Amalasunta watched as Prisca entered the room with that clumsy gait she had yet to learn to hide beneath the folds of her new fine linen dress. The girl—no, she was no longer a child, but not yet a woman—had her hair tied back with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes, those large eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and fear that so amused Amalasunta.
"My gift," she thought, feeling a delightful tingle as she saw Prisca bend forward to announce that the bath was ready.
"Prisca!" she exclaimed, arms open wide with that exuberance that always disconcerted the young woman. She embraced her tightly, feeling the slight tension of her small frame under the contact. So fragile. So malleable. With expert fingers, she pinched Prisca's cheeks, enjoying the blush that blossomed on her fair skin.
"You are my favorite gift, did you know?" she murmured, drawing her lips close to Prisca's ear as if sharing a secret. "A gift from him."
Prisca blushed even deeper, her hands clutching at the folds of her own dress. Amalasunta let out a crystalline laugh.
"Today you will work no more. You shall bathe with me and tell me... what was my beloved Marcos like as an orphanage teacher?"
Taking Prisca's hand—feeling how the young woman's fingers trembled slightly—Amalasunta recalled the day Marcos had handed her over. "So that she may learn," he had said. As if she were a book or a companion dog. But Prisca was none of those things.
She was his living doll, yes, but not one to be broken and cast aside. No. This was the kind of toy kept in a cedar chest, wrapped in silk. The one that is pampered, repaired, and dressed with care.
In a world of deceitful courtiers and vain nobles, Prisca was genuine. Her fear, her gratitude, even her clumsy attempts to please... everything was real. Like the toys of her childhood, those that never judged her, never conspired.
"Tell me," Amalasunta insisted as the slaves prepared the bath, "was he strict? Did he make you cry? Or did he give you sweet bread when you memorized your lessons?"
Prisca opened her mouth to answer, but Amalasunta was already laughing, imagining that cold, calculating Marcos handing out sweets to ragged children. How delightful that would be. And how strange, she thought as she untied Prisca's hair ribbon, how much she had come to enjoy this human doll. Not only because it was a gift from him, but because in a palace full of snakes, sometimes it was pleasant to have something... innocent.
Hot water steamed from the marble pool, spreading a scent of rose and jasmine essences that mingled with the vapor. Reclining against the edge, Amalasunta watched as the slaves gently rubbed Prisca's skin, flushed both by the heat and by shyness.
"The magister is a bit dry in class," Prisca said suddenly, her words escaping in a soft thread of voice that nearly drowned in the splashing water. "But he makes himself understood quickly. At least, I do."
Amalasunta smiled, enjoying how the young woman brightened at the mention of him. "I used to laugh at the other children who didn't understand him," continued Prisca, daring now to look up. "But he never got angry. He was... kind. Always answering my questions, even the silly ones."
A slave poured perfumed water over Amalasunta's shoulders; she closed her eyes for a moment, imagining the scene: Marcos, patient, teaching Latin to a group of grimy orphans. What a deliciously contradictory image.
"He spoke to me of the Caesars," Prisca murmured, as a maid soaped her hair. "Of Julius Caesar, of Cleopatra... I think... that you resemble her. A beautiful queen."
Amalasunta opened her eyes, surprised by the bold comparison. A glimmer of amusement shone in her gaze. "Cleopatra, you say?" She leaned forward, causing the water to ripple around her. "And did Marcos tell you how she ended up?"
Prisca nodded, suddenly serious. "With a snake. But... but you won't end up that way."
The young woman's frankness drew forth a burst of laughter from Amalasunta, a clear sound that echoed off the marble walls. "No, my little one. I am not one to die for love." She paused, enjoying the way the slaves massaged her shoulders. "Although who knows... maybe your magister is my Marc Antony."
Prisca blushed up to her ears, and Amalasunta reveled in that easily read flush. So transparent. So pure.
As the maidservants wrapped them in soft linens and combed their hair with perfumed oils, Amalasunta continued to prod for more stories from Prisca: how Marcos taught them to write by tracing letters in the dirt before moving on to wax, how he recounted ancient battles as if they were fairy tales, how sometimes, just sometimes, a smile would escape him when a child said something particularly clever. Each word was a gem, a glimpse of a Marcos that few ever saw. And Amalasunta collected them all as one would store precious stones in a treasure chest.
"Come," she said at last, taking Prisca's hand as they left the bath. "Tonight you will dine with me. And you will tell me more... so much more."
Because in this game of power and danger, Prisca was more than a toy. She was a mirror. One that reflected the image of a man who, perhaps, was worth loving.
The silk curtains parted with a whisper as Amalasunta entered the great hall, dressed like the Gothic princess she was. Her white linen tunic, embroidered with golden threads forming intertwined serpents, fell in perfect folds over her body. A embossed leather belt cinched her waist, and draped over her shoulders, a cloak of dark purple billowed with every step. Regal. Powerful. Lethal.
Ingomer, who had been examining a map spread out on the table, looked up and his face lit up like the sun after a storm. "My favorite viper!" he roared, arms wide open.
