Chapter Text
For the second time today, you find yourself in the bath. But where there was once laughter and excited chatter, you now soak in the warm water in absolute silence.
You and your servants had made the journey back to your room swiftly, air heavy with shock. Melissa made quick work of removing the braids she had so meticulously and delicately woven on your head as several others helped you out of your clothing. You don’t know what Artemisia did with the dress once they removed it from your body. The gentle baby blue fabric was bruised with crimson wine. It seemed damaged beyond repair, though that meant nothing to you. Your mind was empty and you felt numb as they gently coaxed you into the private bath in your quarters, the warm water already prepped with your favorite oils.
Many of them quickly ducked out of the way—you think either to care for the young servant boy you brought back with you or to begin the Herculean task of attempting to remove the wine stains from the delicate fabric.
Artemisia and Melissa were the last to leave, hovering around the exit as they reminded you to call for them should you need anything before leaving and closing the heavy curtains behind them.
You are unsure of how much time has passed since then, but judging by the impressive pruning of your fingertips and the lukewarm temperature of the water, it has been quite a while.
You silently thank Apollo as the pounding in your head, which you imagine to be from both the fall and the copious amounts of wine you drank, has slightly subsided. The nausea in your stomach has abated as well. You make a mental note to make a libation to him later.
You stare up at the ornate, circular ceiling which is covered in murals of the gods. The dim lighting makes it difficult to make out the details, but you can see Venus lazing with Adonis on the top of a grass-covered hill. The idyllic scenery seems to continue, but you can’t be bothered to observe it much more.
Leaning back against the granite lining of the bath and closing your eyes, tiredness seeps into your bones as the weight of the situation begins to truly dawn on you. Your home, or what was your home, is no longer for you to claim. What numbness had dulled your senses and saved you, really, from the overwhelming wave of emotion, now ebbs away, leaving behind a heavy, twisted knot in your stomach. A sob heaves from your chest and something in you cracks as tears begin to flow freely down your face.
Octavian’s voice, cold and condescending, echoes in your ears and the image of his incensed eyes are burned into the back of your mind.
The illusion of excitement and new beginnings has died away, leaving nothing but bitter reality. You pull your knees in and curl into yourself, crying into your hands as Octavian’s threats echoed in your head.
The thought of him brings back a new wave of nausea. You curse yourself for being so foolish, for having tricked yourself into thinking that you could make this work if you were kind or friendly enough. You let out a tormented scream, breaking down into another fit of sobs which rack your body without remorse.
You cry and scream until nothing is left, your voice is hoarse and raw, and no feeling holds you except for anger; seething resentment towards your father, Octavian, and everyone who had part in placing you in this exact predicament.
Your breathing is ragged as you step out of the bath, dressing yourself in a silk robe left on the neighboring ottoman.
Stepping out from behind the curtain, you see that many of your servants have made themselves scarce, most having retired by this late hour. The few that remained watch you apprehensively as you quietly make your way to your bed.
“Your sleeping gown, Ma’am,” Artemisia offers a simple cotton sheath, “would you like help?”
Too tired to speak, all you can do is nod and allow Artemisia to help you slip into the garment. She ties the back with deft fingers before stepping back as you climb into bed.
“Thank you, Artemisia. Please extend my gratitude to the others as well.” You offer her a small smile, which she returns.
“Of course, My Lady. Please rest well and we will figure out how to proceed tomorrow.” She bows slightly before ushering the lingering servants out of the door, blowing out candles as they go until you’re encompassed by darkness. To your left, the moon shines brightly over the balcony. You fall asleep watching the stars twinkle and wishing you are dancing among them in their heavenly palace where you are far out of Octavian’s reach.
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You make yourself scarce in the following days, Octavian notices and it annoys him, though he cannot quite understand why it bothers him so. He has attempted to approach you on several occasions, but you have managed to evade his advances every time as a dove swiftly flees from the talons of a hawk. As soon as his deep gray eyes land on yours, you are quick to duck into a nearby room or quietly slip away as someone approaches him with non-trivial matters. The latter scenario has happened so often, Octavian is almost certain it’s intentional.
