74 BC, Rome:
Stratonice couldn't help but wonder how life had twisted around her in the past year. Once a princess, then a prisoner, then ironically made a servant to the very woman Pompey called his wife. Mucia Tertia. Rome's example of a matron of dignity, draped in silks and pride. Stratonice had served her silently, first as a handmaid, then as a midwife when Mucia's child came into the world. She'd cleaned the linens, whispered soothing prayers, and carried the newborn to his cradle like a ghost in the walls.
But now… now her belly had begun to swell.
Whispers crawled through the household like ivy: that the Graecus slave, the so-called "princess," was carrying Pompey's bastard. The soldiers joked behind her. The slaves muttered when they thought she couldn't hear. And Mucia looked at her with eyes too sharp for any woman's kindness. Even when she said nothing, Stratonice could feel the weight of her gaze like a blade.
The thought made her sick. That they thought she bore his child. She wanted to scream, to curse the gods for the injustice of it.
But she didn't.
Because when the rumors grew too loud, she would sneak away in the stillest hour of the night, find a quiet corner near a pond, press her palms to her belly… and feel the warmth. The strange, pulsing strength that had nothing to do with Rome. Nothing to do with Pompey.
She knew the truth. And it was far greater than any of them could ever understand.
Mucia never once mentioned the rumors. She didn't scold Stratonice, didn't confront her, didn't spit or sneer. She simply smiled, a cold smile like marble , and sent her to the stables the next morning without explanation.
It was a hard job. Grueling. Every day she was up before dawn, scrubbing floors slick with dung, hauling water buckets that strained her back, brushing horses. She bore it all in silence. The stink, the cracked hands, the pitying glances from the older slaves. She endured it because she had no choice, because pride was a luxury for the free.
And then, as winter lifted its gray veil, the pains came.
She labored on straw and dirt, with only a few other slave girls that she befriended during her time in the estate. The horses watched her in the dark, their breath rising like ghosts in the cold night air. She bit down on her shawl to keep from screaming. Her nails dug trenches in the hay. And then he came. Her boy. So small. So impossibly fragile. His skin was pale, the kind that would turn golden in the sun, and his little hands curled like sea-shells. A stubble of black hair crowned his head, but it was the eyes that stopped her breath. Bright green, like sunlit waves. The slave woman that helped her in the delivery said he had her eyes.
But she knew better. They were Neptune's.
She held him close, heart thundering, her tears soaking his skin. Her boy. The only thing in this world that was hers.
She needed a name. Something to hold him by, to anchor him to a future she could still barely imagine. And then it came to her: Perseus. The only Greek hero who got a happy ending.
And gods willing, that would be his fate too.
63 BC, Pompey's estate in Rome:
Percy pov:
Percy woke up with the kind of wild energy that only eleven year olds possessed, the kind that made his mother groan as soon as his bare feet hit the floor. Stratonice - already sore from yesterday's labor and sore in ways that never healed - barely managed to drag herself up and throw together a rough meal of bread, figs, and cheese.
After eating in silence, the kind only morning routines can create, mother and son stepped out into the cool Roman dawn. The sun had only just begun to rise, casting long golden shadows across the gravel paths of the villa. The estate was already stirring with the quiet rhythm of work water splashing into basins, chickens squawking in protest, voices murmuring in many tongues.
On their way to the stables, they passed Cassia and her daughter, Hazel, both unmistakably Numidian with dark skin and almond eyes. Cassia had been one of the few kind slaves that helped at Percy's birth, a fact she reminded him of every chance she got. "I practically dragged you into this world myself," she'd say with mock pride, mussing his hair until he squirmed away.
Hazel grinned as soon as she saw Percy, and as they started talking about the money Hazel scammed a poor guard out of. Then Percy grinned back it was that look that Stratonice had come to dread: the "I'm about to do something stupid" look.
Before he could open his mouth, Stratonice caught his eye and switched to Greek, her voice low and tight. "Percy, the dominus of this estate is returning to Rome today. It's the first time in over a decade. Everything must go well. You must not draw his attention. Am I clear?"
Percy made a face and rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom. I'm not a little kid. I know what to do."
Stratonice gave him a long look. "Not a little kid, no. But still small enough to ruin everything without meaning to."
