DIANA LAID LIMP as the Sun presented its golden robes on the mighty walls of the House of Livianus, a family held in high-esteem by the people of Rome; its very roots holding the framework and ears of the Senate.

Laurels ever so often crown the brows of men hailing from this noble family, disgrace blooming out of its doors virtually unheard of. Imperators, senators, praetors and consuls immortalize their legacy by presenting busts of bronze and marble to the threshold of this glorified house which served as their pedestal.

But hundreds of years after the Genesis of a superpower, its elite was thrown into mayhem as the only heir of Livianus was found unmoving in his cot. Aquila Livianus, the revered domina of this household, discovered the corpse in the wee hours of the morning. Decked with grace and beauty, she is comparable to Sparta's wraith of Venus who was sent to enslave hearts of nobles and slaves alike. However, seeing her son absent of breath made exquisite features turn into nothing but mere shadows.

A scream of mother's anguish pierced the stillness of dawn like Apollo's arrows, rattling inhabitants from their slumber. Regulus, her spouse of 5 years, found her curled up in a pool of silk and jewels. Like his wife, he was devastated of encountering such loss, and wearing the title of praetor did nothing to balm and mask the unrivaled sting of pain.

Regulus Livianus is a compassionate man, one so likeable and charismatic that people are simply magnetized to him and his charms. Unlike most Romans with ancestry like his, he was taught to treat everyone--regardless of standing--with solicitude and empathy, gaining the respect and admiration of his servants.

But anger has a way of forging monsters out of men, and he was no exception. With calloused hands tightly grasping the wooden material of his son's cot, he turned to the slaves who once held his affections only to see their soiled conscience. The ruby that thrived on the infant's skin indicates that death was not brought by the gods, but by fallible nature of men.

With the cries of his beloved feeding his hearing, he was nothing but a father who seeks the comfort of revenge. That day, blood coated the walls and columns of the House of Livianus, and the dominus with his gladius dripping with the fruit of his misdeed. 3 trusted body slaves lost their lives for their negligence, and 2 elite soldiers were found brutally amputated and decapitated.

It came to knowledge that a family of equal influence was able to manipulate these individuals to do their bidding, greed and envy dictating their actions and decisions. Regulus was more heartbroken than furious to learn of this treachery, having valued these servants as brothers and sisters, but grief for his son was greater, and this fueled him to perform horrendous acts on them until truth is spoken.

Augustus Valerius Livianus was but 2 years old when his life was reaped by Mors, and with his death, dragged the House of Livianus to the pits of eternal suffering and madness; glory and honor exchanged for vengeance and cruelty.

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❝I certainly would not wish to share fate,❞ Vita remarked, her voice low as to not risk discovery. ❝I am convinced that the hands from which crime blossoms would be absent of bribe for the ferryman.❞

Marcella scoffed, waving a hand that signifies her nonchalance. ❝Murder deserves such rewards.❞ She stood from her bed, the brand of her domina flaunting itself on the dark skin of her shoulder. ❝However, gossips of young Augustus' survival are no stranger to ear. Even Tiberius believes that the gladiator, Felix, shares the blood of Livianus.❞

❝Felix? The man from Capua? He is handsome, but bears no resemblance to the more good-looking consul,❞ Vita chuckles in disbelief, arched brows elevating to meet hairline. ❝Why would Tiberius delight himself in believing jest and nonsense?❞

❝He is a hopeful soul condemned to live in a mortal's world,❞ The older woman sighed, just taking notice of the hazel irises shyly peeking from the slightly opened door of their quarters. ❝I see you in the comforts of the shadows yet again, Fausta.❞

The girl's cheeks burned with embarrassment before slowly presenting herself, closing the door quietly behind her. ❝Apologies. My curiosity cannot be restrained regarding matters bearing such nature.❞

Vita released a wistful exhale that brimmed with the curse of faded memories. ❝Ah, the dew of youth weighs heavy on you, dear, but do observe inhibitions when granted similar opportunity. Not all are as considerate as we are with unwanted audience.❞

Fausta's lashes ghosted over each other as she averted gaze, soft features illuminated by the warm torches lining the walls. ❝Apologies, but before forgetting intent, dominus summons Marcella.❞

❝And what would that mongrel-❞

❝Halt blasphemous tongue, Vita, or see it forever separated from mouth!❞ Marcella warned firmly, brown eyes blazing with the tangerine of Vulcan's creation. ❝Walls have ears.❞

❝But no one approaches to turn thought to action.❞ Vita stayed defiant, a trait that has landed her on the bad side of her masters. Threats of punishment concerning whip and blood no longer fazes her after years of service, the one treasure she protects with life already gone that even courting death is considered of low importance. ❝Part veils of heart and learn of raw desires, Marcella, but I believe you have long forgotten such privilege.❞

Fausta, knowing that this indicates a heated quarrel, decides to intervene. ❝Dominus only wishes to break words.❞

❝I see no difference between words and cock.❞

Marcella's shoulders tensed, but not a sound escaped her cautious lips as she sets path towards commanded destination. It is no secret that she, too, has fallen victim to the passionate surge of carnal desires that swallowed reason and thought of Flavius Claudius.

A corpulent man of 63 years, Flavius has the looks and stature of a Roman patrician who practices no discipline in terms of indulgence, and it is no wonder that he partakes in providing one of the best modes of entertainment to further his connections--gladiatorial games.

Under the roof of his ludus, gladiators are born--mortals that are deemed lowest of the low honed to equal the gods themselves on the sands of the arena. His gladiatorial school shaped Rome's best spectacles, earning him and his slave-warriors the praises of the people--a thing that could do wonders for an individual wishing to elevate himself in a democratic setting.

