Ave, reader! Welcome to my new OQ Ancient Rome AU. Despite the research for this story as well as my long-lasting love of ancient history, I'm by no means an expert on the subject, so I only hope any mistakes I'm sure I'll make along the way are not too glaring or distracting. Please sit back and enjoy the ride—and feel free to feed the bard!

TW: marital rape. The scene is short and marked ###[TW applies]### so that it's easily skippable, although the topic itself may come up in brief mentions in future chapters.

Rated M for the aforementioned + allusions to adult themes, as well as due to plans for future smut.

The sand was hot against his cheek and wet with blood already—quite possibly Robin's own—as he struggled to bring the arena and his rearing opponent back into focus. The throbbing headache wasn't helping. Neither was the blinding sunshine glinting off the blade of the gladius still clutched in his hand. He needed to stand and fight. Now. Before the Gaul declared his mortal enemy trapped him on the ground with the weighted net, then finished him off with his dagger like a pig at slaughter.

No, Robin couldn't afford to die such a death. He couldn't afford to die at all. For he had a reason to live, and a promise to keep.

Heavy-limbed and addle-brained by the harsh blow earlier sustained, Robin rose to his feet, gripped the sword in one hand and the bulky shield in the other, ignored the burning ache spreading like wildfire in his tiring arms and shoulders, and stared death in the face.

Robin'd had no idea Death had such a beautiful face. Perhaps he wouldn't have struggled so hard against it had he known.

Death had gorgeous eyes, large and soft and of a depth he was eager to dive into, with long lashes that glistened with unshed tears. She had soft hands, a gentle touch upon his cheeks as she cradled his head on her lap. Lips that trembled upon a shuddered exhale, and dark hair piled high atop her lovely head but for the curls framing her face.

She was soft and inviting, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and revel in her caress.

But he couldn't do that.

A different set of curls awaited Robin's embrace, curls and dimples and a joyous laugh, and Robin had to live.

The Gaul was mean and vicious, now twirling the net above his head, now brandishing the trident the length of a grown man. Robin envied him the freedom of movement as he himself battled not only his foe but the weight of his heavy armour, too. He was strong, his arms well-muscled and his shoulders broad, but his true strength lay in agility, and that was not a skill he could capitalise on in the murmillo fighting style.

The crowd booed at their incessant circling, and soon a barrage of rotten food and insults landed upon their heads. The Gaul bristled and, baited successfully, hurled the net in Robin's direction. Robin dodged, the overlarge shield a casualty of his manoeuvre, and launched into attack with just the short sword left. His aim was true, the blade plunging right into the Gaul's stomach, one merciless twist having the man's guts spilling out. But alas, Robin fared little better—no sooner did the Gaul topple to the ground than Robin felt the sharp prongs of the trident piercing his own side.

Death looked remarkably like a fisherman, Robin thought before his knees buckled and he collapsed next to the corpse of a man whose name he'd never learned.

Teetering on the brink of this world and the realm of Pluto, Robin searched for an anchor, and found one in dark curls. He held on to that: the mop of curls on his boy's head he would once again run a hand through; and the locks he tangled his fingers in now, tumbling free once he'd coaxed the gold pin our of her hair.

She was not Death, this goddess with glistening eyes and soft hands that cooled his burning skin with skilled movements. Not by any means. She was the giver of life, the orchestrator of Robin's rebirth—as weeks before at his trial, so now again in the dank cells of the ludus.

Regina gazes at her reflection in the polished metal, hands a touch unsteady as she applies kohl to enhance her eyes while trying not to move her head lest there be burns.

"One last strand, domina," Clodia assures as she wraps the remaining lock around the cylinder and inserts it to the metal outer heated on the fire, waiting to achieve that perfect curl Regina's naturally wavy hair doesn't quite manage otherwise.

