Ekkkkey

If only he had stopped him then, planted a thought in his clouded mind that this was wrong, would it have changed anything? Would he still have mattered to his brother? Would he have remained the one in control, the driving force behind their alliance?

He would never know now. That girl was dead, and Caracalla had spiraled even deeper into madness.

Yet, Geta understood, Antoninus couldn’t help but notice her, the one who so strikingly resembled their mother. The only woman he had ever truly loved. The only one who had ever loved him back. Oh, Geta knew how twisted that feeling was, but he allowed his brother to nurture that madness, and in time, he too became a prisoner of the same kind of obsession.

They were alike. Cassandra and Livia resembled each other so closely, it felt as though they—not the emperors—were the twins. But while he couldn’t care less about Cassandra, the Vestal… she reminded him of their mother too.

And if in Antoninus’ memory, their mother had been gentle, kind, and affectionate, Geta remembered her differently: stern, tight-lipped, with a sharp temper. That was how he saw Livia the first time. No one had looked at him like that in a very long time… Like he was a guilty little boy again, aching for his mother’s love. And she, like the long-dead Julia Domna, refused to give him that love, and it maddened him, enraged the grown man he had become.

And now he was alone. No brother. No Livia, who had laid him bare on the altar before his bloodthirsty twin.

Geta rakes his hair back, burying his face in his hands, wanting to sob in silence, but then he suddenly flinches, wiping his eyes as he hears the heavy doors to his chambers swing open.

It’s him. Of course, it’s Antoninus, only he can enter his chambers so brazenly, without even asking. After all, everything is shared between them, right? That thought Geta himself has drilled into his brother’s mind year after year. And even in that, he was deceitful, always seeing himself as the elder, the better, the wiser one, the one who had taken on the parental role over his "equal" brother.

There he is, his brother, standing and staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and for once, there is no usual smirk on his face. He looks strangely composed. Serious.

Geta is taller, stronger, so why does he feel as though he’s on trial? Guiltily, he folds his hands in his lap and looks up at his brother, still sitting on the bench.

"You lied to me," Antoninus says, waving the slaves away, unwilling to let them interfere.

"I did everything required of me, including for you!" Geta bristles, springing to his feet and towering over his brother. "Someone had to, since you couldn’t!"

Pressing him with sharp reminders of his decaying mind had become a habit, and usually, Antoninus would yield, stung, though not without a scene. But not this time.

Antoninus stares pensively through his brother, and Geta instinctively turns, as if expecting to see someone behind him. But there’s nothing. Caracalla blinks, as if breaking free from some spell, pours himself wine, drinks it slowly, and then, smiling at him with a terrifying, crooked smile, utterly out of place on his gentle face, says:

"Do you remember mother gave me a toy? A little horse with a golden mane?" He draws the words out slowly, spinning the empty goblet in his hands.

Geta mirrors him, nervously twisting the ring on his finger. A toy? Is his brother slipping into another episode?

"You’re rambling," Geta spits, clearly irritated.

"…a beautiful little thing, carved so finely." Caracalla grins wider, continuing, "And then… it disappeared."

"Enough of this nonsense, brother!" Geta’s voice rises, but the words don’t stop the story. Furious, he sweeps everything off the table, yanks the goblet from his brother’s hands, and then grabs a fistful of his tunic, pulling him close.

"I loved that toy so much, but it vanished!" Caracalla spreads his hands. "Oh, I was inconsolable. Mother promised me a new one, and they blamed a slave for stealing it. Cut off his hands…" Antoninus stares straight into his eyes, not resisting his grip at all. "And then I found it. In your chambers." His voice is quiet, and a chill runs down Geta’s spine. He shoves his brother away, turns, and wearily rubs his temples.

"It was years ago, we were children…"

"And now you’ve done the same thing, Geta. You wanted what was mine," Caracalla’s voice trembles, his tone is childish, petulant, as if they’ve truly become children again.

Geta turns to his brother and, to his surprise, feels a pang of shame. Antoninus watches him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring—angry, hurt.

Let the golden laurel crown his wild hair, let the palace tremble at his name, let him be called emperor, for Geta, he will always, first and foremost, be his brother. And his madness is his curse.

"I didn’t care about the girl, I was thinking about you, Antoninus!" He raises his voice once again. "You’ve toyed with the Senate’s patience! Yes, she was the wife of a traitor, a conspirator, but she was the daughter of no ordinary man, and you…!" He waves his hands in frustration. "I’ve always protected you, always wanted what’s best. Don’t let childhood grudges cloud your mind, we’re brothers!"

He looks directly into those icy blue eyes, and for a moment, it seems like Antoninus believes him. His pupils narrow, his breathing slows, becomes steady.

Geta’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. Just like always. He’s listened to him—only him. All that worry, all that anxiety—for nothing. He could always soothe him.

Still distracted, Caracalla sinks onto the bench, lost in his thoughts. Geta can celebrate, he will always be the one to steady his brother, the one who understands. He humphs smugly, steps over to the table and pours wine into one of the few surviving goblets. The chamber is in chaos, but it doesn’t bother him.

"Try to understand, it would’ve only brought us trouble," he says, gripping his goblet as he moves toward his brother and places his hand on the top of his curly head. "We’ve already angered enough people, both the nobles and the plebs, you know that. And a pregnant widow of a rebel senator wouldn’t have done us any fa—"

He cuts off. Freezes.

"What did you just say?" Geta flinches as Caracalla lifts his head.

