#civic virtue | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theetherealbloom · 25 days ago

Text

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.5

Chapter Five: When They Erase Our Names, God Knows That One Thing Remains

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, Fighting,

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I dreaded this chapter for various reasons lol T^T I hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Rider by Paris Paloma

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT

The grand hall of the Imperial Villa was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across the marble walls. The air reeked of incense and the sharp tang of blood, a bitter reminder of the night's brutal events. You stood off to the side, your wrists bound, a bruise blooming across your cheek and a shallow cut stinging on your temple. Beside you, Marcus Acacius knelt, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, his defiant gaze fixed ahead.

Lucilla, regal even in captivity, was forced to her knees on his other side. Her disheveled hair did nothing to diminish her dignity.

The Emperors swept into the room, their appearances as disheveled as their tempers. Geta, draped in an elaborate robe hastily thrown over his sleepwear, strode in with practiced authority. Behind him, Caracalla, his tunic barely covering his fury, paced like a caged beast. Macrinus and Thraex lingered in the shadows, smug satisfaction written across their faces.

Geta’s eyes locked onto Marcus with contempt, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you—all this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex, your insurrection has been revealed.”

Marcus lifted his chin, the blood on his face gleaming in the torchlight. Despite his injuries, his voice carried with unwavering strength. “Please, Emperor Geta, torture me if you want. But do not lecture me.”

Geta’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history. You are damned to oblivion.”

Marcus let out a low, defiant laugh, the sound echoing ominously through the chamber. Geta bristled. “You laugh?!”

“You damn me?” Marcus growled. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall. So do Emperors.”

Caracalla, already simmering with rage, exploded. Grabbing a sword from a nearby Praetorian, he stormed forward, his voice a snarl of fury. “Why wait? I’ll gut him right now!”

Geta rushed to restrain his brother, grabbing his arm as the blade swung wildly, narrowly missing Marcus’s head. “No! No! Calm! Calm! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes,” Caracalla hissed, his eyes wild. “Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He spun toward you and Lucilla, his gaze venomous. “And them! Crucify them both. Crucify her!” His finger jabbed toward you, his voice breaking into a shriek. “Let them all suffer!”

For the first time, Marcus’s composure cracked. “Leave her out of this!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.

Lucilla, too, stepped forward as far as her restraints allowed, her voice cold and commanding. “She is no threat to you. Punish me if you must, but she is innocent.”

Caracalla’s lip curled. “Innocent? No one in your circle is innocent.”

Geta held up a hand, signaling for silence. His gaze swept over you, considering, calculating. “No,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “Her skills as a healer are of use. She will not die.”

Caracalla rounded on his brother, his outrage spilling over. “You would show her mercy?”

Geta sneered, his tone dismissive. “Not mercy. A healer stripped of her riches and status is no better than a servant. She will remain—serving the Empire, tending to our men. Let her be a reminder of what happens to those who think they can defy us.”

The decision was made. The Praetorians moved to haul you away, their grip bruising. Marcus struggled against them, his voice a thunderous plea. “No! Let her go!”

You glanced back at him, your heart aching at the anguish in his eyes. “Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady. “Live. For Rome. For us.”

His struggles stilled, though the fury in his gaze remained unquenched. “I will come for you,” he vowed, the weight of his words promising blood and fire.

Lucilla caught your gaze as you were pulled away, her expression unyielding. “Stay alive,” she commanded in a soft whisper. “That is how you win.”

You didn’t speak again as the guards dragged you out, but the quiet determination burning in your chest was louder than any words you could muster. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.

UNDERCROFT, COLOSSEUM — MORNING

The undercroft was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the faint roar of the distant crowd above serving as the only reminder of the chaos awaiting outside. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed alive. You worked with quiet determination, dabbing ointment on Lucius’s wounds, though your hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. Sleep had eluded you since the altercation. If Ravi or Lucius noticed the change in your demeanor, they chose to remain silent.

Ravi was seated nearby, carefully wrapping Lucius’s wrists with the precision of someone accustomed to mending what others sought to break. Lucius, his youthful face etched with weariness, broke the silence first.

“Today, I woke up dreaming of a dark river,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “A river I have dreamt of before, but this time, for the first time... I was crossing it.”

