61 BC, Pompey's estate:
Percy's POV:
It had been almost two years since Percy, or Cornelius Perseus Pompeius, as he was now called, was dragged from the stables into the marble halls of Gens Pompeia's domus, but the air inside the villa never stopped biting.
Despite the fine tunics, the private tutor, and the gilded halls, Percy knew one truth: he didn't belong. He wasn't born of a Roman wife, He didn't spend his early life in great estates with servants, no he was the servant. He was the whisper in the corridor, the stain on the family name, the "eastern bastard" that Pompey had claimed.
The other children treated him like a shadow. Gnaeus, Pompey's eldest, Muchia's golden boy with the groomed curls and the arrogance of a future senator, never looked Percy in the eye unless it was to sneer or mock him.
But for some gods forbidden reason, Pompey put both him and Gnaeus through the same classes. Always the same subjects: mathematics, poetry, and etiquette. Their teacher was a Greek philosopher named Philip turned slave to repay debts, as Percy had heard was customary and fashionable at the time.
As time passed, it became clear that Gnaeus had the upper hand. He had spent his entire life studying, he was groomed to succeed Pompey as the head of the family. Percy, however, was filled with fury and annoyance not just at the lessons themselves, but at the looks, the whispers.
During one tense afternoon lesson on philosophy, Philip had asked them both to recite and comment on a passage from Plato's Republic. Gnaeus stood confidently, voice smooth and rehearsed, offering a well-memorized interpretation of the allegory of the cave. His posture was perfect, his words deliberate, earning a few approving nods from the household staff loitering nearby. When it was Percy's turn, he hesitated, stumbling through the translated latin, his accent betraying nerves and anger.
Gnaeus snorted. "Perhaps they don't teach philosophy in stables," he muttered, just loud enough for others to hear.
Percy's knuckles whitened on the wax tablet he gripped, his jaw locked as he forced himself to continue. Word by word, clumsy but unbroken, he delivered his commentary less polished, but heartfelt, raw, it showed he knew the material but he wasn't as fluent in Latin nor had he spent as much time as Gnaeus studying such stuff in his childhood, it didn't stop the whispers of the slaves and servants nearby:
"Look at what the bastard's doing. He's practically a barbarian."
"Didn't they say Graecus folk were intelligent? I guess like a mother, like a son."
After another day full of whispers and grueling lessons, Percy, as usual, snuck off to the stables, though it wasn't to see his mother. She was no longer around.
Pompey had told him she'd been moved to one of his villas in the Italian countryside, claiming, "It's important for her to be removed so you can be reformed into a proper Roman man."
Percy couldn't help but think: What a pile of bullshit.
No, he came for someone else, an old acquaintance. The black stallion.
He'd been officially named Bellator, meaning "warrior," but Percy still called him Blackjack. The horse seemed to prefer it too. Something in his ears perked up every time Percy said it. There was an understanding between them, one Percy didn't have with anyone else in the villa.
As Percy petted Blackjack and moved to fetch him some hay, he heard a voice behind him.
"If you have time to spend here with that horse, you should spend it learning. Maybe then we can make something of you."
Percy turned, already pissed off. His day had been long and full of tension. He didn't need another annoying voice to add to it. But when he looked, he saw Philip.
The old Greek philosopher stood in the doorway, his expression softened by a sad smile.
"Don't look at me like that, boy. I didn't lie. And as your teacher, I should always encourage you to study."
Percy let out a tired sigh. "Look, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I just can't catch up. Gnaeus has years of a head start, and the lessons are too difficult."
Percy stood up, brushing hay from his tunic, and began to walk past Philip, ready to call it a day and leave the old teacher to keep lecturing the air.
But Philip spoke again, voice calm and deliberate.
"You know, young man, you seem to come here very often," he said, glancing at Blackjack.
"So let's make a deal. You keep coming here, and by some strange coincidence, I'll keep showing up. While you're with your horse, I'll help you with your subjects."
He smiled faintly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "That way, you don't have to choose between what you love and what you need to become a proper member of gens Pompeia."
For some unknown reason, Philip kept his word. Every evening, Percy would sneak off to the stables, and not long after, the old teacher would appear always with a scroll in one hand and a calm patience in his voice. At first, the lessons barely stuck. But as the days lengthened and the chill of winter gave way to the bloom of spring, something changed. The numbers began to make sense. The poems started to feel less like riddles and more like stories. And slowly, quietly, Percy caught up.