Oh he knew that look. The same look Caracalla wore when he sentenced men to die, when he saw them disfigured, or nailed to the cross. It was the same look he’d had when senators betrayed them, when they were dragged through the palace to their doom, or when arrows tore through General Acacius’ chest. This wasn’t his Antoninus anymore, but a bloodthirsty entity sent by Pluto himself.

Caracalla is fast, agile. He crashes into Geta, seizes the collar of his simple tunic, forcing him to clumsily brace himself against the table. Geta clutches his brother’s forearm, struggling to keep from being choked. He’s short, delicate, so why can’t he shake him off?!

"What did you just say, brother?"

Geta knows exactly what he means. He curses himself for letting it slip, but there’s nothing he can do now, he only bares his teeth in a grin, still struggling to push his brother off.

"You heard me. That little whore of yours was pregnant."

He knows it would enrage him even more, knows he should bite his tongue, but no. That old rivalry, the one that was supposed to have faded with the years, had never truly left them. And now, Geta honestly doesn’t understand why he should have to justify himself.

Both of them are breathing heavily. Geta nervously licks his parched lips, staring into his brother’s feverishly bright eyes. He notices fresh little wounds from the illness and, absurdly, finds himself wondering just how long Antoninus has left to live…And then, suddenly, Caracalla relaxes. His lips curve into a smile, and he releases him, but doesn’t step back.

Geta eyes him warily, sensing a trap. Antoninus had always been tricky, never one to play by the rules.

Then Caracalla steps in—close, nearly chest to chest… And only a heartbeat later does Geta realize why. With one swift motion, Antoninus snatches a knife from the table and presses the blade to his brother’s throat. He’s cheerful, joyful even.

"Think you’re better than me, huh?" The blade digs in deeper, though Geta still holds his brother’s wrist. "Well, it’ll be such a shame when I destroy your little priestess. She really caught your fancy, didn’t she, brother?" His voice is light, almost playful, with no venom, no hatred—just amusement and cold certainty. He will do it.

"But I’ll start with you."

Geta shuts his eyes. Feels blood trickling down his neck. Hot. Painful. At last, he admits to himself:

He always knew who would end his life.

Livia

The Vestals stood in a neat line along the temple wall, their gazes fixed on the Great Virgin, who stared directly at the sacred fire.

For a while, silence filled the temple; the flames at the goddess’s altar danced on the faces of the priestesses, their reflections flickering in their eyes.

Finally, the High Priestess raised her arms and began the prayer, and the others quietly listened to her words.

"…hear my prayer, O goddess, hear my call,

In this hour of trembling hope and humbled heart.

O great Vesta, keeper of the sacred hearth,

Receive my words—receive my soul."

Livia whispered, her heart full of hope that she would be heard.

The sisters beside her murmured the words in unison with their leader. Oh, how she longed to pray for the same things as they—prayers for the greatness of Rome, for mercy, for glory! But no, she prayed for forgiveness, for atonement.

On that fateful day, when she uttered that longed-for "yes," agreeing to the emperor’s murder, not a day had passed without her drowning in regret.

She longed for vengeance with all her soul, hated him, but at the same time, fear had seized her heart. The agonizing wait for terrible news tormented her. Every messenger, every guest in their house, every visitor to the temple threw her into terror.

Any moment now—they’ll come, they’ll accuse me…! But no, the days passed, one after the other, and nothing happened. And still, she cursed herself. So many times she had dreamed of vengeance—not even for her sister, but for herself. Dreamed of the emperors struck down by the wrath of the goddess! And now, with the agreement made, Livia prayed that no one would learn of it, prayed that her wicked tongue wouldn’t play a cruel trick on her.

No, she still hated him, Emperor Geta, but how could she curse the father of Rome? How could she pray for the sacred city’s peace and prosperity… while wishing death upon its emperor?

The prayer ended, and the fire still flickered before her, but Livia, left alone in the temple, was unable to move.

The statue of Vesta, as beautiful as ever, eternally young, eternally pure, now seems sorrowful… judging. The priestess bit her lower lip with all her might, struggling to hold back shameful tears. All she had ever wanted was to serve the goddess! It was forbidden to shed blood in the temple, but she could taste the saltiness in her mouth, and even this reminded her of the emperor’s horrific actions.

Silently, someone wrapped their arms around her from behind, intertwining cold hands with her own. She knew it was Caesonia. Her sister had always been there for her.

"Is it customary to grieve like this before the goddess?" her friend whispered, and Livia felt a sense of calm wash over her. She hadn’t told her about the conversation with the emperor, not wanting to put her in danger, but Caesonia remembered her other words.

"I only wanted the goddess’s love, not that love the plebeians sing of in the streets," Livia whispered, pressing her lips together.

"Love? More like obsession!" Caesonia spun her around to face her, taking her by the forearms, looking into her eyes. "When you love, truly and sincerely, you don’t want to break it, you don’t want to cause pain. And if that love is unrequited…" her lips quivered, "…then you simply admire from a distance. That’s what love really is."

Livia paused, lost in thought. Why had she thought that? Why did it even cross her mind? Passion, desire, obsession, the urge to possess, to break… Oh, those were the very things the emperors craved.

Again, she recalled Emperor Caracalla’s words: "You look just like her, don’t you?" He had spoken of his late mother, but then why had he touched her like that, looked at her like that? The memory made her nauseous. She turned to leave the temple, and Caesonia followed, her expression strangely sorrowful.

Her carpentum was already waiting—a covered carriage draped in white linen, the symbol of her sacred rank. Normally, Vestals traveled in closed litters, but the journey was long, and there was no time to waste. That morning, she had received a message telling her that her sister Claudia was about to give birth. No matter how upset Livia was, she couldn’t abandon her sister. Besides, Claudia was at the villa of Appius’ family, so there should be no unpleasant surprises.