A clamour of voices announces the usual morning influx of visitors, and Regina lets out a small sigh. Leopold will already have taken his post in the atrium, ever ready to greet his dependents with that paternal, and oft patronising, smile on his thin lips. A smile that will turn into a discontented grimace if Regina dares tarry much longer. She hastily rubs rose petals into her cheeks to imitate that coveted healthy, flushed look—and smiles bitterly. Years ago, she wouldn't have had to use cosmetics to achieve it, but now…

Now she's the wife of a wealthy, popular, influential senator. Has been for nigh ten years now, since she married into one of Rome's oldest, most respected families. Regina still recalls the day she donned the bridal veil and sacrificed her dolls to the household spirits—sacrificed her life to the ambitions of her mother. Remembers how the flame of her torch flickered as she shook uncontrollably, walking in procession from her childhood home to this vast, ancient house atop Palatine Hill.

So here she is today, playing the part her husband, and Rome, expects her to play: the part of dutiful wife and perfect Roman matron.

At least for the few weeks Leopold deigns to spend in Rome before he departs to his governorship in Hispania.

Leopold is rarely at home for long, ever restless since the death of his first wife. There was a time Regina loathed the loneliness of the domus devoid of company other than that of slaves, whom a respectable noblewoman is expected to treat with a certain measure of poised detachment—a task easily accomplished once she understands their loyalties lie with their dominus, with almost none left to spare their young new domina. There were indeed times when she longed for even her husband's cold shoulder in her desperation for human connection. Those times are long past, however, and his presence is nothing but stifling, choking, unnerving. Her home offers no reprieve with him in it, and very little indeed even when he's away, for she's well aware of the eyes and ears he leaves behind to spy and report on her every move.

Regina's bedroom opens directly into the atrium, now bustling with clients eager to seek affirmation of Leopold's protection. Sunshine's bursting in through the roof opening and spilling onto the sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged porticoes as she moves among toga-clad men, sharing dignified greetings and making sure Leopold catches sight of her going about her duties. He gives her a quick once-over and continues without pause to talk to Sidney, instructing him no doubt to hover over Regina's shoulder while he himself is, once again, absent from breakfast.

A smile—the first genuine one this morning—plays on Regina's lips as she enters the triclinium to witness her beloved men serving the food together. Her father isn't supposed to help, nor does he need to, for her son is perfectly capable of performing the task, but the two have a private sort of routine they like to partake in when the master of the house isn't there to admonish.

"Good morning, my dear," Daddy greets warmly, careful not to ruin her freshly coiffed hair as she kisses his cheek.

"Breakfast is served, Mom," her very own little sunshine announces with all the pomp of a nine-year-old squished in his mother's tight embrace.

They settle down, each of the three occupying a dining couch, and Regina winks at both Henrys before making a show of looking around the room in fake exasperation.

"And wherever could Roland be?" she gasps, eyes twinkling.

A stifled giggle issues from the carved chest in the corner, then small hands push the lid open, dark eyes and dark curls peeking out over the rim.

Breakfast fills Regina's belly with more than food, more than fish and fruit and bread. Warmth spreads inside her like a drop of honey in a cup of wine at Roland's chatter as she feeds him grapes; at the way Henry puts his heart and soul into the rhetoric exercise he insists on demonstrating for them; and at her father's easy manner, reserved solely for the rare occasion he gets to relax around his beloved daughter and grandson without the controlling presence of either his wife or son in law.

But the boys have lessons to attend, and so Regina and her father are left alone once Archie arrives to take his charges.

"Have you seen Leopold already?" Regina enquires, though she's sure he must have. Her father is one of many clients benefiting from Leopold's wealth and social standing, owing him their allegiance in turn. The familial connection between them means Daddy is given priority during these morning audiences.

"I have indeed. Your husband is very confident in his success managing the province, but he hardly knows the people. Their mentality, customs, and language shape their actions, and Rome's mining exploits have had a devastating impact there. I thought he might benefit from my experiences, but…"

"Leopold refuses to listen to counsel," Regina finishes for him. Because that's what Leopold would do, proud Roman and proud man that he is—dismiss others and their views as inferior to his own. Would do it with a benevolent smile rather than a mean retort, definitely, but he'd think he knows best all the same. That's one thing Regina's husband and her mother have in common.

"He made a point to remind me of, well," Daddy hesitates, eyes downcast in shame, "of the decline of my political career following my quaestorship there."