❝Gentler words should have been used to give voice to reality's sting,❞ Fausta remarked with her head bowed, hoping thought won't deliver daggers to chest. At her 20th year, she has already seen a number of fellow slaves reduced to nothing but a specter of their former self, suffering forever tattooed on the entirety of their flesh.

Marcella and Vita were forced to lose their purity in the hands of Flavius and his frequent company as their domina was not able to steer desires, her gaze and tone not solid enough to bring hair-raising intimidation. However, despite her efforts, Vita can't bring unrelenting heart to soften towards sworn mistress, detestation already piercing too deeply in her soul that any sort of alleviation can not prove efficacious enough to obliterate wound.

Faced by beautiful and unblemished Fausta, jealousy reared its ugly head in the depths of Vita's senses. ❝The gods favor you. No one dares to taint nor corrupt flower holding unparalleled beauty.❞ The raven-haired woman glanced at her only companion, who stood meek and silent. ❝Bask in the warmth of innocence before bite of truth halts illusions and heart's aspirations.❞

The tone of longing coiled with each syllable was barely detectable, but Fausta--having a very keen sense of hearing and identifying emotions--was able to single it out; however, sentiments were kept unspoken, and remains so as Vita took leave.

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❝Another addition, Flavius?❞ Aelia rhetorically asked, eyeing the bundle of newly-purchased gladiators that formed a single file in front of her and her husband. ❝Aren't earned laurels enough?❞

❝Time yet stands as fierce opposition,❞ He answered, eyes solely on the self-proclaimed Syrian that immediately raised his suspicions. ❝He stands a Roman, does he not?❞

Another pair of irises settled on the muscular form of the subject, appreciation then expressed with prolonged stare. ❝Looks indicate so.❞

The lanista released a loud exhale, turning to Gaius--his right-hand man--with fury bubbling in his throat. ❝Why would that boy,❞ He pointed at the indifferent stranger. ❝-claim himself a Syrian when it is evident that he is of Roman heritage? Does he think of me as a fool?❞

Gaius gulped, but anxiety remained unseen like wind as his posture could rival a soldier's while engaged in battle. ❝Cicero claims to have bought him from dealers edge of Rome, all offering Syrian slaves having just been transported from the east.❞

Flavius scoffed, taking relaxed steps toward the person who sparked conflict. The unnamed man stood a giant compared to him, the unkept state of his visage adding to his barbaric facade, making it a wonder how Flavius could reject fear and look at him straight in the eye. ❝He speaks our tongue?❞

❝He is yet to learn it, dominus.❞

❝Where is that Syrian whore of yours, Aelia?❞ Flavius snapped, maintaining stance and glare. ❝Time is a luxury even quarter of her petty life can't afford, and she goes splurging.❞ Marcella has just appeared behind Aelia as the last of his words are vocalized, bowing her head in acknowledgment. ❝Domina. Dominus.❞

❝You,❞ He addressed her with a sharp tone, his feet set to motion and hand slightly raised with the intent of delivering a powerful blow. Marcella--knowing what comes--closed her eyes in resignation before her legs gave out as the sudden force acted upon her, its fleeting kiss leaving her cheek swollen and bruising.

❝Flavius . . . ❞ Aelia sighed, sympathy only expressed in thoughts. Even Gaius flinched at the action even though it was painfully expected. Serving the same man all his life has made him well-acquainted with his master's temper and brutality, and increased his proficiency in making his countenance a reflection of faux apathy; however, handful of instances indicate that he has not perfected practice.

The old blonde man spat at the ground just a few millimeters from Marcella, then moved to equal their gaze by pulling at her hair. Some of the latest recruits clenched their fists, eager to bring wrath upon such corrupted soul; however, hunger and fatigue placed unwanted limitations.

❝You think with your cunt, don't you, whore?❞ He growled. ❝Don't you?!❞

Marcella didn't respond in her pain, and kept her lips sealed as to not further incense her master, knowing that defending herself would do nothing but intensify her punishment.

Flavius was unforgiving with his attacks, and continued on being so until Aelia--not bearing to see more of Marcella's humiliation--stepped in without fear of the ramifications her disrespect might bring, though the feeling of cold sweat at the back of her neck tells otherwise. ❝Flavius, enough!❞

Her husband's anger was stoked at her command, and rather than to comply, he performed the complete opposite of what she desires him to do.

❝Dominus! It-it was my fault!❞ Fausta--having ran quite a distance--interfered as the gut-wrenching sight greets her. Her legs felt extremely tremulous, and Aquilo's glacial winds seemed to have surged through the different parts of her body at the first sign of her fear. ❝I was not able to send the message in due time as my attentions were diverted. It was my insolence that caused your displeasure!❞

Flavius paused, his iron fingers curling even more around the midnight tresses of Marcella's hair, but did not speak a word.

Fausta gulped, taking it as a gesture to continue. ❝I was . . . uh.❞

She realized then and there that she came terribly unprepared.

She most certainly will not tell him that she overheard Marcella and Vita having a discreet conversation about the tragedy that has befallen the House of Livianus as it is a subject that many steered away from due to the figurative storm cloud it summons over the bold who dare speak of the consul's past.

❝Well?❞ The old man almost screamed at her, earning an alarmed noise to sprout from Fausta's lips.

Hazel eyes settled on the middle-aged Syrian frantically, and felt the prick of impending tears as the form of the woman became limp.