He didn't look up. "The Senate, of course. Who else?"
"But… haven't you always said the Senate has failed? We've had bloodshed for nearly a hundred years. Civil war after civil war. Won't this bring more of the same?"
He finally turned to me, eyes steady. "The Senate will govern wisely this time. The people will support them. Marcus Brutus will lead us. He is honorable. Just."
I nodded, though I wasn't convinced. Brutus was no stranger. Everyone knew his lineage, he was the direct descendant of the ancient Brutus who had overthrown Rome's last king and helped found the Republic. Now, in this new struggle, people saw in him the same sacred purpose. It made sense, I supposed, that the conspirators would rally behind him.
"No more talk of this," Father said. "Now go, Lavia."
I turned again to leave, but paused at the threshold.
Another question pressed itself forward, one more personal, more immediate. The rest had been about politics and fate and Rome's uncertain future. This one was about my own.
"Terentius Noro…" I began, hesitating. "Must I truly marry him?"
Father looked up. "Of course. I've promised you to him."
"But, couldn't you change your mind? Tell him something came up. That the timing is no longer right?"
"I've given him my word."
I gathered my courage. "But I don't like him."
"You don't even know him," Father said sharply. "This is enough, Lavia. You're beginning to try my patience." He waved a hand, dismissing me like a servant. "Now, go."
I ran out into the garden, my vision blurred with tears, each step driven by a storm of emotion I could no longer hold back. My chest tightened with disbelief and betrayal. How could Father, my own father, give me away like that? To him? To Terentius Noro?
From the very first moment I had laid eyes on the man, I had recoiled inside. There had been something cold and calculating in his gaze, as if he were evaluating livestock rather than meeting the daughter of a Roman nobleman. I had dared to meet his stare, expecting… something, recognition, courtesy, even curiosity. But instead, he had turned his eyes away, as though I were beneath his notice. No greeting, no smile. Just silence. That moment had told me everything I needed to know.
And yet, Father had praised him. "A fine fellow," he had said. "Of excellent birth." As though lineage could make up for a lack of warmth or decency. What did excellent birth matter if the man lacked soul, grace, or even a shred of kindness? His expression was stern, his posture stiff, his presence unsettling.
Worse still, I had overheard part of a conversation between him and another man, a snippet that haunted me now. Terentius Noro had defended proscriptions. He had spoken about condemning others, not for crimes, but for opinions, for loyalties. He would destroy lives to preserve his own safety. I could still hear the voice asking him: "How many killings would satisfy you, Terentius Noro?" And his reply: "As many as it takes to make us safe."
Was that how "fine fellows" spoke? Was that the man my father had chosen for me?
The garden, my sanctuary, was quiet, enclosed by the high walls of our house, like a hidden world in the heart of Rome. The streets, with their noise and chaos, seemed far away here. This was the only place I felt I could breathe freely.
It was early March, and though the cold of winter still lingered, small blossoms had begun to peek through the soil, hopeful, delicate promises of spring. I had come here seeking peace, a moment to gather my thoughts and mend the cracks inside me before I fell apart completely.
Nothing in my life had prepared me for the blow I'd just received. It wasn't just the arrangement with Terentius Noro that hurt, it was the message underneath: that I didn't matter. My father had traded me like a piece in a political game and brushed me aside as if my feelings were irrelevant. In that moment, I felt invisible to him. Powerless. Betrayed.
And yet, worse than that, far worse, was the fear of losing him altogether. If the plot against Caesar were discovered, Father would be in grave danger. And if that happened… if he were arrested or killed… I would lose him completely.
Near the northern edge of the garden stood the statue of Diana, poised beside the pool. The sculptor had captured her in motion, forever stepping forward, bow in hand, the goddess of the hunt. She was painted in soft, natural tones, her golden hair like ripened wheat, her eyes gray and stormy like the sky before a tempest. She looked not like a distant deity, but a girl of my own age, fierce and free, untouched by the rules and bonds that chained me.
Of all the Olympians, Diana had always felt closest to me. She did not demand reverence from afar; she seemed to walk among us, watching, understanding.
I checked the garden quickly to be sure I was alone, then approached the statue with reverence and urgency. I extended my hands, palms open in silent appeal, and whispered, "Goddess, I have nothing to offer you, not yet. But I will. I promise. Soon. Please, whatever happens to Caesar, I beg you, protect my father. Let no harm come to him. And please… please don't let them force me to marry Terentius Noro."
I stood there a moment longer, letting the stillness answer me. Then, the sound of footsteps startled me. A household slave appeared, sent by my mother to summon me to dinner.