She glanced down the path toward the great house, its tiled roof gleaming in the rising sun. The master was coming home. And gods only knew what that would mean for all of them.
Work passed as usual. The stable was warm with the musk of horses and the scratchy sound of hay being dragged across stone floors. Percy moved through the narrow aisles between stalls with practiced ease, dragging bundles of hay, brushing coats, checking hooves the way Cassia had taught him. He liked the work. More than that—he felt something in it. Like the horses understood him, and he understood them in return. They always seemed calmer when he was around, their nervous snorts turning into soft puffs, their stamping hooves settling as he passed.
There was one memory he returned to often from when he was about 9 and just starting to help his mom in the stables.
Cassia had hoisted him up onto the back of a bay mare once, just for a moment. She had whispered, "Hold tight," and they had walked slowly, the mare's trot was gentle, like a lullaby in motion. Percy still remembered the way the world looked from up there: taller, freer, like the air itself was different. He felt like someone else. A warrior, a prince, a real human instead of a slave.
But then his mother came.
Stratonice had snatched him down so fast his sandals barely touched the ground before she was already scolding him. Her voice had trembled—not with anger, but fear.
"We are slaves, Percy! We take care of those horses for the masters of this household; we don't ride them! If someone sees you, they won't ask questions, they'll punish you! Do you understand that?"
He had nodded, scared more by her panic than the threat itself. She hadn't spoken for hours after that, her silence heavy and hollow.
Soon after, Percy was yanked out of his quiet rhythm by a piercing scream high, panicked, and unmistakably Hazel's. He dropped the brush from his hand and sprinted outside, his heart slamming against his ribs.
What he saw nearly stopped it altogether.
A massive black stallion tore through the open yard. It was larger than any horse Percy had ever seen, its mane and fur as dark as the night's sky, its hooves pounding like an earthquake. For a heartbeat, Percy could swear it had wings—vast shapes, like folds of night trailing its sides but when he blinked, there was nothing there.
What was real was the danger.
Hazel stood frozen in the middle of the yard, too terrified to move. The monstrous horse was galloping straight for her. Percy didn't think he moved. Sprinting, arms out, he threw himself around her small frame, turning so his back faced the incoming hooves. He shut his eyes and braced, ready for the crushing blow.
But it never came. Instead, there was silence. Then the gentle huff of warm air on his neck.
He opened his eyes.
The stallion stood just inches away, snorting and puffing like a living storm. The beast's dark eyes, strangely human in their intelligence, were fixed on Percy. It tilted its head, then lowered it slowly and nudged him.
Percy blinked.
Then the great beast licked his cheek.
Hazel let out a breathless laugh from under his arm. Percy stayed still, stunned. The stallion gave a soft nicker and leaned in again, nosing at Percy's hands like it was begging for scratches.
Percy, still trembling, hesitantly reached up and ran a hand over the stallion's powerful neck. The beast practically melted under his touch.
Stratonice came running, her eyes wide in horror. "By the gods Perseus!" she gasped. "That's the dominus' new war stallion! Mucia bought it specifically from Thessaly all the way in Greece to give to her husband for his return for his decade long campaign. Come, we need to leave quickly before Mucia, or worse, Pompey will find you."
She was cut off by a sharp, authoritative voice booming across the yard:
"Who is this slave boy, and why does he have his hand on my horse? Does he not fear losing that hand?"
The sound froze the air. All three heads. Stratonice, Percy, and Hazel snapped toward the speaker.
He stood on the stone path leading from the villa, flanked by two grim-faced attendants. A tall Roman, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, his features were carved from arrogance and command. He wore the white toga of a senator, the rich purple stripe marking his status like a brand. His eyes, cold and calculating, were fixed on Percy with a venomous curiosity.
Stratonice stepped forward quickly, hands clasped, head bowed low. Her voice trembled despite her effort to control it. "Dominus, forgive us. He is young, he didn't know whose horse it was. He only sought to protect his friend from danger. Please, show mercy in your benevolence."
She turned to Percy and tried to nudge him subtly, a silent plea to speak to apologize. Not for decorum. Not for herself. But out of fear.
Fear of what he might do to her son.
Because she knew what he was capable of. She had lived through it.