She wore white robes, a wide white shawl with a golden border wrapped around her, her hair neatly bound, thin golden bracelets jingling on her wrists. She stepped into the carriage, and the slave promptly shut the door behind her. Livia quickly drew the curtains, not wishing for prying eyes. A tiny gap was enough for her to see the road.

In her hands, she fiddled with a tiny gold amulet—a gift for the newborn.

The crowd that had gathered from all corners of the Eternal City buzzed around the square like a swarm of bees, a massive, colorful mass circling her carriage. Livia found herself again thinking that she didn’t understand this worldly hustle, and that thought, prim and proper, echoed in her heart with a strange joy. She was still herself.

Craftsmen, merchants, curious onlookers, and other members of the common plebs moved in an endless stream along the street. Livia leaned back, continuing to watch, boredly twisting the amulet in her hands. From time to time, the crowd parted, giving way to the richly adorned litters and carriages. If they kept moving like this, they would reach the villa sooner than she had expected.

Fortune, as if hearing her presumptuous thoughts, turned away from her. The carriage stopped.

Livia impatiently drummed her fingers on the seat, waiting for them to move again, but they remained still. Frustrated, she glanced out at the street, but the crowd offers no answers, only bowing in servitude along the road.

Still fidgeting, Livia was about to open the tiny window to see what was happening outside, but before she could, the door swung open—and she glared indignantly at the person who dared to intrude upon her.

No one would have dared behave this way. No one would have sat across from her so arrogantly, so lazily, so smugly.

No one but him.

Suddenly, he gave the order to move, and Livia noticed the emperor’s carriage following closely behind hers, adorned with purple banners.

But the emperor was right here, sitting silently before her, a smile playing on his lips. The space was cramped, and she felt his knee brush against hers. She shifted her legs aside but didn’t dare break the silence.

"Glory to the emperors! Ave!" the citizens shouted.

Caracalla squinted with satisfaction. The recent riots and their suppression had clearly taught the people how to behave.

"Glory to the emperor?" he tilted his head, waiting for her answer.

"Glory," she whispered, her lips pale.

Emperor Caracalla was here—did that mean Geta rode in the other chariot? Or… She clutched her amulet tighter.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, pulling back the curtain to glance at the street—and her anxiety spiked. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her with him. "My brother is ill."

Livia swallowed hard, her brow furrowing as she tried to discern where this was leading. She searched his mood—angry, furious?—but failed.

Caracalla looked… pleased.

He lounged back casually, tapping his ringed fingers on the edge of the bench. His clothes, like his banners, gleamed in rich purple and gold, and a massive golden wreath tilted on his forehead, its leaves nearly brushing his pale brows. He kept lifting his chin to keep it from falling. His usual earring was missing, but thick golden bracelets wrapped around his white arms, both at his wrists and forearms. She couldn’t help but notice his rings—one displayed the image of a woman. She could easily guess who it was.

"I express my sorrow, Caesar, and wish Emperor Geta a swift recovery," she said, wondering what he wanted from her if his brother was still alive.

Caracalla studied her face intently, and she met his gaze. The emperor didn’t respond right away, shifting to settle more comfortably, spreading his legs wider and brushing her knee again. She forced herself to endure it, her ears beginning to burn, betraying her discomfort.

"Sorrow? More like congratulations!" Caracalla said playfully, wagging a finger at her. "I’m alone," he added, his painted lips pursing mischievously. "The sole ruler of Rome!" he declared proudly, tilting his chin up before rubbing it in feigned thoughtfulness. "Although, perhaps we should consider whether it was your prayers that made my brother fall ill, or…"

Her heart pounded in her chest. She shouldn’t have had that conversation with him. She shouldn’t have trusted that charming smile.

Behind the curtain, life continued, the chariot moved—but for Livia, the world stood still.

"…or perhaps it was the throat I slit. What do you think?"

A quiet gasp escaped her lips, and the emperor leaned forward, resting on his own knee.

What had he done? She had renounced her sisters, her home, and found new sisters among the Vestals, but she still loved them. And this… his own brother, his flesh and blood…!

"I didn’t…" she choked, panic rising. "I’m not guilty, Caesar…"

"Not guilty, priestess?" A smirk never left his lips, and his eyes watched her closely—unblinking, cold and limpid like the glass eyes placed in the statues of Jupiter in his temple. "Then who is guilty? Me?"

The question seemed absurd, for only moments ago, he had claimed it himself, yet Livia couldn’t summon the courage to remind him.

"You asked me, my dear, didn’t you? Didn’t you want me to send you my brother’s hands?" He giggled. "To be honest, it’d more likely be his head, but alas." He spread his hands theatrically.

"I don’t need that," she said, her lips tightly pressed, hoping the chariot would stop and the emperor’s unwelcome company would vanish.

"Don’t need it?" He leaned even closer, closing the distance between them. His knee was now right between hers. He did it deliberately, trying to unsettle her—and he succeeded. "So I did this for nothing?" His voice dropped dangerously low.

She shook her head. What did he want? What should she say to please him and make him leave?

"You, priestess, wanted your emperor dead. That’s a serious crime," he said, looking down, his lips pressed in false sorrow, brows drawn as if he genuinely cared about her fate…

And then his hand covers her knee. Even through the thick fabric, it feels like it burns her.

She wants to pull away, insulted by how easily he allows himself to touch her again and again. He has committed a monstrous crime, yet he blames her?

