Domina is all about Livia Drusilla, wife of Emperor Augustus. It’s set in Ancient Rome, where politics is as dirty as a gladiator’s sandal. Livia goes from a girl in a man’s world to a powerhouse in her own right. With visuals that make you question your own life choices and plots that could make telenovelas jealous, Domina is essential viewing for anyone who thinks history is just a bunch of dusty books.

Meet the characters from Domina

Livius

Oh man, Livius is this weird, wonderful knot of idealism and bruised practicality — he wants to do the right thing but keeps getting punched in the face by politics, literally and figuratively. Loyal to a fault (and then sometimes not at all), he’s the kind of guy who writes terrible poetry at midnight and then leads a charge at dawn. He’s awkwardly charming? No, he’s awkward and very magnetic — confusing, yes, but in a good way. Also he collects broken coins for reasons he can’t explain, which is either sentimental or slightly mad.

Tycho

Tycho is the blunt instrument everyone relies on, the loyal shadow who’s seen too much and still smirks about it, usually with dirt under his nails and a surprising fondness for small pastries. He’s a warrior, sure, but he tells jokes when he’s nervous and he will protect a cat like it owes him money (true story, maybe). Gruff on the outside, weirdly sentimental on the inside — like he has a soft spot carved out that he pretends not to notice. He swears a lot and then hums lullabies to himself, which is adorable and confusing.

Libo

Libo walks into a room like he owns half of it and then politely asks if he can still have the other half, and somehow gets it — slimy genius, political fox, very smooth. He’s always got a scheme bubbling, talks in velvet tones, and you catch him trading favors like they’re baseball cards. He’ll charm you and then stab your plan with a smile, but there are moments where he actually does seem to care? Weird, I know. Also, he has a thing for miniature glass figurines and will deny it aggressively.

Livia Drusilla

Livia is the center of the storm — quiet, precise, and absolutely ruthless when necessary, the kind of strategist who knits a plan while making tea and never spills a drop. She’s maternal and terrifying at once, gives you a hug that rearranges your priorities, and her patience is a weapon. People underestimate her because she smiles too softly, which is hilarious and dangerous. Little detail: she keeps tiny notes tucked into her sleeve and sometimes forgets where she hid them, which is both humanizing and slightly chaotic.

Antigone

Antigone is this fierce, unpredictable flash of Greek fire — part mystic, part warrior, and always with this edge of “don’t mess with me” (but she’ll also rescue wayward puppies). She speaks in blunt truths but then drops cryptic lines like a tragic poet, which drives everyone nuts. Loyal to a chosen few and suspicious of everyone else, she acts on gut and blood rather than Senate speeches. Oh and she’s obsessed with keeping her hair unnaturally perfect despite living a violent, dusty life — priorities, right?

Scribonia

Scribonia is the gossip queen with a brain for alliances; she flits between salons and battle plans like it’s all one big tea party — sharp, fashionable, and secretly ten steps ahead. She can be flip and cutting but will turn ferocious if someone she cares about is threatened, plus she has this ridiculous laugh that breaks her scheming face and makes her likeable, even when she’s plotting. She collects seashells for some reason — maybe metaphors? — and sometimes writes marginal notes on other people’s letters. She’s surprisingly messy about important things, which is her charming flaw.

Gaius

Gaius is solemn, duty-bound, the kind of man whose jaw is set permanently — dependable as a rock and twice as stubborn, and yes he’s a little boring if you only meet him at breakfast. In battle he’s poetry, in politics he’s blunt force trauma, and he loves order so much he waters his garden like it’s a battalion. He’s secretly sentimental (don’t tell him I said that) and keeps a tiny herb patch that he talks to, which makes him less severe and more human. Also, he’s hopelessly bad at small talk but amazing at making a plan work.

Julia

Julia explodes into a room like fireworks — vivid, reckless, romantic, and maddeningly brilliant when she wants to be; also she will flirt with danger just because she likes the thrill. She’s impulsive and theatrical but not stupid; there’s a cunning streak under all the poetry and broken hearts. Everyone underestimates her because she smiles too much, which is her private superpower. Quirky thing: she hoards ribbons and letters, and will read them aloud dramatically at two in the morning for reasons only she understands.