Regina's blood boils—hot southern blood, same as her father's, for he has southern roots, understands the people of those lands better than most. It had been his unsolicited advice delivered to the senate, advice that they relax the Roman fist gripping Hispania and her natural resources before the land and its people are drained of the riches both the natives and Rome could benefit from much longer if only handled with care and compassion. But Rome isn't famous for either of those; Rome is competitiveness and ambition, a race to the top where glory awaits. And so Regina's father, having only reached the second step of that almighty ladder of political office, the Cursus Honorum, is a failure by Roman standards, a disgrace to his family name and the cause of its fading from importance. That he's even still a senate member is mostly due to Leopold's influence and Henry's own meekness—he doesn't kick up much dust, so he's tolerated, if not necessarily liked.

Leopold may act the gracious son in law, but he'll still let a snide remark escape now and again, a circumspect way of putting Regina's father in his place when the latter dares be too assertive about anything. The subject of such disputes has almost exclusively been Regina on the handful of occasions. Daddy's made a few feeble attempts to bring some freedom or happiness into his daughter's life by exercising his rights as paterfamilias—her father still retains those over Regina, after all, even though it is common knowledge far and wide (and that certainly doesn't help his position any) that Cora is in fact head of the household. And it is by her will that Regina has effectively been handed over to the legal control of Leopold, despite the fact that the practice is outdated by today's standards.

The thought has Regina's anger dissipate, leaving only hollowness in its place. She can no more protect her father from Leopold than her father could her.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispers, and receives an apology in return.

That's when the messenger arrives, giving Regina's tearful father an excuse to depart. Regina retires into the shadow of a column and delves into the letter penned by her exiled sister Zelena, detailing upon Regina's request the progress of one gravely wounded gladiator.

The delirious dreams have mostly gone, his fever subsided. Robin's lucidity has returned, and with it the ability to sift through memories and sort them on a timeline. No longer does he thrash in his sleep then jerk awake to frantically search for Marian's warm body beside him, taking a good while to realise that she's long gone. He still visits the hellish dreamscape on occasion wherein he walks a lonely path alongside a Gaulish fisherman holding his ripped-out guts in his hands—a nightmare alright, one he suspects will haunt him for years to come, but still a mere trifle compared to the agony of reliving the loss of his wife over and over again while wracked by a fever. So yes, he's still weak, his wounds deep and sore, but his temperature and faculties are back to normal, and that's something at least.

It is certainly deemed enough for him to be returned from the solitary infirmary unit to the large cell shared by the bulk of the gladiators. He's expected to take his meals with the other men, and fend for himself, wounds be damned, when John the Little, first among the brotherhood and nurturing no warm feelings for Robin, ventures to pilfer Robin's due and enhance his own portion with it. When training commences, Robin hovers on the sidelines, watching in hopes of picking up a handy trick or two to try and master later. Later, when he's fit again to stand on the sacred sand and fight for the freedom ripped away from him.

That's what he's fighting for—freedom. The wooden rudis that, when bestowed upon a gladiator, marks him as a free man. But such a prize must be hard-earned, with sweat and blood and, yes, tears. Tears not so much of pain from the sting of the lash or the bite of a blade, but from a deep-seated heartache, a yearning not easily quenched. A hankering after that dimpled grin, those winking eyes, the tousled hair of his boy. That's who he's fighting for—Roland.

Robin misses his son above all else, and the ache his absence leaves in Robin's heart burns stronger than the nasty gash the trident left in his side.

Amid the ache blooms hope and gratitude, a sentiment now grown threefold. Robin owes his life to Regina, a noblewoman with an unpropitious reputation and an absolutely wondrous heart, twice over now. But his greatest debt to her is for taking Roland into her care. She saved a lowly thief and made him a promise, a promise to keep his son safe and as happy as possible in the absence of his father, for as long as that absence would last. There's no doubt in Robin's mind that her words were sincere, that his boy, though miles away from his embrace, is in good hands with her. Gentle, deft, capable hands.

Those hands—he remembers them with astounding clarity, even though the night he first awoke in the dreary cell is still shrouded in mystery for the most part. The single, sharpest image is that of Regina's tear-stained face as she hovered above him, her clothes soaked with his blood, and stroked his cheek with a feather-light touch. She must have stayed the night, he reckons, for he recalls waking a few times to the sweet smell of jasmine, and burying his nose in the blood-stained silk of her stola. (Or was it her skin? Has there ever been skin so soft?)

