“No–” Your protest is weak and he can tell that it’s not sincere. “No, I should not– what if I accidentally suffocate you?”

The worry in your voice is so adoring that he has to laugh, his hands coming to rest on each of your thighs. “People bigger and stronger than you have tried to suffocate me and failed. I promise you, my death will not be a concern tonight.”

“Just imagine the stories they would tell!” He knows you’re half joking now as well and his thumb traces the familiar patterns into your skin as he stares up at you in the dim light of his bedroom. 

“What would they say? Do you think they would sing of the Vestal who murdered the General of Rome, merely by sitting on his face?” Acacius teases, his smirk never once wavering, even when you playfully hit his shoulder. “Come here. I want to test my theory. See if you truly are as sweet as that honeycake.”

He watches the resistance crumble in your eyes, replaced by urgency and he waits for the small nod that comes after just a few moments. Then, he grips your thighs harder and pulls you onto him, seating you straight on his face.

Your thighs frame his head and Acacius immediately feels his mind swimming with how close he is to your core, his tongue darting out and slipping through your heat in one long swipe, making you squirm above him. His words of praise and the small curses that escape his throat are lost between your legs, whispered and groaned into your body. Yours on the other hand? They’re getting louder by the second.

His nose rubs against the spot that he knows you love to have touched, making him wonder if the way you’re trembling is a pointer that he should pay it more attention while fucking you in the future. Because, and his dick twitches below his toga at the thought, he will be doing this again. He gets to do this now, now that he has made you his, that you both have allowed yourselves to give in.

“Acacius–” He can hear the tremble in your voice and feel it in your thighs, your form quivering on top of him and it only spurs him on more, making him double his efforts to eat you like a starving man. “They’ll hear–” You whine, sounding so close to letting go and he grunts into your heat, squeezing your thighs harder, trying to reassure you without needing words.

And a few moments later, when he feels your core clench and flutter around his lips, he knows he has succeeded. Acacius doesn’t let up, lapping up every last bit of wetness you are willing to give him, his breath coming in short, small pants.

Only when he feels you go soft around him he lets up, maneuvering you off him and onto the bed. And by the gods, you are a sight.

Flushed, with your hair unruly and your red and gold stola ridden up to your stomach, the fabric bunching around your middle. “As beautiful as the gods–” He hums, pressing himself against you. He can feel his own cock, rock-hard and waiting below his toga. But he wants to give you a moment to catch your breath.

“They must have heard–” You whimper, reaching out to pull him closer, the voices from the piazza still drifting into the room. Clearly the festivities have not yet ended. But Acacius can merely chuckle.

“We are not to be identified by our voices, Dulcissima. They think the General is having a jolly good time with some town wrench. Besides, there's many houses around the square. They can never quite tell which window the sounds come from.”

Your next whine is swallowed by Acacius as he gently presses his lips to yours, his right hand trailing down to find your heat again, the inside of your thighs smeared with your own juices. A sharp tug of jealousy fills him at the thought, knowing that more than anything he wants his own seed between your legs.

“Do you wish to sleep?” He hums instead, not wanting to push his luck. If the way you trembled and came so fast is any indication, this was a new kind of experience for you. Which shouldn't surprise him, really. But he still tends to forget that he needs to take it slow, needs to be careful with you. It still feels like the thing the air is heavy with is as easily breakable as the jugs in the temple. Like all it needs is one snap, one misstep and he’ll be standing in front of broken shards littering the floor. Only that he cannot order the potter to make a replacement of you.

“I feel like all I have been doing for weeks is sleep,” you hum back, one of your hands beginning to sneak up his leg, brushing over the dark hairs that decorate it. 

“You retired early,” Acacius agrees quietly, recalling the weeks on the road vividly. Even after he assigned Rusticus to you, you would excuse yourself as soon as was acceptable and retreat to your tent. Much to his dismay.

“I just told you. I have been sleeping a lot.” He listens to you repeat yourself and a small sigh escapes him, his mind wandering back to the night he did watch you sleep, the one where his brain tricked him into thinking he heard something, maybe just to give him a reason to check on you. He begins to wonder if he could get away with it tomorrow, sending a silent prayer to the gods to always wake him first so that he may look at you for a while before you stir.

“Dulcissima. Come here,” he whispers, pulling you in and you obey willingly, crawling beside him, both your bodies stretched out over the bed between the four posters. It only takes a few moments for Acacius to forget about his wish of seeing you in the morning, his mind and body too occupied with your night instead.

***

He is already awake when you open your eyes. Sun is filtering in through the curtains, the airy fabric moving in the seaside breeze that always seems to brush over Brundisium. The sounds of the night are gone, no more music or yelling drifting up to the villa. Your stola is laying beside the bed in a puddle, not unlike Acacius’s clothing next to it. Neither of you even entertained the idea of you returning to your own bed again. And the sheets are soft on your skin, warmth radiating from the man beside you who is just as naked under the covers as you are. Your leg is nestled between both of his, one of your arms splayed over his broad chest. Your bodies, so intertwined throughout the night, with no one and no fabric, not even a veil, tucked between you.

The birds are singing, replacing the songs of the townsfolk. And the glorious moment lasts all but ten seconds. Then, your head jerks up as heavy footsteps sound outside the door.

You feel Acacius tense beside you, evidently having noticed the same disturbance. With a few quick motions that almost startle you in efficiency this early in the morning, he slips out from under the covers beside you, shuffles his toga on and motions for you to stay hidden before stepping over to the wooden door. “Hello?”