By the time the spring flowers had fully bloomed, he was nearly at the same level as Gnaeus in their lessons. Even Pompey noticed, stopping by one afternoon to nod in approval, mutter something about "potential," and urge Percy to work harder.
A couple of days after that strange afternoon, Pompey - or as he insisted Percy refer to him as, "noble father" - left to tour his estates outside of Rome. He took with him a small retinue of slaves and servants, including Philip. Without the old teacher, the villa felt heavier. The lessons stopped. The long nights in the stables grew quiet. Percy hadn't realized how much he had grown to enjoy Philip's company until he was gone. Now, he was left once again with the cold stares, the stiff silence of people who didn't care, and the familiar whispers that returned like an old wound reopened.
Almost three weeks after their departure, Pompey returned. As was customary, Percy, along with Pompey's children: Gnaeus, Pompia, and the youngest, Sextus were brought to the villa's entrance to greet him first. When he arrived, Pompey welcomed them with warm smiles and small gifts, recounting tales of what he had seen on his estate tour.
After the stories, he turned to Percy and Gnaeus, asking if they wished to serve in the legions one day. Both boys answered yes. Gnaeus replied quietly, as if unsure or hesitant. Percy, on the other hand, hardly noticed his half-brother's tone. His mind was racing.
The idea of joining the legions stirred something in him. If he served well, if he earned enough, he could one day buy his mother's freedom. Hazel's too. Even Cassia's. Even old Philip's. A smile crept onto his face, a genuine and unguarded first real one he'd worn since entering the cold halls of the Pompeian household.
Soon after, Pompey introduced a new man to the household: Marcus. He was broad-shouldered, weathered by years of campaign, with scars like faded ink across his arms. Pompey introduced him with pride, saying he had served in his past as primus pilus: the "first spear", the most senior centurion of a Roman legion. Marcus had fought beside Pompey in many campaigns, and now, he was to serve as their magister militum, their combat instructor.
After spending the day training under Marcus's watchful eye, Percy felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Side by side with Gnaeus, the difference between the two boys had never been clearer. Gnaeus struggled under the weight of the training gladius and the bulky scutum, his movements sluggish and uncertain. Percy, on the other hand, picked up the lessons quickly: he moved like he belonged with a blade in hand.
But it wasn't the legionary kit that called to him. To Marcus's quiet bewilderment, Percy favored the spatha, the long cavalry sword, with its elegant reach and balanced weight over the customary short gladius. And instead of the heavy Roman infantry scutum shield, he took more naturally to the lighter parma shield, common among mounted auxiliaries. Marcus said nothing at first, only observing with furrowed brows and a curious smirk.
That evening, muscles sore but spirit alive, Percy retired to his room. But as night settled over the domus and the marble halls turned silent, he slipped away like he always did, back to the stables.
There, under the dim light of the oil lamp in the stables, Percy spotted the familiar figure—Philip, waiting by Blackjack's stall with his usual tired, knowing smile. But tonight, there was no scroll in his hand, no talk of poetry or arithmetic.
Instead, Philip held out a letter, carefully wrapped and sealed in wax with the impression of an olive branch.
"I told her I'd find a way," he said softly.
Percy blinked, already trembling as he took the letter. His fingers hesitated at the edge of the seal, afraid it might disappear if he opened it too fast. But when he did, and the parchment unfolded, he recognized the handwriting.
Unmistakably hers. After three years of silence
To my sweet, stubborn boy,
If this letter has reached you, then you are well, and that alone is more than I've dared to hope for in so long.
Almost three years at this point. Do you understand how long that is for a mother not to hear a word from her child? Not a whisper, not a glimpse. I didn't know if you were safe, or if a wolf had swallowed you whole.
I prayed every night. Not to the gods: they have never listened to women like me but maybe to one specific god. But that's something I might tell you about when you are older and out of that house,I prayed to anything that might carry my love to you. I don't know if it worked. I don't know if you'll even remember my voice.
But you were always strong, Percy. Not just in body. You were strong in your heart. You had the kind of fire Pompey dislikes because he cannot shape it, cannot own it. I know they tried to remake you, give you names that aren't yours. But no matter what they call you, you are Perseus, my son.
I want you to know: I'm alive. I am safe, for now. The estate is quiet. Too quiet without your laughter and your terrible singing. Hazel still remembers how you tried to stop that black death horse of yours when you were barely taller than its leg. Cassia says she misses you, but she still scolds the air like you're hiding behind every wall.
