THE FALL

Livia’s heart thrums fierce and wild, as if to break free from within her. And with her breath racing unchecked, it only pushes the muscle to work harder. She had stopped here, just outside the door, to find her courage, but she worries she may not be able to.

Fear. She cannot allow herself to show it, not when she walks into that room.

She’s not had much experience in this - entertaining guests and such. She’s barely had time to stay in one place long enough to keep a household. And it was all the fault of the monster beyond the door, the one currently lounging in her home, despite the fact that she knows he’s been told of her husband’s absence.

What could he possibly want with them? How would he even know where to find them? The questions chase through mind, round and round, enough to make her head seize in pain.

Eyes closing as she sets a cool hand on her forehead, she reminds herself that they’ve done no wrong, she and her husband, and that many others have been shown mercy for falling on the wrong side of this civil war, most of them far more dangerous politically.

Livia absolutely does not think about the hundreds of senators who’ve been put to death. Nor the hundreds more innocent men, women, and children who lived within the city she’d been hiding in, and had now been sacked. All as a warning.

She grounds her teeth in frustration. This isn’t helping, and she can’t keep him waiting forever. Peering at the slaves who stand unmoving in various places around the atrium*, she wonders if any of them would lift a finger to help her if she should need it.

Not likely.

With a deep breath, followed by another, she knows she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.

Stepping lightly within the room, Livia admits surprise to see him where he is. Not lounging on their lectus, drinking her husband’s wine as if he owned all, but standing tall and straight, eyes taking in the words of Greek Poets that she’d left here the night prior.

His long, elegant fingers hold the papyrus with care as he unfurls the scroll a bit more, and she half wonders if he’s read it before.

She must make some sort of noise, or perhaps he senses her presence, but either way, the attention that had been all for the words in front of him, is now focused solely on her. She tries her hardest to suppress the signs of her obvious fear of him, attempting to appear as poised and unconcerned as he.

“Sappho,” she says foolishly with no explanation, before clearing her throat, and hoping the strange greeting hasn’t given her away.

He nods, glancing at the scroll before rolling it again carefully. ”At mere sight of you, my voice falters, my tongue is broken.”

He’s only quoting, but with his calculating gaze and precise enunciation, it seems to glide from between his lips with a different purpose.

“My apologies to have kept you waiting.”

He waves it away with a stiff politeness as he sets down the scroll. “No need, I came unannounced. It’s I who should be apologizing.”

He reminds her a bit of the cat that roams within her home. All long and lithe, its movements graceful yet deliberate. And its eyes... so sharp, she’s certain it doesn’t miss a thing as it stalks its prey. And when his eyes flit down to her throat for the briefest of moments, she worries he’s caught the flutter of her heart.

She’s his prey, she realizes darkly, swallowing down the desperation to flee.

Needing an excuse to look elsewhere, and gather some strength as she does so, she offers him wine. He declines. And when the thick silence sets between them once more, she feels like a silly girl who’s never learned how to play homemaker - she’s no idea how to do this.

“I’m afraid my husband’s not here.”

Holding out a hand to the lectus, he silently asks her to sit, so she does, easing down onto the cushions as gracefully as possible, and he in the sella across from her.

“It’s not him I’m here to see.”

She’s not certain how to reply to that, uttering a soft oh as she tries not to squirm under his piercing gaze.

“When are you due?”

Her arms wrap protectively around her swollen belly. “Four months. Perhaps three.”

He doesn’t appear relaxed, she notices. Confident, yes, but not relaxed. And she wonders if she makes him nervous as well.

But why ever would that be?

“My wife, Scribonia, is also with child.”

A polite smile pulls at her lips. “Congratulations. I pray the gods grant you a healthy one.”

“And you as well.”

“Your first,” she asks. This façade of deference is becoming a bit easier to portray as they go on. But then perhaps that’s what he wants - to lure her into a sense of contentment before striking.

“It is. And I hope I am up to the task.”

“I’m sure you will be. You are...” He waits patiently for her to finish, but she’s not sure how. He is so many things. A cruel murderer, a scheming tyrant, or perhaps simply just the monster that haunts her nightmares. “Strong.”

“And you, this is your second, yes?”

Her breath catches, and she reminds herself to control her reactions.

How would he know that? He must’ve asked - learned of her family. But why? And how much danger are they in if he’s so interested?

Does he know about her father, she wonders, who fell on his own sword instead of allowing himself to be captured by him. Or her husband, an honest man who would not back down from his beliefs, and as punishment, has spent years on the run?

