Lucius was out of breath.It was vigilia tertia.Third watch.Late enough for the bakers, early enough for secrets.Lucius, a plebeian’s son—born to ash and bread—ran without stopping.He didn’t pause to wipe the sweat from his brow. Didn’t slow to catch his breath.He ran like he was being chased by a pack of wolves.From Antonia’s villa, down the winding alleys of the Palatine.Through night fog that curled around shuttered stalls and broken lamps—until the scent of ash, fig, and fresh dough told him he was close.His father’s thermopolium was still open.Always was—especially after dark, when the real customers came.He ducked under the worn awning of the bakery—or the front of it, anyway—and pushed through the wooden door.Inside, the warmth of the ovens wrapped around him.Bread. Honey. Smoke. Burnt flour.Comforting. Safe, in theory.But his legs still shook. He stumbled.His tunic was wet, sticky. Not from rain—it was summer.It was his own sweat.His father—Publius, the baker
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