There hasn't been a day, not one, that I haven't thought of you. Wondered what kind of man you're becoming. Worried what kind of man they're trying to turn you into. But I know this: no matter how long they keep us apart, you are mine. You were born with your fists clenched and eyes open. That fire in you they can't put out. They can't.
I wish I could hold you again. Gods, I would give anything just to brush the dust from your cheek and tell you it's going to be okay. But for now, let this letter be my arms, my voice, my love. Write back to me, Philip will find a way. We'll keep finding ways, no matter what they build between us.
I'll be waiting.
Percy wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic, still sniffling slightly, He looked up at Philip with a crooked, familiar grin.
"You better have gotten me something good. You've been gone for three weeks," he said, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice cracked halfway through.
Philip didn't answer. He just gave him that tired, patient smile of his, the kind that always seemed to say you'll understand soon enough, then turned and walked away into the night like it was any other evening, leaving the boy alone.
Or so Percy thought.
When he turned back, sitting neatly on a low wooden bench beside Blackjack's stall, were two items that hadn't been there before:
A rein, crafted from polished leather, dyed a deep black, with bronze fastenings shaped like eagle talons: symbols of the legion. It shimmered faintly in the lantern light, it was a masterwork fit even for the richest of Rome.
And beside it a saddle, but not just any saddle.
A four horned cavalry saddle, used by Roman cavalrymen. Rare. Military. The kind not made for ceremony but for war. It was new, but rugged, the kind of thing meant to last for a lifetime of marches and battles. But what caught Percy's breath was what was etched on the leather straps.
One letter: P for Perseus
Not Cornelius Perseus Pompeius. Not bastard. Not a slave.
Just him.
He ran his hand across the edge of the saddle, over the horns, and let out a low whistle. "Blackjack," he whispered. The stallion snorted in recognition.
This wasn't just a gift.
It was a promise.
Let them whisper, let them sneer. Let Rome watch.
He looked down at the rein, then up at the stars above the stable's open roof.
"Thanks, old man," he said to the night sky.
Percy quickly gathered the saddle, reins, and the precious letter, holding them close for a moment before slipping quietly through the halls and hiding them beneath the loose floorboard under his bed, a secret place he'd kept since his first week in the villa. Satisfied they were safe, he lay down, still clutching the feeling of happiness, and drifted into sleep.
But peace didn't last long.
When he awoke, the villa was in chaos.
Footsteps thundered in every corridor. Slaves darted back and forth like startled birds, arms overflowing with clothes, fine silks, silverware, and gold accessories. Shouting echoed from distant rooms half-orders, half-accusations. The household, always stiff and cold, now buzzed like a beehive under siege.
Percy pulled on his tunic and made his way into the corridor, dodging a servant carrying a box of scrolls. He finally grabbed the arm of a young kitchen slave who looked ready to bolt.
"What's going on?" Percy asked.
The boy glanced around, whispered quickly, "The dominus divorced Muchia just this morning!" and then disappeared around a corner before Percy could ask another question.
Percy stood frozen.
Pompey had divorced Muchia. The matron of the house. The woman who ruled these halls like a lioness.
After Muchia left, escorted with all the dignity of a Roman matron returning to her gens, her children remained in Pompey's household as the law dictated. In Rome, children belonged to the paterfamilias, and until they reached adulthood, they were his property in the eyes of both gods and men.
At first, the household tried to return to normal.
The slaves resumed their chores with lowered heads, Philip and Marcus returned to their lessons, and the halls echoed once again with the sounds of recitations, footsteps, and muffled laughter. Even Gnaeus, spiteful as ever, kept his usual routine, though with a sharper edge to his tongue.
But the tension lingered beneath it all, invisible but unmistakable. It hung in the air like the heat before a storm, pressing against every word and glance. Even the horses in the stables seemed restless, sensing what the humans wouldn't say aloud: something was coming.
And then, as spring gave way to summer, it happened.
The bubble burst.
It was a normal afternoon.
The sun hung heavy over the peristylium, casting long shadows across the training courtyard. Gnaeus and Percy were locked in yet another sparring session under the watchful eye of Marcus, the seasoned primus pilus who had been drilling them in swordwork and formation since early spring.
Their wooden swords clacked and rang as they moved, Percy nimble and light on his feet, Gnaeus heavier, more practiced in theory than in instinct. Marcus gave them a curt nod before stepping away, called off briefly by a servant.
