squeeeeezy lemons @bijouxcarys - Tumblr Blog

Jun 22

By the Gods of Oak and Stone

Summary: Caligula contemplates his newest acquisition... thoroughly.

CW: 18+, Ancient Rome, Roman Empire, slavery, dubious consent, smut, Caligula being Caligula, humiliation, degredation, ownership, implied/referenced incest

Note: This is purely a Malcolm McDowell fic. Meaning only McDowell's portrayal of Caligula from the 1979 movie. I'm not glorifying the acts of the actual Caligula. I just find Malcom ridiculously attractive as Caligula.

In the year of our Lord 39, a time of divine and imperial excess, Rome trembled beneath the gaze of a man who proclaimed himself a living god. Frescoes on the walls depicted triumphs over barbarians, and the eunuchs bore trays of wine laced with honey and rare spices from the East.

Marble gleamed like bones of conquered gods in the halls of the Palatine Hill. Where the air lay thick with myrrh, frankincense and the tang of new blood.

Where, under very normal circumstances, the Emperor Gaius Augustus Germanicus held court, responding deftly to the name of Caligula for virtually all of his life.

He reclined upon his gilded couch, his lithe form draped in a tunic of finest Tyrian purple, embroidered with golden threads that shimmered in the flicker of oil lamps. His face, boyish but sharpened with the madness of absolute power, bore the restless energy of one who had stared into the abyss and found it pleasing.

Beside him sat Drusilla, a sister adorned with pearls and delicate silk that left little to the imagination. She was his mirror, his confidante, his most sacred vice. Beautiful in her pallor, but all the more possessive in her gaze.

The auction of spoils from the northern provinces had been a spectacle worthy of the divine. Merchants and generals had paraded captives before the Emperor; Gauls with their braided locks, Germans of towering stature, and a rare handful from the misty isles beyond Gaul.

Britons. Taken in raids along the unruly coasts.

Most were men for the arenas or labour in the mines, but one figure had drawn Caligula’s capricious eye.

She was led forward by a chain of silver links, her wrists bound lightly as befitted a prize of novelty rather than mere chattel.

A British girl of perhaps nineteen summers, she stood with a subtle defiance that intrigued rather than angered the Emperor.

Her hair rippled down her back in dark, untamed waves, framing a face of striking contrast: somber, watchful eyes that pierced the Roman pomp, crowned by a pair of thick, expressive eyebrows. Though bathed and oiled for presentation, she retained the natural vigour of her people. Subtle dustings along her arms and a modest shadow of hair that marked her as no pampered Roman lady, but a daughter of the wild frontiers.

Her form was nimble yet womanly, clad in simple Greek chiton as a deliberate contrast to the jeweled finery surrounding her.

“Behold, divine Caesar,” the trader intoned, voice slick with gluttony. “A rarity from the fog-shrouded isles. Strong of limb, untouched by the southern sun. She sings in her barbarous tongue and weaves tales of druid mysteries, they say. A curiosity for your collection, my lord.”

Caligula leaned forward, his fingers steeples, a slow smile playing across his lips. The court murmured—senators in their togas shifting uncomfortably, courtiers exchanging glances. Such northern slaves were uncommon this far south; Britain remained a dream of conquest, a land of tin and pearls that Caligula had eyed but never claimed.

This girl was the living emblem of future glories…

Caligula rose slowly, descending the dais. The hall fell into a hush. He circled the girl once, twice, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the faint scent of sea salt and pine that still clung stubbornly to her skin.

“What is your name, girl of the mists?” he asked her.

“Ethne,” she replied gently. “Daughter of a chieftain of the Brigantes.”

“Ethne…” He tasted the name, rolling it upon his tongue like rare wine. “A fitting name for one who shines like the moon over barbarian waters…”

She stood rigid, her breathing shallow, dark eyes remained fixed on some distant point on the frescoed wall to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me,” he ordered as softly as one with absolute power could. One finger, long, manicured, and adorned with a heavy emerald ring, tilted her chin upward, then sideways, turning her head this way and that to catch the light on her profile. He studied the strong line of her jaw, the flush of her cheeks. “Exquisite. Untamed. Like the shores of Britannia itself.”

His hand dropped lower, clinically cupping one of her breasts through the thin material. He hefted its weight thoughtfully, thumb brushing once across the nipple in a detached assessment of texture and firmness. As if evaluating livestock.

Ethne stiffened, a faint tremor in her posture, but she did not pull away.

“Full. Heavy. Good enough for an emperor’s touch.”

Next, he gripped her jaw more firmly, parting her lips to inspect her teeth. White and strong, if slightly uneven in that charming fashion. “No rot. Healthy. You will not disgrace my bed with decay.” His fingers trailed lightly along her neck, feeling the pulse that fluttered there like a trapped bird, then down her arm. He did not grope or linger with lustful excess… Yet beneath the clinical detachment burned something hotter: the spark of obsession. This was no mere whore.

This was Britannia made flesh.

“Look upon her, Rome!” He addressed the assembled senators and sycophants with a sweeping gesture, his voice rising. “The gods have delivered unto me a living promise. I, Gaius Augustus Germanicus, who shall one day plant the eagles upon those distant isles. I am given this daughter of Britannia as surety of my destiny. She is proof that even the cold North yields to the divine will of Caligula!”

A murmur rippled through the court, some in genuine awe, others in calculated approval. But from the shadowed alcove near the emperor’s couch, a sharper voice cut through.

“Brother,” Drusilla called softly, though her tone carried a kind of disapproval only he would fully discern. She laid a delicate hand upon his arm, nails pressing just enough to remind. “She is comely enough for a savage, I grant you. But a slave from the edges of the world? One who reeks of damp earth and uncivilised rites? You have treasures of Egypt and Parthia at your feet. Why elevate this… this northern weed among the roses of your garden?”