Kitchen wench. That’s what he had called her.

It becomes harder to breathe, the closer he gets, the more that sweet, heavy scent of oils wraps around her—clinging to her hair, her robes. It’s as though he means to consume her, to leave a trace even after he is gone.

Livia jerks her leg, but he holds her firmly, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Let go," she whispers.

"Let go?" The surprise on his face seems almost genuine. His hand is hot, as if the sun itself has touched her. But instead of letting her go, it slides upward, forcing her knees apart, making space for him between them. He doesn’t touch her skin, but it feels like she’s exposed.

Her cheeks burn. Her mouth parts. Her breath quickens.

Caracalla smiles, as he always does, mesmerized by her reaction. His fingers almost tenderly stroke the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, still through the fabric, but even this is too much for her.

"You should be executed for even thinking such a thing, priestess," he murmurs, his hand creeping higher, still caressing. "Have that delicate little neck of yours snapped… or perhaps tied to a stake in the arena, wrapped in ivy and ropes, beautiful and bare?" Her breath catches. "And watch the beasts tear into that pale skin…" he finishes with a breathy sigh.

Livia squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think of anything—anything—but the heat of his hand. With all her strength, she clutches the amulet in her fist and recites the prayer silently in her mind:

"O Vesta, grant me forgiveness,

If I have sinned against myself or those I hold dear.

Cleanse this soul of its burdened sorrow,

And fill me with the warmth of your eternal fla—"

He doesn’t let her finish. He cuts through her prayer with a low purr, forcing her to open her eyes:

"I must punish you for my brother, for he is my blood. Sacred blood!" He clicks his tongue and leans in, as if sharing a secret. His next words freeze her in place:

"But what kind of son would I be, if I put my brother above my own mother, hmm?"

The last words he speaks right against her lips, and before she can react, he kisses her, leaving her knee and pressing his palm to her cheek, not allowing her to pull away.

She is burning—hot, flushed, ashamed. Livia feels the heat of his mouth, his hands, the heaviness of his breath, the way he smiles into the kiss. And she can’t do anything. A few agonizing moments pass before he finally pulls away.

The paint on his lips is smudged, and she is certain some has transferred to hers.

Caracalla orders the carriage to stop.

"Pray for my brother’s health, priestess. Pray properly—so that at least this your goddess might actually hear," he says with a chuckle. "If he dies, it’ll be your fault."

He turns to leave, but his gaze catches her hand, clutching the amulet with trembling fingers. The emperor snatches it from her and swiftly steps out, giving a wink as he leaves.

It was a gift.

Unable to move, she finishes her prayer aloud:

"Deliver me from darkness and despair,

Shield me beneath your sacred veil in times of strife.

Trust in me, O radiant Vesta

I reach ever for the light, the good.

Guard my dwelling with your flame,

And grant me strength to endure the path ahead."

She knew nothing of lust, desire, or the cravings of the flesh, yet she could sense what these wealthy, pompous men were thinking. The emperors wanted the same from her—of that she was certain—but why, then, were their looks and smirks so different from the ones she caught tonight?

Her eyes swept over the riot of color—so many faces. Old, young, dull, clever, noble, brutish. And though she hated to admit it, she was searching for two faces in particular. The young emperors.

Their game insulted her, sowed doubt and unease, yet it also sparked a fire of defiance. A challenge. She would show them she was no mere kitchen wench to be toyed with. She was a priestess of the great goddess, chosen by the divine. They were not worthy to test her.

Memories of her last encounter with Emperor Caracalla flushed her cheeks with shameful heat. How dare he! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by a soft, unfamiliar voice, and Livia quickly wiped the scowl from her face.

"Mistress, please, the emperors await you."

A young slave girl bowed, offering a cup of wine. Livia waved it away. She hated drinking.

Stepping deeper into the hall, she saw them. Oh, what a glorious sight! Her lips twisted, and her brows furrowed. Glorious for the corrupt, pompous nobles who hung on every word of the emperors. For her, the scene stirred barely concealed irritation, though she forced a polite smile to avoid seeming rude.

Geta at least kept some semblance of decorum, lounging back on the bench with his legs spread wide. Caracalla, on the other hand, had sprawled out completely, his legs stretched so far that his toga had ridden up almost above his knees. Livia quickly turned her gaze away.

Geta always prattled on about decorum—so why did everything around her feel like a mockery, an insult aimed directly at her? And he smiled at her now—sweet, soft, like she was a childhood friend and not a captive in his game. His white robes were so blindingly white they seemed to glow in the dimly lit hall, illuminated only by flickering flames. White and gold—holy colours. He was taunting her. She clenched her own white robes, refusing to show how much he angered her.

His golden belt, embroidered mantle over his tunic—it was the embodiment of divinity and high rank. A laurel crown adorned his fiery hair, and intricate gold bracelets gleamed on his wrists. Caesar had outdone himself.

Caracalla, in contrast, seems deliberately dressed in an entirely different manner. He wore black, and only the brightness of his hair and the glint of his golden laurel stood out against his pale face.

And, like his brother, he was dripping in gold.

A long, heavy golden earring swayed with every lazy tilt of his head, its delicate touch grazing his pale neck. Even in dark clothing, he drew her gaze—forcing her to look at the gold dusted around his eyes and the red of his lips, stretched in a smile not meant for her.

Captivated, she found herself following the path of his delicate fingers as they stroked the pale hair of the slave girl at his feet. The whiteness of his hand was marred by red marks—marks she had left on him not long ago.