He turns the lock, a foot placed firmly behind the door to keep it from opening too far. The angle allows you to stay hidden, even when Acacius isn't. And surely enough, it is a person you are certain he would like to send into the Colosseum for daring to interrupt your morning. “General,” Rusticus grunts, his rough voice so recognizable even when you cannot see him. “I wanted to inform you I will take up guard now.”

“Thank you, Rusticus, but that will not be necessary today.” You can almost hear the frown in the other man's voice, the silent protest at the orders so different from his usual ones. Then again, one thing you have learned about the man is that he does not ask too many questions. He requires a job description, and surely good payment, but he is a soldier through and through, willing to serve his General.

“What do you wish for me to do then?” He asks quietly and you swear you see a flicker of annoyance in Acacius’s eyes.

“Enjoy your freedom or whatever you do with your days off. I will stay with the Vestal. She enjoyed herself a bit too freely recently and wishes to go and say her prayers in the temples around town. Brundisium is fairly safe. We shall not have need for your protection until we leave port.” It is definitely an order, even if a rather vague one. And you can't feel like the slide at you is supposed to tell you something– something more than the fact that Acacius needs an excuse in front of Rusticus anyway.

You close your eyes again when you hear the door lock and listen to the soldiers' steps die down along the hallways while those of the General draw closer to the bed. It dips under his weight, the wood creaking slightly. A few moments later, an arm sneaks over your stomach, Acacius’s index finger drawing small circles around your naval. “Forgive the interruption.”

“Enjoyed myself a bit too freely, hm?” You mutter back, blinking up at him through tired eyes. “Is that what you would call last night?”

“I never said it was your fault,” he argues with a small chuckle, moving closer to you so that his body is once more flush against yours, his nose pressing into your scalp. “But I do think you may want to say some prayers after the things you let me do to you.”

An involuntary shiver runs through you at the memories and you know exactly what he means. It seems much harder to speak or even think about now that the sun is up and the streets will be bustling with the normal activity of the townsfolk and the travelers passing through. “What about your prayers, General?”

He smiles wearily at that. “I stopped praying many years ago. I do what I have to. What is expected.” You feel yourself grow sad at the prospect. It’s not like you haven’t suspected that his approach is slightly more practical than yours. Even as a priestess, you understand that prayers rarely win wars. But you still wish for him to be safe. And that means saying your prayers when needed.

“I will include you in mine,” you hum back and for a moment, he looks like he wants to protest. But then he just hums quietly and smoothes his hands over your bare skin. You think there has barely been a moment without his skin on yours since last night, like he is afraid that you will disappear from his side in a moment's notice.

“What do you wish to eat? Before we head out?” He cocks his head to the side as he stands again, the thin rays of morning light travelling over his body as he moves.

“I would love some fruit. Maybe some juice if there is any.” You pause for a moment. “I will put on my garments while you go downstairs, yes?”

You’re barely on your feet when Acacius growls softly, his palm cupping the curve of your ass. “I really prefer you without them, my lady.”

Only he could sound so polite and so dirty at the same time. You playfully roll your eyes at him, nudging his side in response before carefully tip-toeing out onto the landing. Not without Acacius stealing one or two more kisses before letting you go, though.

You don’t take long. You change into a white stola and let out an involuntary sigh as your gaze falls onto your veil, draped carefully over a chair in the corner. It sits heavy on your head when you descend the stairs a short while later, finding two young women already serving the first meal of the day, the large plate of fruit you requested sitting in front of Acacius. He doesn’t even try to hide the smile that spreads over his face as you lie down on the plush couch beside him. “Please, eat well. You will need your strength later.”

A giggle from the two servant girls drifts to you from the kitchen, though you’re not sure if it's in response to your conversation or something else. Surely they’d know not to giggle at the words of a General. “Are we going to the baths?” It is the only place you can think of that has a large enough body of water to swim in. But the tiny smirk on Acacius’s face immediately tells you that it is not the one he has in mind.

“Better,” he just muses and you for a moment, you wish he wasn’t this good at keeping secrets. But then you remind yourself you are one of them.

thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter. we delve a little bit into their backstory now (gladiator II is set around 211 AD). feel free to let me know if you are interested in reading how these two get to where we picked up before <3 i also have a little acacius playlist that fits the vibe of this fic very well. feel free to check it out here!

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house palla - a traditional mantle for women paludamentum - a cloak worn by high ranking military officials

Chapter II

209 AD

The domus sits just on the edge of Palatine Hill, on the side opening towards the Forum Romanum and Via Nova. You have passed below it more times than you can count, though you have rarely walked the small street that weaves up the hill and leads to the edge of the property.

Many of the neighboring houses are too harsh for your taste, with columns twice as wide as your body and barely a shrub of greenery in front of them. A supposed sign of strength, no doubt. But when passing the house with the large garden, you like to take as much time as you dare, occasionally catching a whiff of the lavender that grows all around it.

It reminds you of the shadowy figure you often saw walking those same gardens after dark, many years past. A bereaved woman, shrouded in dark cloth, keeping her head down as she tended to the plants with dainty fingers, decorated with a thick gold ring that framed a green stone. You remember lingering too long on your way past the iron fence once, fascinated by the way her dress flowed in the wind. She had called out to you, beckoning you towards her.

Lucilla was not a terrifying woman but you knew that every misstep could cost you, especially in your position as a vestal. She had knelt down in front of your trembling form, brushed your hair out of your face and looked at you with an expression you did not understand. But she had whispered words that you did. Asked you not to collect the water after dark, to stay with the older vestals. Then she had offered you a small bundle of lavender.