He almost had you cornered yesterday as you walked from the atrium to your quarters, scroll in hand. He knew you were aware of his presence since your pace slightly increased when he entered your line of vision, though you didn’t dare to look at him.
“Valentina,” Octavian had reached out for your hand, following in close pursuit when Cicero slid in front of him, effectively cutting him off from you. Octavian could have sworn he saw Cicero exchange a look with you as you passed by, though you say nothing and continue without a backwards glance.
“Gaius, I’ve been meaning to speak with you regarding some of the logistics of the Senatorial dinner that will be taking place here in a fortnight.” Octavian could only watch your figure recede in the distance before shooting an annoyed look at the orator. Cicero didn’t so much as flinch, saying coolly, “Shall we proceed?”
Octavian inwardly groans as he revisits the memory. It is painfully obvious that you have been avoiding him and your cold shoulder is aided by essentially everyone in the household. He is too proud to ask anyone about your whereabouts, though he is certain that no one would be willing to reveal that information to him anyway.
He makes his way into the study, promptly shutting the door behind him before turning to his desk. He unfurls a piece of papyrus containing several swatches of various fabrics and colors from the designer Cicero recommended. The triumvir sighs. Perhaps gifts would resonate with you more at this time.
He neatly lays out the blocks of fabric before him and stares at them in confusion. What color would you like? Did you ever mention a favorite color to him? Should he order a dress of a lighter fabric for the warmer climes of approaching Spring or would you prefer a heavier material? Octavian’s gray orbs dart across his desk top and he bites his bottom lip, deep in thought.
After several minutes of pouring over the swatches, he silently curses to himself, annoyed by the ridiculousness of the situation. He is Octavian, one of the most powerful men in Rome. Why is he stressing over clothing for a mere girl—
The knock on the door of Octavian’s study comes suddenly. The stylus in the triumvir’s hand stills at the sound and he exhales a soft sigh. There are several anticipated visitors today, none of which Octavian is too keen on speaking with at the moment. He softly places his stylus down and pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to recall the day’s agenda in an attempt to anticipate who might be bidding him at this time.
It could be some of the Senators representing the Populares, who have been requesting his time for the last several days in order to discuss farming litigation. Octavian glances over to the westward window which boasts a crisp, blue sky and soft, fluffy clouds. Helios still lingers high above the roof out of sight, meaning that he still had ample time before he should be expecting their arrival.
Perhaps it was Cicero who wanted to prepare their shared speech for the next Senatorial meeting? Or maybe—
There’s another knock at the door, louder and more commanding this time. Octavian stiffened and quickly turned towards the door. A loud voice, although dampened by the thick terracotta walls, resounds through the house and into the office, followed by a flurry of softer, panicked calls from various servants. There was only one person who had the gall to make so much noise in this house. Octavian quickly rolls up the fabric and tucks them away amongst the multitude of scrolls piled on his desk.
“It does not surprise me that I have found you right where I left you last.” Octavian watches as Marcus Agrippa saunters into the study without warning, an easy grin on his face. Several servants trail after him with panicked looks on their faces; they know too well the price of untamed rowdiness in their master’s presence. Octavian simply dismisses them with a nod. So caught up in his excitement, the blonde doesn’t even notice how a smile makes his way onto his own visage, mirroring his close friend. Octavian is quick to stand up and make his way to meet his friend.
“Marcus, it is wonderful to see you again.” The two men grasp each other in a strong, unwavering embrace.
The general lets out a hearty chuckle, “likewise, Brother.” He releases Octavian from his grasp and takes a moment to survey the room. “It nice to see that not much has changed in the time that I have been gone.” He casually leafs through the various tablets and papyri that litter Octavian’s desk. “The study still looks like Neptune has summoned a tempest within its walls, the servants scamper around as fearful as ever...” Marcus offers Octavian a mischievous smirk, “And your skills with women remain dreadfully poor from what I hear.”
