locutus-sum

Marcus smiled at Horatia's compliment. It was well a sign of her respect and love, even though she had no authority to comment on matters political. Naturally, he would excel at the position. Marcus' ability to command, and to command respect, was never in question, especially not in his own mind. His confidence in other matters, however, was not as strong. The validation of Horatia's confidence in him pleased him more than he'd ever admit to himself. The look on his eldest daughter's face as he mentioned his attempts to contact her younger sibling gave him a start. He had no idea Livia's unresponsiveness had been equal in her correspondence with Horatia to that with him. They had always been so close as girls; many an hour he'd spent watching them skipping around in the garden from the doorway of his study, until they noticed him, collapsed into a fit of giggles and scampered off to another corner of the house. He hadn't been surprised when his youngest had stopped writing frequently. After all, she was living in a peaceful idyll miles out from the drama and heat of the city with a new husband. She was probably too busy having fun to think very often of her old father. But Horatia had with her a sisterly bond, something that even the carefree Livia, wrapped up in her own head and life, bless her, would not fail to maintain. Something about Horatia's admission that they'd fallen out of contact somewhat disturbed Marcus more than he'd care to admit. Unconsciously, he gripped onto Horatia's wrist, hard, as if afraid she'd slip away too. He looked across the garden, at the floor, at his knees, then finally at Horatia. "My dear, I didn't know... well, she's probably too busy living her own life," he said with a thin laugh. "She's... grown up. I can't expect her to write every day, can I? Well, I shall keep writing, hopefully I'll get through to her eventually. I'm sure there's nothing... well, of course there isn't anything wrong. You know how Livia is." @Sara

The man's eyes were kindly and full of genuine concern that made her feel a touch more at ease. She inhaled deeply, trying to rein in her panic. His hands were gentle as he pushed hers away. "What's your name? Are you injured?" "My... oh. Name. Yes. I'm... Antheia. I just started as Claudia Caesaris' tutor," she managed, scrabbling to replace the coins in her sweaty palm into the leather pouch round her neck. "And no, I think I'm ok, thanks," she said, trying and failing to hide the grimace on her face as a jolt of pain shot through her twisted ankle. "Just in shock, I think. He was... well, I don't even think he knew how old he was. Over eighty, I'm certain. His knees are all seized up, too. Those bandits might have..." She suddenly became aware of her use of the past tense, an unconscious acknowledgement of what she knew to be true - no bandit would have bothered holding a doddery old fellow like Aristo captive once they realised how frail he was. Right now, he was probably lying battered in some muck-filled back alley ringing with the lurid laughs of drunken lowlifes, the cobbles digging into his ribcage as he tried desperately to draw breath into lungs no longer fit to hold air. @Chevi

Well, I am not a very religious man, if I am honest, but I would say Juno, goddess of Rome herself, is the deity whom I favour. I prefer, however, to sacrifice for the protection of the Lares, and to appeal to the genii of those we have lost. Those immortal spirits with a personal connection are the most powerful. If you could meet one historical figure, who would it be?

"There are robbers in there?" The man suddenly tensed up, she could see it. In all her melodramatic ramblings, she'd made it seem like the danger was still present. "Oh! No, not anymore. They've... been and gone," she clarified, a little more loudly than she'd have liked. Get a grip, Antheia. "My friend's been robbed, his scrolls are all in tatters, and he... oh, well, he's gone!" She fished around in her thoughts for any possible idea of where he could have gone. The baths? No, he preferred to wash in the basin. The forum? He hadn't bought any books in years, and he only ate the bread and cheese she brought round for him. No, Aristo had been gone. How long till the ransom note arrived? And would he survive long enough to be a useful hostage? Realising she was staring into the distance, Antheia wiped her eyes aggressively and turned back to the man with an apologetic smile and a hasty, "Don't worry, you... you carry on. Sorry again about your scroll. It's all muddy. Here," - she reached down under her chiton for the money purse that hung there, close to her chest for protection - "how much did it cost? I'm afraid I only have... two denarii." She held out the coins in her shaking palm. They bore the head of Quintus Caesar - she'd been saving them up a long time. Fixing the man with a mortified gaze, she hoped the apology in her eyes would make up the rest of the cost. @Chevi