You stuffed it under the linen of your bed later that night, breathing in a scent that felt like a world where a woman could freely roam her garden and the city beyond, who did not have to be afraid.

The guard at the gate gives a small bow of courtesy when you reach him and moves to the side, allowing you to tread the stone path that leads up to the house. “The General is inside. Please, knock.”

A gentle “Thank you” escapes your lips as you reach to lift your stola just enough to not step on it. The torches lining the way are extinguished, not needed during the day. A short glance down the hill allows you to spot your own home, right beside the rounded building that is the Temple of Vesta.

When you reach the wooden door, you raise your hand and will yourself to knock with enough force to make it heard.

You can hear someone calling out from inside and a few seconds later, a man with broad shoulders opens the door. His gaze flies over you briefly–taking in your white tunic and the palla wrapped around your shoulders. The thin veil attached to your headdress and all the linen of your clothes tucked neatly into place are usually enough indication for whoever is stood in front of you to understand your status.

“General Acacius?” You ask softly, your eyes taking in his brown eyes and the curve of his nose, one that looks like it belongs on a statue rather than a living man.

“Vero, that is me. Please, come inside.” He gives a small bow, gesturing past himself and you nod at the invitation, gracefully stepping into the house and finding yourself in an atrium that renders you speechless. The columns that line its sides are slightly worn, flowers stretching along them towards the upper floor. Stone basins and pots holding a variety of plants stand at almost every corner of the open space, making it feel more like a garden than the stuck-up room you would have expected in a Generals home.

Acacius’s hand hovers behind you, guiding you past the fountain that holds a few orange fish and to the opposite end of the open room, though he never actually touches you. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” you repeat your earlier words, lowering yourself onto the chair he indicated.

“Would you like some wine? Perhaps some grapes too?” He waves to one of the servants, who promptly places two glasses on the table, though Acacius takes the carafe and dismisses him with a small nod as he begins to pour you some of the dark red liquid. You make to reach for your glass to hold it steady but he shakes his head quickly. “Allow me. Please.”

You nod at that, leaning back and waiting politely while he pours himself a drink as well. It allows you a moment to take in his form up close, the white tunic and his red paludamentum wrapped around his body. A cloak fastened with a gold brooch, one that–similar to your headwear–makes him a respected man no matter where he goes. You wonder if he feels the same about it, that some days it's more like a heavy curse weighing one down. Then again, he is a General of Rome. You are a priestess of Vesta. Your paths may cross today but you are certain they look very different from one another.

He sits down across from you, a small sigh leaving his lips as he toasts in your direction and takes a sip of his wine. Then, he leans to the side and produces two rolls of parchment. “I had to make some adjustments to my will. It was kept by one of the other priestesses, but I believe she has finished her service with the Vestals since I last saw her.”

You give him a small smile as you take the parchment from him, nodding. “Yes, she left the year before last. But of course I will be just as happy to keep the will for you.”

His eyes fly over your face briefly and he gestures to the rolls on your lap. “I crossed out the old version. I married, you see.”

You stare at him for a moment before nodding a little too quickly. “Of course. Yes, I–The lady of this house I presume–” You break off, realizing your mistake. If he indeed married Lucilla, he is now the head of this house. “What I meant–” you add hastily. “–is that it is your house now. And the house is beautiful, I mean–” It’s the second time you stop in the middle of the sentence. But this time, it is because you have dared to look back over at the General. And he is not even trying to conceal his amusement.

You bow your head in another silent apology and he tuts softly. “You are quite right, you know. As far as I am concerned, she is the woman of this house.” A smile plays around his lips. “And I would not have it any other way.”

It’s clearly not his atrium that surprises you. He is not what you would expect a General to be. Especially not one that is about to entrust you with his will. “I give my word that I will see it is stored safely,” you reassure him, carefully taking another small sip of the wine.

Acacius nods. “I appreciate that. You have my thanks.” He pauses briefly, his gaze darting around the atrium for a split second before landing back on you. “You seem uneasy. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. No, of course not, General.” It is not a lie, per se. But you are all too aware that it sounds like one.

“Is it your first time taking a will?”

You do not know how he does it. He seems to have read you so easily–or he is just very well connected to know such a thing. “Yes. It is, but I promise–”

“I trust you,” he states almost casually while reaching for the grapes and offering you some as well. You politely decline.

“Forgive me but … you met me mere moments ago. How can you know I am trustworthy?” Your eyes catch his and this time you hold his gaze, not missing the small glint in them.

“All of Rome trusts the Vestals. If not you, who would we put our faith into?”

“The gods. You should put your faith in the gods,” you say quietly.

“I prefer to put my faith in people,” Acacius responds, though his voice is slightly lowered as well. “The gods do not fight our wars.”

You stand up so abruptly that you almost drop the scrolls. “I should go.”

He seems perplexed for a moment but quickly catches himself and nods, standing up before leading you back the same way you came. You allow yourself a quick sideward glance at his face and are met with a professionally neutral expression. At the door, you turn towards him, giving a last, small bow. “My General.” His title falls off your lips like the silk they sell at the market, flowing effortlessly. His brown eyes lingering on you as you address him–even if normal custom–as yours, make your stomach clench slightly.

Acacius lets his hand hover beside you again, never quite touching you. Yet you almost seem to be able to feel his touch. “I did not mean offense.” His voice is much softer than it was when he greeted you.

“Of course.” You force yourself to smile and step away, shaking your head at the brief moment of confusion you allowed yourself. He is a General, you are a Vestal. He has sworn his vows and you have sworn yours. And both include promises that are enough to keep you at a few feets distance for several lifetimes. “Please, call for me if you ever need to make adjustments to the will. And–” You force yourself to smile a little wider. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You turn around before he can speak again, suddenly wanting to put some distance between yourself and the house you so longed to see from inside–until you did.

