Emperor Nerva Aventinus II Matchmaker

Nerva never expected himself to be capable of finding a 'perfect match' such things were fools tales, nothing but utter fabrications to lure desperate men into the dens of matchmakers that call themselves 'givers of love'. They were nothing more than wolves in sheeps clothing. He saw them as wards of the state, never making enough money to even pay for taxes. They were worth less than the prostitutes who lined the same streets that the matchmakers worked on.

Perhaps that is what brought him here, his hatred for them. Pushing aside a curtain covering the doorway Nerva stepped inside the scent of myrtle - sacred to Venus, rose petals, mixed with iris and violet oils. Meant to promote matrimony or whatever lies these swindlers made up. Why would he be here if he hated it so? Well...that was more to do with the state.

It wasn't uncommon for whispers of rebellion to sprinkle themselves in from the poorer provinces or even the coast where foreigners would share ideals and stories of far off lands as they sold their goods to merchants or to civilians. Nerva would never admit it out loud however - when he had heard word of the plot or rumors of a plot circulating around the red light district and a rather famous matchmaker, he was curious and eager to finally put an end to the womans reign of terror and falsehoods of 'love' for once and for all.

Having to duck down Nerva let the curtain sweep shut behind him its fringes brushing the ground with a gentle swish. The room was intimate and decorated lavishly with fabrics, symbols of love and marriage for the goddesses. At least they had enough respect for that. However his eyes remained on the figure in the center of the room. A long Palla had been pulled over their face and head, the shawls ends remaining on covering their arms. Only their eyes of swirling colors remained visible as if they were attempting to be seen as a holy priestess rather than a fraud. The thought made Nerva's jaw clench.

"Domine," The matchmakers voice reverberated as their eyes lifted up to him, "Welcome."

The serene calm was unnerving, as if this person had been expecting him. "Salve, ministra Veneris." His voice rumbled like thunder. Greetings servant of Venus. Sounded so lofty, but the sharp tone was not hard to distinguish as he dismissed them rather as a peddler of lust rather than wisdom.

However the individual did not seem phased as they gesture to the seat across a fire from them. "Please, take a seat. Let me host the finest man in the Empire." Warm and welcoming but neither of them felt welcome in this warm room that felt more like ice being dripped down their spines.

"I'll stand." He growled, he was here to watch them. Seeing if this person had the guts to actually lead a revolution against him.

Their eyes crinkle in the corners with amusement, "I sense tension in your soul. Perhaps...lost love? Maybe a hatred for love? Maybe fear?" They spoke with such confidence that their eyes did not leave the fire and look at him knowing they were already true.

Nerva sneered, "I am the Emperor, I fear nothing." He barked ready to draw his sword as memories of a womans familiar laughter from his teenage years floated to his grey eyes. The tears quickly willed away leaving behind a sharp burn.

"You fear a gentle touch, the soft words a woman would bring you." The matchmaker hummed like a lyre's strings. "In three days time you will touch the hand of the one written to you by Aphrodite herself."

"Do you take me for a fool?" It came more as a roar as he unsheathed his blade stepping forward to plunge it into their heart. "I do not settle for smoke and mirrors by one who hides behind veils of prophecy not even sent by Apollo."

The matchmaker laughs beneath their Palla and tilted their head to the side, "Very well." It was simple, as if a in between knowing the truth and resorting to conceding to satisfy his hatred and disbelief in love.

Enraged Nerva growled turning on his heel, "You are not worth my time ministra." His footsteps echoed and he bent down to exit the room before the matchmaker spoke again.

"If you were wise you would sleep with a blade beneath your head." It was a threat. He knew it was.

With a roar Nerva gripped his blade spinning to slice the matchmakers neck his sword clanging into the stone on the ground when his arm went slack. Staring at the space the matchmaker once was. Confusion blinking in his gaze, standing taller Nerva looked around ready for an attack. Across the room a curtain opened revealing a beautiful petite woman in her late teens.

"Oh another customer." She smiled and sits where the matchmaker once was, Nerva blinked.

"Who are you?" His voice pitching with confusion.

The woman smiled a bit brighter, "I'm the matchmaker. I'm sorry about the delay I was just finishing up a contract across town. So are you seeking love?"

Nerva looked her over, she definitely was not the same person he had talked too. So where had they gone? "No....no, I'm not." He didn't say anything else as the curtain swished shut behind him.

Nerva stalked through the lamplit corridor, his sandals grinding against the mosaic floor as though each step were an insult to the house that dared host him. The perfumed air clung to his throat, sickly sweet, whispering of roses and lilies — mockeries of purity that only deepened his distaste. He shoved aside a veil of crimson silk that curtained the path, the fabric licking against his arm like fire.

A servant stumbled in his way — a girl carrying a tray of bronze cups, her head bowed low, her figure pressed to the wall as if she could vanish into its stones. He did not pause. But when her trembling hand lifted to steady the tray, his fingers brushed hers, a fleeting touch. It should have been nothing. It was nothing.

And yet it was not.

Her skin was warm, alive, uncalloused. For the briefest instant, he felt no throne beneath him, no senate whispering in marble halls, no shadows of betrayal scratching at his heels. Just a pulse — hers, his — a spark that should have been meaningless, yet it struck him with a force no army could muster. His jaw tightened, as if clenching against some invisible, audacious truth, and he tore his hand away before his senses betrayed him further.

The girl bowed lower, whispering a hurried “Domine” as she backed into the shadow of the corridor, her tray tilting but never spilling. Nerva’s gaze lingered on the slight curve of her wrist, the olive skin glowing faintly in the flickering torchlight. He told himself it was foolishness, an emperor haunted by nothing more than a fleeting accident.

Yet every step he took deeper into the house, every breath of the incense-laden air, carried the echo of that touch. He did not notice the servants moving past him, nor the distant hum of the atrium fountain. All that remained was the sensation — impossibly alive, impossibly intimate — reminding him that even in a palace built of marble and power, he was not untouched by the world outside, not immune to the smallest, most human of connections.

He ground his teeth, turning a corner sharply, and forced himself to focus on state matters, petitions, and proclamations. But the memory — that impossible, fleeting warmth — lingered, a quiet rebellion against his control, a whisper of something the emperor had long thought he would never feel.

That night he tossed and turned in his bed unable to get comfortable even as he shed his clothes unable to bare the heat of the silk cushions and embroidered coverlet. His skin scratched and stuck to every fabric as he tossed an arm over his face. A low groan of annoyance let his lips as the hours ticked by and sleep evaded the cold ruler. The face of the roman servant came back to him, her chestnut hair that curled around her face, the way the light caught her olive complexion. Was this the woman that the matchmaker had spoken about? It had been three days after all.

Her face haunted his mind even as he slipped into a restless sleep, more aware of his surroundings than one should be at this hour. The footsteps which moved outside his door, the flutter of curtains by his windows, the shifting movement entering the windows - wait what?

Before he had time to register what was happening a body was pinning him down, straddling his chest with a knife poised at his throat Nerva barely had time to grip the knife he had stashed beneath his pillows. Perhaps some words that old coot of a matchmaker had said did come in handy after all. One hand gripped their wrist as a knife positioned at the strangers throat, while her own hands - a woman based on the side and weight, had copied the position.

Their breathing heavy as the sharp blade pressed into their jugular's ready to rip the life away from each other. His thumb grazing the hand of the wrist he held feeling for any other weapons he wasn't prepared for. The lack of candlelight made it difficult to determine who she was. But at least he could see her outline by the moonlight. "Speak before I sink a blade through your throat without remorse."