As soon as she'd recovered her balance, Antheia spun round to face her rescuer. In doing so, she again lost her footing, ending up with her back against the front of the villa, her hands gripping the bare brickwork for balance. She noticed the scrolls rolling (and unrolling) across the street at that moment, and with a cry of "oh, let me!" threw herself to her knees, bending to hide her burning cheeks, scrabbling at the bits of parchment and shoving them back into the surprised man's arms. As she was crouching to pick up one book, the unfurled edge of which had cascaded off the pavement and was currently dangling into the muck of the main street, the lettering caught her eye. Greek. Beautifully arranged rows of letters, written with care, squirming to work around the large inkblot in the centre of the scroll - so much work, and now the thing was not fit for sale. But the text was still legible, the battle motif around the border was artfully executed, and the calligraphy itself was of a standard she had rarely seen even in her old master's well-stocked library. She could see the brown, stubble-flecked lips of Aristo, with its snaking wrinkles spreading like a river delta, reading out those same words as soon as her eye skimmed across them. Homer's Iliad. She lifted the beautiful scroll into her arms as if there were an infant swaddled inside, raising her eyes to the man's face as she registered he'd said something. "Oh, no. It was my fault. I've just... it was a shock, and I didn't look where I was going," she said shakily, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. For a moment, the pair of them just stared at each other. Antheia blinked and shoved the scroll towards the stranger. "Here. I'm so sorry. It's a beautiful... beautiful book. I'm sorry if I got it dirty. It's just... some thugs must have been in to my friend's house and torn the place to pieces. I wasn't expecting..." @Chevi

Marcus’ agitated hands were now still and his eyes were twinkling as Horatia spoke. “Ha-ha! Yes. By Jove, I’d forgotten all about that! How fortuitous in the long run that it all fell through - now you have Aulus, a far better chap than I think Latus could ever have been. And you know you wouldn’t have been too long in finding another husband anyway. On the shelf forever! Preposterous. Your mother did far too good a job with you to let that happen,” he beamed. As she squeezed his hand, Marcus’ stomach felt bottomless, almost collapsing in on itself. Even now, he hadn’t given her away completely. She may not skip into his study anymore like she used to, wriggling onto his lap to look at whatever he was reading, sounding out the words in her bell-like voice before pausing, turning to him and asking him a question, her head tilted slightly to the side. Those days were gone. But here she was, still Horatia, still the girl who, every time he raised the bar for her, would rise to meet it, the girl who would take every word to heart and act upon her papa’s advice to the letter. And he was still the paterfamilias, still able to push her to new heights of success with his guiding hand. “Thank you, my dear. I will drop in on you more often. But be warned: you and the children, and Aulus, of course, are all so precious to me, you’ll hardly be able to keep me out of the house!” he wheezed, his nose wrinkled in mirth. Eventually, Horatia let go of his hand and Marcus gave a few coughs and a sigh as his laugh died down into companionable silence, which Horatia broke after a polite pause with an inquiry into his plans. “Well, it’s difficult to know where to focus one’s attention, in truth,” replied Marcus. “It’s about getting one’s foot in as many doors as possible, building influence in the consilium and with the new Caesar himself. And of course my main concern is with doing as much as I can for Titus and Caplurnia.” He coughed. In truth, he was feeling a bit deprived of any particularly burning fires in which to place his irons, so to speak, though he could smell the smoke of danger in the air still. Feeling useless didn’t agree with Marcus. He shifted uncomfortably, reminded of the listlessness, the depression that had motivated him to visit his daughter in the first place. “As for myself - well. I could aim to make myself legatus Augusti propraetor, and I think I could secure it. But everything that’s dear to me is here in Rome. With Aulus as consul, the children nearly grown up… no. No, my place is in the city. I don’t even think I will go to the villa this year, you know. Although I have been positively showering Livia with letters asking to come and stay for a few days at Tibur.” @Sara

To deny that the conversation had affected him would have been a blatant lie; to admit to it would be to acknowledge his own vulnerability. Marcus made these calculations in the subconscious part of his mind beneath the veil of self-deception he had covered it over with, and came to the decision that the best course of action would be to ignore Aulus' apology and carry on. As talked turned to Horatia, Marcus regained a bit of his composure, even managing a fond smile. "Hm!" he exclaimed in vehement agreement through his mouthful of wine, gulping it down quickly and choking slightly as he replanted the empty goblet firmly on the tabletop. "My dear boy, I am so very glad I could find her a husband who appreciates her as much as I do. She's the perfect woman for a future consul of Rome: a loyal wife, dutiful mother and a clever shrew at that!" He chuckled warmly at the thought of his daughter and her books. "Don't underestimate the value of a good woman like that." By now he had finished off two goblets of undiluted wine, and he could feel a slight heat rising in his cheeks, his nose wrinkling in silent laughter that he was at a loss to control, or perhaps was fed up of controlling. "Do you know, a lot of people think that love matches are a terrible, terrible idea," he continued, whacking the table on each 'terrible', "terrible, they say. But I… ah, you there! Yes, you. Some more of this fine stuff you served us before, whatever it was - sorry, Aulus, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Terrible. But I knew, my boy - I KNEW - that I should allow it. Yes, I assure you, hardly a doubt crossed my mind. It's so much easier, you understand, when your offspring has good taste. My youngest, you know, married a fellow of whom I did not approve, to be… hm, discreet… but I… well. It was a mistake. Anyway, the poor fellow's snuffed it by now, and I married her off to good old Secundus - sterling sort of chap, isn't he? Yes! - but the foolish child, bless her soul, didn't really want to. She's an absolute darling, Livia - I do love dear Horatia, but she can at times be a bit… well. I'm sure you know. Yes, but my Livilliola doesn't have the… the judgement to choose by herself." This little monologue was tiring him out, he realised, lapsing into silence and looking steadily back at Aulus as if to say: come on, young man. The burden of the discussion is now yours to shoulder. Well? @Sharpie