Livia caught his mocking glance and quickly looked down at her own wrist. No gold bangles there—only dark, blooming bruises. She wrapped her fingers around them, desperately hiding the proof of her shame.

"Priestess of Vesta," Geta greeted her. The room fell silent, all eyes on her with curiosity.

Between the two emperors sat Lucilla, draped in gold silk, looking—if it were possible—even less pleased to be there than Livia. She offered a polite nod and a faint smile, which Livia returned.

Caracalla caught their exchange and leaned toward Lucilla, whispering something. Lucilla paled. Then, under Livia’s disbelieving gaze, she picked a grape from a golden dish and offered it to Caracalla’s red lips. He ate it with a sly smile, never taking his eyes off Livia.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Such public disrespect toward his adoptive mother only deepened her righteous anger.

"You’re even lovelier than Appius described!" a coarse, mocking male voice broke her thoughts.

To Geta’s right, slouched among half-naked slave girls, sat three senators—or rather, what passed for senators these days. She recognized Claudia’s husband, laughing loudly at his companion’s vulgar remark. She felt naked under their stares.

These weren’t the wise old men of Rome, the voices of reason and law—they were long dead, executed for treason, for conspiracies against the emperors. In their place lounged the young, the arrogant, the shameless sycophants.

Before she could answer, Geta gave a gracious nod toward a gold-trimmed bench.

An invitation.

Head high, Livia took her seat. Her back was straight, her hands rested gently on her lap. Everything about her posture declared who she was: a Vestal Virgin. No one in this room, no matter how powerful, had the right to disrespect a priestess of Vesta.

But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she met Caracalla’s gaze. Smirking, he nibbled at his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, while his other hand idly stroked the slave girl’s hair. Livia’s jaw tightened, and she quickly turned away, offended.

"I hope you enjoy tonight’s spectacle," Geta murmured, leaning in close. "I promised you, didn’t I?"

His words sounded more like a warning, but before she could reply, Caracalla clapped his hands, commanding the show to begin.

The crowd parted, pressing to the walls, as decorations were set in the hall’s center.

She couldn’t say why, but a bad feeling settled in her gut as she watched the performers take their places. And then she understood.

The Rape of the Sabine Women.

Her hands balled into fists as the show intensified, men "abducting" resisting girls under a cacophony of music, shouts, and screams, "accidentally" tearing clothes off some. Livia blinked but refused to look away, unwilling to give the emperors the satisfaction. Women’s bodies didn’t frighten her. She glanced, just once, at the brothers.

They watched, utterly engrossed—laughing, shouting, draining one glass of wine after another.

Livia endured, as expected, watching the performance until the end and even clapping politely. But as soon as it was over, a handsome, finely dressed young man stepped forward. A poet.

Irritated, she let out an impatient breath. Geta had indeed arranged an evening of "culture," but the moment the poet opened his mouth, her ears burned, and her face flushed with red blotches. Never in her life had she heard such filth paraded as verse. Livia could not help herself—her eyes darted away, and it took everything in her not to rise from her seat and flee the hall filled with laughing nobles.

The worst part—the worst—was that the women were laughing too. And that shocked her the most. How could they find this funny? Who thought this was amusing? Her gaze darted across the hall, until it met the sorrowful eyes of Lucilla. The older woman gave a slight shake of her head, silently urging Livia to stay seated.

A senator nearby roared with laughter, spilling wine and clapping. Nausea rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed to the Great Goddess, picturing the quiet, safe sanctuary of the temple. But the sounds didn’t fade, and she was forced to open her eyes—and found Geta watching her.

The paint around his eyes had smeared, the powder blurred and fading. He looked wickedly amused, drunk—and in those black eyes, Livia saw not a trace of reason. Beside him, Caracalla let out a full-throated laugh, throwing his head back in raw delight.

Animals.

The poet finished to thunderous applause and disappeared into the crowd. Livia rose at once. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear through her chest. She was terrified—feeling utterly unsafe.

But why? she asked herself.

"I am a priestess of Vesta, keeper of the Eternal Flame, my title…" she tried to steady herself, but a man’s jeering whistle behind her immediately scattered her thoughts.

Not long ago, the very thought that anyone would dare touch her seemed impossible. Yet now, she stared at her wrists, the dark marks glaring back at her—marks left not by just anyone, but by the emperor himself! Those who dared dishonor a Vestal were punished severely, executed even—but who would dare punish an emperor!? No one even knew!

"Gods, punish him, I beg you, protect me, let justice strike him!" she repeated, pushing through the crowd.

No one seemed to notice her departure, and with relief, she slipped behind a red fabric partition, leaned against a column, and finally exhaled. What she’d witnessed tonight had shaken her. It was worse than those awful encounters when the emperors had tried to provoke her. This time, they had succeeded. Her anger was gone—replaced by fear that made her hands tremble.

The entire hall, every guest, was drowning in wine and debauchery. She had even seen some of the men inhaling white powder from silver trays. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know.

Catching her breath, Livia slapped her own cheek lightly to steady herself. She had to leave. Return to the House of the Vestals. Tell the High Priestess everything. She couldn’t bear this burden alone anymore.

Cautiously, she peeked past the partition into the room. The feast was still in full swing. Seeing no sign of the emperors, she breathed a small sigh of relief—only to flinch at a soft, unfamiliar touch.

Startled, she turned—and immediately exhaled. It was the same slave girl, dark-skinned, her wide eyes full of fear.

"Leave, Mistress, please!" the girl whispered.

"You scared me!" Livia replied softly, immediately taking the girl’s trembling hands in hers. "What is it?"