***

211 AD

“You have to go, dulcissima.”

Acacius' voice is quiet, the back of his head resting against the stone pillar as he watches you drag the chaise lounge across the atrium, muttering under your breath when you have to maneuver it around the small fountain in the middle of the space.

“Please.”

You shake your head just as you reach him, gesturing for him to sit down. His begging breaks your heart–it always has. But the thought of leaving him here with open wounds is worse.

“Let me see your arm.” He doesn't move, forcing you to become a bit more stern. “Acacius. Let me see the arm. I am not leaving until you do.”

A curse slips out under his breath but he does as told, sitting down and allowing you to inspect his wound. The rustle of the chain on his ankle breaks the quiet as he moves and you pointedly ignore it as you crouch down in front of him.

You let your hand hover above his skin for a moment, taking a small breath. It is still difficult to break the rules you have been taught for so long sometimes. You tell yourself that this is not even a sin, that you are merely caring for a wounded Gladiator. It tricks your brain enough to lower your hand onto his skin. You do not believe it tricks Vesta.

“He should not have fought you,” you mumble quietly, thinking back to how Lucius was swinging away the moment he entered the arena.

“He did not understand. And it is how the Colosseum works, you know this.” Acacius mutters back, tensing slightly when you run your finger over the cut the sword left on his arm. It doesn't seem too deep but you know Acacius must be in much more pain than he lets on.

“I hate that place,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the force of your words. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you stiffen when you feel a calloused hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before brushing over your cheek.

“Oh, sweet,” he mutters, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I am fine. I made it out, see? I promised I would.”

“They were going to shoot you,” you choke out, trying and failing to hold back the tears now slipping down your cheeks. You feel his lips touch the crown of your head briefly.

“But they didn't. Now, please, I will take care of this. But you have to leave.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and shake your head again, blinking a few times to clear your vision and shift your attention back to his wound. “How would you take care of this? They have sentenced you to death. The Emperors have called for it, in front of the whole empire.”

“I can talk to them. I have things to offer, even now. They do not know how to lead an army. But they need someone who does. And–”

“You would sell your soul to stay alive,” you whisper as you reach for a piece of cloth and begin to wipe down the crusted blood.

Acacius sighs. “No. But I would sell my soul to stay with you.”

When you stand in front of the mirror hung in one of the alcoves of the room, you turn this way and that, admiring the way the fabrics settle on your body, the red and gold shawl wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand reaches for a strand of your hair that is usually decorated with your infula, arranged to fit neatly below it. You’ve taken it off for him before. So why should you not take it off for yourself? Just for one night. No one would ever be the wiser. And even if Acacius does still despise you, you are certain he would not have you turned over to the Pontifex Maximus for a crime this small. Not when you both are guilty of much worse.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you arrange your hair without the veil, something you do so rarely you’ve almost forgotten how to. But after two failed attempts, you are successful in pushing a few parts back, securing them with a golden brooch and leaving the majority of your hair down.

“There we are,” you mutter to yourself, nodding in satisfaction when you give yourself one last once-over in the mirror.

It is already nearing sunset when you open the wooden door to peek down into the atrium, only to be met with the broad back of Rusticus. Of course. It would've been naive to think that Acacius has just relieved the soldier of his duties regarding your protection.

“Sir?” You ask softly, keeping the door open just enough to allow your voice to travel through the small slit. “May you tell the General I am ready?”

You hear rustling as the man turns around, pausing for a few moments as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“I just need to finish my … hair,” you add weakly, hoping to explain away why you won’t face him.

“Very well. I’ll be only a moment,” the man grunts before heavy steps begin to travel down the hallway and die down in the distance of the atrium below.

You slip the door shut again and step back into your room, a spacious but comfortable space. The side across from the entrance is lined with windows that look out to the sea, framed by cream-colored drapings that are so light they move with every blow of the evening winds. You stand beside them, running a hand over the soft fabric that covers the stone columns and your eyes trail over the small roads below, one or two altars visible even from here. Children are sprinting up and down the street, giggling as the older citizens prepare the offerings to be given to the deities.

A knock on the door makes you turn, the voice behind the wood unmistakable even when muffled. “You may enter,” you call softly, folding your hands in front of you.

“My lady,” Acacius gives a small bow as he steps inside, pausing when his eyes wander over your form. “You–” You can tell that he tries very hard to look at your face and your face only. “You are dressed rather lightly. Are you sure you will not be cold? It will be dark soon.”

“I will be fine,” you reassure him quietly, watching as he slowly closes the distance between you. He’s laid off his armour, switching the gold and white chestplate for a toga and cape that are worked with fine details, though not overbearing. You wonder if he chose it himself or if Lucilla picked it out for him but you don’t think he would appreciate the question so you stay quiet.

You are already on the stairs, slowly descending into the sunlight filled atrium together, when his eyes go wide and he pauses. “You forgot your veil,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “I will fetch it for you.”

“There is no need,” you say quietly and you can watch confusion spread over his fate, followed by disbelief when you fail to elaborate further.

“Is that allowed?” He looks genuinely concerned and you can't help it– you have to laugh.

“What?” He asks, his eyes still wide at this sudden display of joy.

“I am not on duty. I may take it off.” You shrug weakly as you descend the last few steps on your own with Acacius following closely behind you. “It may be … frowned upon in Rome but no one here knows me. A priestess does not carry a halo.”

