He wasn't even sure why he followed her. Perhaps it was obligation, or some unfounded sense of familial loyalty, or pity; either way, that was where he was, a stalking shadowsilk hovering at her flank.
You are bold to speak of the Gods, a silver-tongued curl of his lip as his tongue pokes out to run over pale gums. you do not know them like I do, Macedonian. A bitter stare is given to the back of her head. He does not meet her eyes.
The sand is parched and seething against the pads of his feet. He whistles. How are you faring under this weather, femina? his head crooks, a hint of condescension to the baritone of his voice. It is my job to ensure you are well.

She does not respond in words. Perhaps this would have angered him if he were a worse man — but, he supposed, when your world has just collapsed around you, small talk does not come so easily.
He keeps his place at her side. She seeks the two other Greeks; the boys. He thought it odd how they hadn't been at their side to begin with.
His jaw clenches as his gaze searches her figure. What is our plan in these lands, femina? his brow arches; searching. You're thinking of something, are you not? scanning, begging for the turn of an evergreen gaze toward him.
Round and round the thoughts flutter through his head like a swarm of vultures — Gaius. Crispinus. Florentia. He wanted to go home. He longed to escape from this sea of sand, to return to his mountains and bittersalt seaside; the Roman woman he had his eye on with the sun-dappled freckles and the dazzling brown eyes. His mead, his warm meat, his bed; his rightful place in the white marble kingdom his father had built.
But was home even still there? Had it fallen just as the Greek-place had?
His chest tight; his eyes blown wide. I am not my brother.

She does not answer to woman. To that, a buttery laugh falls from his lips. My apologies, domina, his head lowers to a bow. does that title suit you better? Or was that something Crispinus called you only in the bedchambers?
The water's edge feels like a saving grace from Iuppiter. Two forepaws graciously dip below the surface of the pool. Blackened lips part as slow sips are taken as if it is a flavorful wine. The word of settling makes his ears twitch.
Settle? of course it would be the Greek's idea. A pearl of water drips from his chin as he raises his own head to look at her once more. She awaits his own thoughts — as if she would even take them into consideration.
He is quiet. The Romans were people who sought expansion, outreach, triumph — but an allegiance with the Macedonians? Would his father have ever approved of such a thing?
But then again, did he need to?
When was the last he had even seen him?
That needs to be discussed between the four of us, nostrils aflare, he points his gaze to the pair of Macedonians. all four of us. That is a big decision. And besides, his paw juts outward. what are Romans if not for the people? and what did that make her?

I will never know what he saw in you, a rap of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, bitterness lining the edges of every word. In his mind, he had the right to feel such disdain; perhaps if they had never married—
Well.
He knew little of the two that breathed down the back of Andromache's neck. Her father's men, he'd been told; he could not remember if he'd ever even spoken to them beyond sidelong glances and casual greetings up until now.
She fires insults and he dodges the metaphorical hurl with a duck of his head. Do I have reason to trust them? pupils pinpricked, he leans into the curve of her neck, voice lowered to a venomous whisper. All the while, he holds his smug grin; she had told him to smile more, had she not? Better yet, do I have reason to trust you?

She was right.
Faustus is alive, fully with the freedom to step away. And if there was one thing he knew of the senate of his homeland, it's that it was dirty work — sour smiles and the patting of shoulders to those who offer their wills of servitude for the betterment of the regime. Petty arguments set aside for the sake of a common goal, at least in most cases.
Compromise, even when you cannot stand each other.
I will settle, he trills. but know that you are not the only one in charge. I demand equal say as paterfamilias. We must uphold the Roman way in some form, his eyes narrow, hard as gemstone. Lest we forget why you married into the Aemilii.
He pulls sharply from her side, hips asway as he wades further into the pool. It is lukewarm and nearly just as hot as the sand itself at the surface, but a bath would do him good. He dips his muzzle down and begins to scrub himself with gentle strokes.
So what do you and your men suppose we do, considering we are in a no-man's land of barbarians? honeyed eye trails over his shoulder in search of her. Do we seek recruits? Conquer? Or live only amongst ourselves with this... peanut gallery?

King? Queen? Ha! his laugh echoes. You are gravely mistaken, Macedonian. There have not been kings of Rome for centuries, let alone queens, condescension, smugness; If anything, I will take the title of dictator. Imperator. Princeps Senatus. You would be lucky to claim the title of paelex in the eyes of Iuppiter. his tail snakes up to flag high above his haunches. You are even more lucky I'd offer you a chance at being a co-conspirator, out of the goodness of my heart. But is that not what women have sought for eons? Equality?
He eases down into a sit, shoulder deep now in freshwater. His eyes, burning. I grant you the opportunity of freedom from the reigns of whatever sorry life your Macedonian king had you living. You are widowed. You have free choice of whatever man you see fit. You could even marry for love, if you wished. an impish, curling grin that stretches to push his cheeks upward. His tone is dark and thunderous; traitorous in regard to his expression. I see your ambitions and why you are eager to settle here. You have an opportunity to rule alongside me in a new world. But you will never be above me. Do I make that clear?

The only threat to me is tyranny, his tongue a pink blaze as it flicks from between his lips. She tries to prey upon his masculinity; his hunger. But all he thinks when he looks upon her is his brother that had once been in his place.
A fiery thing, this one. Crispinus must have had his hands full.
A paw breaks out from the water and brushes beneath her chin, claws pressed into her pulsepoint, knotted in russet fur. He was a fragile man, Crispinus. Simple. But you do not know me, domina. his devotion lies with order, prosperity — power, perhaps, in some ways.
Breath is drawn from deep within his chest; his throat rattles with a shaky growl. Do you want me to fuck you? Is that what you think is going to get you your way?

You are so full of yourself it astounds me, sweetheart, a clench to the muscles within his paw, knuckles whitened. when did I ever say I wished to lie with you?
His touch is gone as soon as it had been there, yanking himself back and coolly wading back onto the sandbank as if nothing had happened at all. I need some time to think about all of this, he gives a shake of his shoulders, oilslick pelt spraying droplets of water wherever they cared to land. away from you. Make sure those other two get into no trouble. I will speak to you by tomorrow's evening.
He doesn't look back as he begins to saunter away, heavy-footed; off into the desert. Who was she to demand he settle in these foreign lands, and to take supreme leadership and the title of queen? Better yet, what lies had those within Myros fed her to enable her delusions of grandeur? Her mother had been bad enough!
Women, he swears.