Oh, you fool! You silly, old, emotional fool! A matter of the plebs, a matter of funding, a matter of pleasing the people, that was all this was. And here you are, blathering on about high-falutin ideals, dictators, her… What must this young man think of you? That you've drifted off in the middle of your lifelong vigil over Rome, waking up every now and then to shout like Cassandra about doom, destruction and the fall of the old ways then snoozing through the boring bits? What Aulus had said made perfect sense. Actually, Marcus agreed completely. After all, was it not the wheel of violent plebeian revolution which rolled over his life, trampling his home in its unrelenting rush? Was it not its tracks which ran across that ivory-white form in huge red bruises, sending that delicate spirit flapping away on dove's wings to take refuge from mortal pain in Elysium? Marcus bit violently down on his lower lip, glaring at the table. His thumb began to run feveredly over his signet ring, until he employed his senatorial self-discipline to restrain himself, placing his palms flat on the table and raising his eyes to reply to Aulus' condolences. "Thank you. I know you are." He spoke ever so softly, the harsh edges weathered off his tone by the abrasive winds of reason. "You're a dear boy, Aule Calpurni. And she's lucky to have you. Horatia, I mean. And Rome."

Antheia hastily shut her half-open mouth and gave a laugh which cracked and petered out. "Oh, it's just a bruise." The pulses of pain coming from her shoulder suggested there was nothing 'just' about this bruise - glancing at it, she could see the blood seeping under the top layer of her skin like a spot of undiluted wine creeping outwards on a sheet of papyrus - but it was, after all, just a bruise. No bones broken. "Don't… don't worry about it." She got the horrible feeling the woman was faintly amused, so she inhaled, re-established her usually unshakeable mask of equilibrium with its painted-on polite smile and thought of something to say. "I didn't know you practised your…" she flapped a hand limply in the general direction of the pole-arm, "fighty… routines here. I, uh, I'm new here. As you know. Because you haven't seen me around before. Obviously. I'm, uh, Antheia. The Domina's new tutor." Now she was just rambling. What was up with her? @Atrice

"I see, thank you." Volusa hung by the door, letting Antheia get used to the surroundings. She knew it was going to be impressive, but being here was something else. The fresco work on the walls, all done in the brightest pigments, invited the eye to glide along its sinuous patterns, to peer at every detail of the mythological and historical scenes depicted there. The anteroom Volusa had shown her, the one in which she was supposed to sleep, was less ornate by far, but the floor space and the presence of paint on the walls was still far superior to the dingy cubby hole she had called home with her previous family. She noticed that the vacant bed, presumably meant for her, was nestled in an alcove, giving her a bit more of her own space that that alloted to the other girls. Had the domina herself specified that she should have it, or was it thanks to the generosity of the other slaves? Either way, it was comforting to know she had friends somewhere, although she did feel a wave of guilt at this unearned privilege. Antheia smiled quickly at Volusa then slunk over to the bunk, lowering the leather bundle containing her few earthly belongings slowly onto the cot. For once, Antheia judged it prudent to let a bit of her true emotion show through as she sank down onto her new bunk, running her hands over the cool linen blanket. "Well, this is lovely," she said genuinely. "Um, is there anywhere secure I can keep my peculia?"

