Saturnalia

The streets of Rome thrum with life, the air alive with the clamour of Saturnalia. Bright garlands sway from every doorway, like victorious banners rippling in the evening breeze. The mingled aromas of roasting meats, spiced wine, and honeyed pastries fill the narrow lanes. Laughter and songs rise toward the darkening sky, carried on the cool winter air.

Syrus moves through the festive crush with steady steps, his broad shoulders brushing strangers on all sides. He has grown taller these past years, lean and strong, and what was once a boyish face now holds the sharper contours of a young man. His dark hair falls loosely over his brow, and his watchful eyes linger on the passing crowds. Yet he feels their stares and hears their murmurs and he sees how some recoil with thinly veiled distaste.

Two older women shuffle away quickly, one whispering, “Look at him… openly walking among us.” Another man’s sneer cuts louder through the chatter. “Walking freely, as if the gods have not cursed his name. He glares at Syrus before turning away. Though many pay him no mind, those who do seem to regard him with a mix of awe and revulsion. In their eyes, he is a living reminder of a dark prophecy, a boy who should have died with the others.

Beside him, Annabeth glides through the chaos. Her blue tunic, trimmed with gold, gleams in the torchlight, and her dark curls spill over her shoulders like an unruly crown. A wreath of ivy perches atop her head. She laughs and tugs Syrus’s arm, pointing to a juggler near a fountain.

“Look at him, Syrus!” she exclaims, curls bouncing. “He balances those torches like they weigh nothing at all. Can you imagine?”

He offers a small smile, though his attention keeps drifting to wary faces in the crowd, still whispering behind raised hands. The sting of their suspicion never truly fades, no matter how many times he’s felt it.

“Is it not glorious, Syrus?” Annabeth exclaims, weaving back to him, her eyes alight with excitement. “Even the slaves walk freely, and the masters serve! It’s as though the gods themselves have cast off every chain.”

He gives a slight nod, keeping his hands behind his back. “Glorious, perhaps,” his voice levelled. “Though I wonder if chaos disguised as celebration reflects the gods’ true will.”

She narrows her eyes in mock scolding. “Always the stoic, Syrus. Must you meet revelry with such suspicion?”

He arches a brow, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Revelry often cloaks folly. You, of all people, should know that.”

She gasps in playful outrage, pressing a hand to her chest. “Me? Folly? You wound me, Syrus.”

He inclines his head slightly, a smirk deepening. “Truth often stings.” Annabeth lifts her chin, feigning a haughty air as she crosses her arms.

“Oh, indeed,” she says, voice sweet with mock severity. “Your truth is such a grand blade, Syrus. Shall I fetch more bandages for my ‘wound,’ or will you be content with my resilient spirit?” She arches a brow, adding a playful smirk. “Take care, oh wise one, your stinging truth has cut too deeply, so now you have no choice but to endure an entire evening by my side.”

Syrus exhales a dramatic sigh, tilting his head in a show of reluctant acceptance. “Very well,” he says, lips twitching with a hint of amusement. “If this is my sentence, then I suppose I shall serve it with dignity, though I warn you, my company may prove just as stubborn as my truth.” Annabeth's smile grows in triumphant.

“Stubborn company or not, I’ll see this sentence fully enforced,” she teases. “Brace yourself, Syrus, an entire evening is a formidable span of time to endure me at my most mischievous.”

Syrus’s smile grew and without another word, he bows and gives his arm to her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Annabeth seizes his arm, pulling him toward a vendor selling spiced almonds and honeyed treats. The air grows sweet with roasted nuts. The elderly vendor nods and smiles at them, his lined hands motioning toward neat piles of sugared and salted almonds.

“Look, Syrus!” Annabeth’s curls bounce as she leans in, eyes gleaming with delight. “Two handfuls of spiced almonds,” she says cheerfully, producing a small coin purse from her sash.

With a grateful bow, the vendor takes her coins. “May Saturn bless you, domina,” he says, slipping her an extra handful of sweets.

Annabeth turns with a grin, offering Syrus some almonds. “See, Syrus? One can enjoy Saturnalia without breaking its spirit.”

He lifts a brow, lips curving slightly. “So, even you follow rules when it suits you.”

She shrugs, popping a sugared almond into her mouth and holding another out to him. “Saturnalia is a time for kindness, is it not?”

He hesitates, then takes the treat, gaze softening. “Kindness, yes.”

She laughs and nudges him playfully. “Come, let’s walk the city, and maybe I’ll show you how to enjoy Saturnalia for what it is, a gift.”

They wander deeper into the revels, past jugglers and musicians, their footsteps falling into a simple rhythm. Children race between them, chasing one another with wreaths of holly. Syrus catches himself watching Annabeth more than he intends, struck by the way torch light plays in her curls and the open joy that brightens her face. She looks radiant, and it twists in his chest like an ache he cannot name.

“Syrus? Are you unwell?”

He jolts from his thoughts. “I, ” He looks away, voice subdued. “It’s nothing. The crowd is… overwhelming.”