For the hundredth time, Robin wonders what possessed her to risk so much for a perfect stranger, a self-professed criminal no less. For the hundredth time, he comes up empty. Will he ever get a chance to ask her?

The sacred fire burns scarlet and gold, day and night, casting the goddess Vesta's protection over the city. It's the Vestals' task to see that the flames are never extinguished, and one such approaches the temple as Regina steps from behind one of its slender columns.

"Still in Rome, then?" Tinkerbell huffs with a hint of exasperation, the red and white ribbons woven into her fair hair bouncing with each step.

"What a warm welcome," Regina quips, then lowers her voice—it's only the two of them at this early hour, but one can never be careful enough. "I cannot leave just yet."

Tinkerbell nods—they've been through this before, and she's close enough with Regina to understand the state of her marriage better than most. Enough to drop the subject, and move on to one that clearly interests her most.

"How's your thief faring?"

"He's not my thief," Regina bristles, with a touch too much vehemence. Tinkerbell raises her brow knowingly, and Regina rolls her eyes and relents. She has had a hand in aiding him after all, so she supposes he could, in a way, be deemed hers. Her protege. "He's—better. Though not by much, I fear. Zelena's been a bit too cryptic for my liking." Zelena wouldn't lie to her, Regina is sure, but suspects her sister might be withholding information. Perhaps for the sake of her husband; or perhaps she hopes to deliver all the sordid details in person once Regina grows frustrated enough to invite her to the bustling capital. If that's the case, Zelena is out of luck, for Regina has no intention to remain here a second longer than absolutely necessary. "I've assured her over and over again that money is not an issue, that I will cover all expenses: the best medicus, and whatever costly medicine he needs—"

"You, Regina," Tinkerbell interrupts emphatically, as though it could not be any more obvious. "He needs you."

With Regina's sharp intake of breath comes an onslaught of panic, and it stirs the fear lodged deep in her heart.

"No, stop that, Tinkerbell," she blurts, voice strained with emotion. Fear, yes; and then, oddly enough, regret. "It's not like that—you know it can't be." But she can't afford to admit to that regret, to dig deeper to its source, for it's a futile, treacherous, dangerous thing she must weed out before it hurts her—or someone else. It's a miracle all parties in this little charade of hers remain more or less unscathed, and how can Tinkerbell not understand Regina's guilt and anguish? "Haven't I done enough for him already? Prevented his execution, negotiated a milder punishment, taken in his child? I've risked enough, I've risked everything—"

"So have I, don't you remember?"

Regina deflates at that, leans against the cool column for support, and closes her eyes.

"Of course I remember," she sighs. "You know I'm beyond grateful."

"I helped save a good man and did my friend a favour." Tink finds her hand and squeezes. "I have no regrets, Regina. Though not for lack of trying on the part of Vestalis Maxima, mind you."

Regina glances at Tink sympathetically.

"Still in the doghouse, then?"

"Oh yes. I don't think Blue will ever forgive me for driving a wedge between the Vestals and the Dark One."

Regina scoffs. Blue's been mistreating her childhood friend since Tinkerbell was chosen to join the Vestals at ten, but even she can't blame the chief priestess for her dismay at having gained an enemy the calibre of Rumplestiltskin.

"I imagine having antagonised both Rome's prominent censor and its most bellicose praetor in a single morning is quite the reason for outrage."

"Well, as long as it's for a good cause. It is, isn't it?" Tinkerbell turns to her with such insistence Regina would take a step back if only the cold marble wasn't in the way. "You're going to see this through, Regina, aren't you?"

Regina swallows, eyes flitting to Vesta's merrily blazing fire, fighting to stifle the embers smoldering within her with common sense.

"I will see to it that he's back in that arena earning his freedom, and a good life for him and his son," comes her stubborn answer.

Tinkerbell gives a small sound of disapproval, shakes her head at the inadequacy of Regina's response, but shrugs with a small, knowing smile.

"It's a start."