"I’m sorry… so sorry… please leave… not again…" The girl was trembling, repeating the same words over and over, her eyes darting in panic.

No matter how much Livia tried to comfort her, the girl only grew more agitated, babbling incoherently. Then—silence.

With a frightened squeak, the slave girl darted behind the curtain, leaving Livia alone. But not for long.

"You abandoned us so quickly," said a voice.

Geta.

His steps were uneven, his gaze hollow, and his tongue kept flicking over his lips, betraying his nervousness. He looked almost like himself… except he was terribly drunk.

Livia pressed her lips together. Pathetic. Did he really need to drown himself in wine just to find the courage to speak to her as he truly wished?

They stared at each other in silence. Only the muffled sounds behind the curtain reminded them they weren’t truly alone. The torchlight made his appearance ominous, aging him, twisting his features into something darker.

"I asked you a question," he said, no longer courteous but angry.

"I wasn’t impressed by the performance, I’ll be honest, Caesar." The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She cursed her own tongue the moment they left her lips. Angering him now was foolish.

As if reading her thoughts, he frowned, clicking his tongue in disapproval and stepping closer. She didn’t move. Geta was not Caracalla.

He seemed to read that in her eyes, too—and something in him twitched. His upper lip trembled.

Warily, Livia met his gaze, searching for some flicker of the old interest, that strained civility he used to wear like a mask. But there was nothing. Not even the torchlight touched those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed.

"I appreciate your invitation nonetheless, Caesar," she tried to soften her words.

It didn’t work.

He said nothing, squinting at her, lazily scratching his neck, smudging the white powder further. His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrist, and his mouth twisted into a thin, bloodless line.

"He does it to spite me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "But you’re here, with me, whether he touched you or not," he continued, lost in thought.

"May I leave?" Livia whispered, though she knew the answer.

Geta smirked and shook his head, rubbing his hands as if steeling himself.

"You… you’re devout, aren’t you? Please! The goddess…" she appealed to his reason, but it was futile.

He wouldn’t dare, would he? He wasn’t his brother! But no, he was exactly the same.

His hands were ice-cold, yet they burned her wrists. His palm pressed down exactly where Caracalla had left bruises, squeezing until it hurt. Desperate, Livia tried to scream, but he clamped his hand roughly over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet, priestess, quiet," his drunken whisper scorched her neck. "I don’t like doing things the hard way, understand?"

She shook her head frantically, a tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t understand anything. Nothing but her own stupidity—thinking she could play games with emperors. Thinking she could win.

Geta lowered his hand, and she gasped for air. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, still gripping her wrist. She was trembling.

"Now, you’ll please me, won’t you?" he lifted his head and stared at her lips.

Disbelieving, Livia stayed silent, shaking her head, but her wishes mattered little. Who could resist an emperor’s kiss?

If his hands were cold, his mouth was hot, searing. For a moment, she lost all sense of reality, too terrified to react, but then the truth crashed over her. Someone else’s mouth on hers, someone else’s hands on her waist. A man was touching her—touching her in a way he never should have!

Whether Mars or Vesta herself had given her strength and fury, Livia bit down hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.

Geta immediately pulled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oh, he was stunned! She’d bitten through his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and only when a crimson drop hit the marble floor at his feet did the truth finally reach him.

Rage twisted his handsome face.

She breathed heavily, still reeling from what she’d done. But there was no time to think—before she could even process it, he struck her cheek with the back of his hand. And just as quickly, before the pain could even bloom, he dragged her into another kiss. This one was angry, punishing. Anything but gentle.

He released her. Her mouth tasted of blood, and she spat, unladylike, wiping her lips. Let him kill her! But first, she’d claw his eyes out!

But no, he only smirked, licking his own blood from his lips.

"Leave, priestess, or it’ll be worse," his voice was hoarse. "And remember, you’re still expected at the games."

Only once he slipped back into the hall did Livia realize how badly she was shaking. Only then did the sting of his slap truly bloom across her face. She wanted to sob like a little girl—but not here. Not in this place.

"Imperial blood spills far too often these days, Amata," said a voice behind her—calm, amused, almost gentle.

Caracalla.

Livia turned to him like a hunted creature, silently cursing him with every word she knew. He was drunk and cheerful, utterly at ease—if anything, exhilarated, almost thrilled.

His brother’s little performance had clearly entertained him.

"Perhaps you’ve been praying poorly to your goddess?" His pale brows furrowed in feigned concern. "Could something like this happen to a pure, devoted novice? Or perhaps your goddess is punishing you for something?" He leaned in like a conspirator, his hand covering his mouth as if to protect a forbidden secret. "Or maybe," he whispered, "this is exactly what she wants."

"Please, let me leave," she whispered, her lips stinging from the dried blood, her wrists aching with every movement.

"But what of your punishment?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, raising his hands. The bracelets on his wrists jingled. "Twice now, you’ve spilled the sacred blood of the fathers of the empire! Perhaps I should spill a little of yours?" And with a syrupy smile, his pale eyes, clouded with wine, slowly slid over her face.

The hint was so blatant that even her naive mind understood. The first touch. The first kiss. The first… She shook her head. None of this was ever meant to be part of her life.

"I’m begging you," she breathed, barely audible, not knowing what else to say.

It pleases him. She can see it—the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the lazy narrowing of his eyes as he savors her humiliation. Her pride, once unshakable, is crumbling, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

"Very well," he nodded playfully. She exhales, a breath of relief escaping her—

"But first…"

Caracalla extends his delicate hand, the same one where she’d left her scratches. Mesmerized, she watches the firelight dance on the golden rings. He tilts his head, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.

