That night, the moonlight filtered softly through the silk-draped windows of one of Rome's most opulent estates. Gilded marble columns gleamed in the faint light, and fountains whispered in the distance, their waters dancing with the scent of blooming laurels and jasmine. Within the grand atrium of this magnificent residence—second in grandeur only to the private palace of Marcus Crassus—Servilia Junia sat hunched in quiet reflection, her figure cloaked in the heavy folds of a deep violet stola.
The villa was silent but not asleep. Its quietude was more akin to reverence than slumber, as though every stone and statue recognized that this house was home to a woman unlike any other in Rome.