Ravi paused, his hands stilling briefly as he considered Lucius’s words. “Where I come from, crossing a river represents forgiveness and salvation,” he replied softly.

Lucius let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “Where I come from, it means you’re dead.” His gaze shifted to the middle distance, as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the undercroft. “I believe it means I will die today in the Arena. But—as I saw it, I was not afraid. For there were people on the other side. I was not alone. And my heart felt... open.”

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but you said nothing, focusing instead on your work. You felt the knot tighten in your chest, the reality of his belief pressing down like a physical force.

Lucius turned away, his eyes catching on the shrine of gladiators carved into the wall. He moved closer, stopping before a blank spot where a name had been crudely chiseled away. “Who was this man?”

“Maximus,” Ravi answered, rising to stand beside him. You hesitated before stepping forward, your curiosity drawn toward the name as well.

“I saw him fight once,” Lucius said, his voice carrying a rare sense of reverence. “It was magnificent.”

Ravi nodded in agreement. “My time in the Arena was after his, but in whispers, many still spoke of him and what he did.”

Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a memory. “I met him once. He was kind,” he added, his voice softening. “Bowed to no one.”

Your eyes met Ravi’s, a silent understanding passing between you. You swallowed hard before speaking. “Come with us,” you urged, your voice low but insistent.

---

UNDERCROFT, CATACOMBS — DAY

The air grew colder as you descended the narrow staircase, the light of your torch flickering against the damp stone walls. The tunnel was lined with catacombs, their alcoves filled with the remains of fallen gladiators. Most were marked with nothing more than a name etched into the stone—Iduma of Mykonos, Cimon.

“When a rebel gladiator dies, we are supposed to cremate him and scatter the ashes,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we bury them here instead.”

The crypt opened into a small chamber, dominated by a single phrase chiseled roughly into the stone: What we do in life echoes in eternity.

Lucius approached the words, his fingers brushing lightly over the inscription as he read aloud, “What we do in life... echoes in eternity.” Beneath the phrase, the name Maximus was etched into the stone.

Above the crypt, Maximus’s breastplate and sword hung from the wall, the metal dulled by time but no less imposing. Lucius reached up and took the breastplate down, his expression thoughtful. “Scatto,” he whispered. “Argento.”

You watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. Finally, you turned to Ravi, passing him the torch. “I must go before the games begin,” you said, your voice faltering slightly. “I...”

Ravi gave a solemn nod, his expression steady. “The people will be ready when you call upon them,” he assured you.

Lucius’s brows knit in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, you turned and fled, your footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY

You sprinted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Colosseum, your breath ragged, the cold stone walls blurring past you. The distant roar of the crowd reverberated through the halls, each cheer a hammer against your chest.

At last, your eyes found him—Marcus, striding toward the Arena gates. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim torchlight, but it did little to hide the stiffness in his movements, the weight of his untreated wounds dragging against his formidable will. His commanding presence, though battered, remained intact, his head held high as if he bore the weight of Rome itself.

“Marcus!” you cried out, your voice slicing through the din, raw with desperation.

A Praetorian stepped forward, intercepting you with a vice-like grip on your arm. “Stand back!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the gladius at his side.

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing against him. Your gaze locked on Marcus, pleading. “His wounds—they haven’t been treated! You’re sending him to die!”

Marcus turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his piercing gaze cutting through the distance. The hardness in his expression wavered for a fleeting moment, giving way to something tender. “Release her,” he growled, his tone low but unyielding.

The Praetorian hesitated, glancing between you and Marcus as if weighing the consequences. When he didn’t relent, you tore your arm free, ignoring the sting of his grip. “If you send him into that Arena like this,” you said, your voice rising with fury, “it will not be a fight—it will be an execution!”

Marcus took a step closer, his battered frame radiating defiance. His eyes, however, softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the clamor of the world seemed to fade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice rough, but threaded with something intimate.

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, your voice trembling. “Not when I know what they’re doing to you. Not when I—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.

The Arena gates groaned open, and the roar of the crowd surged, deafening. Time seemed to slow as Marcus reached for your hand, his touch brief but searing, grounding you in the moment. “No matter what happens, know this,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You are the light I carry into the darkness. My carissima—my heart has been yours long before this day.”

