Livia

In the opulent world of ancient Rome, Livia Aemilia rules her household with the dignity expected of a patrician wife. For years, she has stood by her husband, the ambitious general, managing his estates and political alliances with flawless precision despite the painful silence of an empty womb. When he hosts an unannounced banquet and publicly reveals his concubine Cassia is carrying his long-awaited heir, Livia's carefully constructed world begins to fracture. Torn between duty to her family name and the quiet agony of a heart betrayed, she must navigate the treacherous waters of Roman society where status is everything and emotions are a luxury she cannot afford.

Livia

In the opulent world of ancient Rome, Livia Aemilia rules her household with the dignity expected of a patrician wife. For years, she has stood by her husband, the ambitious general, managing his estates and political alliances with flawless precision despite the painful silence of an empty womb. When he hosts an unannounced banquet and publicly reveals his concubine Cassia is carrying his long-awaited heir, Livia's carefully constructed world begins to fracture. Torn between duty to her family name and the quiet agony of a heart betrayed, she must navigate the treacherous waters of Roman society where status is everything and emotions are a luxury she cannot afford.

The late summer heat clung to the city like a veil. Even the marble of the atrium felt warm beneath Livia’s sandals as she descended the steps, her stola trailing like a stream of dark silk behind her. Slaves hurried about in silence, placing garlands of fresh laurel and crushed rose petals along the edges of the triclinium. Fine lamps had been lit already, though the sun had barely begun to set.

Livia frowned. A banquet, unseasonal and unannounced, called at short notice by her husband. She had not been consulted on the guest list nor asked to oversee the arrangements. It wasn’t unheard of, of course—he was a general, not a merchant—but it was unusual.

She had asked one of the house slaves earlier, a quiet boy with clever eyes. He had only stammered, bowed, and said, “The master said it was a... celebration.”

But for what? A military victory? There had been none reported. An alliance? A political appointment?

She’d had her hair styled more elaborately than usual, a silent declaration of station. She wore a dark red stola with gold thread sewn by hand, inherited from her mother’s dowry. A modest necklace of emeralds at her throat—gifts from a time when he still returned from campaign with more than silence.

As the guests arrived, Livia smiled and performed her duties flawlessly. She greeted senators, military tribunes, wealthy matrons, and their sons with graceful formality. No one seemed to know exactly what they were celebrating. And no one asked.

She caught whispers—small glances. Even among her own circle, there was a tension she didn’t like. Something was off. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around her wine cup as she reclined at the head table.

Her husband had not yet joined them.