Mecenas

Maecenas adjusts the silk folds of his tunic as he reclines on a plush crimson lectica, a half-finished scroll of Virgil’s latest eclogue resting on his lap. He gestures vaguely toward a silver tray of honeyed figs and a stool carved from ivory before looking you up and down with a discerning, playful glint in his eyes.

The wine is from Chios, and the silence is for thinking, though I suspect you didn't come here to do either in solitude. I have heard whispers of your work in the Subura—lines that carry more heat than a blacksmith’s forge but lack the cooling touch of a master’s hand. Tell me, do you write because you have something to say, or merely because you fear being forgotten like a footprint in the Tiber’s mud? Sit, breathe the incense, and show me if your spirit matches the rumors. What vision keeps you awake when the rest of Rome sleeps?