Marcus felt a little… well, irked for a moment, but it passed. He was a reasonable man, and Aulus had argued his point well. So he listened tacitly to what his son-in-law had to say, nodding slightly as he spoke. When he had finished, Marcus looked down at his interlaced fingers, sighed for a moment, then began his reply. “My boy, I can see we both want the same thing - peace for Rome. I would never doubt that for a second, and that is why my opinion of you is unwaveringly high. But you see,” Marcus broke off, smiled and laid a hand gently on Aulus’ arm, “your desire to be merciful has made you forget what happened. We may have had a decade of peace, but that doesn't mean that our peace is stable in any way. Even now, you say that it was not the fault of those who fought against Caesar that they chose this path. Those were bleak times, when Roman turned against Roman. But they did more than that. Roman turned against Rome herself, and in doing so, they turned from inimicus to hostis. This was not a simple race between the purples and the greens, Aulus, where men are distinguishable only by the colour of their tunic. This was the clashing of order and anarchy in hand-to-hand combat. If these are indeed young men of the type who might be tempted into thuggery, then better it be in the backstreets of the Subura than in the Senate. Don't let the formality fool you, my boy. That noble house is every bit as brutal, and a criminal in a purple-edged toga is still a criminal. In the city, they can cut a few coin purses. In the Senate, they have the power to spread disorder and moral degradation throughout the Empire. I saw first hand the consequences of tolerance towards such characters, I lost my wife, Horatia lost her mother." He looked away, blinking rapidly, then looked back up, a sad smile in his eyes. "But you're young, of course. You want the best for everyone, I know. But life, life, Aulus, doesn't work that way." He squeezed his arm once more. "You're a good man. I'm sure you will understand me."

Finally a topic Marcus could happily discuss for hours. He saw so few people outside of the Senate these days, and as clever as Horatia was, she wasn't... well, she wasn't a politician, just a politician's wife. He'd be glad to have a proper chat about things, get some of his stewing angst off his chest. Marcus paused, considering his answer, then gave himself a mental rap over the knuckles. No. You promised yourself to always speak your mind. Anyway, Aulus is a decent young chap. He probably agrees with you. Marcus leant forward, tilting his chin downward slightly and looking up with cool eyes at his son-in-law from under his brows, which now knitted in the middle to show due senatorial concern. "No, I was not able to attend that day - bad cold, I'm afraid - and more's the pity, because if I had, I'd have very much liked to have spoken my mind," he began, not noticing that the volume and urgency of his voice was slowly rising as his eyes grew steadily wider, flashing like a stallion's. "These children have had time enough since the glorious day their fathers' miserable souls descended were claimed by Hades to stew in their reeking pools of resentment, brewing up dissidence, festering in revenge. And now we propose to aid them by compensating for the dishonour and penury rightly brought upon their ignoble families. What we are doing, my dear boy, is giving these men, the remnants of the bilge-water we drained from Rome ten years ago, an extra push up the ladder, so that they too can don the purple and take their place among the ranks of excellent citizens to pollute our numbers and spread their anarchy among our numbers. Now, truly, I respect and love our Caesar, may the Gods protect him, and I have no doubt he was acting from the most benevolent of standpoints, but I believe that through his actions he has endangered the very integrity of the Senate. And it is vital, VITAL, Aulus, you hear me, that the Senate continues to be a body of upstanding citizens able to support and advise Augustus, not a breeding-ground for discontent and insidiousness. I am absolutely INSISTANT upon this point, you see?" The young man had been listening in reverential silence. Good. A nice, well-mannered boy. After a few seconds for added effect, Marcus uncrumpled his brow, smiling slightly but without undermining his earnestness, to signal once again that he expected a response. @Sharpie