And now, as his sharp gaze flicked between mother and son, recognition flickered in his eyes-not full understanding, but something unsettling, something too close to memory. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
Percy, still standing beside the towering stallion, felt her desperation before he understood it. He glanced at his mother's pale face, then at the Roman's hard stare.
The stallion gave a low, almost threatening snort.
Before the air could settle, another voice cut through it. Sharp, honeyed with venom.
"Dear husband," Mucia Tertia said, arms crossed, standing with the poise of someone born into power and discontent, "do you not recognize your own bastard? The embarrassment you brought to my house?"
The words rang out like a slap. A hush fell. Even the servants nearby stilled, eyes cast downward, ears straining.
Pompey turned his gaze slowly back to Percy, now with a flicker of realization deepening the creases of his brow. He studied the boy, his green eyes, the black hair, the proud jaw clenched in defiance. Something settled in his mind.
"How old are you?" he asked, tone unusually quiet. "And what is your name?"
Percy met his gaze, chin slightly lifted, voice soft but firm. "My name is Perseus. I am eleven."
Pompey's eyes narrowed. "The age adds up…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Even if your name is too… Graecus."
Then, louder: "From now on, you are Cornelius Pompeius, my son. Even if your blood is stained, we will make something of you."
He stepped forward and seized Percy's arm, meaning to drag him toward the villa.
But Percy wrenched back, voice rising with sudden heat "No! My name is Perseus, not some name you made up on the spot!"
Gasps whispered from nearby mouths. Stratonice covered hers. Even Hazel looked pale.
Pompey paused his grip tight, but his expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Fine, boy. Let no one say Pompey doesn't care for his own blood. From now on, you are Cornelius Pompeius Perseus. Are you satisfied now?"
Percy stared back but not defiantly, but in pure shock.
He gestured for Percy to follow.
"Then come."
Just as Pompey turned with a wave of his hand for Percy to follow, a flicker of memory danced across his face. He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing, then let out a low, cruel laugh, one that felt rehearsed, like a line he had waited years to deliver.
He turned back to Stratonice, his tone dripping with triumph.
"Ah, I nearly forgot." He pointed at her like one might point at a broken malfunctioning tool, ready to be thrown out. "Remember what I promised you? Back in Hispania when you still had fire in your voice and hope in your eyes?"
Stratonice froze, her nails digging into her palms.
"I told you," he went on, "that I'd bring the East to heel. And I did. Tigranes is broken. Armenia kneels. And Syria, your precious home is now a Roman province. How fun it was watching your people squabble, too proud to bend, too weak to hold."
The words hung in the air like ash after fire.
Percy turned to look at his mother, confusion swimming in his young eyes. But Stratonice said nothing. Her body was stone, but her eyes, gods, her eyes burned like the first fire Prometheus brought to mankind.
Pompey clapped Percy on the shoulder with mock warmth.
"Come, my son. You're Roman now. It's time you learned what that means."
And with that, they walked away leaving behind a mother with her fury, and a name she would never forget.
As Percy walked beside Pompey, his steps slowed, his small fists clenched at his sides. Each stride away from the stables felt like a betrayal. Behind him, his mother stood, her frozen eyes glistening not just with tears, but with a rage he had never known she carried. It scared him.
The grand villa loomed ahead, its white marble shining like a temple, but to Percy, it looked cold. Alien. Hostile. This was the place he had mucked stables for and now it would be his prison.
Pompey, noticing the silence, didn't look down. He simply said, as if speaking to no one in particular, "You'll learn to be grateful, boy. I gave you more than any slave could dream of."
Percy didn't answer. His mind was loud with all the stories his mother told him how this man had stormed through the East with fire and steel, how he had taken things that didn't belong to him, how he had taken her.
And now, as if that wasn't enough, he wanted to take him too.
Percy's jaw set, eyes forward, heart pounding.
I will never be one of them, he thought. They can call me Cornelius, give me a toga, teach me Latin till I speak it in my sleep, but my name is Perseus. I am my mother's son.
And as he crossed the villa's threshold, he made himself a silent promise:
"I'll learn everything they teach me. Their language, their games, their ways. I'll smile when they want me to smile. But one day, I'll make them remember. I'll make him remember. And I'll make him pay."