Caligula turned to her with a smile that was both affectionate and dangerous, drawing her close for a moment so that their bodies brushed. “My sweet Drusilla, light of my soul and goddess of my bed. Your counsel is ever wise, yet in this you err… Do you not perceive the poetry of it? She is the spirit of Britannia herself, delivered into my hands before the legions even sail! Her eyes… that hair, the colour of fertile soil that will one day feed my empire. And these–” his fingers brushed lightly near Ethne’s brow, tracing the bold line without quite touching. “These speak of untamed strength. She will remind me, daily, of what remains to be conquered. The gods send her now, while my plans for Britannia simmer. I like her precisely for her difference. She… stirs something in me. A reminder that even a god-emperor may find novelty worthy of conquest.”

Drusilla’s lips curved in a smile for the onlookers, but her gaze upon Ethne sharpened. She stepped closer to the younger woman, circling her with feline grace. “Tell me, girl of the brigantes,” she purred with silk and steel, “What tales do your people spin of Rome? Do they tremble at the name of Caligula, or do they still sacrifice their crude idols in defiance?” Her hand lifted as if to touch Ethne’s hair, then withdrew, as though the contact might soil her.

Ethne met Drusilla’s eyes without flinching, her voice steady though accented, carrying the lilting cadence of her Celtic tongue. “My people know of Rome’s eagles, lady. Some speak of trade and alliance. Others of freedom beneath the open sky… I was taken from a trading vessel, not a battlefield. Yet I see the splendour here… and the shadows it casts.”

Caligula laughed delightedly, that wild, boyish sound edged with madness. “Listen to her, Drusilla! Intelligence beneath the wild brows. She shall not be broken like common chattel. Remove her bonds,” he ordered the guards. “Bathe her in the finest oils. Rose and myrrh, but sparingly… that something of her native essence remains. Clothe her in silks that complement her origins. A tunic or fine wool perhaps.” He looked over Ethne’s body, before flicking his eyes up at her with a subtle smirk. “With Roman elegance layered atop.”

He spun and sauntered back up towards his couch. “She attends me this night in my private chambers, not as a slave, but as an honoured guest of the gods. You will recount to me the lore of your isles, Ethne—the druids, the chieftains, the gods of oak and mist. And in exchange,” he paused, whipping back around and lowering to lounge against his silks, icy blue eyes piercing right through her soul, “I shall reveal to you the majesty of a living god upon earth.”

As attendants led Ethne away with newfound deference, Caligula watched her retreat, his expression one of rapt fascination. Drusilla joined him on his silks, her fingers immediately going to trace idle patterns on his arm.

“You play with new flames, brother,” she hummed. “I have shared your bed, your secrets, your divinity. This one… I am weary new toys often break the old ones.”

“Then let them break, sister.” A strong hand held her chin sturdily. “You mustn’t forget, Drusilla… I remake the world as I please.”

• ───────────────── •

The imperial slave quarters adjacent to the private balneum of the Palatine palace often remained under the unblinking vigilance of eunuchs and senior attendants. Nearby, marble basins exhaled plumes of vapour from aqueduct-fed waters, which were richly infused with floating rose petals and rare, aromatic myrrh.

Ethne moved in lockstep with a pair of mute Germanic sentries.. Though she was no longer bound by silver links, it did little to remove the weight of her new reality—a burden far more crushing than any iron or brass fetters.

A tall, austere woman named Aurelia—a former Greek ancilla elevated to steward the Emperor’s favoured acquisitions—awaited her in the antechamber. Aurelia’s hair was bound in severe, unyielding braids, her fine linen tunica immaculate and white. She wore an expression of neutrality, a mask honed over decades to conceal her quiet disdain for barbarians.

“Strip her,” Aurelia commanded the younger attendants, two Syrian girls with kohl-lined eyes. “And be thorough. The divine Caligula demands perfection, even in novelties.” Ethne remained unmoving as her chiton was swept over her head, exposing her skin to the amber glow of the oil lamps. She felt their searching gazes map the contours of her body, as though deciphering the runes of an exotic script.

One of the Syrian maidens murmured in a low whisper, “She is like a wild doe from the forests beyond Rhine… Shall we depilate her, Domina?”

Aurelia circled Ethne slowly, lifting a lock of her dark hair and letting it fall. “No. The Emperor was most specific in his instructions. Leave the northern flower untamed in her roots, he said. It amuses him… We enhance, we do not erase.” Her tone dripped with the pompous formality of one who served divinity daily. “But she will be cleansed of travel’s filth. Proceed to the bath.”

They guided her into the steaming pool, and Ethne caught her breath as the sharp heat enveloped her limbs. The water lapped gently against her skin as the maidens initiated their ritual. One tipped a silver ewer, cascading scented water over Ethne’s hair before massaging a thick lather of imported Gallic soap through the knotted strands.

“Tell me,” Aurelia said, reclining upon a marble bench that overlooked the basin. “What is your name again? And what talents do you possess, beyond standing so insolently before the Emperor?”

“Ethne, of the Brigantes,” she replied, a tight knot of dread coiling in her abdomen even as the heat unstrung her muscles. “I weave. I sing the old verses of my people. And I…I tend the herbs in the groves.” She paused, dragging her tongue across parched lips before adding, “And I did not ask to stand before your Emperor.”

Aurelia’s laughter cut through the steam, brittle and imperious. “None ask, foolish child. Yet the heavens have seen fit to elevate you. Count yourself blessed; many from much softer lands would commit murder to secure such notice. The Lady Drusilla herself has already voiced her… misgivings. She views you as a dangerous distraction, a wild tare encroaching upon the imperial gardens.”

The junior attendants traded fleeting, knowing glances but remained silent. Their touch was meticulous yet gentle as they swept natural sea sponges over her back and shoulders. One ran a carved bone comb through her damp locks, detangling with patient tugs.