The Romans were used to seeing Greeks wearing masks. Antheia's, however, wasn't twisted into the tragic visage of some stock character; in fact, it was the picture of perfect neutrality. Beneath, she could be a vicious Medea, a grieving Persephone, a powerless Helen, or any other figure from myth. But one doesn't often try to look behind the mask, peer through the eyeholes into the actor's soul. The façade presented to them is all the audience sees. So it was with Antheia. Her soul was strictly off limits. There was only one person on this earth (at least, one person she knew the fate of, one person she knew she could go to) who wasn't deceived by this cunning guise. Antheia had left behind the gilt columns and clean air of the Domus Augustorum, at least for a few hours, and had descended to the Subura. Here, slaves were dirty and scowling, citizens forewent the ceremony of a toga in the street, and life seemed real. Here, among all the unrepressed humanity, was her old friend Aristo. As she hopped across the stones connecting the pavement on either side of the street, the anticipation filled Antheia's mind with glorious recollections. When she went through the door, there he'd be, shrivelled like a tree root in his old rocking chair, his hands dry and papery as the scrolls spilling out across his knees, scratching the few tufts of white beard he had left as he mumbled to himself in the beautiful language of Plato and Socrates, punctuated by the odd curse. She'd dash to help tidy up the scrolls, his hands swatting at her in protest to stop fussing as she pulled the blanket back up over his bony legs. After he settled down, he would read to her in Greek, the language of her mind, the language her mother sung to her in, his voice rasping over every 'chi' and 'kappa', lapsing into a wheezing fit every time he'd aspirate a vowel. She'd cry, then, and he'd smile a bit, but he'd keep on reading, because crying would be OK. And then before she left she'd bend over and squeeze his skeletal frame to her, and the fragile breath and papery skin would make her cry again, and he'd just shake his head and say something wise. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the little house their master had given him when he was freed, Antheia felt the squirming in her stomach change suddenly. The physical feelings of excitement and panic were strikingly, horribly similar, and one melted into the other like scalding wax dripping into the wine cup of its inattentive owner. The first thing she saw was the rocking chair, fallen forward on the floor. The entirety of the woven backrest had come undone, and one of the front legs was missing. Underneath it lay a scroll, completely unrolled. It was a beautifully written thing, bearing the name of Aristotle in huge letters. And it was torn clean apart through the middle. Not a single piece of wooden furniture seemed to have survived the raid untouched. Sherds of glass and pottery were strewn over the floor along with their former contents, huge pools of watery wine, their edges creeping outwards as she watched, grapes trampled and burst by sandal-studs. The tiny strongbox which she knew Aristo kept under the bed was gone, too, and so, she quickly realised, was Aristo. The stubborn old fool would never leave the house, particularly not in a raid. She had a feeling he'd rather try and whack any thieving scamps to death with the end of a scroll than let them take his peculia, hard earned cash accumulated by hours of honourable service. As Antheia backed out into the street, she failed to notice the raised doorstep. A misplaced foot sent her tumbling over backwards. Thankfully, though, somebody caught her. Turning her eyes upwards, she saw a bronzed, bearded face and a pair of eyes wide with surprise. @Chevi enter Tranquillus!

All the other slaves had been milling about in chaos before, but now they seemed to be gravitating towards one corridor. For the first time, the invisible defensive barrier of non-recognition seemed to fall away from their eyes and they laid down their arms, marking the dinnertime armistice in the battle to keep the Imperial household running smoothly. Not wanting to be left behind, Antheia swung her legs off her wooden crib and hurried to follow the flock. While her mind was focused on working out what was going on, Antheia's already muddled recollections of the unfamiliar passages of the slave's quarters slipped away: rounding a corner, she clean forgot that this was where she had nearly been decapitated by a pole-arm when Volusa had brought her here earlier that day. The other slaves hung left by force of habit, and Antheia, seeing the gap in the crowd as an opportunity to get ahead in the queue, decided to hang right. If Fate was watching from above, she must have been splitting her sides at the cruel inevitably of her handiwork. Smack! The pole-arm collided with her shoulder, knocking Antheia sideways into a ratty-looking slave who gave her an evil glare. Muttering hasty apologies, Antheia spun to accost - or at least look at (she wasn't really one to reprimand) - whoever was responsible for the rapidly swelling bruise on her arm. The first thing she noticed about the woman was that she was tall, taller than a lot of men she knew. She didn't look Mediterranean, with blonde hair drawn up messily in braids on her head. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were weapons in themselves, sharpened by being lined with kohl. Antheia realised she was gawping. @Atrice

Now he was indoors and out of the heat and bustle of the streets, Marcus was feeling a little perkier. He took a tentative sip of the wine the proprietor had served him - hm, undiluted, and not that bad. He raised his eyebrows at Aulus in pleasant surprise, tilting his head back to take a large gulp of the stuff. His son-in-law smiled politely, leant forward, and began the conversation with a general inquiry as to the state of things. What to tell him? In his personal life, such as it was, everything was fine. His children happily married. His grandchildren growing up nicely. He himself, of course, was falling to pieces, but then that was nothing new. Public affairs filled the hole in his domestic life. "Do you know, I think things are looking up! So few troublemakers about these days, thanks to Caesar, that I've actually taken up legal work again. Legal work! I tell you, it's been nigh on two lustra since I last spoke in a court of law," grinned Marcus, leaning forward confidentially. That he was enjoying himself wasn't entirely a lie - he did fancy himself as a pretty decent lawyer, and something about the composition of a speech, the rapt attention of the spectators, appealed to his sense of service, or his ego, one of the two. And they took up his time, gave him fewer hours to spend alone with his awful thoughts. Less time to feel. Marcus grappled to think of something else to say. His whole life was politics, and politics was sleepier right now than Livia's little villa in Tibur. He traced the grain of the table with his fingertips, swilled the wine around his mouth, interlaced his fingers and fiddled with his signet ring. Stop it, Marcus. Pull yourself together. Suddenly feeling a touch vulnerable, Marcus let his response hang, fixing Aulus with his imperious gaze, softened by a friendly sparkle, to let him know it was his turn to speak. @Sharpie

