The road from Rome to Ostia was sixteen miles of packed earth and desperate hope.
Marcus pushed his exhausted horse harder than he should have, harder than was safe, the animal's sides heaving with effort. The ring on his finger seemed to pulse with each hoofbeat—Return to me, return to me, return to me.
He couldn't be too late. He wouldn't be too late.
The sun was descending toward the horizon when the port of Ostia came into view—the sprawling docks, the forest of masts, the chaos of ships loading and unloading cargo. Marcus rode straight to the harbormaster's office, barely dismounting before he was through the door.
"The ship to Neapolis," he said, breathless. "The one that left this morning. Is it gone?"
The harbormaster looked up from his ledgers, startled. "The merchant vessel? Left three hours ago. Probably halfway—"
Marcus was already running.
He reached the main pier and looked out at the harbor. There—a medium-sized merchant ship, sails full, moving steadily away from the docks toward the open sea. Still in the harbor, but not for much longer. Maybe half a mile out.
Too far to reach by boat. Too far to swim.
Not too far to be heard.
Marcus ran to the end of the pier—the longest one, extending furthest into the harbor—and climbed onto the mooring post at its end. The crowd of dock workers and merchants paused to watch this madman in travel-stained military clothes standing on a post, staring at a departing ship.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted with every ounce of breath in his lungs:
"LIVIA!"
His voice carried across the water, but the ship kept moving. The crew didn't react. She couldn't have heard.
He shouted again, louder: "LIVIA MARCELLA!"
Nothing. The ship sailed on.
The crowd on the docks was growing now, drawn by the spectacle. Marcus didn't care. He shouted her name again and again, until his throat was raw, until his voice cracked and broke.
And then—
A figure appeared at the ship's rail. Small, distant, but unmistakable. Dark hair. Simple tunica.
She had heard.
Marcus's heart stopped as he watched her lean over the rail, staring back at the docks. Even at this distance, even across the water, he felt the moment she recognized him. Felt it in the way her whole body went still.
He shouted again: "LIVIA! DON'T GO!"
She was shaking her head—he could see it even from here. Shaking her head and turning away from the rail.
No. No, she couldn't—
And then she turned back. Climbed onto the ship's rail. And jumped.
The crowd on the docks gasped collectively. Marcus didn't think. He dove off the mooring post into the harbor, hitting the water hard, the cold shock of it stealing his breath. He surfaced and started swimming—powerful strokes, the ring on his finger catching the fading sunlight each time his hand broke the surface.
Livia was swimming too, fighting against the current, her simple tunica weighing her down. They met halfway between the ship and the pier, two figures in the water while the entire port of Ostia watched.
"You idiot," Livia gasped, treading water. Her face was wet—from the sea or tears, Marcus couldn't tell. "You complete idiot. The ship was moving. I could have drowned—"
He kissed her.
Kissed her in the middle of Ostia's harbor, both of them treading water, both of them soaked and gasping, while the merchant ship's captain shouted about passengers jumping overboard and the crowd on the docks began to cheer.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Livia was crying for real now.
"You came back," she said. "Your father said—the letter said—"
"My father is a liar. I came back the moment I heard. I rode three days straight." Marcus pulled her closer, still treading water. "You really think I would just forget you? That I would choose anything over you?"
"He said you were extending your posting. That you'd found what you were looking for in the military—"
"I found what I was looking for three months ago in a garden, watching you paint." Marcus touched her face, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. "You. You're what I was looking for. I just didn't know it yet."
"Your father will disown you."
"I don't care."
"Rome will—"
"I don't care about Rome." He kissed her again, softer this time. "Marry me."
Livia made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "We're in the middle of a harbor."
"I don't care. Marry me. Today. Now. Before my father can stop us. Before anything else can go wrong. Just—choose me. Please."
"I already chose you," Livia said, her voice breaking. "I chose you when I jumped off that ship. I chose you weeks ago. I chose you the first time you asked if I was happy, and I've been choosing you every day since."
"Then marry me."
"Yes." She was laughing now, giddy and disbelieving. "Yes, you ridiculous man. Yes."
The crowd on the docks erupted in cheers.
Marcus and Livia swam back to shore together, emerging from the water to find half the port of Ostia gathered to witness what had just happened. Dock workers, merchants, sailors, prostitutes from the waterfront taverns—all of them applauding and shouting encouragement.
An old sailor pushed through the crowd and draped a blanket over Livia's shoulders. "That," he declared loudly, "was the most romantic thing I've seen in forty years at sea."
A woman from the crowd called out: "Are you really getting married? Today?"
Marcus looked at Livia, water dripping from his hair, his military tunica plastered to his body. She looked back at him, equally bedraggled, her dark hair hanging in wet ropes.
"Yes," he said firmly. "Today. Right now, if we can find someone to perform the ceremony."
"I can help with that," a voice said. A middle-aged man stepped forward—well-dressed, carrying himself with the confidence of wealth. "I'm Marcus Antonius Felix. I own half the warehouses on this dock, and I happen to be an aedile with the authority to perform marriages. If you're serious—"
"We're serious," Livia said.
"Then let's get you married before you both catch pneumonia."