Those were her years, too. Ever since she was newly married and first pregnant. No safety, no security, always paranoid of those who would swear loyalty or friendship. Escaping into the night, fleeing from city to city - this last one still in ruins, it’s ground soaked in blood. All to try and keep one step ahead of he and his accomplices - so eager to snuff out any opposition.

He’s taken much from her. But she knows he can still take so much more.

“Yes, this is my second.”

The wooden seat creaks beneath him as he slowly leans forward - a hushed, unnerving sound that interrupts the stillness that’s fallen between them. And as he moves in, crystal blue eyes caressing her face, she feels exposed before him, both in body and in mind.

If someone told her he could read thoughts, she would not doubt it.

“Second of many, I hope,” he says, voice smooth like silk, raising gooseflesh along her arms for reasons far different than fear. It leaves her surprised - unsettled that she could be so easily enticed by him.

Throat gone dry, she swallows hard, though it doesn’t seem to help. She watches, almost in a daze as he pours wine into a cup before offering it to her.

How can she refuse.

Their fingers brush as he hands it off, and his fingertip caresses faintly across her knuckles and over her skin as he holds on a bit longer than is necessary, before finally releasing.

She misses the delicate touch almost immediately once it’s gone. What a silly girl she is, indeed.

Her thrumming heart is still prominent, but now it’s begun at her center as well, her thighs pressing together subtly, but needing so much more as she spies him over the rim of her cup, watching every pull of her throat with a fierce intensity - soaking in every movement she makes, as if he too were dying of a thirst that only she could quench.

She breathes out a thank you, and his lack of a response has her mind clamoring through the cobwebs of lust that’ve gathered there, to think of something to fill the silence. Because she’s realized that the silence has become dangerous ground to tread.

Perhaps it’s from the wine, or the strange light-headedness of desire flowing throughout her, but she’s suddenly feeling very brave. “May I speak plainly?”

“Always,” he replies with such a hushed fervency it has her rethinking. But she pushes forward despite.

“Why are you here, Gaius Caesar?” As brave as she might be feeling, she still makes certain to use his new, official name since he’s arrogantly replaced his old, with that of Caesar’s.

But his dark brows furrow, and she worries she may have misstep. “Gaius Caesar. It’s what I’m called by senators and soldiers - strangers. I would like very much for you to call me Octavian.”

His name has has been formed by her lips many times. Spit out and cursed. But she’s not certain she can say it here, like this, all sweetness and civility.

But oh, she wants to. “Octavian.” It clicks and rolls around her tongue with ease, licking her lips after. “Why are you here?”

The sella creaks yet again as he sits back, elbows set on the arms as his fingers lace in front of him. It’s a kind of pose that gives off an air of contentedness and self-assurance. But one could also say he hides behind it, as if to protect himself. Though why he’d need to protect himself from her, she’s no idea.

“I noticed you at Senator Quintas’ gathering the other night. I’m told that you are a devoted and virtuous woman.”

She almost can’t help the quirk of her lips, but removes the smirk before it can be noticed. Looking past it all - his history of bloody suppression and minds manipulated - she believes she’s uncovered the truth of his visit now, and it’s quite comical. He’s merely a boy, barely older than she, and he’s infatuated with her.

“That’s why you’ve come? Because I am a devoted and virtuous woman?”

Now it’s he who swallows thick and heavy, appearing as a cornered animal, and she would be lying if she says she doesn’t enjoy it immensely.

“No,” he finally says, eyes unblinking while he stares into her. “I’m here to ask you to marry me.”

Nose flaring and eyes widening, she can feel the blood drain from her face. She thought he’d come hoping for a tumble. But this?

The fingers of her hands, interlaced demurely in her lap, grip each other painfully. “I am married. As are you.” Both obvious facts that he’s seemed to have forgotten.

“Divorces are attained easily enough,” he swiftly counters.

Easily enough, especially when you’re the most powerful man in the whole of the Republic.

“I cannot, Caesar.”

“Octavian,” he corrects with a soft kindness. And she despises it, despises how false it is, how guileless he tries to appear, when she’s experienced first hand what he’s capable of.

“I will not.” It’s ground out deep from within her, her hate not hidden at all. She should be terrified - and indeed she will be after - but for the moment her vitriol has risen to such a height she cannot continue any longer.

She stands swiftly, intent on abandoning the man who can bring about the death and ruin of she and her family. But he’s faster, and she gasps when he halts her exit, not by holding her back, but by dropping to his knees in front of her, arms held out pathetically at his sides with his palms up.

He doesn’t hold her there with violence, but with shock.

“Reject and hate me as you will, but I promise you, it will not cool the adoration and reverence which I hold for you.”