“What if someone does? If someone does know you?” He presses.

“I would find a way,” you hum, listening to his steps as he follows you and appears at your side once again. “I don’t wish to be a Vestal tonight.”

You can see his eyes jerk to each side, no doubt checking if anyone is listening in on your conversation. But with no hosts and neither of you requiring many servants, the house above the sea sits mostly vacant. “You should not speak like that.”

“I don’t wish for gifts and gratitude and grace tonight. It is what I’ve known all my life. People do not see me. They see Vesta and the veil. We are so far from Rome–” You shake your head softly. “Who is to say I could not be someone else in these lands?”

Acacius’s attention has returned to you and he looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“The Compitalia is a day for all. Even slaves can act as free women and men tonight. How is it that a slave may do as they please but a Vestal may not?”

You watch his expression harden, his jaw twitching in the small way that you’re certain others wouldn’t even notice. It is the same expression you’ve watched him give his soldiers when they misbehave, the same one he had when he yelled at them for laughing at you the day you left Rome. But unlike them, you do not fear anything from him. He has already done what you feared most. No punishment could be worse, no sword could cut deeper than the words he spoke to you that night in the bathhouse.

“Do you wish to trade your place with that of a slave?” You expected him to be mad about defying him. Not about disrespecting those who are most disrespected in the Empire.

“No,” you admit quietly, bowing your head. “That is not what I meant.” The silence that follows your admission seems to settle onto the whole house and stretches uncomfortably. Acacius is the one to break it.

“Come. We do not want to miss the celebration.” He waits for you to step outside, closing the door behind himself and then resumes his place beside you. 

It is unlike any celebration of Compitalia you have ever seen. The streets are filled with people of all ages and backgrounds, men and women your age, parents, grandparents, children. An occasional stray slipping around people’s legs. The entrances to the villas lining the coastal town have decorations strung up above their doors; small woolen figures, some resembling men, others resembling women.

You nudge Acacius, nodding towards a house that has several of the figures dangling in the evening light. “What is their purpose?”

His eyes follow your gaze. “They represent those that live in the house. The figures are offerings, they are hung as a silent plea to the deities. The Lares and Mania spare those living inside and take their woolen versions instead. Do you see the cotton balls?” You nod and listen as he continues. In all honesty, you have not expected him to have such extensive knowledge of the customs in Brundisium. “They represent the slaves of the house, so that they may be spared as well.” The house and the figures fall away as you both fall quiet and continue down the small road, one that curves occasionally, looking almost like it is slipping through the legs of the buildings on either side the same way the animals are around your feet. Candles are being lit as the light begins to fade, the orange sky turning red. The busy street becomes less so and you relax your shoulders a bit, no longer trying to make your way through a crowd. And with your surroundings, it seems that the silence between you becomes more comfortable as well, less heavy than it was in the atrium.

“Do you miss Rome?” His question catches you off guard.

“No,” you respond before you can even really think it through. “I mean, a bit. I miss my friends. Severa most of all.”

“She is one of the other Vestals, correct?” Acacius hums, keeping his voice low enough that passersbys will not be alerted to your conversation unless they try very hard.

“How do you know that?” You blurt out, not bothering to hide the surprise on your face. “She has business with the Senators occasionally. So do I. I’ve crossed her path,” he explains quietly but you can tell there is something he is not telling you. One does not ask a Vestal her personal name just because she has business in the same room. You merely quirk your brow, signaling that you are waiting for him to continue. And to your surprise, Acacius sighs and obeys your silent ask. “I met her in the temple. When I was–”

“Praying?” You ask, ending the sentence for him. But he merely shakes his head, the smallest trace of a smile on your lips.

“I respect your goddess,” he starts quietly as the road takes another turn. “But Vesta is not who I came to see that day.”

He says it like it is passing news of an order fulfilled, not like he has just revealed to you that he was indeed looking for you the day you broke the water jug. You still remember the way he looked, the way he moved through a space that feels like the most intimate one in this world and all others. You were trembling with shock, with fear, that day. Not of him, even though you remember thinking it at the time. It was fear of the things that were happening inside you, the thoughts that he was prompting you to have.

“You said it would be a shame if you returned to Rome the same way you left it,” he says softly and you are thankful that the crowd has disappeared because you don’t think you could handle hearing these things from his lips while surrounded by people.

“I think there are experiences worth much more than gold to be had in other parts of the lands,” you agree. The small road has been leading down for a bit now and after another turn, it opens up to the sea on one side, the port and the ships anchored alongside it visible in the distance. They sway with the current, their masts and rolled up sails moving from one side to another in a steady, calming rhythm. The sun has just set and torches and fires are being lit along the coast, the people ready for celebration. “I think I could really be someone else here,” you repeat quietly.

“Then tell me; how does someone else feel about dancing?” It’s the second time tonight that his question catches you off guard.

“What?”

“Dancing. Moving your limbs around in a rhythm. Easier if there’s music,” he hums and you can tell he’s making fun of you. “The piazza at the end of Via Appia will be as alive as ever just about now. It is rather a sight.”

“Are you asking me to dance with you, General?” It is now your turn to smirk, waiting to see if your question will embarrass him. But if it does, he’s a master at hiding it.

“That seems to be the case, Dulcissima,” he whispers, his eyes following a woman pushing a cart into your direction. “Dear lady,” he calls out, stepping toward the woman with a smile on his lips.

“Forgot to bake your honey cakes, Sir?” She calls as the cart comes to a halt. Indeed, upon closer inspection you find the cart loaded with honeyed cakes, one or two large bowls filled with wool and a few bags of what you presume to be wine.