Ethne’s gaze flicked upward, capturing Aurelia’s eye. “The Emperor’s sister does not approve?”

“Approval is not hers to grant where Gaius’ whims are concerned.” Aurelia murmured, taking a measured sip from a goblet of watered wine. “She is his moon, ever at his side, but even the moon must yield when the sun chooses new stars. Still… tread carefully, Briton. The Lady Drusilla’s shadow is long, and it freezes all it touches.”

The coarse towels of her homeland were replaced by fine Egyptian linens, the fabric sweeping over her damp skin like a cool breeze. Ethne stood with a quiet, unyielding posture while the attendants massaged sweet oils of almond and jasmine into her. The glossy sheen did not hide the fine hair dusted around her body. Instead, it caught the lamplight, drawing attention to the very traits that marked her as an outsider.

To Ethne, the process felt strange and fascinating. They were treating her like raw stone, polishing a captive until she shone like a gem fit for an emperor’s collection.

Next, she was led to a seat before a polished disc of bronze that mirrored her reflection in warm, distorted tones. The Syrian girls set to work on her hair. They moved quickly, weaving slender threads of gold and small pearls through a few choice braids. Yet, keeping to their orders, they left the rest of her hair to cascade down her back in thick, glossy waves.

Finally, a fingertip smudged with soot traced the arches of her brows. The dark powder deepened their colour but left their bold, heavy shape untouched, preserving the fierce look of the north.

Aurelia stepped forward, bearing a garment of gossamer weight: a tunica of pale saffron silk, bordered by a ribbon of deep Tyrian purple. “The Emperor’s chosen colours for the evening,” she hummed, her grand tone returning. “You will wear this and nothing beneath. Gaius prefers no obstacles when he chooses to admire his acquisitions. Stand tall. Let the weave fall as nature intended.”

Ethne remained still as the silk was draped over her shoulders. The cool fabric sent a shiver through her, clinging in the damp hollows of her collarbone and waist. The Syrian girls fastened a delicate golden chain around her hips and slipped twin pearls into her earlobes. As the final touches were applied—a hint of crimson carmine on her lips, a drop of heavy perfume at her throat and wrists—Aurelia stepped back, narrowing her eyes in appraisal.

“You possess a cleaner grace than I anticipated, barbarian. There is a certain… raw poetry to your stature.” The praise was fleeting, instantly replaced by a colder truth. “But do not mistake adornment for status. You remain a captive, however prettily wrapped. Speak only when bidden. Enthrall him with your strange folklore if he demands it, but never forget the Lady Drusilla. She watches everyone who ventures too close to her brother’s orbit.”

Ethne met the older woman’s reflection in the polished bronze. “I seek only to survive,” she said softly. “As do we all under emperors and gods.”

• ───────────────── •

The Germanic guards halted at the arched entrance to the triclinium, a banqueting chamber of breathtaking excess.

Three broad couches arranged in a U-shape overlooked a low table groaning under the weight of silver platters. There were roasted peacocks with their feathers meticulously restored in a dazzling array, dormice glazed in honey and poppy seeds, and plump oysters harvested from the Lucrine Lake. Alongside platters of figs stuffed with almonds stood clay amphorae of Falernian wine, cooled with pristine snow hauled down from distant mountain peaks.

Vivid murals dominated the walls, depicting the gods frozen in carnal revelry—Jupiter claiming mortal lovers and Bacchus lost in an eternal feast. Beneath these towering myths, a small ensemble of hidden musicians filled the room with the soft, undulating notes of lyres and flutes.

Caligula lounged upon the central couch, resplendent in a purple synthesis stitched with golden stars and soaring eagles. His slender frame radiated a manic, restless energy; one hand toyed with a heavy golden chalice, while the other rested possessively on the thigh of Drusilla. She reclined beside him in a gown of deepest crimson silk that perfectly mirrored the flush of irritation on her pale cheeks.

“Bring forth the northern star!” he barked theatrically as the sentries ushered Ethne in. He pitched forward slightly, his eyes glittering with that feverish, volatile intensity that defined his reign. “Let the gods and this humble assembly witness the newest jewel in my celestial crown.”

Ethne approached with measured grace, stopping at the edge of the table as instructed by Aurelia’s earlier warnings. She inclined her head, not a full bow, but a gesture of wary acknowledgement. The pearls in her hair caught the lamplight, and her eyebrows drew together faintly as she took in the scene.

Drusilla’s hazel eyes narrowed, her hand tightening over her brother’s. “Gaius, must we endure this during dinner? The creature has been scrubbed and draped like a common theatre actress. Look at her… She belongs in the slave quarters, not at your sacred table.”

Caligula laughed brightly, erratic enough that the musicians faltered for a breath. He waved a hand dismissively, his ring flashing. “Peace, my beloved sister. You wound me with such petty thunder.” He looked down at Drusilla, tracing a single finger down the bridge of her petite nose before tapping her lips to silence her. “Is not variety the very essence of a god’s palate?”

Pulling his hand away, he turned his full attention back to the room. “Rome grows stale with perfumes and flatteries. This one—” He gestured grandly toward Ethne, rising from the couch to circle her slowly, much as he had in the auction hall. His fingers brushed a lock of her hair, lifting it to his nose. “Smells of winter rain and ancient groves… Untamed.”

He let the strand slip from his fingers, allowing it to fall naturally against her shoulder. “Ethne of the Brigantes,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Do your northern deities dine on such delicacies as these, or do they feast on the hearts of fallen enemies beneath a bloody moon?”

Ethne met his icy gaze steadily. The silk shifted against her body as she drew a breath. “My people’s gods, Caeser, dwell in oak and mist. They ask for offerings of bread and mead, not… peacocks in their finery. But they speak of power that flows like rivers. Unpredictable, carving new paths through stone.”

