Tiberius shifted on his stool. The damn thing was sending splinters into his skin – even through his toga. He’d thought he’d been terribly smart, opting for his finest garment, but no. Everyone else in the bar was wearing tunics – which made sense now because he was dripping with sweat – and looked like they’d rolled through the streets before arriving.

The stench of nutmeg was heavy in the air, the incense wafting through the bar thick enough he could feel it against his skin. He tapped a long finger against the sticky tabletop. Tried counting to ten. Then to twenty. When he reached a hundred, only then did he reach for the pockets on his belt and retrieve the letter.

Pinching it gently between two fingers, Tiberius hardly dared to breathe.

This was it, he told himself, he was going to give it to Aurius. He’d drafted and re-drafted, edited and re-edited this poem countless times. It wasn’t going to get any better.

Unless …

Surely one last look wouldn’t hurt? Just to check he hadn’t misspelled anything?

Tiberius worried his lip between his teeth, glancing around at his fellow bar-members. They were all absorbed in their clay cups, clapping each other on the back for a day’s hard labour.

No one’s watching you, he told himself sternly, just open the damn letter.

He did. The paper parted with a satisfying rustle, as familiar to Tiberius as his own name. Immediately, his eyes set to scanning his words and …

Oh … Gods.

It was awful. It was tawdry. It was laughable.

Tiberius felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, re-reading his heartfelt declarations of affection for his best friend. He could already see Aurius reading it and bursting out laughing, clapping him on the back and telling him he made a better joker than poet.

There was no way he could give this to Aurius.

Tiberius slipped off his stool so abruptly he knocked it over. Cursing under his breath – and not daring to check if the bar’s patrons were watching – he quickly righted it and made for the exit.

Only his way was blocked by a broad set of shoulders and a stunning smile.

‘There you are,’ Aurius chuckled, ‘I’ve been looking all over for you! Come, let me buy you a drink.’

‘I c-can’t stay,’ Tiberius peeled away from the light that was his friend and to the darkness of the alley, ‘I’ve just remembered I have …’ He trailed off, stomach sinking as he saw Aurius’ gaze had centred on the sheafs of papyrus in his trembling hands.

‘What’s that?’ Aurius looked like a cat ready to pounce. ‘Is that for me?’

‘No!’ Tiberius flapped his arms behind his back, not caring that he’d raised his voice. ‘Erm, sorry, it’s nothing. Just a stupid poem.’

Aurius’s grin grew ever wider. ‘I love your poems – you make all the best rhymes.’

Tiberius dropped his gaze to the floor, painfully aware the paper he clutched rhymed the words ‘lips’ and ‘hips’.

‘Not this one, I’m afraid,’ he heard himself say, ‘it’s not ready yet.’

‘Alright,’ Aurius relented, ‘but the second you’re finished, I want to be the first to hear it, understood?’

Tiberius nodded numbly. ‘U-understood.’

‘Excellent,’ Aurius extended an open palm towards him, ‘now are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay for just one drink?’

Tiberius felt his stomach pool with warmth – the effect of Aurius turning the full extent of his heavy-lidded gaze on him.

‘I suppose …’ he shoved the papyrus back in his pocket, careless of the way it crumpled, ‘since you asked so nicely …’

Aurius laughed softly.

‘Alright,’ Tiberius smiled slowly, ‘just one drink.’