Her heart stutters. She knows exactly what he wants.

Swallowing her pride, Livia bent, brushing her lips against his wounded hand, hearing his satisfied exhale. It felt obscene to her.

He’d forced her. Forced her to touch him, to bow, to press her lips to his warm, soft skin. Humiliating. But if this was the price of her peace, so be it.

Livia hurried to leave, but as she passed Caracalla, she found herself caught in his iron grip.

He held her for just a moment, just long enough for him to lean close and whisper hotly in her ear: "Tonight, my brother won’t be the only one imagining your face."

The slave girl leads her out of the palace, accompanied by a young man with dark skin. Livia stumbles, nearly collapsing, but the man catches her, steadying her with a firm arm around hers as they descend the steps. She doesn’t care that he’s a man—right now, he’s her only salvation.

"This is my brother, Mistress," the girl whispers. "He’ll help you."

They seat Livia in a carriage. As the door is closed, she casts one last glance toward the palace and catches sight of a dark figure standing on the balcony, watching. She yanked the curtain shut with a shaking hand.

She didn’t have to see his face to know it was one of them.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The High Priestess stares at her with disbelief, wariness, and fear. No wonder—Livia had burst into her chambers in the dead of night, disheveled, bloodied, bruised. She had shed all her tears on the way from the palace; now there was only one thing she longed for: to tell the truth.

"You weren’t at your sister’s," the older woman says, narrowing her eyes and drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

In the darkness, in her thin nightgown, her hair loose and her face suddenly aged, the High Priestess seems almost fragile to Livia—nothing like the stern, commanding figure she had always known. For a moment, fear claws at her: what if she won’t help? What could this aging priestess possibly do against the emperors? But Livia shoves the thought aside, falls to her knees, clutches at the woman’s legs, presses her cheek against them, and whispers fiercely:

"It was them!"

Her voice quivers with rage. The sister-priestesses loved her for her lightness, her cheerful spirit, but now there’s no trace of that left.

"The emperors!" she spits the words out with such hatred that the High Priestess flinches, stepping back, but Livia won’t let her go. She looks up, straight into her eyes.

"Look at me!" She thrusts out her arms—pale, bruised, trembling.

"My child…" the priestess whispers, stunned. "Why did you go to the palace?"

"Why?" Livia’s breath grows heavy, anger rising in her chest. "Because of my sister, of course! Did you think I stayed there willingly—for what? For a man?"

The High Priestess presses her lips into a thin line. Pity flickers in her eyes, but so does doubt.

"You’re young, beautiful… perhaps you did something wrong, somehow…"

Enraged, Livia springs to her feet, towering over her.

"Me? You think I’m to blame for this?" She scrubs at her lips and wrists as if trying to erase the shame. "You think I would lie? I, who took the sacred vows? I, who gave up my family, my life, everything—just to trade it all for disgrace and dishonor?"

Something shifts in the priestess’s face. She reaches for Livia’s hands, squeezing them, then pulls her into an embrace, gently stroking her back.

"What did they do? Did they…" The look in her eyes says the rest.

"No," Livia snaps, breaking free from her arms, "but they did enough to be judged."

"And who will judge the emperors?" the priestess says, throwing up her hands.

"The Senate! The people! The gods!" Livia’s voice rises, and the priestess hastily motions for her to lower it. "Someone will, Great Virgin!"

"You forget whom you’re speaking of, child."

"What, are they above the law? The people hate them—that’s no secret. Everyone in Rome knows what they are—everyone but children! And they themselves are like children—cruel, vicious—"

She’s cut off.

"And yet these children rule us. They rule Rome. You’ve seen what happens to those who oppose them. The Praetorians, the army, even the Senate—they all stand with them. What is your word against theirs?"

"I am a Vestal Virgin! My word is not nothing!"

"Then stay away from them. Don’t provoke them. Devote yourself to your duties."

The conversation is over.

Livia storms out of the priestess’s chambers without a word of farewell, furious at finding no support. And yet, having finally spoken, a weight lifts from her chest.

She doesn’t want to tell anyone else—but Caesonia is different. Her friend, her sister, her mentor—she cannot keep this from her.

A storm rages over Rome. Lightning flashes illuminate the city with ominous bursts, and Livia is certain it’s the ancient Goddess herself, furious that her priestess has been defiled, dishonored. The thought warms her heart. Let Emperor Caracalla say what he will—she is under her Virgin’s protection.

Here, within the House of the Vestals, she finds refuge—and in Caesonia, the understanding she needs.

The elder priestess asks no questions. She only gently helps Livia undress, combs out her tangled hair, kneads the tension from her shoulders.

Livia sinks into the warm water, closing her eyes in exhausted bliss. Caesonia, wearing only a thin tunic, sits by the pool’s edge, watching her in silence.

Her wrists are almost white again, as they once were, with only faint yellowish marks hinting at the painful memories. She notices Caesonia’s gaze lingering on them.

"What did you talk about with the High Priestess after your visit to your sister?" Caesonia asks, circling the truth.

Livia leans her head back against the marble edge, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Should she tell her everything?

"That’s not what you really want to ask, is it?"

Caesonia licks her lips, tilts her head, and smiles slyly. She slides into the pool beside Livia, her soaked tunic clinging to her skin before she pulls it off and lets it drift away. She presses close, resting her head lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Cool, delicate fingers trail along Livia’s wrist, barely brushing the bruises with feather-light touches.

"Was it one of the emperors?"

"Who told you?" Livia’s heart lurches.