“Precisely.” Acacius gives her a broad smile, reaching for his coin purse and you watch as the woman begins to slip a few of the small cakes into a bag. A thought strikes you.

“Acacius,” you hum, stepping up behind him. “Do we need the woolen figures as well? If the Lares and Mania pass through the streets tonight.” You can tell by his expression that he may not pay the ritual as much value as you do but then his gaze softens and he nods, turning to the woman. “Do you sell figurines as well? Or only the wool?”

“You really are a forgetful one,” she laughs but nods, reaching into a wooden box. “Will it just be two?”

“Three,” you blurt out before Acacius can protest. “Two men and one lady. Please.” At his questioning gaze, you shrug. “Rusticus is staying in the villa too, right? You don’t want my personal guard at risk of causing upset to the deities?”

“Of course not,” he smiles at you as he hands the woman a few coins and you know that he is rather amused by your behaviour and your beliefs.

Acacius pays for the bags and the woman gives you a small smile. “Best remind your husband to get his protection for you on time next year.”

You chalk it up to years and years of smiling through uncomfortable conversations that you manage to stay serious and thank her. “Yes, I will make sure. He is just very forgetful sometimes. Age, you know.”

You feel Acacius stiffen beside you, his brow quirking ever so slightly as he sends a look your way. One that lets you know you will pay for your moment of fun sooner or later. The woman has returned to tending her cart, oblivious to what is happening in front of her eyes. “Here, have this. Enjoy the night.” She hands Acacius one of the flasks and he gives a small bow and another polite thanks before you move on, now loaded up with everything you could need for a proper Compitalia.

You can already hear the music from the piazza, the cheerful sound drifting over the water and onto the open sea, when Acacius steps to the side, fumbling with the bag and offering you a honey cake. “I seem to recall you like these?”

“I do,” you agree but don’t reach for it. “They are supposed to be given to the Deities. They’re not supposed to be for us mortals.”

Acacius makes a face, nudging the sweet treat into your direction. “We’ll save one and place it on one of the altars later. It is why I got two.” His hand is still outstretched, propping the honey cake up. When you still don’t move, he shrugs. “Please, if you won’t have it I will.”

Before you can protest again, he has raised the cake to his mouth and takes a bite, humming contently as the thick honey fills his mouth. “What a gentleman,” you mutter, reaching to take the treat from him. To your surprise, he lets go as soon as you’ve gripped it and you bring it to your own lips, watching as a fine string of honey extends from his mouth.

You watch him lick his lips and brush his thumb over the thick honey coating the corners while you take a bite. It makes you wonder if it is because of that detail that it tastes like the best honeyed cake you’ve ever tasted. “This is delicious,” you half-moan into your second bite and Acacius just nods in agreement. He waits patiently until you’re done, letting you chew in peace, both of you taking in your surroundings. The last rays of the sun have disappeared, leaving the sea to your right dark and quiet.

“She gave us wine?” You ask eventually, prompting to the flask he is holding and Acacius nods, handing it to you.

“She did. She also thought–” You know what he is about to say. You both do. And you haven’t had enough wine or honeyed cakes to have that conversation with him. Your fingers tremble as you open the flask.

“Well, she was wrong,” you state quickly, cutting him off before he even has a chance to say the words. “People make mistakes.” You tip your head back, allowing some of the wine to flow into your mouth, the bitter taste mixing with the sweetness the honey left behind.

That is, until your gaze lands on Acacius again. His smile has vanished. “Yeah. They do.”

You swallow and shake your head, silently offering him the wine. He drinks. Then, you both begin to walk again, heading closer and closer to the music.

Indeed, half the townsfolk seems to have gathered around the two columns, people sitting on the steps that lead down to the sea, altars set up around several of the crossroads. Women are twirling in their long gowns, laughter echoing around you. It is a beautiful scene.

“You promised me a dance,” you say softly and Acacius sighs, placing the bags and flask by the bottom of the stairs and offering you his hand. “We don’t have to,” you add quickly, not wanting to ruin the mood once and for all. Half an hour ago, he admitted to having sought you out in the temple and now this.

“I keep my promises, Dulcissima,” he hums and you step closer, placing both your hands in his, allowing him to lead you in a circle. “You may have been right in not wearing your veil tonight then.”

“And why is that?” You ask quietly, easing your body into the rhythm of the music and that of him.

He draws you in closer and you let him. His mouth comes to your ear, making sure that no one else can listen to words meant solely for you. “Because I am not sure people would appreciate me touching a Vestal like this.”

“I thought we agreed I was not a Vestal tonight,” you whisper back, letting one of your hands crawl up his arm until it settles on his shoulder.

“We did,” he agrees, picking up his pace as the musicians begin a faster song. He is so close that you can feel the heat radiate from his body, feel his breath on your shoulder whenever he steps closer. And his hand stays in yours, throughout every song, not once letting go.

“Thank the gods,” he whispers just as the song you were swaying to comes to an end.

The night air is cold and ruthless and he hopes that you managed to be back in your bed more quickly than him, a shiver running through his body as he ascends the stone stairs towards his bedroom. He leaves his shoes outside, wanting to make as little noise as possible. The door barely creaks and the sigh of relief is already on his lips when his eyes fall on Lucilla's form on the further side of the bed, sheets draped over her body, blonde curls peeking out at the top.

Acacius slips his clothes off, finding that his skin still feels as heavy as it did before. He looks down at his own body, like he expects it to carry a written account of what he did tonight. But there is nothing there.