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Then fight for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Fight for us.”

A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he released your hand and turned toward the gates. “For you, I will endure anything,” he said, his voice resolute.

As he stepped forward, the sunlight streaming into the Arena catching on his armor, you stood rooted to the spot, your heart splintering with every step he took. “Marcus!” you called out one last time, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your tongue.

He paused, glancing back with a look that spoke of endless promises. “Whatever happens, my love will echo into eternity.”

You watched him disappear into the blinding light of the Arena, the roar of the crowd swallowing him whole. The Master of Ceremonies reads off the official denunciation of the man you love, “For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state... an Enemy of the People.”

And in that moment, all you could do was hope—that the fire in his spirit would be enough to carry him back to you.

The clash of swords echoed in your ears, but your focus was entirely on him—on Marcus. The sight of him in the Arena, a whirlwind of strength and precision, sent your heart into a spiral of anguish and awe. He dispatched the four soldiers with ruthless efficiency, sustaining only a superficial scratch. His breath came heavy as he stood amidst the carnage, blood staining the sand beneath his feet.

You tore your gaze away to look above, where Lucilla sat in the royal box, her wrists bound in chains. Her face, streaked with tears, mirrored the grief clawing at your own chest.

When Marcus’ eyes found yours, the rest of the Colosseum seemed to vanish. Though his body bore the scars of countless battles, it was his gaze that struck you deepest. His eyes burned with a fire that had kept him alive through horrors unimaginable, yet they softened when they landed on you.

Your heart twisted painfully. Yes, he wore the scent of blood and death like a warrior’s perfume, his every move a testament to his survival. But you loved him regardless, perhaps even because of it. He was a star burning with the light of a thousand suns, and your world was an endless abyss without him.

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of two contests in the Colosseum—the barbarian Hanno!”

The south gate creaked open, and from the shadows stepped Lucius. Your breath caught in your throat. Fear consumed you, gnawing at your resolve. This was no ordinary opponent; this was Lucilla’s son. Lucius, whom you had come to know, to care for as a friend. And now, fate had pitted him against the man you loved.

Marcus straightened, his sword glinting in the harsh sunlight. Lucius raised his weapon, his youthful face a mask of determination, and charged.

The clash of their swords reverberated through the Arena, each strike heavier than the last. Marcus splintered Lucius’ wooden shield with a single swing, sending fragments scattering. Without hesitation, Lucius threw himself back into the fray, weapon raised high. The flat of his blade caught Marcus broadside, forcing him to stagger.

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched the brutal dance unfold. Marcus managed to disarm Lucius, knocking him to the ground. But when the final blow could have come, Marcus hesitated. He stepped back, raising his hand to the crowd, then dropped to his knees in the sand.

“Acacius has raised his hand!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. “He has surrendered!”

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, as you whispered, “No…”

The silence broke with a roar. “Let the gods decide!” the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed.

Your stomach churned as Geta stood in the royal box, his hand lifted to the sky. Time slowed as he brought it down—thumb turned irrevocably down.

“No!” you screamed, though your voice was drowned by the crowd’s cheers.

Lucius rose, sword in hand, and approached Marcus. The words exchanged between them were faint, but you strained to hear. Marcus spoke with quiet conviction, his voice steady even in the face of death. “Do what you must. On my death, you must know… I love her—the healer, my carissima. Your mother was my friend. Your father, my brother in arms. I would have died for him.”

Something shifted in Lucius’ stance. He faltered, his sword lowering. And then, to the shock of all, he dropped it to the sand. Slowly, he knelt beside Marcus, defying the will of the Emperor.

Rage flared in your chest, consuming the fear that had gripped you. It was raw and primal, burning away hesitation. You darted toward a weapons rack near the Arena’s edge, your fingers trembling as you grabbed an arrow. Wrapping its head in cloth soaked with pitch, you moved swiftly to the north gate.

The guards were too distracted by the unfolding scene to stop you. Lighting the arrow on a nearby torch, you notched it and drew the bowstring back, your muscles taut with purpose. The flames licked at the arrow as you aimed high and let it fly.

It struck true, igniting a banner in the royal box. Flames spread rapidly, drawing screams from the crowd. You let out a sharp whistle, piercing through the chaos—the signal.