Octavian raises a brow, amused by his friend’s straightforwardness, as Marcus walks past him with his hands behind his back, pretending to peruse through a nearby bookcase filled with scrolls on military tactics.
“You seem to be in a pleasant mood. I take it your campaign in Philippi went well?”
Marcus hums, pulling out a scroll and unraveling it. “Indeed. The rebellion there was quelled quite quickly as you already know. I have stationed a three-hundred man garrison there with armed colonial reinforcements on the way, per your orders.” Marcus replies with a practiced nonchalance.
With his back turned to him, Octavian can’t see the smile playing on Marcus’ face, but he doesn’t have to, to know that the general is toying with him.
“As always, I am pleased with your success. I hope that you will find your time in Rome restful before your next deployment.”
Marcus sighs dramatically as he drops himself onto a nearby sofa. “There is no hope of rest for me, Octavian. The duties of the general always call me, whether it be to train my soldiers for the complexities of battle or to oversee my companions in the difficulties of love.” Octavian can only scoff as his friend theatrically waves his hand around in the air, mimicking flicked wrist gestures that Cicero often does in his judicial defenses.
Octavian rolls his eyes, walking over to the table at the back of the study where the wine is kept. “There is no need for your assistance, general . I think you will find that I am quite capable without your… instruction.” He grabs two glasses and a decanter of wine and places one of the vessels in Marcus’ waiting hand.
“Hm, you think so? My reports have told me otherwise.” The brunette’s voice gives way to a teasing lilt. The idea of splashing some of the wine on Marcus’ white toga flashes briefly into the young man’s mind, though he quickly dismisses it. While it would be a fast way to wipe the smug look off of his face, cowhide is incredibly difficult to clean.
Octavian observes Marcus as he drinks his wine. He had gotten considerably darker from his time in northern Greece though his stature remained the same. Growing up, they were always close in height, though Marcus was always taller, sturdier. It had worked to his advantage when they would spar together but Octavian had prided himself on how his nimbler form allowed him to outrun Marcus in their frequent footraces. His brown wavy hair fell haphazardly on his forehead, probably rustled from the helmet that accompanies his uniform.
“You seem to have a lot of time for leisure for someone of such a high pay grade. Perhaps you should spend more time evaluating the reports from me rather than the ones about me, no?” For a second, Octavian allows his eyes to flick up from the wine being poured to Marcus, who did little to conceal the amusement on his face.
The general barks a boisterous laugh which easily fills the emptiness of the study. It’s melodious sound, like the music of Orpheus which attracted animals and trees otherwise unmoved to his presence, coaxed similar laughter from the stoic triumvir.
“Your wit remains as sharp as ever, old friend. I admit that I was worried when I heard the news of your betrothal, that perhaps your new girl would make you soft. I’m glad to see that does not seem to be the case.” Marcus nods approvingly as their glasses meet with a gentle clink . “I look forward to meeting her,” he continues, “and I hope happiness finds you two swiftly.”
Octavian smiles stiffly, quick to drink the wine in an effort to hide the discomfort plastered on his face. Perhaps not all of Marcus’ “reports” have made their way back to him just yet. “For now, I think peace might be a more… reasonable request.” Marcus stills, his cup to his lips as he takes in the suggestion behind Octavian’s words.
“Peace? That’s what you say when you’re in the middle of negotiations after being knee deep in gore—” Marcus puts his glass down and regards Octavian with a steady gaze, “what happened?”
“It’s nothing of your concern.” Marcus rolls his eyes. “You should just know that meeting Valentina on amicable terms is highly improbable at the moment—“
“And why is that? I’ve heard nothing but good things about her from Lepidus’ generals. She sounds like a wonderful woman, Octavian.”
“Yes, I am well aware, Marcus, but as things stand our relationship will need more time for…” Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up as Octavian trails off in an attempt to find the right wording. “Amends,” he finishes.