And in that moment of absence while the two boys put their wooden weapons back in their place the heat between the boys simmering for months boiled over.
"You know," Gnaeus said through clenched teeth, lowering his sword but not his voice, "this is all your fault, Cornelius. You and your Graecus slut of a mother."
Percy froze, jaw tightening.
Gnaeus pressed on, his face flushed with fury. "Do you not hear the slaves? Do you not listen when they whisper? They say my noble father divorced my mother because of you. Because some slave - who knows, maybe even your bitch mother - told him she cheated." He spat the word like poison. "My mother would never! It's all ox crap. Lies."
Percy said nothing. His hand gripped the training sword tighter.
Gnaeus stepped closer. "It was probably your bitch of a mother, trying to worm her way higher in this house. And now, with my mother gone, mine and my siblings' place is weaker, because of you."
The courtyard was silent except for the distant chirp of cicadas. Percy's breath came slow and even, but his eyes were stormy, his sea green eyes full of fury.
Then he spoke, voice low and razor sharp.
"Say one more word about my mother… and I'll make you eat that wooden sword."
Gnaeus scoffed, that same smug, sneering expression twisting his face, the one Percy had come to know too well.
"No, Cornelius. This is a vendetta." He let the word hang in the air like a blade drawn in the dark. "We taught you enough to know what that means, right? You half-breed, up-jumped slave bastard."
Percy's heart thudded once, hard. Vendetta.
He knew what that meant. Everyone in Rome did. It wasn't an insult. It was a declaration. A blood feud. A vow that this wouldn't end until one of them was crushed, disgraced or dead.
Gnaeus, seeing Percy frozen whether from shock, or fury, he couldn't tell. Smirking cruelly, his hand moved deliberately to the weapon rack, bypassing the dull wooden training swords.
Instead, he grabbed a real gladius.
Iron. Sharp. Forged not for training but for war, meant to cut through bone and armor alike and spill the life from a man's veins.
He turned, holding it loosely in his grip like it was a toy, but still Percy could see the tension in his knuckles, the tremble of adrenaline barely restrained. The gladius caught the sunlight, gleaming like an omen.
"Are you going to act tough now, stable boy?" Gnaeus taunted, stepping forward. "Let's see how Roman you really are."
Percy couldn't believe it, not until the gladius whistled through the air, aimed straight for him.
His instincts took over.
He sidestepped, heart hammering in his chest, narrowly avoiding the blade. In the same breath, he lunged for his training shield and brought it up just in time to bat Gnaeus's sword arm aside. The sharp clang of iron meeting wood rang through the courtyard, startling a few birds into flight.
Then it hit him: not the blade, but the feeling. Pure, wild adrenaline. A surge of something deeper than training, more primal than form. Rage. Not just at the insult, but at the years of whispers, of sneers, of being less. And most of all the way that arrogant brat dared talk about his mother, the woman that raised him. He wouldn't let that slide.
Gnaeus came at him again, but Percy was ready now. He raised the shield, braced himself, and blocked the second strike. The blow reverberated down his arm, but he didn't flinch. He didn't stop.
He shoved forward, smashing the edge of his shield into Gnaeus's sword arm. The older boy yelped, and the gladius clattered to the ground, spinning across the stone floor. Percy didn't hesitate—he stepped in, twisted his body, and swung his shield full force into Gnaeus's face.
The strike landed with a sickening crack.
Gnaeus staggered back and fell hard onto the stone tiles, blood already trickling from his nose. Dazed, gasping, humiliated.
Percy stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles white around the shield strap.
And for the first time, Gnaeus looked up at him not with mockery.
But with fear.
Percy didn't care. The years of biting his tongue, of walking with his head down through gilded halls that spat him out every day, had all led to this. Something inside him snapped. Something older than reason, something deeper than pain.
He slammed his shield into Gnaeus's chest with a heavy thud, climbed on top of him, and let the rage take control.
Fists crashed down like thunder. One. Two. Three. The soft crunch of bone. The slick feel of blood. Gnaeus writhed beneath him, his cries turning from angry to pleading.
"Stop please…stop!"
But Percy didn't stop. He didn't hear the words, not really. He saw the years of whispers, of slurs spat at his mother's name, of being treated as less than dirt. Each punch was another injustice. Another insult. Another scar reopened.