In an instant, chaos erupted. Some of the Praetorian archers turned on their comrades, loosing arrows in calculated rebellion. Screams and confusion engulfed the Colosseum as you sprinted toward the center of the Arena.

“Marcus!” you shouted, dodging arrows as you reached him and Lucius.

His head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”

“I’m not leaving you!” you shouted back, grabbing his arm.

The three of you ran for the undercroft, but not before an arrow struck Marcus in the arm. His cry of pain sent a fresh wave of terror through you, but you didn’t stop.

Ravi appeared at the entrance to the undercroft, his face streaked with soot and pale with fear, but his resolve unwavering. “This way!” he called, rushing forward to take Marcus’ other arm and hoist it over his shoulder. Marcus groaned, his weight pressing heavily against both of you, though his eyes still burned with determination despite the pain.

“Keep moving,” Ravi urged, his voice tight with urgency.

Lucius, breathing hard but steady, halted suddenly. “I will stay,” he said, his voice firm, though his expression betrayed the conflict within.

“Lucius, no,” you protested, your voice catching as you turned to him.

“I must,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. “For my mother. For Lucilla. I can’t abandon her to them.”

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Lucius…”

He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You have a chance to make this right,” he said, his voice softer now, almost imploring. “Go. Protect him. Do what I cannot.”

Marcus stirred at Lucius’ words, his head lifting weakly. “Lucius,” he rasped, his voice laden with respect and sorrow. “You’re braver than I could ever hope to be.”

Lucius gave a small, sad smile. “No, General. I’ve only learned from the best.”

Your throat tightened as you searched for words, but none came. Instead, you nodded, a silent promise passing between you.

“Go,” Lucius said, his voice more urgent now as the distant sound of Praetorian guards grew closer. “I will buy us the time we need.”

Your heart clenched as you watched him turn back toward the chaos above, his sword in hand, shoulders squared against the impossible odds.

“I’ll see you again,” you called after him, your voice trembling.

He didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the shadows. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Ravi tugged on Marcus, breaking you from your frozen stance. “We have to move!”

You spared one last glance at the chaos above—the flames licking at the banners, the rebellion erupting like a storm, the empire trembling on the brink of collapse. Lucius stood at the edge of it all, a lone figure against the inferno.

Then you turned and disappeared into the shadows, Marcus’ weight heavy against your side but his presence anchoring you. Each step was a vow—to see this through, for Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, and for the fragile hope of a future you still dared to dream of.

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — EVENING

The hidden cottage was small, nestled among the thick trees on the outskirts of Rome. Its weathered walls, cloaked in ivy, offered a fleeting sense of safety as you dismounted your horse, your legs trembling beneath you. Marcus slumped in the saddle, pale and shivering, his strength all but drained. Ravi rushed to help, catching him before he toppled to the ground.

“Inside, quickly,” you urged, your voice shaking as you flung open the door. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn table, a single cot, and a fireplace where embers still smoldered from whoever had left it behind.

Ravi and you eased Marcus onto the cot, his armor clinking as it hit the wood. He let out a low groan, his hand gripping yours tightly as his head lolled back.

“Marcus,” you whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the deep crimson staining his tunic said otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “Ravi, get the water boiling. We need to clean these wounds.”

Ravi nodded, already moving to the fireplace. You quickly removed his armor and tore at Marcus’s tunic, exposing the angry gash on his shoulder where the arrow had struck. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, a stark reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.

“This will hurt,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you pressed a cloth to the wound.

“Hurts less,” Marcus said, his lips twitching in a faint smile, “when you’re the one tending to it.”

“Save your charm for when you’re not bleeding to death,” you replied, though your voice softened, betraying your worry.

As you worked, Marcus’s breathing grew shallower. His hand found yours again, squeezing weakly. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So are you,” you shot back, though your resolve wavered as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Carissima,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping from his lips like a prayer. “I need you to listen.”

“Marcus, stop,” you said, blinking back tears. “Save your strength.”

He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling clarity despite the fever setting in. “Listen to me. There’s something I need you to do.”

Ravi returned with a steaming basin of water, and you began cleaning the wound with swift, efficient movements. Marcus flinched but didn’t pull away.