“Poetry from a slave!” Caligula exclaimed, delightedly clapping his hands with delight. He sauntered back to his couch and gestured to the plush carpet right beside his feet. “Come, recline here and indulge us while we partake of the empire’s bounty. Drusilla, make room for our northern flower.”

Drusilla’s lips pressed into a thin line of profound disapproval. Her grip lingered on his bare arm for a tense heartbeat before she shifted away with exaggerated grace. “As you command, brother,” she murmured with honeyed venom. “Though I fear this ‘flower’ may prove a thistle, pricking where she’s not wanted.”

The Emperor’s sister watched Ethne as she gently approached and settled carefully onto the carpet beside her brother. It was an undeniable jealousy of sorts. Perhaps it was the un-Roman vitality that contrasted so sharply with Drusilla’s own polished, bloodless elegance—the very trait that drew her Gaius in so deeply.

“Tell us, Ethne,” she sighed, her voice laced with mock curiosity. “How does one of your… breeding come to stand before the Emperor of the World? Did your chieftain father sell you off cheaply, or were you plucked directly from some druid ritual?”

Ethne accepted a silver goblet of wine from a silent servant, sipping sparingly to keep her wits sharp. “I was captured during a raid along the coast, lady. My kin fought, but Roman steel and numbers prevailed. I do not claim breeding or ritual, only survival. The Emperor saw something in me at the auction block… perhaps the gods you worship guided his eye.”

Caligula clapped his hands sharply, signalling the surrounding slaves to serve. Platters were offered first to him, then to Drusilla, and finally to Ethne. The Emperor tore a leg from a roasted bird with flair, offering a choice morsel to his sister before turning back.

“Survival! How refreshing,” he beamed. “Most in my court speak only the language of flattery and ambition. You, Ethne, carry the authentic scent of conquest. Describe your Britain. Is it truly a land of tin mines and blue-painted warriors who ride chariots into the sea? Do your women take up arms alongside men, as the old tales of the Amazons suggest?”

Ethne set her silver chalice down with deliberate care. She looked directly up into Caligula’s restless eyes, ignoring the silent warning glare from Drusilla just beside him.

“The travellers’ tales speak true, Caesar, though they often twist the reasons,” Ethne began. “Our warriors paint their skin with blue juice of the woad plant, yes. But it is not for mere decoration. We draw the sacred patterns of our tribes upon our flesh to invoke protection, and to strike fear into the hearts of invaders. And our chariots do not simply rush into the waves. Our drivers race along the very tongue of the surf, throwing the javelins to disrupt the enemy’s ranks before leaping down to fight on foot.”

She paused, letting the Emperor imagine her words vividly.

“As for our women,” she continued. “We do not follow the myths of your Greek Amazons. Our laws do not separate the spear from the loom… In Britain, women can lead both households and armies if the bloodline demands it. My own queen Cartimandua rules the Brigantes by her own birthright. I was raised to handle a blade just as I was taught to dye wool.”

Drusilla let out a sharp laugh that cut through the soft music of the flutes. “You see, Gaius? She speaks of female rulers and blue paint while wearing your imperial silk. She is not a novelty, she is a dangerous beast from the frontier. Next, she will tell you she wishes to lead an uprising against Rome.”

Caligula did not look at his sister. Instead, he leaned closer to Ethne, his eyes wide and bright with a wild, capricious delight. He reached down and snatched a cluster of dark grapes from a silver tray, tossing one into his mouth.

“A queen who rules in her own right!” he echoed, his voice rising in an excited cadence. “How magnificent! Rome is full of fat sheep who whisper sweet lies into my ears while planning my removal. They think our traditions are the only laws that matter. Yet this girl from the edge of the earth tells me of a world where the crown fits a woman’s brow just as easily!”

He turned to Drusilla, smoothing a hand over the side of her head. “Do not insult my northern flower, sister. She possesses a fire our Roman ladies could never hope to breed.”

Drusilla froze, the flush on her cheeks deepening into a dark mask of rage. She pulled her head back from Caligula’s hand, reclining back against her cushions in a stiff, icy silence.

Caligula looked back down at Ethne, a strange, playful smile returning to his lips. “Tell me more. If your women are as fierce as your men, why did you let yourself be captured? Why did your spear not save you from the auction block?”

Ethne’s gaze did not waver. “The spear only protects you, Caesar, if you are holding it.”

Caligula leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “And you were not?”

“I was at the riverbank, far from our hillfort,” she clarified, her voice dropping a register. “Washing wool for the autumn dye. We thought any kind of patrol was miles away, bottled up near the southern coast.”

“A tactical error,” Drusilla interjected. She swirled the wine in her goblet, looking down at Ethne with a smirk. “Your fierce warrior women were caught doing laundry.”

“We were caught unguarded, lady,” Ethne bravely corrected, fighting her jaw’s urge to tighten. “Three scouts ambushed us from the reeds. Two of my companions were cut down before they could reach their knives.”

Caligula’s eyes danced. “And you? Did you run? Did you weep?”

“I threw the wash-paddle at the first horse’s eyes. It broke its stride. I managed to drag one scout from his saddle before the others pinned my arms.”

The Emperor let out a sudden bark of laughter, slapping his knee. “By Mars, I wish I had seen it! A Roman cavalryman unhorsed by a girl with a laundry paddle! Oh, I shall keep you! I, Jupiter made flesh, shall compose hymns blending Roman triumph with this northern ferocity. The Senate will tremble at such innovation!” “How quaint, brother,” Drusilla muttered.

Her fingers slid over Caligula’s arm, twining into his golden brown hair. Restoring her chin to his shoulder, her lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“Yet do not forget the omen,” she whispered. “The college of pontiffs warned just yesterday that foreign cults would try to dilute your light.” She plucked a honeyed dormouse from a tray, placing it directly between his lips in a deliberate display of intimacy.

