Disclaimer: I don't own Rome.

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CHAPTER 1

Attention had gone back to Caesar as the triumphant leader proceeded to talk about some of the reforms he was planning to enact. Reclining on her couch, Atia reached out to pick up a grape. The smug expression on her face indicated that the evening was going fine. The symposium hosted in her house went on in the dim light of candles and oil lamps. In a distant corner of the spacious room, a young slave played a lyre. The instrument's soft melody mingled with the thoughtful words muttered by some of the most important people of Rome, shaping the symposium's special atmosphere. The party was both serious and relaxed at the same time, just as the hostess whose hair was as fiery as her character wanted it to be. She picked the grape from the bowl, one of several that stood on the table in front of them, giving them an array of fruit to choose from. The small green berry disappeared in her mouth several moments later.

Octavian knew that his mother, regardless of her scheming, had little understanding of the administrative aspects of running Rome. She seemed to support her revered uncle in everything, even though she was, foremost, driven by personal motives. She loved her influence that was to grow as Caesar tightened his rule over the Republic. But even in those moments, as she reclined on a couch right next to the one taken by her uncle, her features could barely conceal her boredom. Such in-depth discussions about the processes that covered the daily operation of the vast mechanism that was the Roman Republic were beyond her interest and attention.

The young man's gaze slid to another female figure. Servilia silently sat beside her son; her disinterested gaze seemed to be pointed into nowhere. She did not care about this discussion either—or at least, she did not care because Caesar was the one speaking that moment.

Octavian slowly turned back to his great-uncle. Gaius Julius Caesar, the conqueror of Gaul and the victor of the war against the Optimates, sat at the very heart of the symposium, talking to the co-consul of the Republic. Though he had almost become a type of semi-legendary figure among the commoners of Rome, Caesar did not seem to be a particularly imposing figure. He was certainly not Alexander the Great. Octavian was certain that had the mighty king of Macedon of old times had been present in Atia's house, he would have held himself in a more daunting manner. Yes, Caesar shone with the radiance of power and pride. Like the sun, he let those around him bask in these rays. But calling him imposing in form or facial features was an overstatement even though the masses saw him in a different light.

Caesar could win a battle against impossible odds and have the boundless love of the people. These were some of the things that made him so great and special.

But there was something none of those present in the room, sans Caesar and his nephew, knew of one grim truth. Even a great man could suffer from a terrible affliction. Caesar's bane was the seizures of epilepsy that could grip the whole of his being for several minutes.

The young man moved his shoulders uncomfortably as he thought of something that had a habit of coming to his mind quite often. Often, Octavian thought that he too suffered from an affliction. But this was a secret none of those present in the room knew.

As if it had been given free will, Octavian's gaze quickly traveled aside before stopping at the sight that pleased him most in that room.

She had been sitting in her place silently throughout the whole evening. Just as the two other females in presence, she had drifted away from the boring matter, but unlike Atia and Servilia, Octavia never cared about power and influence. She too sat there with almost an emotionless expression. But it was only for the evening. She was not always like that; she was lively and emotional.

The young woman was slim and fresh and delicate. One look at her made Octavian's heart pound faster, and no matter how painful it felt, Octavian knew he was not permitted to marvel at her for more than several seconds; somebody could notice the unusual look he was giving his sister. But it was enough, so when he turned away her lovely image was there before him like a fresco.

Then his mind wandered somewhere else. He felt as if he approached the bank of Lethe, the great River of Time. Step after step, he walked further into the stream until the waters enveloped him, the currents sweeping him away into the past.

—

Seven-year old Octavian tightly gripped his tiny hands into the cover as he crouched atop his bed. He shuddered almost as if he was exposed to the cold winds that ravaged the lands to the north of Italy during winter. He looked into the darkness, the clout that shrouded the room in the night. His eyes wide, he dared not to blink.

The darkness was sinister in its all-presence and silence. It unnerved him and made him tremble. Little Octavian disliked it, he feared it.

The boy's attention bolted to the side as he thought he caught something move with a corner of his eye. The darkness was just as silent, but he thought it was likely that some shadowy figure was frolicking in the far corners of the large room, using the night as its cloak.

Octavian shivered even more. He was certain: the shadowy figure was staring at him through the dark, its full attention on the boy's frightened form. Octavian could not tell what part of night it was; he had woken up from sleep. It was quite likely that midnight had come, and it was known that at this time all the dark entities that were spawned by Night eons ago, ugly in appearance and malevolent in character, left Tartarus to appear wherever they wanted: at cemeteries, at the crossroads, even at people's households.