“By Hercules, man, what did you do?”
“He struck her.”
Both men whip their heads around at the sound of a woman’s voice. At the door stands Artemisia, her head held high and hands folded neatly behind her back.
Octavian groans as Marcus gapes openly at him. “What are you doing in here? Don’t you know that this office is off-limits?” There’s no time for Octavian to assume the mask of a proud triumvirate. His words are spoken in the tone of a young man who is equal parts embarrassed and hopeless.
“Cicero directed me here,” Artemisia responds, picking at some dirt under her nails. “I’ve come with a message—“
“—Wait just one moment, please, ma’am,” Marcus offers Artemisia his patented smile, the one that leaves girls swooning with a simple flash. Augustus rolls his eyes. She raises an eyebrow at him but does not argue. Marcus quickly turns to the triumvir, “Octavian, you hit her? You laid your hands on Lepidus’ daughter? Have you lost your mind?” Marcus whisper-shouts, eyes darting back to Artemisia, who is standing next to Octavian’s desk.
Octavian rubs the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Things got out of hand. I was trying to discipline one of my servants and she intervened—”
“So you hit her??”
“Shoved her to the ground, actually,” Artemisia pipes up, leafing through the fabric swatches on the desk, much to the triumvir’s mortification. “She hit her head on the ground and suffered a concussion—“ Marcus rubs his face in his hand and lets out a tortured groan. “—but the physician assured us that the worst of her symptoms have gone for good. She will be fine.”
Octavian shoots up and strides over to her, scooping the fabric from her hands in one deft movement. He doesn’t need to see his reflection to know his skin has turned a bright red; the way his cheeks and neck burn make that abundantly clear. He clears his throat, as if that’ll do anything. “I suggest that you explain yourself now before making yourself scarce.”
“With pleasure.”
Octavian narrows his eyes at the attitude, but says nothing.
“Mistress Valentina intends to vacate the Domus Augusti in the upcoming days.” Octavian opens his mouth, but Artemisia continues, “ However , I and the other servants realize the opportunities that Rome has to offer for Valentina’s benefit. And while we are no more supportive of this union than she is—“ Marcus scoffs. Artemisia pays him no mind. “—we think it would be good for her to stay in Rome as the academic institutions here far surpass the ones back home. We are willing to keep mention of your transgression away from Lepidus as long as you provide Valentina with the care she was promised.”
Octavian and Artemisia regard each other in silence for a moment with equal gazes. Even though she is easily two heads shorter than he, she shows no sign of cracking under the pressure that many often succumb to under the heady spotlight of Octavian’s stare.
“Is this your attempt to blackmail me?”
“No blackmail, sir. Simply a suggestion for how we can move past your… mistake.”
“And what do you have to gain from this…?”
“Artemisia,” she supplies helpfully.
“Artemisia?”
“My Lady’s happiness.”
“That is all?”
“That is
everything
, sir," she corrects.
Octavian pondered over her words for a moment. “And assuming that Valentina would be interested in exploring her academic interests here, what would the Domus Augusti have to offer?”
A small smile breaks onto Artemisia’s face as the triumvir concedes. “We hear that many poets tend to frequent the city. Perhaps one may be interested in taking on a student?”
“Perhaps.”
Artemisia nods in understanding and turns around to take her leave.
“Oh and another thing,” she pauses at the threshold and turns back to Octavian. “My mistress likes the color of lavender and Roman climes are a bit too oppressive for wool, wouldn’t you agree?” They both glance at the swatches still in Octavian’s hands. “Her favorite dresses are either linen or silk. They’re soft and gentle, and remind her of the roses she loves.”
By the time Octavian looks up to thank her, Artemisia has already taken her leave, as silent as she had arrived.
Marcus lets out a low whistle. Octavian bristles, having briefly forgotten about Marcus’ presence. He turns to face his general, a light blush tinting his cheeks.
His general quirks an eyebrow. “Seems like we have a lot of work cut out for us.”