“You’re going to ride to Ostia,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “You will find General Darius Sextus. Tell him to bring the army. It’s the only way we overthrow those bastards on the throne.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, your tone sharp as you dabbed at the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I’m not here.”

“You’ll come back,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I know you will.”

“Marcus, stop talking like this,” you snapped, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “You’re not going to die.”

He reached into the pouch at his belt, fumbling until his fingers closed around something. When he pulled it free, your breath caught. It was his simple signet ring, battered with age but unmistakably precious.

He pressed it into your hand, his fingers curling over yours. “Take this,” he said, his voice trembling now. “When you return, I want to see it on your finger.”

“Marcus…” Your voice broke, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back.

“You’ll be my wife,” he continued, his delirium softening his usual commanding tone. “You already are in my heart. Always have been.”

Your hands shook as you clutched the ring, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. “You’re feverish,” you said, trying to deflect the overwhelming wave of emotion. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’ve never been more certain,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re the reason I fight. The reason I live.”

Ravi placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his voice quiet. “We need to cauterize the wound, or we’ll lose him.”

You nodded, swallowing your tears as you set the ring aside, your fingers brushing Marcus’s cheek one last time. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your voice fierce despite the crack threatening to break it. “Stay, Marcus.”

He gave a weak nod, his hand tightening briefly around yours. “For you, carissima, always.”

The fire roared as Ravi prepared the blade. You took Marcus’s hand again, anchoring him as he drifted between consciousness and oblivion. The pain would be unbearable, but so was the thought of a world without him.

As you pressed the heated metal to his wound, his scream tore through the room, and your heart shattered. But you didn’t let go. You never would.

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — MIDNIGHT

The crackling of the fire filled the silence of the room as shadows danced across the walls. You sat on a worn wooden stool, staring into the flames while absentmindedly twirling Marcus’ signet ring on your finger. The weight of it felt both grounding and unbearable—a constant reminder of him, of the fragile hope that lingered between life and death.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, and you rose quickly, your heart in your throat. Ravi stepped inside, his arms laden with bundles of potions, food, and water. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.

“I carried what I could,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

You gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Ravi.”

Together, you began unpacking the supplies, arranging them on the shelves in hurried efficiency. The weight of the night pressed down on both of you, heavy and suffocating.

As he placed a jar of salve on the counter, Ravi broke the silence. “The streets are in chaos. Masses of people rioting, chanting for the emperors’ heads. It’s madness out there.”

You paused, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. “And Lucius? Lucilla?” you asked, though you feared the answer.

Ravi hesitated, his face grim. “I’ve heard talk… They plan to execute her tomorrow, along with several senators, including Gracchus.”

Your heart clenched, and tears slipped down your face before you could stop them. The thought of Lucilla—brave, steadfast Lucilla—facing such a fate made your chest ache with helplessness.

Ravi turned to you, his voice gentler now. “I know the fear inside you,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “But let hope live beneath the doubt. You must ride to Ostia. Gather the army. I’ll stay here and watch over Acacius.”

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table. The coolness of the ring on your finger seemed to burn against your skin, its presence a bittersweet comfort. “You have to keep him alive,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I beg you, Ravi. Keep him alive.”

Ravi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze resolute. “I will. I swear it.”

You moved quietly into the small room where Marcus lay, his large frame stretched across the narrow cot. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and the faintest groan escaped his lips as he shifted. You knelt beside him, your heart tightening at the sight of him so vulnerable, so worn.

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his warm skin. He leaned into your touch unconsciously, his expression softening, and the faintest flicker of peace graced his face.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words felt like a prayer, a promise, and a plea all at once.

Tearing yourself away from him felt like ripping your heart from your chest. Your knees threatened to give out, but you steadied yourself, reminding yourself of the task ahead. For Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, for Rome—you had to be strong.

You stepped outside, the crisp night air biting against your skin. Pulling your hood over your head, you turned to Ravi, who stood waiting with your horse. He handed you the reins with a solemn nod.

“Heo is se wind. You’re the wind,” Ravi said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “The wind that will carry them home.”

You met his gaze, your throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and mounted your horse. With a final nod to Ravi, you dug your heels into the stirrups and rode into the darkness.

