The Song of Decima

The Forum and The Stranger

14 May, 43 B.C.E. – Servius Residence, Rome

I remember that morning as if it were yesterday — the scent of olive oil and myrrh still lingering in the corridors of my father's house, the sound of Phoibe's laughter piercing the quiet like sunlight through a shutter.

I was seventeen then — restless, sharp-tongued, and far too certain that I could outwit the world. I knew nothing of fate, nothing of love, nothing of the way the gods weave our paths long before we take our first steps upon them.

"Decima!" Phoibe called, her sandals clattering against the mosaic floor. "Get up, quickly — we must go to the forum! There's a nobleman there, and he's come to speak about a marriage."

I set down my embroidery needle and gave her a look. "Another one of your fantasies about being whisked away to some villa by the sea?"

Phoibe grinned, utterly unfazed. "Not mine. Yours. Father says it's time you think about your future, but he thought I'd have better luck telling you."

"Father never has the courage to tell me things himself," I muttered. "He fears the storm that comes with honesty."

"Or maybe," she said with a mischievous tilt of her head, "he just knows you're a bigger battle to win."

I tried not to laugh, but Phoibe always won. She had the sort of smile that made even the sternest household gods soften.

"Fine," I said, rising to my feet. "But if we're going, we're stopping by the market. I'll need figs to make whatever nonsense this is more bearable."

The sun was already high when we stepped into the streets of Rome. The city hummed with its usual symphony — merchants calling out prices, children chasing each other through the alleys, and the faint melody of a lyre somewhere beyond the walls.

Phoibe clung to my arm as we wove through the crowd, her excitement practically spilling over. "The fruits look perfect today," she said, pointing at a stall where bright oranges gleamed beneath the shade of a linen canopy.

"Then buy them," I told her. "But save your denarii for something that'll last longer than a single afternoon."

She rolled her eyes. "You sound just like Father."

"Someone must," I replied. "Two baskets of citrus, please," I said to the merchant.

He smiled, his hands steady as he filled the woven baskets. "A wise woman saves her coin," he said approvingly.

Phoibe leaned toward me and whispered, "A boring woman saves her coin."

I gave her a look that only made her giggle harder. We thanked the merchant and continued through the market, passing stalls heavy with perfume, silk, and bread still warm from the ovens.

The smell of roasted chicken made my stomach twist, but I couldn't tell if it was hunger or the weight of what awaited me at the forum — this supposed nobleman my father thought suitable for me.

"Do you think he'll be kind?" Phoibe asked suddenly.

"No," I said without hesitation.

She nudged me with her elbow. "You don't even know him yet."

"I don't need to. Kindness isn't something men like that bother themselves with."

Phoibe sighed dramatically. "You make it sound like marriage is a death sentence."

"Sometimes," I murmured, "it is."

She said nothing after that, but I saw her watching me — the worry in her expression trying to mask itself as amusement. Phoibe never liked silence; it left too much space for truth.