He tried peering deeper into the darkness in hopes of finding out whether there was any danger. To his own continuing horror he thought he distinguished a silhouette in the shadows. He recognized the figure as a female one, clad in a stolla and with hair kept up in the standard Roman feminine style. But Octavian was sure he knew she was…the Lamia.

It was said that the Lamia was a vile spirit that came to households in the den of the night in search of children that she could devour.

Instinctively, Octavian bolted out of his bed and dashed out of the room, fleeing as fast as he can. He did not turn back, fearing that he would see the female shadow gliding in his trail. A pair of tears sliding down his face, he ran down the corridor. He did not pull into Mother's room. He knew Mother did not like his displays of fear; she would simply bark at him and drag him back to his room against his will, ignorant of the threat of the vile spirits of the night.

Instead, he bolted into the nearby room. He practically leaped into the bed that stood in the room, burying himself under the covers and clinging tightly to the one who calmly slept there. Exposed to the warmth and softness of the figure beside him, Octavian immediately felt at ease. He knew he would be safe; the demons that frolicked in the night did not attack groups of people.

"Gaius?" Octavian heard a sleepy voice as the 13-year old girl shifted and sat up.

She looked down at him with her bright eyes filled with care.

"I saw a strange shadow," Octavian whispered, looking straight at her, "in my room, it had the appearance of a woman."

The girl lightly shook her head in amusement, smiling pleasantly.

"Silly brother," she said with a slightest hue of insult, "there was nothing there. You were just imagining things," she assured him softly.

"But…"

"Don't worry," Octavia said, nesting back into bed; she wrapped her hands around him and pressed her brother tightly to her, "everything's alright.'

The small kiss she planted on his cheek did the best to assure him of this.

Bathing in her warmth, Octavian felt not only safety. He felt a type of comfort that nobody else could provide him with.

—

He remained at the symposium until it ended. After that, Atia, being the gracious hostess that she was supposed to be, bid farewell to each of her departing guests, even those she disliked, such as Servilia.

After the guests left, the house fell into the silence of late night. Octavian retreated back to his room. There, surrounded by candles and scrolls, he felt himself especially comfortable.

The lights of candles blazed in their dozens around him as he read as he laid a parchment containing the poetry of Catullus on his table. He had read these verses before and he knew he would be reading them again and again in the future. The poet had praised love and had sung hymns to his beloved in such a refined manner that the celebrated feeling acquired even more in its immortal essence.

Octavian was young; he wrote poetry of his own, including those praising love. His love poems too were dedicated to someone very special, the woman he loved, the woman who played a bigger role in his life than she knew. But nobody else had had a chance to read these verses even though the sweet name of the woman that inspired him remained a mystery.

And there were good reasons to keep it that way. After all, how would his mother react if she ever found out that the woman he loved and desired so much was his own sister, Octavia? And what if Octavia found out the same?

It was a very awkward experience. On one hand, he knew it was wrong. The moral codes of Rome and the writings of the great thinkers—all denounced the kind of love he felt for her. At the same time, it was love, living and authentic, and love felt sweet no matter how wayward it was.

He did not know when the love he had for her turned and started flowing in this unnatural current. Maybe he was simply unable to remember? She had been his ideal for years; he thought he could trace the roots back to his childhood.

Even during the two years he had spent at the academy of Mediolan, Octavia had been the one he had thought and dreamt about most often. And it was her embrace, soft and warm, that he had eagerly strove for on his way back to Rome.

Octavia was graceful and gentle, caring and intelligent. Moreover, in Octavian's eyes her neither Lavinia nor Helen of Troy would have been able to rival her in beauty.

It was said that epilepsy was a bane sent by Phoebus. That was Caesar's affliction. Octavian's affliction was different in its nature; if it had come as punishment from above, then Venus was the one who put it on him. The young man believed that both he and his uncle had received their banes unjustly, but his was the worse of the two. Caesar's malady would strike and retreat for a time whilst Octavian's burden always felt heavy on his spirit.

In some sense, Octavia was the Daphne to his Apollo. He could not have her no matter how much he wanted her. Octavian's rational side wanted to chastise him for harboring such feelings; but the love-struck youth in him complained to himself about what he saw as injustice. He reminded him that it was not lust that drove him, but genuine love, love no different than the one Orpheus, the greatest of singers and musicians, had for Eurydice. And in that moment the young man could only confess to himself what his biggest dream was…

Octavian leaned back into his chair. Slowly, he brought a hand to his head; it felt like his head was about to start spinning from all these mental debates inside his head.

If he had had a chance to exchange this affliction for Caesar's, he would have done it with gratitude. This one was too hard to bear.