The cold air whipped against your face as the cottage disappeared behind you, the quiet night broken only by the sound of your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but your heart burned with a single, unrelenting purpose: to save Marcus, to save Rome, and to see the light of hope once more.

—--------------

OSTIA — DAWN

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The Roman camp at Ostia stirred with life as soldiers prepared for the day, their voices carrying through the crisp morning air. You rode into the camp at a gallop, your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up dust in your wake.

“Stop!” a centurion bellowed as you neared the heart of the camp. Others joined in, shouting commands to halt, but you paid them no mind. Your determination was unshakable.

You dismounted swiftly, your legs unsteady after the relentless ride. The horse whinnied, tethered hastily to a nearby post. Two centurions moved to intercept you, their hands outstretched to block your path.

“Out of the way!” you snapped, your voice sharp with urgency. When one of them grabbed your arm, you shoved him aside, yanking your hood back to reveal your face. They froze, their expressions flickering between surprise and confusion. A woman, unarmored, and yet, you carried yourself with a ferocity that made them hesitate.

You stormed through the rows of tents, your breath coming in shallow gasps, until you reached the largest one—adorned with the banners of Darius Sextus, the legate commanding the army at Ostia. Two guards stationed outside moved to block your way.

“Identify yourself!” one barked, his hand on the hilt of his gladius.

Your eyes burned with the fire of purpose as you held up your hand, revealing the signet ring gleaming in the early light. “This is my identification,” you said fiercely, brushing past them before they could respond.

Inside the tent, Darius Sextus sat at a makeshift table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. He looked up at you with mild irritation, his brow furrowing at the sight of an unannounced visitor.

Before he could demand an explanation, you strode forward, your breath still labored, and thrust the ring onto the table. The sound of metal striking wood reverberated through the space.

His gaze dropped to the ring, and the moment recognition dawned in his eyes, he stiffened. “Who gave you this?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

You straightened, despite the ache in your legs and the sweat dripping down your temples. “Marcus Justus Acacius,” you replied, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “My husband.”

Darius blinked, his surprise evident, but you pressed on before he could question further. “My friend Lucius Verus Aurelius Maximus, the prince of Rome, and his mother, Lucilla, are in grave danger. They need your help.”

Darius stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured to the ring. “This is proof of Acacius’ command. And yet, you claim he sent you as his... wife?”

Your jaw tightened, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He entrusted this to me because he knows the danger we face. Rome is falling, and you, Legate, have the power to stop it. Marcus fights for a better Rome, not for glory or power, but for the people. If you care for your city, for your honor, you’ll listen.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, Darius stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. “If Acacius sent you, where is he now?”

Your heart clenched at the memory of Marcus lying pale and wounded in the hidden cottage. “He is injured,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But alive. And he fights still, in spirit, even as his body recovers. He would be here himself if he could.”

Darius studied you for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded. “You have his courage,” he said, a flicker of respect softening his tone. “I will call the banners and ride for Rome. But understand this, woman—if you are lying, it will cost you your life.”

You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your gaze. “I do not fear death. But you should fear the wrath of a man who loves Rome enough to sacrifice everything for her. Marcus Acacius does not choose his allies lightly.”

Darius gave a curt nod, already turning to issue orders to his men. The tent erupted into activity as soldiers prepared to march. You stepped back into the dawn, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead but emboldened by the hope flickering in the distance.

You clutched the ring on your finger, its presence grounding you. "Wait for me, Marcus," you whispered under your breath as the camp burst into motion. "I will see this through."

VIA SACRA, RIVERBANK — DAY

The air was thick with tension, the distant outline of Rome rising like a specter against the horizon. The sound of hooves pounding the ground was relentless, a rhythm of war and desperation. You rode at the front of Acacius’s army, the wind whipping your cloak as your horse surged forward. Around you, the soldiers moved as one, their determination palpable.

Beside you, General Darius Sextus rode with a stoic expression, his gaze fixed on the gates of Rome. Your own heart thundered in your chest, not from the exertion, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead. Somewhere beyond those gates was Marcus, his life tied to the fate of this city, and you would see it through—if only for him.

As you neared the gates, movement drew your attention. Macrinus, a dark figure astride his horse, galloped toward the advancing army. His presence was a challenge, a taunt, his defiance cutting through the rising tension.