###

Regina has errands to run, ones that need attending to and will serve to justify her absence so early in the morning besides. Unfortunately, this also means she misses breakfast with the boys, and their next break is only due at lunchtime. The conversation at the Temple of Vesta had stirred gnawing doubts and fears she hasn't been able to silence since, however, and waiting until lunch to see them, hear their laughter and kiss their foreheads, is out of the question.

"Regina," Archie greets with polite surprise when she enters the peristyle.

Henry looks up from the poem he's been analysing, a bright smile on his face when he spots her. A curly little ball of energy crashes into her legs, the tickle of Roland's unruly hair eliciting a chuckle from her.

"R'gina! I missed you," cries the little man, and plants a kiss upon her cheek. Regina strokes through his curls, a silly little lump rising in her throat at the boy's easy confession. He's warmed up to her almost immediately, although a sense of gloominess lingers mostly in the evenings, when he misses his father most.

"Yeah, Mom, we missed you at breakfast," Henry chimes in, wrapping his arms around her and turning up his face for her to kiss his forehead—an affectionate gesture that gives them both comfort. "Did you have a good morning?"

"I did," she confirms, "and I bought more of those apples you like so much. Maybe we can bake in the afternoon."

The boys' eyes light up with glee—and then the light dims. Roland's arms clutch tighter, whereas Henry tears himself away from her, strives to stand up straight as his eyes widen and his chin quivers.

Regina recognises that look, knows who must have caused it, and shuts her eyes briefly at Leopold's sharp voice.

"You will do no such thing," he states from the columned passage surrounding the garden. "Henry, deliver today's lectio."

Henry gulps, his eyes darting from Leopold to Regina to Archie, then settle on a spot just above Leopold's shoulder. He tries, and tries valiantly, but stumbles on the words, those trusty friends turned deceitful foes now by the overwhelming fear of this cold man he's to call father.

"It's my fault," Regina rushes to say. "I shouldn't have interrupted the lesson."

"No," Leopold says coldly, "you shouldn't have." He looks at Roland in her arms next, and the poor child buries his head in Regina's neck. "Nor should you have brought that boy here. He cannot benefit from a grammaticus, and only provides distraction to my son's betterment. Henry is too old for tales and games now."

Regina's every pore is screaming, yelling at this ignorant man who knows nothing about her son. Leopold's dry taste knows not to value Henry's creativity or his vivid imagination, nor does he appreciate his other qualities: his intelligence, compassion, or his kind heart. He sees that arithmetic comes hard to Henry, but not Henry's tenacity and hard work to master the hateful subject. Leopold doesn't deserve a son like Henry; Henry deserves a much better father than Leopold has ever been to him. So Regina is screaming on the inside; but on the outside, she's all stoic calm and deference, if slightly too rigid and emanating tension—but Leopold has never bothered getting to know her enough to notice such things. Rein it in, Regina, she repeats inwardly, a tired mantra by now, it won't be much longer now.

"Shall I continue the lesson?" Archie cuts in, and thank goodness the docile man has more courage than many would suspect by his unassuming demeanour.

Leopold looks him up and down with a tight frown. It is no secret that he thinks him inadequate, deems him way too soft on Henry, but he's also not nearly present or invested enough to do anything about it other than criticise Regina's failure to raise Henry according to his expectations.

"Take care not to coddle him too much, grammaticus," Leopold orders, proving Regina right once more. "A young man his age must be guided with a firm hand to grow up to bring honour to this family."

Henry's jaw is set, his eyes trained on his feet when Leopold walks past him without another word or indeed a glance his way. Regina reaches for Henry, but he doesn't return the gesture, so she doesn't push him anymore, remains standing with a soft hand on his shoulder, giving him space with an aching heart raw with reawakened guilt. Guilt that she's powerless against Leopold, can't protect her child from him in moments like this.

"It wasn't your fault, Mom," Henry pipes up then. "It was mi—"

"Leopold's fault," she shakes her head, squeezing his shoulder. "Never yours, sweetheart." For she won't have him feeling guilty for this, never for the crippling fear Leopold inspires in him.

He launches herself forward then, wraps his arms around her neck pressing himself and Roland to her.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, Henry."

With her cheeks and eyes burning, she turns to Archie. He's far from her confidant, but he's one of the few people she's fairly confident are loyal to her rather than her husband. Henry is Archie's true priority, a fact proven by his willingness to oppose her when he sees fit, even at the potential cost of his job. Regina respects that, and Henry works well with his teacher.