Amalasunta did not run toward him. She advanced with the calculated grace of one who knew the effect she produced, but just as she came within his reach, she let herself be caught in that embrace that would have crushed an ordinary man. Ingomer lifted her from the floor as if she were a doll, his enormous, warm hands even through the fabrics. It was a fascinating contrast: his muscles, hard as forged bronze, tensed under his skin, yet his embrace was soft, almost maternal. Amalasunta knew this well—her uncle was a giant who could split a skull with one blow, yet he cradled puppies as if they were made of glass.
"And well? How is my venomous girl?" he asked, finally setting her back on the floor but not releasing her shoulders.
Amalasunta smiled, baring her teeth. "More venomous than ever, uncle." Ingomer let out a laugh that made the stained-glass windows vibrate. "That is my blood!" And then the game began.
Ingomer caught her in a playful headlock, running his knuckles through her hair as if she were still the child chasing chickens in the palace gardens. Amalasunta protested with laughter and planted a knee against his thigh.
Later, Amalasunta toyed with a goblet of spiced wine, reclined on a divan by the window in her private quarters. Ingomer, seated across from her in an armchair that looked on the verge of breaking under his weight, served himself generously from a jug of mead.
"The latest letter from your wife says that your youngest son is already wielding a sword," she commented with a mischievous smile. "He's barely five years old. Isn't that early?" Ingomer snorted, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "At his age, I'd already slain my first wolf. With my own hands. Well, almost." She laughed, the sound clear as little bells in the intrigue-laden air. "You always exaggerate, uncle." "And you always contradict me, little viper," he retorted. They exchanged a knowing glance, conspiratorial, before Ingomer tilted his head and changed the subject.
"That Roman of yours... the little Caesar. Marcos." Amalasunta felt an unexpected warmth rising to her cheeks. "Mar-cos," she repeated, savoring every syllable as if it were a sweet. Ingomer let out a deep laugh. "Wouldn't you like Caesar Marcos?" She blushed even more, yet did not avert her gaze. "You know it cannot be. You are the Bronze Arm. Your brother is the king. And you will govern Rome in his name." Ingomer leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a goblet dangling between his enormous fingers. "I have only had to get drunk these three days, and like magic, three thousand Romans have joined my troops. Five thousand organized servants. A supply chain that runs like clockwork. It's a perfect machine, Amalasunta! And it all bears my signature." She held back a proud smile. "I told you it was special." "It's more than special. It's dangerous. And I like that." A silence fell between them, laden with possibilities. Finally, Amalasunta lowered her voice, almost a whisper. "Could it be... my new husband?" Ingomer stared at her, his blue eyes gleaming with cunning. "It depends on how things progress upon my return." He paused, letting the words float in the air like a promise. "But... it could be." Amalasunta smiled, hiding behind half-closed eyelids the plans already weaving in her mind. Marcos, her little Caesar. Her possible future. And perhaps, just perhaps, the true power behind the throne.
The young Ostrogoth, a warrior of barely twenty with a chin lightly dusted with a still-sparse blonde beard, adjusted the belt of his sword while watching Marcos with a mix of admiration and perplexity. In just three days, the new Vice-Mayor of Rome had achieved what no Roman had in years: the respect of the Goths.
It wasn't just his efficiency. It was the way he remembered every name after hearing it only once. How he negotiated with the grain merchants, securing the best prices without raising his voice. The manner in which the street children greeted him, the elderly smiled at him, and even the courtesans of the Suburra offered him mocking but affectionate bows. Everyone in Rome seemed to know him.
"Another sack of wheat?" asked the squire, loading supplies onto the cart as Marcos reviewed a list.
"From the warehouse near the Tiber. The one with the green roof," the Roman replied without looking up, as if he knew exactly which corner of Rome had the best grain. The Gothic shook his head, impressed.
"I've never seen anyone move mountains like that," he admitted.
Marcos sighed and finally looked at him. "Do not get complacent. These insurgents... they might prove harder to gnaw through than your usual enemies."
The squire laughed confidently. "We've already crushed five republics. Three that called themselves Caesars, two Augusti, and even one consul. They all ended the same: peasants with rusted swords or cowardly nobles hidden behind their walls." Marcos did not answer; he simply held the squire's gaze a moment longer, as if seeing something the young warrior could not. Then he returned to his scrolls.
Hours later, they arrived at the palace of the Casa Anisia.
Amalasunta watched from the shadows of the columns, her fingers nervously toying with the folds of her stola. The courtyard teemed with activity: horses neighing, armed men adjusting straps, and in the midst of it all—him. Marcos. Clad in chain mail that fit him too well—as if he had finally found his true skin—he held a scroll in place of a shield. His pen traced precise lines as he listed provisions, routes, and camp sites. Everything was perfect. Everything was calculated.
Ingomer arrived like a storm, his laughter echoing against the walls. "Sign in my name, boy!" he ordered, giving Marcos a pat on the back that would have knocked an ordinary man down. But Marcos didn't even blink. Unperturbed.
