Author's Note: This chapter contains major spoilers for Season 1 episode Utica.

CHAPTER 2

Galatea.

Octavian could barely resist whispering this name under his breath. The young man gazed at his sister as if he was mesmerized. He was seeing not just a woman, but an incarnation of beauty. Her complexion was fair. Her long locks were as lush as nature in spring. Her figure was slender and her features petite. Octavia could have been a piece of art: a marble statue, elegant and precious, like those made by Athenian sculptors in the time of the city's prime. It was not hard to imagine one of the Graces or even Venus herself coming up to the figure of silent marble, putting a touch on her fine-looking shoulder, breathing life into her, making those beautiful eyes gleam, making that lovely figure make her first refined step.

A gush of wind strolled though Atia's lavish garden. It went past the line of busts, the stone-clad reminders of the household's ancestors. It paid a visit to the garden beds, seeking to discover the smell of the various plants and flowers that grew there, making their sterns and bulbs shiver in its presence. It reached for the yellow, sphere-shaped peaches that grew on the tree. The wind did not gather harvest, but it did make the leaves and branches shake under its touch. Then it traveled forward, further into great Rome, towards the city's hills, markets, dwellings of Patricians and the Plebs, the Forum.

But even the wind noticed the charm of the young woman who was leisurely resting on the bronze-fitted couch in the garden. Lightly swooping around her, it gently stroked her hair and made it tingle in its currents. Octavia did not notice its display of affection. She was sleeping soundly, emancipated from everything that was going on within the walls of the house, at least for the time being. Accepting the lack of reaction, the wind went on its way. Perhaps, it would return some other time and find out her response.

Octavian was left alone with her. He remained silent, not wishing to break her slumber. But he did come closer with a wish to get an even better glimpse of her.

Octavian could have sworn that the sight before his eyes was changing. He imagined a different picture. Now, there was no garden anymore. He was somewhere in a lush grove, maybe even in the vicinity of Parnas mountain, the abode of Phoebus and the Muses. He now saw Octavia sleeping just as calmly underneath a tree beside a spring like a Nymph. She should have been a Nymph; she had the beauty of one and the tranquility of the groves of Greece would have been closer to her than the merciless atmosphere of mighty Rome.

But he quickly turned back towards reality. They were back in the garden, but the sight before his eyes was almost as idyllic.

She was so precious. Octavian wanted to kneel beside the couch and cover her with kisses: to plant his kisses on her forehead and cheeks, on her neck and her lips. He wanted to behold her reaction; he wanted to see her smile delicately in her dream. Octavian felt a tiny flame, a small blaze of an oil lamp, warm him from the inside as these thoughts glided in his mind.

He knew he was not supposed to think of such things. He knew he should not have felt this. But, still, he did.

Despite the same voices, he thought how nice it would have been to have Octavia as his wife. He thought about it even at that very moment. Like a man who had been stripped of his senses, he found both torment and bliss in these thoughts. This wish went against the values of Rome's moral laws. He knew that and he was ready to condemn himself for this. But then his imagination again drifted sideways. He could see Octavia as his spouse, presiding over a symposium held in their by his side. And the radiance of the flame inside him became even warmer.

But they were in Rome, so the image that stood in his eyes was destined to remain a dream in the middle of the day. The inner flame suddenly became weaker, its blaze no longer able to warm his spirit.

Octavian suddenly found a need to take a seat. Luckily, there was another couch standing beside the one Octavia had occupied.

Sometimes, he thought that the Fates were playing a never-ending joke on him. The young man melancholically looked at the object of his desire.

So peaceful, so beautiful.

To his calamity, he was Atia's son. Had he been born to Caesar and Calpurnia, perhaps everything would have gone in a different way. Who knew, maybe Atia herself would have tried to forge a stronger link between the Julii and the Octavii. Siblings were forbidden to marry under Roman law, but the law was different regarding cousins…

He made a desperate attempt to block these thoughts out of his mind. His fantasies were as lost as a harvest that had been destroyed by a draught. They were not leading him anywhere. He had to stop thinking about it…about her.

The next several days passed without any divergences from his normal routines. He continued to study the ways and the terms of the pontiffs. When he was not doing that, he indulged into the writings of philosophers and historians, both Greek and Roman. And of course, he allowed himself to keep his gaze on Octavia for longer when needed whenever they met in the portico or at the table.

He sat behind his desk, concentrating on the parchment in front of him, and the verses he had scribbled were looking back at him. He thought of a statement that would have made the line rhyme with the previous one.

He sat there in the glow of dozens of small candles and oil lamps that were spread around the room. A gentle current of cooling air was coming from the side. It was not wind, but the work of a slave who stood several feet away from him, delicately wielding the fan.

He came up with the statement, and moments later transferred it onto the parchment. Octavian was neither Hesiod nor Alkeios; he did not consider himself a rival to the great wordsmiths, but he took the creation of every verse seriously.

He caught a female figure with a corner of his eye. At first, he thought it was Mother; Atia had the skill to glide into the room unexpectedly and unnoticed like a Fury.

Another careful glance proved him wrong; it was Octavia. Initially, he pretended he had not noticed her, giving her an opportunity to stroll beside the book shelves. Still, her presence was enough to distract him even from the most sensual verse.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked, his eyes on the parchment for that moment.

"Not really," she said.

He let her explore the room on her own. Octavia might not have noticed, but, from then on, his gaze was actually on her. She bent over, looking into the empty space of the drawer. Octavian, in turn, almost let his guard down when he allowed himself to get too distracted by this site. His gaze fell back on the table just in time.

A snap of fingers ended the silence as Octavia ordered the slave to leave by merely addressing him. Before Octavian knew it, the siblings were left alone. The air in the room suddenly became hotter.