"Thank you for taking Roland even though you didn't have to. I won't trouble you anymore. I'll teach him myself from now on." She did it with Henry after all; she can manage again with Roland.

The little boy clings to her even more at the sound of his name, holds on to her as one would to a lifeline.

Regina realises with a pang that that's exactly what she's become to him.

###[TW applies]###

The knock on her door comes near midnight, and Regina's stomach drops. She knew it was coming, but with the lateness of the hour was beginning to hope he'd fallen asleep, that he'd no longer send for her. Cold sweat beads on her brow as she takes a shuddering breath and opens the door to find Sidney on the other side.

"Domina," he says reverently, devouring her with a greedy look that swipes up and down her body, and Regina pushes back a shudder. "Dominus wants you."

Let's get it over with.

It never lasts long with him, and that's the only blessing on the nights Leopold has her visit his bedroom. He always requests her presence before departure, so she's been bracing herself for this moment for days. It doesn't make it any more pleasant or less repulsive, and certainly no less denigrating. His fingers are clammy as they grip and clutch without regard to any marks he might leave. He's not violent, not quite that, but neither is he gentle. He simply cares nothing about anything other than his release, And he wouldn't be expected to either—Regina, like other Roman women, had been taught the woman's role is to lie still, and bear children. So she does the best she can, does the first thing at least, and suffers with gritted teeth and prickling eyes as he takes her, bites back bile and tears, and struggles to disassociate even though such efforts have always led to only partial success at best. A few frantic thrusts, and his final grunt releases her from this particular torment. Regina pulls the covers around her naked body, longing desperately for a scalding bath and a cleansing scrub. She can have neither tonight, but she'll make do with the knowledge that she won't have to bear his presence for more than a few hours more before he disappears from her life for months. Years, if she's lucky.

Yet even in his absence, he will keep an eye on her. Sidney's eye. The wandering, lecherous eye of Leopold's spymaster.

Well, Regina will just need to be careful.

###

She's up at the crack of dawn to see to the last preparations like the dutiful wife she'll remain for exactly two more hours. Leopold is sequestered in his office with a handful of senators—George, Midas, Rumplestiltskin of course, and David—discussing matters Regina isn't privy to. She wonders briefly if she could maybe catch David later, decides she might just have to decline Snow White's incessant invitations in writing if she can't.

Shortly before Leopold's planned hour of leave, Regina receives a visitor. The visit is unannounced but hardly unexpected.

"Cora sent you," Regina says softly, and her father sighs.

"Your mother only wants what's best for you," he says, and Regina nods—of course she does. Or maybe she doesn't. Either way, it's a phrase her father repeats every time Cora comes up. Perhaps to reassure Regina, or himself, or both, that Cora's cold calculations and entirely inappropriate meddling in affairs both personal and political are but a means to a noble end. Regina doesn't believe that, not anymore. Regina is fighting, albeit in silent mutiny and minute ways barely discernible to an outsider's eye, to reclaim her life as her own, and won't let her victories, small and scant as they might be, be pried away by her mother's ruthless hands.

"And what would that be this time?" she asks wearily.

"The usual," her father admits. "Cora reckons you'd be safest in our house while your husband is away."

"I have bodyguards, Daddy. And I can handle myself."

"She feels your reputation might suffer if you stay here all alone."

"My reputation?" Perhaps mother should be more concerned with her own, then she might not have subjected her family to whispers and mockery from all of Rome. Her father is once again the one to bear the brunt of Regina's anger, and suddenly Regina is just—tired. "Tell mother not to worry. I will not be staying in my husband's house. Neither will I move back to yours."

"She's not going to like that."

"I know."

For the implications of her words are not lost on Henry. Despite the fact that Leopold owns a number of estates outside Rome, cool summer lodgings in the mountains nearby as well as farms and beach villas as far as Campania and Sicilia, her father understands perfectly well that Regina will not be staying at either of those.

Today, Leopold leaves for Hispania.

Come first light tomorrow, Regina will be on her way to Capua.

Thumbs up? Thumbs down? This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)