Once he swallowed, she cut her eyes back down to the carpet. “And you, Briton… do you not find it presumptuous to speak with such a tall tongue? Many slaves would be whipped for less eloquence.”

Ethne’s brows rose slightly, but her voice remained even. “I speak only what the Emperor asks, my lady. In my land, wisdom is shared around the hearth fire, not hoarded like Roman coin… But if my words displease, I shall remain silent.”

“Nonsense!” Caligula waved away the brewing tension with a sharp laugh, scooping a plump oyster from its shell and looking directly into Ethne’s dark eyes. “Your tongue pleases me greatly.”

He supped on the mollusc, maintaining eye contact, allowing it to slide down his throat. He smacked his lips with a thespian groan, reveling in the delicate brine while Drusilla daintily wiped away a stray drop from his lower lip with her silk handkerchief.

• ───────────────── •

The feast had stretched into the late hours, the triclinium thick with the haze of incense, wine, and the cloying sweetness of overripe figs. Platters lay half-devoured, their remnants glistening under the subdued light.

The more the Falernian flowed, the more erratic Caligula’s laughter had grown. Ethne remained seated beside his feet, her silk now slightly disheveled from the long evening. The courtiers and catamites had grown quieter, attuned to the Emperor’s shifting moods like sailors watching the horizon for tempests.

Caligula suddenly sat upright, his purple synthesis slipping from one shoulder to reveal the lean, almost feverish contours of his chest. He clapped his hands once, the sound cracking through the chamber like a thunderclap.

“Enough!” he proclaimed. “All of you—out! Musicians, slaves, flatterers. Leave us. The god requires privacy to contemplate his newest acquisition. Go!”

The courtiers scrambled to their feet, bowing deeply as they backed towards the arches. The Egyptian youths gathered their scant garments and slipped away like shadows. The musicians silenced their lyres mid-note and vanished. Only Drusilla remained, her crimson pooling around her as she propped herself on one elbow, eyes narrowing at Caligula.

“Gaius,” she said lowly, almost in warning, “Surely you do not mean to–”

“I mean exactly as I wish, sister,” Caligula interrupted, his smile bright and positively mad. “This flower has entertained us with her stories. Now she shall entertain her Emperor in more intimate fashion. You, of all people, should understand the needs of divinity.”

The remainder of Drusilla’s mask shattered, raw fury flashing across her features. She cast a scathing glare at Ethne before rising with abrupt, rigid dignity. “I see. Then I shall not bear witness to this… novelty. Spare me the details of your latest caprice, brother. I retire to my quarters.”

Her voice dripped with frosty criticism. Without another glance, she swept from the triclinium, the train of her crimson gown dragging like a fresh wound across the mosaic floor. The heavy cedar doors thudded shut behind her. The sudden, profound silence was broken by the rhythmic dripping of a fountain out in the peristyle.

Beneath the thin saffron silk, Ethne’s heart hammered like a trapped bird. She had known this reckoning was inevitable. The Emperor’s gaze had grown heavier, more possessive as the night bled away, but this absolute solitude amplified her terror. The fireside tales of her homeland spoke of Roman decadence, yet nothing prepared her for the reality of being the sole subject of a tyrant’s fixations.

Resistance was futile, whether her flesh was bound by iron links or merely by the walls of this palace.

She remained frozen on the carpet, staring at the marble on the floor in a posture of wary, calculated submission.

Caligula turned to her fully, his expression one of regal entitlement mixed with boyish curiosity. He stood, rounding the low table with predatory grace, the torchlight playing across his sharp features.

“Alone at last, Ethne of the Brigantes. Rise. Let me behold what the mists of Britannia have delivered unto me.”

She obeyed, unfolding from the carpet with every ounce of composure she could muster. The fine silk shifted against her skin, clinging softly to the curves of her hips and breasts. She stood tall, yet no taller than he, before him in the very centre of the grand chamber, her hands resting at her sides while the gold chain at her waist glinted in the firelight. Terror threatened to choke her throat, but she held her posture straight and her chin level—every inch the daughter of the groves facing the eagle of Rome.

“Turn,” he commanded with a soft, terrifying authority. “Slowly. Display yourself as one would a fine statue plundered from the provinces.”

Ethne complied, rotating in place. The delicate fabric whispered against her thighs, revealing the natural shadow of body hair where the silk split at her legs. Caligula watched with hooded eyes, sipping the last of his win before setting the goblet aside. When she faced him once more, he stepped deep into her space. He was close enough that the heavy scents of all he had devoured washed over her face.

“As you must know by now,” he mumbled with a hollow, imperious grandeur, as though speaking directly to the heavens, “All things on earth are mine to examine. You are no painted Roman whore, smooth and plucked like cold marble. No… you are a barbarian priestess brought before the master of Rome.” His long fingers lifted another heavy strand of her twilight hair, letting it slide slowly through his grasp.

“Remove the silk, Ethne. Let me see the offering in full.”

With trembling fingers, Ethne released one of the gold fastenings at her shoulder.

The silk slithered downward and pooled around her ankles, leaving her entirely exposed under the amber glow of the lamps. Her body was revealed in its truest state: full breasts tipped with a soft rosy hue, a fine dusting of natural hair along her forearms and thighs, and the thicker, untamed thatch at her centre. Beneath her bold brows, her eyes held his with a nervous resolve.

She stood frozen like a captured prize on display in a house of curiosities, the late-night air raising goosebumps across her bare skin.

Caligula’s gaze roamed openly, unhurried and entirely selfish. He circled her once more, his fingertips trailing lightly down her bare back to trace the sensitive dip of her spine.

“Exquisite in its strangeness,” he declared with a self-satisfied lilt. “The gods mock Rome’s vanities with such gifts.”

Stopping directly before her, his hands rose to cup the weight of her breasts with honed, casual privilege.