Surprised, he asked for an explanation and his sister gave him one: the slave was apparently giving her looks.

The screech of a moving chair was loud enough to be heard in any part of the spacious room as the young man stood up.

"I'll call for another one," he said, ready to make a short trek to the slaves' quarters of the house.

"Don't, it's nice to be alone," her soft voice made him stop after just one step and turn around, "isn't it?"

"I suppose," he said, confused.

An impression had already formed: something seemed awkward in Octavia's behavior. And this impression got more and more solid with every step she made. The young woman lying down on her side on his bed looked like the final piece of evidence.

"Come lie down with me," she said, patting the spot next to her. Her voice sounded both innocently and seductively at the same time.

He was no longer confused—he was dumbstruck. His thoughts, which were usually in order, were scattered like the logs of a raft that had fallen apart in the middle of the ocean.

"Lie down with you? Why?" this was the only thing he managed to say.

"Because you would like it," she responded casually.

"Why?" he reached the point of repeating the same question.

"Why not?"

Many unusual things had happened in this house, but the absurdity of this night went against everything Octavian had grown accustomed to.

"I can think of several reasons," the sensual part of him spoke out.

But even whilst he was uttering those words, another part of him, the emotional part, wanted him to lie down.

Octavia smirked and reminded him of the times she woke in the middle of the night to find him tuck to her under the covers of the bed when he was still a child. He, in turn mentioned his impression of those innocent incidents.

Octavia did not say anything after that and remained in her seductive pose. Octavian had only several moments to think over his next move. The hot night that had filled the room found a way into his lungs. There was no warm feeling in his chest; he was practically burning from the inside. He knew he had to decline Octavia's unexpected advances. She was not driven by love and longing. He saw the mysterious intentions in the source of her strange behavior; he could observe them like a floor mosaic, but he was unable to decipher them. He came up to the bed.

Octavia sat up. Their eyes met; she felt his deep, thoughtful gaze on her. He knew she was not able to read his thoughts by his expression; even he was unsure where his thoughts really were that moment.

"Pretend," she said.

"I have no skill at pretending."

"I'm embarrassed now. I thought you wanted me," she looked away for a second; it looked like she was about to blush.

And she was right about the latter. He wanted her; wanted her so much and for so long. But what was going on in those moments was unfair. She did not want him; she wanted something from him. He even had a guess. And he…he loved her in his own way and did not want to take advantage of her.

But there was also his desire, a force as uncontrollable as the primordial Chaos that existed before the Five Epochs. It urged him to follow the route that seemed so sweet.

"You're a man now, aren't you?" Octavia gently took him by the hand, "you can take what you want," her words agreed with his desires.

And so he did.

Octavian leaned down. Their mouths met in a kiss. Time itself stopped for the young man as he became accustomed to the sweet taste of Octavia's lips. He never kissed a woman like that before, so he dedicated as much vigor as he could into it. The kiss ended when its time came; Octavian pulled away, but he was unable to take his eyes off his sister. Then, without thinking anything over, he leaned in for another kiss. The second time held more passion in it. It was so strong that Octavian's senses were getting carried away in its flow. Several moments later, he was already lying on his back, feeling Octavia's weight on him as she tickled his neck with her kisses. Their clothes seemed to slip off them on their own accord. The two sank in the bed sheets, and only then the night became the most awkward and unforgettable in Octavian's memory…

Later, he lay on the pillows in the glow of the same candles and lamps, gazing at the darkness-coated ceiling without any aim. Octavia lay on her side beside him, looking into nowhere as she delved in her own thoughts.

"Brother, tell me something," her quiet was interrupted the silence.

He did not want this dialogue to take place, but it was unavoidable. He laid out the path by questioning her motives, mixing the topic of virtue, traditions, and incest.

"You and I are above this petty social convention," she attempted to get him off her trail., but he knew she was lying.

"But incest is not only wrong by convention, it's wrong in essence," he said.

It was a really strange experience. On one hand, he agreed with this notion. But on the other, he yearned to have his sister. It was absurd. The whole incident felt like a piece from a play written by some Athenian playwright. Only he could not if it was supposed to be tragedy, comedy, or satire.

"Why else are there so many monsters and idiots among the children of incest?" he finished his miniature monologue.

"Don't," his last statement shook Octavia, making her sit up.

"Don't worry, it's unlikely I've seeded you, not with the moon in transit," he said.

He made several more statements, referring to her character and deducting that all of this had something to do with her recent interest in Caesar's health.

His words alone, even devoid of any offence, were enough to break Octavia down. The young woman fell back into bed, sobbing and repeating the same words: "What have I done."

The sight of Octavia shuddering in her distress was slowly and painfully cutting his heart.

"What have you done?" he asked, gently putting his palm on her warm bare shoulder.

Octavia looked at him, her eyes filled with tears, and squeezed his hand.

"Promise," she said, swallowing another sob, "promise you won't tell Mother."

Octavian kept his word, but the next morning too was awkward. Atia found out, no doubt through one of the slaves.

His plummet to the ground under Mother's slap and the stinging in his cheek testified to that.

"You fucked your sister, you little pervert!" Atia hissed at him before mentioning her rights.

The whip clutched in her hand made her look as menacing as Hecate, the fearsome goddess of dark sorcery. He was sure that the instrument of flagellation Atia had intended for Octavia was about to go down on him.

But Octavia snatched the whip away. After several threats and accusations, the quarrel died down.

Still sprawled in the middle of the footpath that ran through the garden, he watched the two women sit on the bench silently.

Octavia's relationship with Servilia was the cause of that morning's misadventures. But Atia's mind, which sometimes appeared to function in mysterious ways, did not give much attention to what happened between her children the night before.

The Fates were yet to weave this story.