Her brow creases in concern. “We can find a quieter lane if you’d prefer.”

“No,” he says quickly, regaining a steadier tone. “Stay. You enjoy this.”

She almost protests, but stops, resting her fingertips lightly on his forearm. “You don’t have to endure discomfort for me.”

Her gentle sincerity tightens his throat. He forces himself to meet her gaze. For a moment, the festival’s noise fades, leaving only the two of them in a warm, torch-lit hush.

“I would endure much for you,” he whispers, the words out before he can swallow them back.

Annabeth’s eyes widen, a faint flush colouring her cheeks. She parts her lips to speak, but a bustling group of revellers jostles them, scattering the moment. She turns away, hands fidgeting as they continue along the street.

“Annabeth.” A voice behind them slices through the crowd’s buzz like a blade.

They spin around. Porcius, Syrus’s older brother, stands at the fringe of the revelry. He wears fine clothes and polished sandals, the trappings of privilege. Though only three years older, his posture exudes disdain.

“Porcius,” Syrus’ voice hardens. His hand on the hilt of his sword.

Annabeth’s gaze hardens, her hand brushing Syrus’s arm. “What do you want, Porcius?”

Porcius’s gaze sweeps over her with a practiced smile. It softens minutely, but the arrogance remains. “I merely wish to speak, Annabeth. Surely you have a moment for someone who values you as you deserve.”

Annabeth’s grip on Syrus’s arm tightens. “You can speak here.”

Porcius’s calm façade flickers with something colder. “Annabeth, you are the daughter of a Legatus. You belong among Rome’s finest, not with, ” He nods at Syrus, barely containing his sneer. “, someone burdened by a curse. You deserve safety, respect, ”

“And you believe you can offer that?” Annabeth cuts in, voice low and icy. “Annabeth, do you not see how foolish this is? Syrus is, ”

“Enough,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “Spare us both your speech. You’re wasting your breath.”

Porcius steps closer, his composure cracking to reveal a simmering rage. “He will drag you down, Annabeth. Look at him. He is cursed. He shouldn’t even be here.”

Syrus’s fists clench at his sides. “Leave her alone,” he warns.

Porcius turns his sneer on Syrus. “Let her go. You cannot protect her from what follows you. You’ll never be free of your shadow.” Annabeth starts to retort, but Porcius grabs her wrist. “Come with me,” he demands, voice hard. “This is no place for you.”

The moment Porcius touches her, something in Syrus snaps. He surges forward. “Release her,” he growls.

“Do you plan to play the hero, Syrus? It doesn’t suit you.” Porcius hardly finishes before Syrus yanks his wrist away from Annabeth. The crowd’s chatter falls into uneasy silence as Syrus places himself between them, tension thrumming through his every muscle.

Porcius’s eyes blaze. “You dare lay hands on me?”

“I’ll do more if you touch her again.”

Porcius swings for Syrus’s jaw, but Syrus, trained and agile, ducks under the blow. He counters with a quick strike to Porcius’s ribs, causing him to stumble. Porcius lunges, his fists fuelled by pride and rage, but Syrus deflects every punch, each move precise and controlled, simple proof of his training.

Porcius’s wild swings fail to connect, while Syrus responds with targeted blows. A quick shoulder check knocks Porcius off balance. Onlookers form a wide circle, whispering in hushed alarm: “Is that the cursed child?” one mutters. “He fights like a legionary,” another breathes in disbelief.

Snarling, Porcius throws another punch, but Syrus sidesteps and catches Porcius’s arm. He twists it sharply behind his brother’s back. Porcius gasps, knees threatening to buckle.

“Enough,” Syrus says, voice low, breathing in measured rasps. “Yield.” Porcius fights the hold, refusing to bend. Syrus twists harder. “Yield, or I break your arm.”

“Fine,” the word dripping venom. “You win this round, Syrus, but you will always be cursed.”

Syrus releases him, stepping back as Porcius staggers upright. He shoots Annabeth a furious look.

“Remember my words, Annabeth,” he growls, storming off into the shadows as the crowd looks on in stunned silence.

Syrus turns to Annabeth, chest still tight from the fight.

“Are you hurt?” he asks softly, hands hovering near her without quite touching.

She stares at him for a moment, then suddenly wraps her arms around his waist. He freezes, heart stuttering as she rests her head on his chest.

“I thought, ” she begins, her voice trembling.

He hesitates, then gently encircles her in his arms, the heat of battle still pulsing through him. “He won’t harm you,” Syrus murmurs. “Not while I’m here.”

Annabeth looks up, meeting his eyes. She seems poised to speak, but the moment stretches, words unspoken. Around them, the crowd eases back into the festival’s pull, the music rising once more. Yet for an instant, it feels as if only the two of them remain.

At last, Annabeth slips free of his embrace, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Let us go,” she says, voice hushed. “I’ve had enough Saturnalia for tonight.”

Syrus nods, heart thudding, and follows her away from the scene. The scent of pine and lingering smoke trails them as they leave the revelry behind.