The Fire Inside

My Beloved Lucius,

You have always seen the fire inside me, a smouldering beacon rising to the heavens that not even the gods could quench. I will never forget that, you know.

Many leering eyes have beheld mine, each one a piece of rope tying me down to the columns of the temple of expectation. Yours, azure like a summer sky, lift me to Jupiter’s throne room, there where time bends to the will of his thunderbolts. Whilst the city views me as but a mere glass doll, — delicate, decorative, hollow — you cut through my silken tunics and find a heart more ablaze than a raging furnace. To the rest of our city, I am Ignatia Cassia, born to Ignatius Cassius Maximus, scion to a clan whose members have advised Caesares. To you, I am your Stella Clara; you’ve declared to me day in and out that I’m the only one to illuminate every one of your moments, that my scintillating laughter and fiery humour never fails to bring a sparkle to those blue orbs. You have always seen — completely seen — me, and because of that, I will always kindle affection deeper than the Mediterranean for you.

You know that sometimes, I ask myself why I had to exist in the here and now. In the balmy, peaceful embers of your arms, I’ve pondered my place in this plane. The stark limestone amphitheatres and villas only reinforce the walls that my station has locked me in. The rich, verdant lands my father is all too ready to fork over to he who takes my hand only showcase what I can’t have; whilst our russet soil is nourished by the mighty river, not even a single drop of wild, unadulterated freedom is allowed to moisten my arid soul. I’ve had to learn the art of evading the hired guards tasked to loom over every one of my paces, as if they were the majestic slopes watching over our plateau settlement. Is the patrician life really meant to snuff out any joy a woman might have? I suppose one day I’ll find out, but for now, it sure feels that way.

But whatever charred remnants of happiness embedded in me is sparked once more whenever I’m next to you. I’d meet you by the Thermopolia, a blood red cloak borrowed from a servant concealing my long auburn waves. However, the large piece of fabric has never once deterred you from, as you put it, recognising the flame in my peridot eyes. We’d then enter Julia’s Tavern, your touch as you guide me in soft and tender as a rosebud. We’d feast on freshly caught fish as hours burn to dust unnoticed, all simply because of the radiance of your comforting presence.

It is always precisely when I grow to realise more and more that it’s you who loves to bask in the glow of the fire inside me.

I knew you loved to bask in the glow of the fire inside me when we first met at our favourite food haunt, the same one that has become the setting to the countless times you reanimated all of me with a tiny flicker of a word. I was in desperate need of breathing room, feeling my insides turn to ash with every plastered smile, every yell-demanded appearance before the Prince. So, I snuck out of the house, dodging pyre-like stares from my father’s sentinels in the peristyle and trembling in my disguise. As soon as I saw the marigold, mural painted walls of Julia’s, a warmth enveloped me, a knowing that I found home.

But the bright yellows were nothing compared to the pelagic gleam of your gaze, that sensation of belonging fading into the background from the instant you said ‘hello’. Just being with you, time seemed to fragment and dissolve like sand on our shores. How can it not when it’s you who ignites me?

I knew you loved to bask in the glow of the fire inside me whenever you and I visited the Temple of Apollo together. After discovering I could sing when we both watched a street performer fill the crisp autumn air with flute melodies and I absentmindedly hummed along, you were adamant I come with you and see the god of music in his earthly palace. I must admit that an entire garden of butterflies fluttered about in my belly as we walked towards the place of worship. It all escaped as soon as I marvelled at the forty-eight imposing columns perched on a set of glistening white steps. However, the crimson, mustard, and sapphire-painted stone could have never beaten the rainbow of joy blazing in your aquamarine eyes the first time we went.

When we reached the cella, the temple’s enclosed inner sanctum, the gargantuan marble statue of the patron of the arts greeted us. Before I could even open my mouth to exclaim in wonder of the temple, I heard you mutter a prayer, your voice warm as a cosy hearth, begging the pantheon that my voice be heard, that I shine brighter than an entire constellation. As my vision was flooded in chromatic explosions, I cupped your cheek and planted a kiss that left tingling sparks on my lips. How can I not when it’s you who ignites me?

I knew you loved to bask in the glow of the fire inside me the night we took a late night stroll by the Sarno. You must have known when you invited me for that river walk that not even an inferno would keep me from saying ‘yes’ to you. Not even the bite of the January breeze could quell the flashes of lightning in me as you wrapped an arm around my waist and we trudged a winding stone path by the banks. The honey-tinged moon reflected on waters that babbled as we stopped by a large limestone bench, as if serenading our love. However, that golden ball in the sky might as well have been dimmed by Jupiter himself as you brushed a strand of hair away from my face and lit a bonfire in my veins.

As the stream of water gushed, you and I purified our plans for the years ahead like the finest silver. You and I would marry, watch the embers of a family grow ever stronger. We’d welcome our first child two years later, a sprite with your aquamarine regard born of fiery passion. We’d dance in each other’s arms, hands weathered like tree bark illuminated by candlelight. All the while, happiness will engulf me in its comfort. How can it not when it’s you who ignites me?

I knew you loved to bask in the glow of the fire inside me even when my father’s guards snuffed out the flame of your life. How could we know that the night we had planned our fugue to Greece at our favourite tavern, one of the newly-hired sentries had recognised me despite my cloak? How could we know that as we feasted to celebrate our elopement, he had been silently observing us, an invisible torch in his hand and a grit in his mouth. How could I know that as I packed away my favourite tunics, the entire garrison of our family’s sentries had surrounded you on the street and embedded a dagger in your chest.

When my nurse informed me of your death, I felt as if my insides had been transformed to ash. How could I know when it's you who still ignites me.

Lucius Antonius, it is only you who I burn for. The gods may strike the land with thunderbolts, but they will never extinguish that.

Tomorrow, I shall be dragged to the magistrate to wed the decurion Livius. Please don’t think I betrayed you. Whilst my father set our betrothal in stone at my birth, it is no match for the angry pyre rising from my heart. I shall find a way to stamp him out, just as they have done you. If not, well, I’m more than willing to join you up there, our love finally becoming incandescent.

Mark my words, my darling Lucius. The fire inside will very soon spill over and…

‘Vesuvius is erupting! Evacuate! Leave Pompeii now!’

My love, what did I tell you about me burning for only y….