"Three years?" Marcus' surprise was genuine. Silly old man. The years really had run away from him. Three years since he gave her away to Secundus? “Well, yes. Tempus fugit, eh?” Something about Livia’s overly-wide smile and childish joke was a comfort he didn’t know he needed. The poor girl had been devastated after her first husband died, walking around with her shoulders hunched and her eyes downcast like a captive in a triumphal procession, mocked and derided by the cruel Fates hanging over her beloved with an empty distaff. At first, Marcus had been slightly worried that his cunning little scheme to marry her off again to distract her hadn’t worked. But Time, it seems, made good on its promise and had brought his Livilliola back to him. Her eyes didn’t have that same sparkle, though, but as she herself reminded him, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. No, it had worked. She was now a contented Roman matron with a respectable husband. Perhaps, with the gods’ blessing, she would soon also be a mother, and all his fears of her infertility would settle. He smiled slightly embarrassedly at his daughter and popped a grape into his mouth. Yes, having children might teach her to take a leaf out of Horatia’s book. Just then, he felt his stomach turn. Perhaps he’d just eaten a sour grape, or perhaps… no. He’d done the right thing. Nothing he could do could change Livia’s fundamental nature. Surely he couldn’t extinguish her spark with one clumsy footfall? Marcus squashed down his sudden rising feeling of panic. He turned his attention back to what Livia was saying. Marcus smiled a little to himself as she proposed a toast to the new Caesar. He doubted whether she actually cared a whit who held imperium. Politics didn’t figure in the life of a young woman like his Livia - that was a game for men, and of course, Horatia, who was the type of woman who liked to concern herself with everything, poor girl. But his youngest wasn’t that sort - worrying about what went on inside the palace walls didn’t suit her carefree demeanour; she was still filled with girlish charm, dear thing. It was for this very reason that Marcus, though he knew in his heart of hearts her asking about the new Caesar was a deliberate attempt to appeal to his sense of authority and self-worth, was willing to let her flatter him. "Aha, well, my dear, since you ask, yes. A very agreeable young man, I do say. He seems to be taking my advances of friendship and counsel very well. He evidently appreciates my wisdom and experience, as he should. With Horatia's Aulus as consul and Titus as Caesar, I think Rome could be making her first steps into a new golden age." At least, that's how things seemed to be going. Marcus wasn't the sort to listen to irrational nagging feelings, let alone confess them to anyone else. "Yes, I really do," he added, nodding with conviction as he picked up a nice piece of cheese he'd been eyeing up. "But my dear, don't let me bore you with political tripe. News from Rome, you wanted, yes?" Oh, there were plenty of saucy details Marcus could relate, the type of tidbits Livia really relished in her childish love for scandal. He could feel her lean forward a fraction in anticipation. But he wasn't a gossip. "Well, Horatia is well. Not much of a smiler, but then she never was as chirpy as you, now, was she?" Marcus reached up to pinch her cheek. "Her little ones are doing well. Young Titus is quite ready to don his toga virilis soon. And Calpurnia…" Marcus looked at his knees for a second, trying to express in a befittingly senatorial manner what he had gleaned from Horatia's carefully chosen words, "Calpurnia is becoming a woman. Oh, it is a lovely feeling to see one's grandchildren grow up, I tell you. And I hope I shall have a lot more to come, eh?" Marcus gave a small cough, wishing he hadn't been so direct. But darling Livia must know what he wanted from her. Still, he didn't like to impress his sense of duty too strongly upon her. Horatia had already done her part in providing him heirs, as had Publius. He peered into her face, watching anxiously for a reaction. @Liv

Antheia nodded. Volusa seemed a helpful and informative guide. How open she was willing to be about other questions, such as what the domina was really like, Antheia had yet to establish. They had gone so far from where they had started that she was now sure she wouldn't be able to find her way back unaided. Thankfully, though, it seemed their little journey was at an end: Volusa stopped abruptly in front of her, arms spread slightly as if to say, "so, this is it." "I gather this is where I'm supposed to sleep, then," asked Antheia encouragingly. @Sharpie

