DENARII captures the enduring promise of the bathing ritual itself — a return to oneself after the day’s battles.

Picture a Roman bathhouse at dusk, marble still warm from the day's heat. Steam rises from heated pools while soldiers strip away more than armour — they're washing off campaigns, victories, the particular exhaustion that comes from conquering worlds.

Watch them enter the tepidarium with skin still carrying the memory of exertion — salt, leather, the particular musk of men who've spent months sleeping on foreign ground. They choose oils to deliver resurrection.

DENARII captures that precise moment of metamorphosis. Frankincense and black pepper strike first — sharp, almost violent, like heat rising from sun-baked stone. The scent of temples burned, of spice routes conquered, of empires carved from ambition and sweat.

Then comes the shift. Raspberry and cedarwood arrive like unexpected gentleness — subtle, grounded, reminding skin what softness feels like. This is where the warrior begins to remember the man beneath.

The base settles low and stays: patchouli, sandalwood, guaiac wood smouldering like evening fires. Vanilla and balsam wrapping around muscle and bone like expensive silk, like the kind of luxury that can only be appreciated after you've earned it through blood and distance.

This cleansing oil doesn't just wash away the day — it is coming back to yourself after being lost in someone else's war.

Antony would have understood this scent. The way it clings to skin like memory, like the promise that no matter how far you travel, no matter what you conquer or lose, there's always a way home.

Pour it into your palms. Let water turn it to milk. Let the day dissolve into what it was always meant to be: preparation for night.