Knowing my mother's temper, I wiped my eyes and hurried inside. At the entrance to the dining room, I paused to rinse my hands in the cool water of the copper basin. The table had already been set, and the first course was being served. My mother and father reclined on their couches, conversing lightly as they ate, as if nothing at all had happened. My younger sister, Secunda, barely eleven years old, sat upright on the third couch, waiting for me.
I joined her, heart heavy, and took my place beside her in silence.
As always, Mother was flawlessly dressed for dinner. She wore a striking emerald necklace, the one Father had purchased for her at considerable expense, and her vivid, flame-red hair was swept up into an intricate crown of curls. She had an effortless elegance about her, a natural ability to arrange herself so that her stola draped in graceful folds whenever she reclined. People often said I resembled her, though, truthfully, the only similarity between us lay in our coloring. I hadn't inherited her composure or the artful way she moved.
"Well, daughter," she said, her voice smooth and composed, "your father tells me he's shared the news with you."
I looked toward Father. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and he gave me a pointed glance, a silent reminder of my promise to say nothing about the plot against Caesar.
I understood that Mother was referring only to the betrothal. Nothing more.
Meeting her gaze, I replied calmly, "Yes, Father has told me that I am to be married." I paused, then added gently, "Though I still hope he may reconsider."
As I lowered my eyes to the plate in front of me, a servant leaned in and began ladling steaming fish stew into my bowl.
"And why do you hope that he'll reconsider?" Mother asked, her tone perfectly neutral.
"Because I do not like Terentius Noro," I said plainly.
At my side, Secunda gave a nervous little laugh.
"Alfidia, " Father began, addressing my mother in warning.
But she held up a hand. "No, Marcus, let her speak. You usually enjoy Lavia's opinions. Why stop her now?" Then, turning back to me with a faint smile, she said, "I'm sorry to hear you dislike your future husband. Tell me, how has he disappointed you?"
I hesitated only a moment before answering. "I don't believe he's a man of integrity. He's changed sides, politically, and I think that says something about his loyalty. And… the way he speaks, it sounds like fear, not courage."
"You misjudge him," Father said firmly. "Recognizing one's mistakes and choosing to follow wiser counsel is not a betrayal, it's a sign of maturity and good judgment. Yes, Terentius Noro is cautious, but who among us wouldn't be, given the times we live in? He is a brave man, and an accomplished soldier. You'll come to see that in time."
"I don't believe it," I said softly, keeping my gaze fixed on the table. I didn't dare look up. I had just contradicted my father outright, and based on little more than instinct and emotion, not fact. Still, the words had escaped before I could stop them.
Father's tone tightened slightly, though he remained measured. "Terentius Noro has been praised many times for his bravery on the battlefield, praised by Caesar himself. And whatever else you might say about Caesar, he's an excellent judge of character."
"Is he?" I lifted my eyes now, meeting my father's gaze with more boldness than I felt. "Is that why he keeps Brutus so close? At his right hand?"
The moment the words left my mouth, I saw the shift in Father's face. His expression faltered, just briefly, but enough. His eyes widened, and I could almost hear his thoughts racing. For an instant, he must have feared that I was about to reveal too much, too publicly, about Brutus, about the conspiracy, about everything that hung in such delicate balance.
Mother, oblivious to the deeper meaning, caught only Father's reaction and turned it against him. "You see?" she said sharply, turning toward him with an accusatory glance. "This is what comes of indulging her too much. You've only yourself to blame, Marcus. You fill her head with politics and let her believe she has a voice in matters far beyond her place. You excuse her defiance. And now, here she is, speaking with open disrespect at your own table!"
I turned to Father, desperate to explain myself. "You've always taught me that without honesty, there is no honor. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, I'm just speaking what I believe to be the truth."
I hesitated, then added in a quieter, more contrite tone, "Or at least… what seems like the truth to me."
Mother was unmoved. "Go to bed," she said coldly. "You've forfeited your place at this table. You don't deserve to dine with us tonight."
I looked quickly to my father, silently begging for a word, any word, from him. Not because I cared about the meal. I had no appetite; food would only weigh down my stomach like lead. No, what I wanted was his support. His defense. A sign that he still saw me. That I still mattered.
But he said nothing.
The silence was worse than any punishment.
"Go," Mother repeated, her voice like the snap of a whip.
I stood slowly, then turned and fled from the room, hot tears already burning at the corners of my eyes. I ran through the halls of the house, past familiar walls that now felt cold and foreign, and into the privacy of my bedchamber.
There, I threw myself across my sleeping couch and wept, pressing my face into the cushions to muffle the sound. The tears came fast and hard, not just from anger or embarrassment, but from heartbreak. Heartbreak that the man I loved and admired most in the world had let me walk away, alone.