Ethne drew a sharp breath, eyes widening ever so slightly, though she forced herself to remain still. His touch was warm, exploratory, fingers spreading to encompass the soft fullness, thumbs brushing idly over her nipples. He played with them casually, almost absentmindedly, rolling the peaks between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the pliant flesh with unpredictable shifts in pressure. One moment gentle, the next firmer, testing their yield as he might a ripe fruit.

Her nipples hardened under the attention, betraying her body’s involuntary response even as a knot of pure dread coiled tight in her belly.

“Mmm,” Caligula hummed, his voice vibrating with a low, satisfied resonance. “See how they stiffen? Even the wild things of the frontier recognise the touch of a living god.”

He weighed her breasts in his palms, bouncing them with careless mocking gentleness before his fingers tightened, pinching the hardened peaks and a sharp, playful tug. His eyes flicked up to her face, tracking the subtle shifts in her expression with a feverish interest.

“Does this displease you, my northern star? Or do you feel the stirring of the divine in your barbarian blood?”

Ethne’s breath hitched, a deep flush creeping across the skin of her throat and chest. When she spoke, it was fragile and thickly accented, yet she willed a desperate neutrality into her words.

“It… It overwhelms, Caesar.”

Caligula smiled, a wide, predatory flash of teeth. He released her breasts, but before she could draw a full breath, he advanced.

His hand shot upward, his long, fine-boned fingers clamping firmly around her jaw. His thumb dug deep into the bone, forcing her chin up and tilting her head back so she had no choice but to look directly into his unblinking, bright blue eyes. His body pressed flat against her bare front as he claimed her mouth with an absolute, suffocating weight.

This was the savium—the heavy, lustful kiss of conquest that her people’s old fireside stories had warned her about.

In Britain, elders spoke of how Roman masters used their mouths like weapons to seal a captive’s total surrender. There was no romance or coaxing warmth here; it was an exercise in pure ownership.

He crushed his lips against hers with a bruising, aggressive pressure, his mouth wet and potent with the taste of bitter myrrh. His tongue invaded her with sweeping, deliberate strokes, marking the territory of her throat.

Caligula drank from her mouth greedily, his breathing turning shallow and erratic against her cheek. He held her jaw so tightly that her teeth pressed painfully against the inside of her lips, forcing her to swallow his wine-stained breath. He consumed her senses entirely, and silenced her voice, her heritage, and her agency all at once.

When he finally pulled away, he did so abruptly. A thin glint of saliva connected their lips for a fleeting second before breaking away. He stared down at her smudged crimson, his own chest heaving with that familiar, manic energy.

“Enough of this standing exhibit,” he breathed, his voice dropping to a low, intense rasp. “The true inner sanctum awaits. Come, northern star. You shall worship at the source.”

He wrapped his fingers firmly around her wrist, his hold unyielding as he hauled her through a heavy, purple-curtained archway into his private cubiculum.

The bedchamber was an oppressive monument to excess.

At its centre sat a massive ivory bed draped in shimmering silks and thick, dark furs plundered from Germania. Its gilded posts were intricately carved with satyrs and nymphs frozen in endless, carnal copulation. Lamps burned low, while imported frankincense smoldered in bronze braziers. On a marble side table, a silver bowl of unguent oil sat ready alongside a fresh ewer of more wine.

Ethne’s pulse continued to quicken as she was guided towards the centre of the room. The transition from the public halls to this silent, stifling atmosphere made the silk coverings feel jarringly cool against her skin. A deep reluctance settled within her; she was acutely aware that she was in the presence of a ruler whose whims were law and whose temperament was as volatile as flickering flames.

In this environment, survival required a careful navigation of the emperor’s moods. While her mind raced with the implications of her proximity to absolute authority, a flicker of her northern resilience remained, and it was infinitely curious about the pleasures such a man might wring from her.

Caligula cast aside his purple garment, letting it slip away to reveal the reality of his physical form. Stripped of imperial robes, his frame was wiry, his somewhat sunkissed skin marred by the faint, pitted scars of the childhood illnesses that had plagued his youth. Yet his posture remained entirely dominant, his phallus already half-hard and standing against his leg.

He reclined back against a mountain of down-filled cushions, his legs parting carelessly as his body stirred with an aggressive, rising heat. He beckoned her closer with a lazy, flicking gesture of his fingers.

“Kneel between my thighs, Ethne,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous purr. “Show your Emperor how the women of the northern islands honour the men who conquer them. Use that clever, sharp tongue of yours.”

She moved forward on her hands and knees across the expanse of the bed, the thick furs brushing against her bare thighs. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, the long strands sweeping over his skin like silk threads as she positioned herself between his parted legs. She hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat, her eyes meeting his intense gaze before she forced her focus downward.

If he wanted her tongue, she would use it to keep herself alive.

She closed her fingers around his rising length. It was warm and heavily veined, the skin taut and pulsing with the feverish blood of the Julio-Claudian line. Ethne lowered her head, leaning in to press a tentative, exploring stroke of her tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the seam from its base to the tip. She tasted the natural salt of his skin and the residual, aromatic oils of the palace bathhouse.

Caligula let out a low sigh of approval, his hips lifting slightly into her face as his hand shot forward, tangling his fingers deeply into her hair to anchor her head.

“Yes… exactly so,” he murmured, voice tightening with a dark, commanding heat. “Deeper, girl. Consume it. Worship as the vanquished should.”

Emboldened by his groans, Ethne parted her lips and took the heat of his length fully into her mouth. The sheer thickness filled her, stretching her jaw as she established a slow, deliberate cadence, her tongue swirling around the crown of his manhood. She moved with a growing momentum, hollowing her cheeks to draw him deeper into her throat.

Saliva glistened along the smooth shaft as she worked, the slick, obscene sounds echoing through the heavy silence of the bedchamber.