So, he lifts the sheets enough to crawl under them beside his wife. Despite them having agreed on this arrangement, that they remain to be seen as lovers in public, it is another complication in the situation with you. He’s certain that he’s seen Lucilla pass into the temple of Vesta on one occasion or another and knowing she is a woman of deep faith, Acacius makes a mental note to ask her about it, maybe find a reason to keep her away from the temple–and more importantly, from you. It may not do well for you to see her after tonight. Or him. Which will be difficult to upkeep, considering you are set to join him on a weeks– if not months–long trip.

The General settles on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling when he feels the bed shift beside him. And even without light, Lucilla's eyes on him feel as clear as day.

For a few moments, neither of them speak. He wonders what she is thinking but he knows better than to ask. But he doesn't have to.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice doesn't carry a hint of accusation, sounding more like a gentle statement. A fact that is not to be changed. Like he had no choice but to leave her waiting throughout the night.

He hasn’t kept track but it must be nearing three in the morning by now.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes still quite not meeting hers. “I fell asleep at my desk.” He knows she doesn't want to hear about his work but he figures it may be better than the truth.

Lucilla sighs quietly, her hand stroking his cheek, dainty fingers rubbing over his beard. “Is it the campaign? How is your chest?” Acacius shakes his head, a silent denial that they both know isn't the truth. But for the second time tonight, the words he needs to say to a woman he loves seem to be stuck in his throat.

“It is nothing of the like. It has just been a few busy days.” Brown eyes meet blue just in time for him to see her face change as her hand reaches his hair, the tips still wet from the water. He can lie to soldiers and emperors alike. But not to the person that knows him best in the world.

“I wish you would tell me the truth.” She whispers, pausing briefly before adding; “But I understand why you don't." Her lips find his cheek and Acacius reaches for her. Before he can pull her into his embrace, she has pulled him into hers. His head settles against her chest and everything seems a bit lighter with her smell around him and her steady heartbeat below his ears.

“I did not want–” He pipes up, dimly aware of how broken he suddenly sounds but Lucilla just shushes him, one hand returning to pet his hair. It's why they still sleep in the same bed. Because they understand each other and she does not even make him tell the truth. She simply lets him cry into her chest until he wears himself out.

“Acacius?” She whispers eventually, the blanket tucked tightly around both of them. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything.” He hums, keeping his eyes closed. It feels too hard to open them.

“You will come back, right?” The tremble that was in his voice a few minutes ago is now found in hers and he inwardly curses himself for mentioning the campaign in the first place. “Promise me you will come back.”

“I always come back, my lady.” Acacius whispers, opening his eyes and looking up at her. This time with nothing but truth in his eyes. “I always come back to you.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied for now and his eyelids begin to droop again. “If not for me, come back to whoever it is that brings those tears to your eyes.” He barely registers the sentence, already drifting off into a land of dreams where you are still there, where there is no war looming and where no gods stand in your way.

***

Sleep won’t come. You braided your hair and hung your clothes out to dry the minute you snuck back into your bedroom, stuffed Acacius’s cloak deep into the wooden chest in the corner of the room, not wanting to see it, and by extension, to see him.

But the thoughts of tonight are all-consuming. His words echo in your head, occasionally interrupted by the memories of his touch or his moans.

‘I knew it was a mistake to talk to you in the temple.’

You inwardly curse yourself for ever falling for his stupid tricks, for letting yourself believe that he was actually interested in anything other than an illicit, fleeting version of love. One that you fell for because you were not supposed to have it, never did have it and likely never would. Everyone hears what they say about soldiers on the streets, about those passing through and spending their hard-earned money on whores wherever they go. You figured a General would be above such things. But clearly, you were mistaken.

The house of the Vestals is quiet at night, the women usually retiring rather early. Often, after passing through busy streets filled with drunks and thieves after nightfall, stepping back into the house below the hill with the large courtyard felt like an escape. No one bothered you here, even the lowest people too respectful to risk the safety of Rome’s priestesses.

Tonight, for the first time in very long, you don't find comfort in your room. You've never felt so much like you're stuck in a prison, your vows hanging like bars in front of your doors and windows. You have no way of avoiding Acacius, much less a way of leaving Rome.

“Oh gods–” Between the midnight meeting and the ensuing conversation, you completely forgot that you are due to leave in two days. The excitement in your stomach has turned into dread and you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. You rarely cry, usually just reprimanding yourself and deciding that your tasks are too important to get caught up in such childish emotions.

But the tears keep coming, quietly flowing down your cheeks and you rush back to the chest in the corner, pulling the dark cloak out and pressing it to your front as you crawl back into bed. You sling your arms around the soft fabric and imagine that it was him, that his calloused thumb would stroke your cheeks and brush your tears away. His smell surrounds you as you drift off into a fitful sleep.

***

You manage to avoid him the next day. You’ve accepted your fate, packing up the last things and saying goodbye to your friends. After washing your hair and stepping out into the sunlight, you feel much better, like everything that happened was just a bad dream. You’re ready to be polite and nothing more, to fulfil your duty as you have been asked to. Maybe it will lessen Vesta’s grievances against you, somehow make up for the sins you have committed.

The Vestalis Maxima is waiting for you with a large package of food when you step into the common room the morning of your departure. “Here you are, dear. I will take you to the General’s house, a few soldiers are waiting outside to carry your belongings.”

“Thank you,” you smile gently, taking the package from her and making your last round of goodbyes. Severa throws her arms around your neck when it's her turn, squeezing you against her.

“Be safe. And please, tell me everything when you get back.” She practically begs, reaching out to adjust your veil one last time.

