Aurelius and Livia wandered through the bustling market with their son, James. Even at a young age, James was renowned among their neighbors for his sharp mind and cheerful disposition—always observant, his gaze darted from merchant to merchant, from pottery stalls to the musicians in the square. He was, in every sense, a happy soul, quick to laugh and eager to help, but with an undercurrent of Roman practicality: he disliked seeing others come to harm, but understood that sometimes, one must learn how to defend themselves—or even how to hurt, if necessity demanded it.

Unlike most boys, James cared little for the games of strength or contests of bravado that filled the forum. Instead, his fascination was with architecture and clever mechanisms. He delighted in accompanying his father to their family’s aging bathhouse—a business that struggled to remain profitable. While most children would have complained about the steamy heat and endless chores, James took every visit as an opportunity. He peppered Aurelius with questions, offered small but ingenious suggestions, and more than once his bright spark of insight led to improvements in the baths—better drainage here, a clever pulley there—that made a genuine difference to their fortunes.

So when Livia, ever watchful, noticed the pool of piss collecting at James’s sandaled feet, she frowned. Before she could call out, James bolted, tearing away through the crowd, his shriek echoing above the noise of the market—like the hounds of Hades themselves were snapping at his heels. Livia’s heart twisted in sudden worry. For all his brightness and bravery, there was something in her son’s terror that unsettled her deeply, and she pushed after him, calling his name as the market’s chaos closed in around her.

He ran blindly, barreling through the crush of bodies, shoving aside startled merchants and patrons alike. His screams were wild and incoherent, lost in the cacophony of the street—panic lending him the strength of the possessed.

Then, without warning, a hand shot out—unyielding, iron-strong—and seized his arm in an unbreakable grip. James skidded to a halt, breath hitching as he looked up, heart hammering in his chest.

Towering above him stood a man of obvious rank—not a general, but unmistakably someone important. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored toga, the edge embroidered in purple, a mark of senatorial standing or perhaps higher office. His features were sharp and patrician, his gaze stern and unwavering, every inch the image of Roman authority. A signet ring gleamed on his finger, and the slight sneer on his lips suggested he was used to being obeyed without question.

The man’s voice was calm, but brooked no argument. “Enough. Compose yourself, boy. What is it that drives a son of Rome to such disgraceful flight?”

James trembled, still shaking, caught between relief and dread. The crowd began to part, wary of the man’s presence—no one wanted to cross someone of such obvious influence. Livia pushed through, breathless and frantic, her eyes darting from James to the imposing stranger.

For a moment, time seemed to pause. The man’s hand remained locked around James’s arm, not cruel, but immovable—a reminder of the weight of order and power in Rome.

His parents came barreling around the corner and stopped cold. There was James, gripped by a man in battered military armor—his red-trimmed cloak thrown over one shoulder, sword sheathed but never far from his reach. Behind him, a dozen legionaries stood awkwardly, shifting their weight but none daring to step in.

The man—older, with weathered lines cut deep by war—kept hold of James, who was still shuddering, his shame obvious even as the last of his panic faded. The Tribune’s stern face softened only a little; in truth, it was the sort of scene he’d witnessed too often with raw recruits, not children.

At last, as James stilled, the man cracked the faintest smile, voice touched with dry humor. “Done?”

The boy only sniffed, miserable, and the Tribune made a show of sighing before scooping him up and leading the way, his soldiers dutifully trailing after. Livia rushed to his side, anxiety etched in every gesture.

“He’s never normally like this!” she pleaded, looking between the Tribune and her boy.

Aurelius shook his head, frustration in his tone. “What could have frightened him so?”

“I don’t know,” Livia whispered.

Inside a dim tavern, the Tribune settled James onto a bench and pressed a small mug of mead into his hands. James sagged, eyes rolling, as if in the grip of a fit; the Tribune watched with a wry, knowing eye—recognizing the edge of shock, but not surprised by it. He’d seen tougher men reduced to less.

James groaned, then blinked awake, confusion mixing with embarrassment. “What?”

“Hello,” the Tribune replied, deadpan but with a hint of amusement, as though indulging a skittish colt.

James frowned at him. “Who’re you?”

“James, show some respect!” Aurelius barked.

James only shrugged. “Sorry, but if I wake up in a soldier’s arms, I’m going to ask who he is.”

The Tribune let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. “A fair point. I am Tribune Lucius Varro.” He made a little bow, mocking formality.

“Tribune? That sounds important.”

Varro’s lips twitched. “Oh, terribly important,” he replied, voice playful, as if sharing a private joke with the adults.

James hesitated, something dawning behind his eyes. He looked suddenly grave. “You’re a Tribune?”

“I am, so they tell me,” Varro quipped, still watching the boy with gentle mockery.

“Therefore you speak for Rome?”

“I do—on alternate Thursdays,” Varro answered, eyes glinting.

James sat up straighter, puffing himself up. “We are Rome.”

Varro pressed a hand to his heart, feigning solemnity. “We are, indeed.”

James nodded once, then gave the Tribune a look of determined gravity. “Then I call upon your services, Tribune. Your men, your honor—they are at stake this day.”

Varro’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Very well, little senator. My honor is at your disposal—within reason, of course,” he added, tossing a wink at James’s bewildered parents, who, despite themselves, began to relax at the sight of their son being so gently handled by a man so clearly accustomed to far greater dangers.

“Aw fuck,” James muttered as he slid off the man’s knees, peering down in dismay at the spreading stain on his tunic. “I hadn’t expected that—fucking hell, my tunic.”