She cannot hold back the scoff that escapes her. She’s heard many a times of his brilliance, of his cold calculation, and his ability to sway even the most steel-minded men. But this love-sick boy at her feet cannot be him.

“Nor the yearning that burns me as I kneel here at the alter of you.”

Her eyes roll inside her head. Quite the preposterous, flowery one he is - though she still doesn’t leave. “You’re mad.”

For perhaps the first time in years, she truly feels without fear, and whether it’s from the shock of his proposal, or the fact that she feels an alluring - not to mention disconcerting - fascination with him, she isn’t certain.

A boyish grin is slow to his face, but it completely transforms his entire aura into something playful, appearing for once as his true age. “Perhaps. But love is an unruly beast.”

“Love? You speak of love. You do not even know me.” Despite how false his current dramatics are, they make her believe that perhaps she can do the one thing she’s wanted since she’s learned of her father’s death.

Condemn him for what he’s taken from her.

“So let me tell you, Gaius Julius Caesar,” she begins, mocking his pathetic need to be seen as his illustrious uncle. “My father, a respectable and loyal man died because of you. And I have spent my entire adult life fleeing from one city to the next, waking up everyday with the fear of wondering if this day would be the one your soldiers would find us - finish us. My life has broken over and over again. Because of you.”

His arms are now fallen as he looks up at her, the discomfort of his features making him appear remorseful. But she’s heard, by both her father and husband alike, that he is a cunning player in games of deceitfulness.

“It’s true. I don’t deny the pain I’ve caused, or the blood that paints my hands - innocent and not - all to bring stability back to the Republic.”

She’s about to call him out on sounding like every other man who excuses their actions with good intentions, but what he says next floors her.

“As well as satisfying my own ambitions.”

It’s an admission she’d never get from another man - not even her righteous husband.

“And while that will never cease, I swear to you now, I will never hurt you again.”

The naivety of such a statement goes against every story she’s ever heard of his intelligence. “How can you promise something like that? You cannot promise something like that.”

“Because while I cannot replace what I’ve taken, I will take no more from you.”

It’s a truly tempting offer for someone who’s lived the last few years of her life dreading what she would lose next.

“I will give you all that you desire. A home for you to keep, which will never be stolen. A life of influence, or of quiet service, or somewhere in between. I don’t care. It’s yours. And I will use all of my power to make it possible, and to make certain that, above all else, you are protected.”

Words have left her, leaving her mute and dumb. Her lips part in silence and her mind is in utter shambles. How does one deny their dreams when offered up on a silver platter?

“And my children,” she whispers, because what is it all worth without them.

“Happy, educated, and wanting for nothing.”

Livia watches him for a time, trying to discern any insincerity. But she only sees a desperate, almost childish need for her approval, and it gives her an intoxicatingly dominant feeling she’s never felt before this moment.

“You promise the world. But I’m not so foolish enough to think that you can truly give it. Or that even if you can, you will continue to do so when you simply tire of me.”

He opens his mouth to deny it, but her voice comes out strong, demanding to be heard. “Lustful desire is fleeting, and makes men rash.”

He remains silent, weighing her words - contemplating them instead of merely dismissing them with his own. Because of her sex, it’s not a way she’s often treated, and it has her view of him softening against her will.

“That’s also true.” His boyish grin reappears, and her heart flips at the sight of it despite herself.

“We shall fight, and perhaps even wrestle with bouts of unhappiness with each other. I will make you wish to strike me, I’ve no doubt. And me you, even. It’s only natural.”

He moves then, sitting up higher on his knees as his hands come up slowly to rest on her hips with a gentle, light pressure she can easily break away from.

“But even so, know that I will never desert you. Because when our fight is over, I will always return here, on my knees. Whether to use my tongue to apologize profusely, or to punish you, makes no difference. I will be here.”

Even as every inch of her screams how indecent it all is, how shrewd and manipulative the man before her truly is - he cannot be trusted. But Livia cannot ease the harsh, irregular breathing, nor the blood beginning to pool warm within her cheeks.

“Most men do not know their own minds, only for their desire in the present moment. But I know who I am, and who I can become, and with all possible versions of me, present and future, I know I will want you always.”

This is the moment to make a choice - a choice that has the possibility to change her situation drastically. But is she brave enough to take such a dangerous leap? And if she does, will she be able to forgive herself?

She lifts a hand, brushing a strand of his brown hair from his forehead, fingertips trailing with hesitance along his hairline. It’s with a tenderness she does not feel, but she doesn’t wish to stop, and instead gives into the desire to touch him.

“I accept.”