Antheia was sure that Volusa was right - they probably were friendly when you got to know them - but that didn't stop her worrying that she wouldn't find here the same close-knit atmosphere as at her previous home. Home: yes, that was what it had been. Those few body slaves, Aristo, the domina's maid, had been her family. Indeed, the domina herself had been her family. A part of Antheia ached with disappointment that she hadn't been freed upon the young mistress' death, but then she had learnt not to hope for anything too much - that was the path to disappointment. Well, young Volusa seemed nice enough. Perhaps she'd have some people she could call friends, in time. Following closely behind her guide as she darted a path through the bustling halls, Antheia had to hurry to keep up. Volusa was right - the place was labyrinthine, dimly lit and full of activity, like the den of some small animal. Something about it made Antheia want to scuttle out to the surface, particularly when a swinging pole-arm nearly took her head clean off as she rounded a corner. "Are these all the lady Claudia's slaves?" she half-shouted over Volusa's shoulder in order to be heard. "And do they all live and work in this place?" @Sharpie

“Good, good. Well, may the gods favour you. I, for one, as well as many of my friends, will be ready to cast our vote for you on the day.” As Aulus proposed that they go for a drink somewhere, Marcus looked him over. Yes, he was a smart looking young man, an imposing fellow radiating dignitas despite his youthful good looks and his toga, slightly ruffled from its recent conversion into a priestly garment. Marcus felt a momentary surge of self-congratulatory pride. Yes, he’d been smart to agree to this match for Horatia. As much as he admired his son-in-law, though, the prospect of visiting one of the wine bars near the Forum was not an appealing prospect. Some did serve Senatorial clients, yes - he had no doubt Aulus would only take him to the most respectable of establishments - but these clients tended to be of the popularis type, showing their faces in the city, building up a presence. He would much prefer a private drink in the comfort of his or Aulus’ home. He was, however, extremely keen to have a chat with this (hopefully) consul-to-be, the capturing stone on the game board that was scratched into his mind like the ones you saw scribbled on the counter at tabernae. And Marcus certainly didn’t like to think himself a snob. No, he’d go for a cup of wine with him. He didn’t quite know what he was going to do at the temple, anyway. “Oh, I have no business with the Queen of the Heavens, no,” chuckled Marcus, clapping Aulus roughly on the shoulder, “and I’d be delighted to take a cup with you.” He coughed, taking a deep breath in as he looked down at the thronging crowd of plebs on the street below then back to Aulus. “Lead the way.”

She noticed the girl straight away, mostly because she seemed to be the only one paying Antheia any attention. There was something about the way the girl held herself, the slight downward tilt of her chin, and, once she had spoken, the pleasant, understated voice, that endeared her to Antheia almost immediately. Perhaps it was because she recognised something of herself at that age in the uncertain young woman before her. “Yes, that’s me,” said Antheia, smiling warmly as the girl finally met her eyes to introduce herself as Volusa. Honestly, Antheia’s stomach felt like she’d just swallowed a dodgy oyster, but as usual she masked her nerves with a friendly, calm demeanour. She had been feeling a touch nervous about her accent - her Latin pronunciation was still markedly Hellenic - but her previous mistress had said her voice was nice and soothing, something which Antheia had been careful to play up ever since. She swung her small sack of possessions and savings back up over her shoulder and pushed herself away from the wall, putting all her weight on her two feet. “My name is Antheia. I was told you could show me around?” @Sharpie

March 76 CE, the slaves' quarters in the Domus Augustorum Antheia lingered in the passageway as she'd been told. Though she was pretending to inspect the striped pattern on the walls, her attention was focused on her surroundings like a sunbeam bouncing off the inside of a shield. Her previous mistress had been a rich patrician, but even now she could tell that this household was a great deal larger than that one - all variety of people came scuttling about around her, heaving heavy arms behind them, carrying trays, having urgent conversations in low voices and numerous different languages. Not one of them seemed to spare her more than a cursory glance. Antheia tried to catch a passer's eye sometimes, smiling, but everyone seemed so very wrapped up in their own heads. She hoped life wouldn't always be this frantic - she had at least had time to build up a rapport with the other slave members of her previous familia - but she suspected life would still be a lot calmer for her than for these frantic attendants, fetching and carrying all day. All Antheia had to do was attempt to teach the young Claudia Caesaris. She hoped that her new domina wouldn't try to make that task any more difficult than it had to be. The sullen porter had told her to wait here for someone called Volusa, then had dashed off again with a scowl on his face. And so Antheia leant against the wall, readjusted her chiton on her shoulders, retraced the pattern of the mural with her eyes, and waited.