Blood smeared across Percy's hands, down his arms, painting his knuckles red. Gnaeus's face was a mess of purple and crimson, swollen and leaking. The shield had slipped from Percy's grip but his fists worked with the same fury, even as they stung with each impact.
A voice sharp, commanding, and ice cold cut through the thick heat of rage like a blade.
"Enough."
Percy's fist only stopped mid swing when the man grabbed it. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
Footsteps, measured and heavy, crossed the courtyard stone. A silence fell, deeper than before, as every slave, every servant nearby held their breath.
"I said… enough, Cornelius."
Pompey stood at the edge of the training ground, his senatorial toga trailing dust, his eyes fixed on the scene before him, not with immediate anger, but with something colder. Something scary.
Percy slowly pushed himself off Gnaeus, breath ragged, hands dripping, knuckles raw and shaking. His chest heaved. Gnaeus lay broken beneath him, whimpering and bloodied, his face barely recognizable.
Pompey looked down at his firstborn son, his heir, and said nothing. Not a word of comfort. Not a hand offered. His face was filled with worry but also disappointment.
Then his gaze turned to Percy.
Something flickered there. Not disappointment. Not even fury. Interest.
He stepped closer, speaking low, only for Percy to hear.
"You kept beating him after he couldn't fight anymore." He glanced back at Gnaeus.
Percy's mouth opened slightly, as if to protest, but Pompey raised a hand to silence him.
"Go clean yourself." His voice was calm, too calm. "Come to me after."
Then, turning to a nearby servant, he added flatly, "Fetch a physician. Make sure he survives. If he doesn't… you don't need me to spell it out for you."
He didn't look at Percy again.
Percy sat alone on the edge of the training courtyard.
The dust clung to his tunic, now stiff with dried blood. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the dull ache that came after fury. His knuckles were swollen, his skin split open in small jagged lines. Each time he looked down at them, he didn't feel guilt. He felt… hollow.
The slaves had taken Gnaeus away, dragged him actually, half-conscious and moaning. Marcus hadn't said a word, and neither had Philip, who appeared at the edge of the courtyard just as Pompey had walked away with a simple command:
"Clean yourself. Come to the atrium. Now."
Percy obeyed, but not quickly.
He moved through the villa halls like a ghost, his bare feet leaving faint red tracks on the marble floor. No one dared speak to him. No one dared meet his eyes.
He reached the baths and stripped off his tunic. It hit the floor with a wet slap. In the water, he hissed when the heat stung his torn skin and his bruised ribs, but he bore it. He always bore it.
The blood swirled in the basin, curling like smoke in wine.
He sat there for a long time. He washed slowly, methodically. His face, his arms, under his nails. When he was done, he dried off and dressed in a plain white tunic, clean and undyed. His knuckles for some reason already healed with only red color left to indicate the fight earlier.
Then he stood, drew in a sharp breath, and began walking to the atrium.
The villa seemed too quiet now. Too big. The whispers and the noise that usually clung to Pompey's home were gone, replaced by something else, something that felt like waiting.
As he reached the atrium doors, two guards stood by. They didn't stop him. They stepped aside.
Percy pushed open the doors. The air inside was cooler, shaded by the painted ceiling and columns. Pompey stood by the impluvium, hands behind his back, staring into the shallow pool of water at its center. He didn't turn when Percy entered.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Pompey said, quietly, without looking back, "you lost control of yourself Cornelius. That must never happen. You are a son of gens Pompeia, you are my son. Do not embarrass me again: there will be no second try."
Pompey's voice was too calm. It didn't carry anger. It didn't carry warmth either. Just cold authority, honed over decades of command. The kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard.
"Go to your room," he said, still staring into the pool. "Grab the reins and the saddle you thought you hid from me."
Percy froze.
Pompey finally turned, his eyes like flint. "Yes, boy. I know. I've always known. That old Greek still thinks he's so clever but he forgets every slave here reports only to me, their master."
He took a step forward, hands now folded in front of him, his voice lowering.
"Bring them. And meet me in the stables."
There was no room for argument. No space to ask how he knew, or why now. Percy simply nodded once, turned on his heel, and walked out. His stomach was twisting, but his face remained set because fear was something you never showed in Pompey's house.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just about Gnaeus anymore.
When Percy reached the stables, the scent of hay and sweat hit him like a wave. Familiar, grounding. He stepped through the open archway, saddle and reins in hand, heart still pounding from everything that had just unfolded.