You reined in your horse, watching as Macrinus paused, his sharp gaze darting between the approaching forces. General Tegula, standing at the head of the praetorian line, gestured for Macrinus to act. But before he could, another rider tore across the field—a blur of motion and purpose.

Lucius Verus Aurelius.

You drew in a sharp breath, your hands tightening on the reins as Macrinus's voice rang out.

“Will nothing kill this barbarian?” he shouted, his tone biting, his words aimed at Lucius.

The two men faced each other, their animosity tangible even from a distance.

“My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius,” Lucius declared, his voice steady and commanding. His words carried to the men at the front of the praetorian army, the hint of intrigue flickering in General Tegula’s expression. The soldiers began to falter, their loyalty visibly wavering.

Macrinus sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “A man does not become Emperor by bloodline alone. It must be taken by force and kept by force. Are you such a man as this?”

Lucius sat tall on his horse, the morning sun catching the golden trim of his armor. “I don’t fight for power,” he said, his voice resolute. “I fight to free Rome from men like you and return it to them.” He gestured to the soldiers and people around him, his meaning clear.

Your chest swelled with a mix of hope and trepidation as you glanced at Darius, whose expression remained unreadable.

For the first time, doubt flickered in Macrinus’s eyes, his bravado cracking. “The gods themselves want Rome reborn. They sent me to fulfill that task,” he declared, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

“And what if your gods sent me here to kill you?” Lucius countered, his voice deep and unyielding. “It’s time to end this, Macrinus.”

Without another word, Lucius drew his sword, spurring his horse into a charge. You barely had time to catch your breath as the two men clashed, the force of their collision sending Macrinus and his horse tumbling.

Your gaze followed the battle, each strike and parry a brutal testament to their will. The armies on either side stood silent, watching as Lucius and Macrinus fought beneath the Arch. Darius’s men halted, their discipline holding firm, while the praetorians hesitated, their loyalty unraveling.

Lucius’s movements were fierce and unrelenting, but Macrinus fought like a cornered beast. The clash carried them off the road and toward the riverbank, the muddy slope making each step precarious.

You leaned forward in your saddle, your breath caught as Lucius slipped, his body vanishing beneath the filthy water. Macrinus pounced, his blade flashing as he drove it downward, but Lucius erupted from the river with a rock in hand, smashing it against Macrinus’s head.

The fight turned savage. Each strike from Lucius was fueled by purpose, his blows braining Macrinus until the man reeled, blinded by blood. You winced as Lucius swung his sword with surgical precision, severing Macrinus’s arm and then cutting deep into his abdomen.

Macrinus crumpled, his remaining strength spent as he slumped into the river, his body drifting away in the current. Lucius stood motionless for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared after his fallen enemy.

When he turned back, his bloodied form ascended the muddy slope, stepping into the silence that had overtaken the battlefield. Under the Arch, between two armies, Lucius paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the men and women who watched him.

He threw down his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground a final punctuation to the violence. His voice, ragged but clear, carried across the field.

“You look to me to speak,” he began, his tone solemn. “I know not what to say other than we have all known too much death. Let no more blood be spilt in the name of tyranny.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as his words struck a chord.

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, dreamed of a Rome that would be a city for the many, a home for those in need—a republic. That dream has been lost.” He looked at the soldiers on either side of him, his expression weary yet determined. “But dare we rebuild that dream together. What say you?”

For a long moment, the battlefield held its breath, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Lucius stood at its heart, bloodied yet unyielding, like a lone pillar in a storm-ravaged temple. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his words, his armor bearing the scars of battle, but his gaze remained steady, unbroken—a light that refused to be extinguished.

Your eyes met his, just for a fleeting second, and in that shared glance was an unspoken vow, a thread of hope tethered to the impossible. As you turned your gaze back to Lucius, he stood as a reflection of what Rome could become: bruised but not beyond redemption.

In that moment, a fragile ember of belief sparked within you. Hope, tenuous and flickering, wove itself into your thoughts. You closed your eyes briefly, your heart murmuring a silent prayer—for Marcus, for his dream of a better Rome, and for the chance to stand beside him when it was finally brought to life.

69 notes · View notes