Once again, his hips twitched upward, driving shallowly against her lips in a restless swing. His pompous murmurs spilled from his mouth, breathless yet arrogant.

“A god’s phallus deserves such reverence… your mouth was made for this tribute, Ethne,” he hissed his fingers tightening in her hair. “Yield harder. Let Rome claim your throat.”

A sharp reflex tightened her throat, causing her to gag softly, but she persisted. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as her initial reluctance forged into a sharp, hyper-focused resolve.

The act felt deeply degrading, yet it carried an undeniable, suffocating intimacy. To hear the master of the western world unravelling beneath her touch, his pleasure breaking through those haughty, imperial commands, sent a confusing, unwelcome jolt of heat straight to her core.

She redoubled her efforts, using the friction of her lips and the warmth of her mouth to draw out his ecstasy. She let a low, resonant hum vibrate against his crown—a technique the elder women of her tribe whispered could soothe a wild beast or drive a man mad.

Beneath her hands, his frame went taut. He grew fully rigid and slick with her tribute, the erratic twitching of his hips proving that the barbarian from the edge of the world now held complete sway over the Emperor’s senses, if only for this fleeting moment.

Caligula’s breathing turned into a ragged, desperate gasp. His fingers tangled so tightly in her hair that it pulled at her scalp, pinning her head to his lap as he teetered. With a breathless, sudden laugh, he gripped her shoulders and hauled her upward. He possessed a startling strength. In one fluid motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her flat against the thick furs.

“The spoils of the frontier,” he mumbled, eyes bright with a resilient light.

He spread her thighs wide, exposing her completely to him. Her dark, natural hair framed the soft contours of her flesh, which already glinted with a reluctant moisture she could not suppress.

Caligula lowered his face, breathing in the rich musk of her skin—an earthy, untamed scent that belonged entirely to the Brigante forests. Then, without a word of warning, his tongue delved between her folds. He licked broadly along the sensitive seam, using his fingers to part the delicate skin so he could press directly against the hidden pearl of her pleasure.

Ethne gasped sharply, her back arching off the furs. His mouth was hot and insistent, sucking on her, tongue flicking and circling her most responsive peak with practiced, taboo skill honed on countless lovers and palace debauchery..

He lapped hungrily at the narrow entrance of her sheath, driving his tongue inside before returning to devour the swollen nub of her pleasure.

Looking down at his golden head pressed between her thighs, one would never have guessed he was of the very bloodline that viewed such acts as social pollution.

He truly believed he was above human shame.

“Sweet as British mead,” he hummed against her mound, the vibration making her shudder. “Your body weeps for its god, despite all your barbarian pride.”

She bit down on her lip, brows furrowed in conflicted bliss. Objection warred with sensation; his mouth was relentless as he feasted until her hips bucked involuntarily.

Slick coated his chin and the soft skin of her thighs when she came with a choked, breathy cry. Her inner walls clenched around emptiness in tight, wanton waves. The sheer force of the release caught her entirely off guard. She had never expected such a violent rush of pleasure, nor that it would be wrung from her so quickly by the hands of her captor.

Before she could fully catch her breath, Caligula shifted beneath her and lay flat upon the silks. His rigid length stood proud and glistening, a stark monument to her earlier compliance.

“Mount me, Ethne,” he commanded in a low, raspy purr of expectation. “Take your master inside you. Ride as your warriors would a sacred steed.”

Still trembling from the remnants of her release, she managed to pull herself up, straddling his lean hips. She hovered over him for a moment, her hair falling to shadow her face. With a tentative hand, she guided the thick crown of his manhood to her entrance. She sank down slowly, inch by painful inch, her narrow sheath stretching to accommodate his width with a tight, wet glide.

A low moan escaped her parted lips. The sound was shy and restrained at first, born of lingering defiance, but it deepened into a throaty gasp as he claimed her inner core. The natural friction, aided by her own arousal and the oils, made every throbbing ridge and vein feel so vivid against her fertile walls.

Caligula gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and gave a single thrust upwards. “Yes… take it all. Feel a god fill you.”

She began to move, rising and falling in a steady motion with the wet slap of their joining. Her body continued to forsake her sensibilities, her breasts bouncing with each descent and the breath in her throat catching.

His hands came up to her chest as she ground against him, pinching and tugging at the stiff peaks and slapping them lightly in playful cruelty.

“Ride your conqueror, northern whore… Let your cunt milk the seed of empire.”

Ethne’s thighs burned under her own weight, her body impaled completely. Strands of her hair stuck to her neck and shoulders the more she undulated, pearls and gold threads still tangled throughout the waves.

She braced herself by gripping one of his knees with her left hand, nails digging into the lean muscle for leverage as she rolled her hips in deep, grinding circles. The position allowed her to take him at a new angle, his shaft rubbing insistently against that sensitive spot deep inside her.

“Ahh…” A subdued, involuntary moan escaped her lips, one in which she bit back, reluctant to give the Emperor the full satisfaction of her pleasure. But the sensation… It was far too overwhelming.

“Nngh… Caesar…” Another moan followed as she sank down completely, her mound grinding against the base of his pelvis, their coarse hair meeting in their combined secretion.

Caligula lay back, a particular arrogance taking his features as the tips of his fingers embedded into her hips, leaving possible marks of imperial ownership.

“Yes, moan for your god,” he grunted hoarsely. “Let the palace hear how a barbarian cunt worships Roman divinity.”

And just like that, she obeyed, rising and falling with increasing fervour. Holding onto his knee gave her stability, allowing her to lean back slightly, her eyes half-lidded and her brows knitted together in a mix of hesitant surrender and burgeoning ecstasy.

“By the gods of oak and stone…” she gasped, moaning louder now, unrestrained. Wave after wave of undeniable bliss washed over her, her head tilting back to expose the column of her throat.