Amalasunta bit her lower lip. He was beautiful that way. Powerful. In command of himself. Not the discreet monk, not the hidden spy, but the man who could rule.
The Gothic giant mounted his war steed, making the ground tremble. The horse neighed, rearing onto its hind legs, and the guards instinctively stepped back. Everyone… except Marcos, who continued to jot down figures calmly, as if the enraged animal were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.
That was too much. Amalasunta could no longer contain herself. Forgetting the stares, the conventions, everything, she emerged from her hiding place and ran toward him. Barefoot, her feet barely touched the stone slabs before she threw herself against his chest, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingers and the warmth of his body through the rings of iron.
"Don't die, you idiot," she whispered against his neck, where only she could hear. Marcos stood still for a moment, surprised. Then, with a softness no one else would have believed possible in him, he wrapped an arm around her waist. "It's not part of the plan," he murmured in response, so quietly that only she heard. Ingomer roared with laughter from atop his steed. "Finally! I was beginning to think I'd have to lock you all in a barn so you'd stop staring at each other like enamored calves!" The guards laughed, but Amalasunta no longer blushed. What for? When Marcos rode away to mount his steed, she did not lower her gaze. She followed him with her eyes, savoring the way the light reflected off his chain mail, the determination in his profile.
She would return. And when she did, nothing would need to be hidden.
Ingomer winked at her from high on his horse, as if to say, "we'll see." Amalasunta smiled, wild and free. Yes. They would see.
The young Ostrogoth warrior, barely twenty and with a chin still dusted by a sparse blonde beard, adjusted his sword belt while watching Marcos with admiration and perplexity. In just three days, the new Vice-Mayor of Rome had achieved what no Roman had in years: the respect of the Goths. Not only through his efficiency, but also by the way he remembered every name after hearing it once, negotiated with grain merchants to get the best prices without raising his voice, and the way street children greeted him, elderly smiled, and even the courtesans of the Suburra gave him affectionate, if teasing, bows. Everyone in Rome knew him.
"Another sack of wheat?" asked the squire, loading supplies onto the cart as Marcos reviewed a list.
"From the warehouse near the Tiber. The one with the green roof," Marcos replied without looking up, as if he knew exactly which corner of Rome had the best grain. The Gothic shook his head in admiration. "I've never seen anyone move mountains like that," he admitted.
Marcos sighed and finally looked at him. "Do not get complacent. These insurgents... they might be harder to break than your usual foes."
The squire laughed confidently. "We've already crushed five republics. Three that called themselves Caesars, two Augusti, and even one consul. They all ended the same: either peasants with rusted swords or cowardly nobles hiding behind their walls." Marcos offered no reply; he simply held the squire's gaze a moment longer, as if seeing something the young warrior could not, then returned to his scrolls.
Hours later, they arrived at the palace of Casa Anisia.
Amalasunta observed from the shadows of the columns, her fingers nervously playing with the folds of her stola. The courtyard buzzed with activity: horses neighing, armed men adjusting their straps, and in the midst of it all—him. Marcos. Clad in chain mail that fitted him as if he had finally discovered his true form, he held a scroll in place of a shield. His pen traced precise lines as he listed provisions, routes, and campsite points. Everything was perfect. Everything was calculated.
Then Ingomer arrived like a storm, his laughter resonating off the walls. "Sign in my name, boy!" he ordered, giving Marcos a pat on the back that would have felled an ordinary man. But Marcos didn't even blink—unperturbed.
Amalasunta bit her lower lip. He was stunning in that way. Powerful. Master of himself. Not the discreet monk, not the hidden spy, but the man who could rule.
The Gothic giant mounted his war steed, making the ground tremble. The horse neighed, rearing onto its hind legs, and the guards instinctively stepped back. Everyone… except Marcos, who calmly continued to record figures, as if the furious animal were nothing more than a bothersome gnat.
That was too much. Amalasunta could no longer hold herself back. Forgetting the stares, the conventions, everything, she emerged from her hiding place and ran toward him. Barefoot, her feet barely touched the stone slabs before she leapt against his chest, feeling the chill of metal beneath her fingers and the warmth of his body through the rings of iron.
"Don't die, you idiot," she whispered against his neck, where only she could hear. Marcos froze for a moment, surprised. Then, with a softness no one else would have believed possible in him, he wrapped an arm around her waist. "It's not part of the plan," he murmured so quietly that only she could hear. Ingomer roared with laughter from atop his steed. "Finally! I was beginning to think I'd have to lock you all in a barn so you'd stop staring at each other like enamored calves!" The guards laughed, but Amalasunta no longer blushed. Why should she? When Marcos rode away to mount his steed, she kept her gaze fixed on him, savoring the way the light danced off his chain mail, the determination in his profile.
She would return. And when she did, nothing would be hidden.
From high on his horse, Ingomer winked at her, as if to say, "we'll see." Amalasunta smiled, wild and free. Yes. They would see.