Marcus wasn't entirely sure why he found himself on the steps of the temple of Juno. He wasn't usually one to be found partaking in rituals, or staring at goat's guts - his own relationship with the gods was private, internal and totally free from ceremony - but today, it felt like something more was needed than quiet contemplation or the odd poured libation. Things were at stake that went beyond himself. Other than the genius of his departed wife, there was only one spirit beyond the mortal world which Marcus cared to worship: that of Rome. Perhaps that was why his feet had brought him to Juno's door. Why now? he thought to himself. Even during some of the greatest periods of unrest of the last two decades, you rarely went to the temple for anything other than official ceremonies. The sound of the flutes annoys you; you don't really believe the answer to Fate's great plan lies in some poor beast's spotted liver; and as it is, Rome is safer now that she's been for a long time. Titus ready to step in as Caesar. A new age of stability. Dear Horatia's husband, admirable fellow, heading for consul. So what is it that's worrying you? Marcus had been staring at his sandals as he climbed the steps to the temple. It was only when he noticed the fabric of someone else's purple-edged toga flicking past at the edge of his vision that he looked up. Ah, perhaps the gods do arrange our mortal lives! What a coincidence, if not! Leaving the temple, pushing the sinus of his toga off his head where he had draped it in reverence, was the very man in whom all Marcus' hopes for the future lay. "Fancy seeing you here, mi Calpurni!" cried Marcus warmly, spreading his arms in a gesture of surprise and greeting. "Tell me, how goes the quest for the curule chair?" @Sharpie

Horatia had reacted exactly how he had hoped she would, how he needed her to. His daughter had always been such a compassionate soul, may the gods bless her. "Nonsense, my dear girl. It can't be helped. There's no use going tiptoeing around the subject, is there, I mean…" he was starting to get flustered, "you're her daughter. I'm her husband." His use of the present tense was deliberate. "That didn't stop being the case when she… No. We mustn't pretend to forget her, just to make it easier on ourselves. And you, my dear," he patted her arm, "have done all you can to lessen the burden. You've shared in it." He exhaled slowly, looking at the ground. Then, affecting a certain breeziness, he looked back to his daughter. "But there's no point moping, is there? You have two beautiful," he rubbed her hands in joy, "intelligent children, a wonderful, honourable husband, and I… I have you and my little Livilliola, don't I?" Despite not having quite the powers of self-knowledge to realise it, Marcus was trying to convince himself as much as to her. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” he smiles at her fondly. “Only yesterday, it seems, you were a melancholy young girl on the cusp of womanhood. I hope the children aren’t being too much trouble, my dear. They can get so snappish at that age. It occurs to you then that they're drifting away, ready to go off to their own homes, embark upon their own careers, have their own families..." He gave Horatia a pregnant look. "I understand. Sometimes you never want to let them go." @Sara

Marcus smiled magnanimously at the bitter remark Horatia directed at her sister, deciding to forgive the girl’s comments for once. One has to be gentle to be respected, after all. He made the decision to ignore it and carry on. “Yes. Dear Calpurnia does look remarkably like her, in some ways,” he said in a distant voice that lacked any kind of energy. Snapping back to the present, he turned swiftly to Horatia and smiled slightly. “But then so do you. Perhaps not as much as Livia does, but still…” Unconsciously, Marcus began to stroke his left thumb gently across the ring on his right hand. It was a huge garnet stone, a signet ring. The flesh of his finger had grown up around it as he aged - he didn’t cut quite the same trim figure as he did years ago when Livia Calavia had given him the jewel - and so it gave the distinct impression that it was inset into the skin. If Marcus had even thought about trying to remove it (he hadn’t), he would have done so with great difficulty. “But I know what you mean. It’s not just physical resemblance, is it? The way Calpurnia drifts around the place, her eyes staring… staring at something only she can see, something wondrous that our poor weary minds, dulled by age, could never see again. I wish I could see the things she sees in that head of hers.” Usually, Marcus would change the topic thirty seconds into any conversation that veered towards the subject of his deceased wife. Today, though, he was feeling strange. Perhaps that was why he’d come to see Horatia. She could understand. That same shine in Calpurnia’s eyes, he’d seen it all those years ago, in the eyes of that young beauty in Germania, who became the wife of his best friend, laughing just out of reach as he flailed like Tantalus… And when he had sunk to the floor beside her in the atrium that day, fifteen or so years ago now, it wasn’t the bruises, the torn clothing, that twisted his heart. It was those eyes, glassy, ever so dull. He looked back to his daughter now, and for once it wasn’t a stream of words that he threw at her in a desperate attempt to communicate, but a look, just a look which said everything he was too weak to say out loud. Understand me. Understand. “Dear Calpurnia.” @Sara

Could I request a home for Senator Marcus Horatius Justinus in the Domi Aventini please (if you think that's the right place. He does come from a rich multi-generationally-pro-Caesar family, but they have been loyal to the Senate and tend to drag their heels a bit. He does consider himself one of Caesar's close(ish) circle though. Perhaps I should just let you decide where you think is best). Thanks