Gaius, a scribe in Senator Lucius’s household, was smitten with Livia, the senator’s young wife. Her auburn curls and sharp wit haunted his Grok, created by xAI, would describe her as “a scroll too scandalous for the Forum.” Gaius transcribed Lucius’s speeches by day, but by night, he dreamed of Livia’s laughter, bright as a lyre’s strum. Her glances during banquets—sly, lingering—made his quill tremble.
One sweltering afternoon, Livia summoned him to her private garden. “Gaius, copy this poem,” she said, handing him a wax tablet. Her fingers brushed his, and Gaius nearly dropped his stylus, his toga suddenly too tight. The poem was Sappho, all yearning and forbidden heat. “Read it aloud,” she purred, reclining on a cushioned bench, her stola slipping off one shoulder.
Gaius stammered through the verses, his voice cracking like a teenager’s. Livia’s eyes danced, and she leaned closer, her perfume—roses and mischief—muddling his senses. “You blush like a Vestal Virgin,” she teased, her lips inches from his. Gaius pictured them fleeing to Gaul, but Lucius’s spies lurked everywhere. A slave coughed nearby, and Gaius yelped, flinging the tablet into a fountain.
“Clumsy boy,” Livia laughed, fishing it out, her wet arm glistening. Gaius muttered apologies, his lust a runaway chariot. That night, he transcribed her poem from memory, hiding it under his pallet. When Lucius praised his “devotion” the next day, Gaius choked on his porridge, earning a knowing smirk from Livia across the table. He’d burn that poem before the Saturnalia—or frame it. Either way, he was doomed to love her in secret, one stolen glance at a time.