She guided him toward the bed as their breaths mingled again in another kiss, oblivious to everything beyond the walls of their chamber. He had stood bare before her many times, yet never like this—lost in every curve traced by his fingers, in the way her body trembled beneath his touch, in the way she whispered his name between sighs. He did not want the night to end, did not want to be parted from her side. He wanted eternity exactly as it was now—immersed in her, worshipping every inch of her being.

The shadow of Vindobona reached him for a moment, and his green eyes finally brimmed with the tears he had fought so hard to contain that night. He had just gotten Crispina back—and soon he would have to leave her, to journey far away in search of a father’s approval that had always been denied him. The tears slid hot down his cheeks until they soaked into the soft skin of her neck.

“Commodus…” she breathed, her voice trembling.

He shook his head against her neck at once; he did not want anything to spoil that moment, that night. Crispina’s gentle touch lifted his face until their eyes met, and his heart trembled at the purity in her gaze—a look that neither judged him nor made him feel ashamed. She caressed his cheeks tenderly, wiping away the traces of his tears before pressing a long kiss to his forehead.

“Stay with me,” Crispina whispered before kissing his lips again, the kiss broken only by a soft sigh. “Only with me.”

She moaned softly and arched her back as her husband entered her in a gesture full of longing. Commodus held her face in his hands, looking into her eyes as he moved within her—if he had to depart for Vindobona, he wanted to etch every instant of that night into the deepest part of his memory. Their lips met again and again, just as their bodies did, in fragile kisses, in ragged breaths, in unspoken promises.

Their bodies moved together in a slow dance in the dimness of their chamber, mending with kisses and caresses all that they had lost during their time apart. He heard Crispina whisper his name in supplication, clutching his shoulders tighter, and he too sought refuge in her arms, afraid that the wave of pleasure beginning to overtake him might somehow tear her away. A muffled cry shared between their lips made their movements slow, their breathing synchronize, their hearts settle.

Without leaving the shelter he had found in her body, Commodus nestled against Crispina’s chest, letting her arms encircle him. He did not want to let her go—and now he knew he did not have to.

“You could never imagine how much I love you,” he confessed against her skin, exhausted yet unwilling to fall asleep—not when they still had the rest of the night ahead. “I would lose my mind if I ever lost you; no power in Rome could contain me.”

“Look at me,” Crispina said softly, guiding his face to hers. “You will not lose me—not now, not ever. That is something I can promise you, and I do it now, with all that I am on my own and all that I am when I am with you.”

The young man brushed her cheek with his fingertips, marveling at the faint blush that still warmed her freckles, making her even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible. He lowered his face to hers, kissing her with a slowness that vanished when she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, losing themselves again in a world where only the two of them existed.

A world they both had to abandon with the coming of dawn.

He had to admit he had underestimated the palace prefect’s efficiency, for scarcely had the sun begun to rise when, still tangled in the linen sheets and lost in Crispina’s eyes, a slave announced that everything was prepared for Lucilla and him, along with Senators Gaius and Falco, to depart for Vindobona by midday. His wife had instinctively nestled against him then, an expression of sorrow and fear crossing her face at the thought of another separation.

One that Commodus had assured her would not be final.

There would be no long months of silence, no uncertainty about his fate.

No messengers bearing grim tidings from the empire’s frontier.

She would not lose him as she had lost Quintius.

Crispina had taken a deep breath then and nodded, closing her eyes beneath the touch of his lips as he kissed her forehead in a long, solemn gesture meant to seal his promise.

And there they stood now, at the foot of the splendid marble staircase that led up to the imperial palace, where the carriage meant to take Lucilla and him to meet Marcus Aurelius awaited, while the senators and young Lucius wished them a safe journey and a swift return.

Lucilla, already draped in her most luxurious furs to face the winter of Vindobona, covered her son’s face with kisses, making him promise to be good in her absence and to obey his aunt Crispina in all things.

The young woman stood nearby, a purple mantle over her white tunic —a symbol that the power of Rome now rested upon her shoulders in the absence of the rest of the imperial family. She appeared composed, yet her eyes revealed to Commodus how difficult it was for her to see him leave. Her hands were clasped before her, as if drawing courage from the gesture, and to any onlooker, she seemed the very image of poise. Commodus felt a pang of admiration and pride that words could not express.

Though they had already said their private farewells in their chambers, and though he stood now at the carriage steps waiting for Lucilla to join him, Commodus turned back. His light steps carried him once more toward Crispina —a gesture she welcomed with a faint, knowing smile.

“You seem intent on making me miss you even before you have gone,” she murmured, fastening the furs more securely over his shoulders. “Please, be careful.”

“I recall a moment much like this one, wife,” Commodus said, allowing her to fuss over him. “A time when you, too, stood at the foot of marble steps, waiting for my arrival.”

A soft smile curved Crispina’s lips; her gaze met his, full of quiet complicity.

“Yes, I remember it well.”

“Then you were holding a magnificent bouquet of roses in your hands,” he said. “And now that I depart—will I receive no such gift?”

“The roses were meant to welcome you home, husband.”

“And what shall I have to remember you by on the road?”

She did not answer at once. Instead, her eyes searched his, lost in thought. For a moment, Commodus feared he had placed her in an awkward position —especially before the gathered senators— but at last, Crispina lifted a hand and gently brushed his cheek.

“Take this,” she whispered.

Before he could ask what she meant, Crispina kissed him.

Even through the warmth and softness of her lips, Commodus sensed the subtle stir among the senators, the averted gazes born of modesty. Public displays of affection were rare in Rome, rarer still among the nobility. Crispina had broken decorum —and cared not in the least. A surge of pride and desire rose in Commodus’ chest, and he found he could not let the gesture end there.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss until he caught the sound of the senators’ murmurs and little Lucius’ delighted giggle.

When they finally parted, Crispina ran her fingers through his dark curls, untroubled by the ripple their defiance had caused.

“Come home,” she said, her gaze fixed on his. “Come back to me.”

Commodus took her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, sealing the promise without the need for words. Then, at last, he turned to Lucius, brushed the boy’s cheek affectionately, and made his way toward Lucilla, who stood waiting at the carriage door with the rest of their retinue.

As he climbed the small steps, he looked back one final time. The senators, dressed in their finest togas, bowed deeply, offering prayers to the gods for a safe journey and a swift return. Crispina stood with Lucius’ hand in hers, comforting the child with a tender smile before turning her gaze once more toward him.

She did not look away—not even when the carriage doors closed and the sound of hooves and wheels echoed over the stone road. Lucilla’s clever remarks about the scene drifted to his ears, words that might have amused him on another day. But all Commodus could think of was the certainty that had taken root in his heart as he watched Crispina defy custom, standing strong in his absence and showing the world she was his ally.

She was going to be a magnificent empress.