Pompey was already there, arms behind his back, overseeing a few slaves who hurried to prepare two horses. One was a chestnut mare with a smooth gait, her coat brushed to a gleam, clearly a leisure horse, all elegance and docility. The kind the elites of society paraded through city roads or used for calm countryside rides.
The other was different.
Blackjack.
The great black stallion stomped the ground with impatience, his mane wild, his eyes sharp. The moment Percy stepped into the stable, Blackjack whinnied loud and deep, the kind of sound that filled the rafters and echoed like a call to battle. He reared slightly, tugging at the reins until one of the slaves hissed and stepped back.
Percy didn't hesitate. He crossed the distance and held up a hand, speaking softly. "Easy, boy… it's me."
The stallion calmed immediately, snorting and nudging Percy's chest with a familiar stubborn affection. Percy gave him a small smile and gently placed the saddle over his back, tightening the reins with practiced ease.
Pompey watched the scene unfold silently, saying nothing for a long moment.
Then, without turning his head, he spoke, his tone unreadable.
"Mount up. We're going for a ride."
And just like that, Percy realized this wasn't a punishment. Or a test.
This was something else entirely.
It took some time for Percy to fasten the reins and fit the saddle onto Blackjack. The stallion, still towering over him with his powerful frame, shifted restlessly with excitement, testing Percy's balance and patience. More than once, Percy had to steady himself and calm the horse with a firm hand and a quiet word.
Mounting him was another task altogether. Blackjack wasn't exactly helping. But Percy was stubborn. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the saddle horn, took a running step, and with a huff of effort and a scraping boot, hoisted himself up.
And then he was there.
Perched atop the black stallion, high above the stable floor, the wind in his hair, the world felt... different. Not distant. Not foreign. Not hostile.
It felt right.
More right than anything Percy had ever done in his life. Not learning Latin declensions. Not sitting through hours of recitation. Not walking the marbled halls of Pompey's domus in fine tunics pretending he belonged.
This, this was where he belonged. The saddle under him. The reins in hand. The breath of the stallion rising and falling in rhythm with his own.
He felt in place.
He felt at home.
He and Pompey rode in complete silence for what felt like an eternity. The road wound gently through the countryside, golden fields swaying under the late afternoon sun, the hooves of their horses the only sound between them. Percy kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, hands gripping the reins just a little too hard.
Eventually, they reached a small hill, and Pompey brought his horse to a halt. Percy followed suit. Below them lay a wide stretch of land. Vineyards, pastures, and a scattering of villas in the distance. The world seemed quiet up here, far away from the chaos of Rome, of politics, of blood.
Pompey turned to look at Percy, his face calm but unreadable. "Your rage," he said at last, voice steady. "I can't say I don't know where it comes from. Neither your mother nor I are strangers to wrath."
Percy's voice came sharp, low, and bitter. "My mother? Why bring her up now, after everything you've done to her? Was it not enough? Can't you just leave her alone?"
Pompey was quiet for a long moment. The wind tugged at his cloak, the horses stirred beneath them, but he stayed still. Then he exhaled slowly and spoke again.
"Your mother," he said, almost like a confession. "I'm... complicated about her."
He looked out over the valley, as if the answer might be buried in the dirt below.
"The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must. That's the saying, isn't it?" His voice held no pride, but no shame either. "I was strong. So I took what I could. And she was weak. So she bore it."
His gaze met Percy's then, cool and unwavering.
"Do not think I regret it," he said. "It was only natural."
Pompey's voice softened, almost to something human, almost to something like kindness.
"But she had you," he said, his gaze heavy on Percy. "And you, Cornelius… I can see it. You're destined for great things. There will be no greater joy for me than to watch you surpass me."
He reached out, placing a firm, calloused hand on Percy's shoulder.
"I regret not finding you earlier," he said, not looking away. "Had I known, truly known… I would have taken care of you. And as much as I detest that Graecus woman, I would not have made her toil as she did. She gave me a gift far greater than I deserved. You."
Percy stared at him, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with quiet rage and confusion.
"I have to punish you for your actions today so I will cut off the messages your mother passed to you. Don't worry, when you prove yourself, I will let you continue writing to her and even more."
Percy once again just looked at the man in pure confusion, how much did he know?How did he know? Why didn't he punish him harder?
"So leave your grudge behind," Pompey continued. "Let your father help you make something out of yourself. Not as the leader of Gens Pompeia. Not as the great general. But as your father… who loves you."