Caligula’s eyes gleamed with mad delight at the sight. Without warning, he sat up abruptly while she was still fully straddling him, closing the physical distance between them. The shift changed the angle sharply—he was deeper now, buried to the hilt as their bodies locked chest-to-chest.

Ethne cried out, a raw moan torn from her soul, her free hand flying to his shoulder while the other still clutched his knee behind her.

“Like this,” he growled against her ear, regal and imperious even in the throes of lust. “Face your Emperor as you take him. Let me see the pleasure you deny yet cannot hide.”

His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close as he rocked upward from beneath, powerful snaps of his hips that drove him into her soaked sheath again and again.

Ethne’s legs encircled him, her weight now shared as she rocked desperately in his lap.

Their faces were inches apart. She could see the madness in his eyes, the curl of his lip as he claimed her. Her moans and whimpers came freely now; breathless, broken sounds that harmonised with his own.

“Cali—ahh, Caesar,” she breathed, her lips parting. “Too… too much.”

Yet her body rolled faster, chasing the friction, her walls fluttering around him.

Caligula captured her mouth in another wet, bruising kiss, all teeth and demand, before pulling back to watch her face. One hand slid up to squeeze and kneed her breast again, his grip as harsh as the clenched line of his jaw.

“A gift… a gift from the edges of the world to warm a god’s bed,” he proclaimed. “Louder, Ethne… Let–” He paused, a mischievous smirk forming across his lips. “Let Drusilla hear from her chambers how her brother prefers the wild flower tonight…”

She did moan louder, the sound ricocheting off the frescoed walls as she rode him in this seated embrace. She was sure she was leaving marks on his shoulder from how tightly she was holding onto him. Perhaps it was her body subconsciously relieving itself of the guilt she would definitely feel after this was all over… that was if she was even alive to dwell on the events of the evening.

With another surge of strength, Caligula gripped her waist firmly. “Enough of this equality,” he declared, almost snarling. “A god does not share the throne.” He roughly yanked her hair in one fist. “He claims it.”

In one fluid, dominant motion, he pushed her backward while still buried deep inside her. Ethne gasped, the wind leaving her lungs, as her upper body was forced to recline, her spine arching over the edge of the vast bed. Her hair dangled to the floor like a dark waterfall, brushing the mosaic floor. Her head and shoulders hung precariously off the side, blood rushing to her face, while her hips and legs remained straddling his lap on the silken surface.

Utterly exposed. Utterly vulnerable. Breasts thrust upward, nipples hard and tight, her full, natural form manipulated like an offering on a sacrificial altar.

Caligula rose on his knees, his hands pinning her hips down with force. It was devastating. His phallus drove even deeper, the crown pressing unforgivingly against her sweet spot with every thrust. He exerted his power entirely now, hips snapping forward in controlled, powerful strokes that made her breasts bounce heavily. The gold chain at her waist shifted with each impact, and her dark, bushy pubic mound glistened obscenely where they connected.

“Behold your Emperor!” he exclaimed, almost like a decree from the Senate, even as sweat beaded on his brow. “Hanging like a sacrifice, impaled upon divine wrath. Feel how completely Rome possesses you, dear Ethne. Your misty groves, your druid blood—all mine to ravish!”

He drove harder, the slap of flesh against flesh loud and rhythmic.

A hand left her thigh to roam possessively: playing like a boy with her breasts, pulling at her peaks until she whined, then sliding down to spread her open wider around his pistoning shaft. His fingers toyed with her coarse hair, the amusement ever present as he pulled lightly, heightening every sensation she could experience.

Ethne’s moans had turned into helpless, desperate cries, real tears welling in her eyes and blinding her upside-down vision.

“Caligula—ahh! My lord… it is… too deep–” Her neck strained as her head hung back, eyes rolling, body seizing in staggering euphoria. The rush of blood to her head combined with the relentless pounding made the world spin around her.

She had no leverage like this; her legs shook around his waist, heels digging into whatever they could to keep some semblance of control as she could only take what he gave.

The reluctance had long since burned away as her cunt drowned his shaft and thighs with fresh floods of arousal.

Caligula leaned over her, one hand braced beside her dangling head on the floor for balance, the other snatching her thigh to keep her open for him.

He fucked her with an assaulting, prudent power. Long, piercing strokes that withdrew almost fully before slamming back in.

“Scream for me, barbarian whore,” he growled, nostrils flaring and irises glowing with an unhinged derangement.

Ethne felt as though her entire body had gone limbless, her arms joining her upper body in its lifeless state. Her cries were now pants and exclamations of unbridled gratification, high-pitched and hoarse all at once.

“Yes—oh gods… I—I cannot…”

Scream, she did, when she clenched violently around him, thighs quaking as her orgasm ripped through her like a storm. Her back couldn’t have arched further, her cunt spasming erratically and gushing. It coated the Emperor, and darkened the silks beneath.

Caligula snarled in triumph. “Yes! Milk your god!”

He hammered into her pulsing heat a few more savage times, gaining a sick thrill in the way she vanquished all attempts of resistance, before burying himself in her totally.

“For the glory of Rome!” Came the operatic roar that preceded the hot pulses of his seed flooding her womb. Rope after rope, with jerking hips. He held her pinned there, savouring the sight of her spent body and the way her dark-haired mound throbbed around his twitching length.

For a long moment, only their ragged breathing filled the chamber. Caligula, with a juvenile grin, pulled her body back into the bed, his phallus softening gradually within her. Gazing down at her red face and teary eyes, he stroked her damp hair possessively with a dangerous, powerful hand.

“You have pleased your Emperor well this night, northern star,” he breathed. “Drusilla’s disapproval is but wind. You shall warm my bed often…”

He watched as the tears finally fell from the corners of her eyes, an almost vacant expression behind them.

“Oh yes…” he laughed airily, torturing her further with the hot sensation of his tongue tracing the seam of her trembling lips.

“I will be keeping you for a while.”