“I will,” you promise, laughing quietly. “I will leave out no detail. You be good, yes?” She promises. Then, she hugs you again until the Vestalis Maxima steps forward.

“Alright, you two. It is time to go. Are you sure you are all packed? Are your clothes thick enough? It is cold today.” She gives you a once-over much like a mother would with a child, her gaze flying over each piece of clothing like she could judge their thickness just by looking at them. You reassure her that you have prepared well and she walks you all the way up to Acacius’s house, directing the soldiers behind you that carry your belongings. Then, she asks you to be good and serve Vesta well one more time, the soldiers leave to prepare the carriage, and suddenly, you are alone in the large atrium, only a few rays of sunlight filtering in so early in the morning.

It feels odd and you’re not quite sure what to do. You know the house fairly well by now but you remind yourself that this knowledge is only a reminder of your sins so you try and erase the memories. But your eyes are drawn to the same spot you kneeled down in, the first night Acacius touched you. The fish inside the small basin are as animated as ever, small ripples following where they move under the surface.

You raise your head when you hear footsteps from upstairs and as they draw closer, they are joined by two male voices. One you can’t immediately pinpoint but the other is soft yet deep and you swallow at the thought of standing in front of Acacius again.

He appears from behind one of the columns, talking with the servant who let you write the note. When they spot you, they pause their conversation and you can see Acacius’s face change ever so slightly.

“My lady,” he says politely. “I was not informed that you had already arrived.” He nods into your direction and then turns back to the young man beside him. “Eros, why don’t you go and fetch the lady a refreshment?”

“Of course,” the man named Eros responds immediately, giving you a small smile and turning towards the back of the atrium. Your voice shakes slightly as you speak, shaking your head. Your eyes fly back to Acacius.

“That will not be necessary. I had refreshments at home and brought some for the travels.” You’re not sure why you are doing this. It may take an hour or two before you actually have to leave and the refreshments from the kitchen are surely nicer than what is stored in your bag. But the way that Acacius won’t offer you anything himself, hasn't even told you to sit down–it bothers you more than you'd like to admit.

You feel Eros hover in his spot, looking back and forth between you and the General when Acacius smiles politely. “Very well. Then bring some refreshments upstairs please. I have to have a word with some of my men.”

The servant hurries away and the awkward silence between you and Acacius is cut short by another soldier walking in, carrying several maps and showing some of them to the General. You take a few tiny steps back and forth as you watch them and for a few minutes, Acacius seems completely enraptured by what's in front of him, tracing streets and seas with his index finger. It's like you're not even there.

“Acacius.” Lucilla’s robes move around her as she hurries past you, the General’s attention immediately on her. The soldier beside you has to repeat his question twice before you hear him.

“May I take the chest to the carriage, my lady?” There is a hint of impatience in his tone but he’s too aware of your status to make it sound like a proper accusation.

“Oh, of course. I am all packed,” you say quietly, your eyes never leaving the couple on the other side of the atrium. A sad smile spreads over Acacius’s lips and you notice his hand on her waist. You silently wonder if he touches her in the same places he did you, if he uses his tongue the same way, if he moans the same way.

“I want you to take it.” She whispers, barely allowing you to make out the words. You pretend to busy yourself with your stola, fumbling with the fabric that is draped over your arm, hanging on to every word that carries through the room. “It would be my honor if you wore it. And his.”

“Lucilla–” He mutters back and out of the corner of your eye, you see her holding something up to him, something so small that it is covered by her palm. “I gave it back for a reason. I wanted you to have it again after–” Acacius drifts off, his eyes suddenly flying to yours. Caught red-handed.

You cough awkwardly and step back, keeping your head low as you all but run out of the atrium, hearing their conversation start up again as you fall out of earshot.

***

“Your Vestal may give you trouble if she decides to deem listening in on high-ranking officials like yourself as appropriate.” Lucilla jokes weakly as she presses the ring into his palm. “She does not seem scared. I would have thought she would be, so young and never been out of Rome I presume.”

“She is not that young,” Acacius immediately responds before softening his tone again. He looks down at the gold ring in his hand, running his thumb over it. “I am sure she will be fine.” It feels like he is trying to convince himself as much as Lucilla.

She glances around briefly, making sure that no soldier remains in the shadows to listen to their words. “I wanted to join them when I was younger. After Maximus and I were separated in our younger days … it seemed more merciful to live a life of purity than have my father marry me off.”

“You never told me of that.” He hopes that the woman in front of him can't notice how strained his voice has suddenly become. “Why did you decide against it?”

He can tell that he has posed the wrong question by the way her face falls slightly. Acacius takes in the small crease between her brows as her blue eyes fly back down to the ring. “I had my reasons. And I imagine I never felt pure enough. And afterall, purity is in their name.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are very pure.” Acacius agrees quietly and their words just hang in the air for a moment. Would he have done the same if Lucilla had been wearing the veil? Would their paths even have crossed if it had not been for the loss of Maximus? Would he have touched her too, tainting her the way he had you?

A sigh leaves Lucilla’s lips, snapping him out of his thoughts, and she pats his cheek with the palm of her hand, touching him so gently that it feels like she believes he could fall apart at any moment. Not unlike you traced his scars in the thermae, like he was a vase that had been broken and was made whole again, only thin lines telling of his past. “Write when you can. And come back in one piece.”

“You know not everyone will.” Acacius whispers. Every assignment, every campaign means death. The price seems unbearably high these days.

“You are not conquering new lands. You are just keeping the peace.” Lucilla responds quietly, her eyes flying between his. She leans forward, giving him a gentle kiss. “Try and keep your own as well.”