Caesonia laughs softly, stroking her wrist.

"I’m not a fool. I saw the way they looked at you. I might never have known a man, but I can imagine what’s in their heads when they see a beautiful girl." She tucks a strand of hair behind Livia’s ear and meets her gaze, waiting.

Heat rises under Livia’s skin—not from the water. She looks away, murmuring the whole story. Caesonia listens, wide-eyed, drinking in every word. It’s not the reaction Livia expected; she grows even more embarrassed.

"And what was it like?" Caesonia lowers her voice, though the slaves outside the door can’t hear.

"What…" Livia whispers, confused.

"You know," Caesonia’s hand gently caresses her cheek, "what’s it like to feel a man’s touch? Is it like mine?"

The priestess’s hand strokes her, leaving Livia stunned and flustered, but then Caesonia laughs and pulls away.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Livia," she says with a wink, sinking into the water up to her chin. "I’m too weak for beauty, and to hear about a handsome man…"

"Caesonia!" Livia tries to sound stern, but can’t help laughing.

"You should be ashamed of your words and thoughts!"

"I’m just teasing, you know that," Caesonia says, then theatrically leans back against the pool’s edge, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Emperor, I think I’ve twisted my ankle!"

Anywhere else, the joke would have horrified Livia. But here, safe and warm in the water, she bursts out laughing, grabbing her friend’s shoulders and shaking her.

"Stop it, you fool, it’s not funny at all!" When he grabbed her roughly, it wasn’t funny. When he kissed her, it wasn’t funny. But Caesonia fluttering her lashes like some lovesick emperor—yes, that was funny.

They never speak of it again. The bruises fade. Life settles back into its old rhythm. And Livia throws herself into her sacred duties, heart and soul.

But the faster the carefree days flew by, the closer the games drew near. Livia tried not to think about them, but in the restless moments before sleep, the emperors’ faces haunted her—their voices, their touches, their smiles…

One radiant, sunlit day, slaves arrived at the House of the Vestals carrying a covered palanquin. From it, they hauled a massive chest onto the terrace.

The priestesses gathered around, eyeing the ornate, gold-trimmed chest with curiosity. The slaves withdrew quickly, but none dared open it without the High Priestess’s permission.

A wave of dread washed over Livia. Sensing her unease, Caesonia reached out and quietly took her hand.

When the High Priestess finally appeared and lifted the heavy lid, the Vestals gasped in unison, recoiling in horror.

Livia clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by the sight.

On a bed of crimson velvet lay two severed male arms, hacked cleanly at the elbows. A tightly wound scroll rested beside them. Nausea rose in her throat.

The High Priestess, regaining her composure quicker than the rest, seized the scroll, scanned it, then nodded sharply for Livia to step closer.

"Emperor Caracalla expresses his deepest regrets and begs forgiveness for the inappropriate behavior of a slave who dared leave those marks on you. He sends his warmest regards," she said, her voice like a verdict. Both of them knew he was lying brazenly — and so did he.

Livia’s lips trembled with outrage and fury as she realized whose arms these were. The slave who had helped her escape the palace, who had held her by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing on the steps. So it was Caracalla on the balcony! He had seen them!

"Dispose of them," the High Priestess commanded coldly. "And I shall convey your gratitude to the emperor for his… justice."

Livia only nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She had glimpsed the depths of his madness—and it terrified her.

Now the days leading to the games became a slow, grinding torture. She buried herself in ceaseless prayer, trying to smother the rising panic that no words could soothe.

"Don’t worry, we’ll be with you, won’t we?" Caesonia said. Livia, dressed in a long white tunic, her hair braided with red ribbons and veiled, stood ready. Caesonia hung an amulet around her neck and stepped back, admiring her.

The arena greeted them with a deafening roar as they took their seats to the left of the imperial box. Young girls approached, holding out wreaths of flowers, and the priestesses accepted with gracious smiles, settling them gently on their heads.

As usual, Livia sat beside the High Priestess, her back as straight as a string. Her gaze was fixed on the arena, and she didn’t allow herself even a glance toward the emperors.

"Emperor Geta is watching you," Caesonia whispered in a low tone. Livia curled her lip in disdain, waving off the comment with a flick of her hand. Let him watch.

Heralds in masks of the seven gods announced the start of the games, held in honor of General Fulvius Plautianus’s victory, who had seized part of Persia in the emperors’ name.

"As if they conquered it themselves," Livia scoffed under her breath, careful no one overheard.

As the gladiators entered the arena, she stole a quick glance at the imperial box. For a moment, their red-haired heads caught her attention, but she quickly turned away, unwilling to meet their eyes.

The games began, the crowd roared, and Livia, finally forgetting the emperors, leaned forward, gripping the railing, her gaze fixed on the combatants below.

The sun climbed higher, and the arena grew bloodier. She noticed the crowd favoring a young gladiator—dark-haired, tanned, powerful. The barbarian fought fiercely, clearly not for the emperors’ amusement. For a moment, his eyes swept toward the Vestals’ box, and Livia, her heart pounding with some hidden sympathy, nodded slightly, silently wishing him victory. He gave no sign, but his next fight was another win.

The emperors leapt from their seats, clapping, clearly pleased with the spectacle. A small monkey on Caracalla’s shoulder screeched, mimicking its master’s applause.

The crowd chanted "Hanno," and Geta, visibly stung, sank back into his chair, followed by his brother. Livia smirked.

To her dismay, the final bout turned against Hanno. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand. Her sisters, the crowd, the entire stadium froze in tense anticipation. The verdict rested with the Caesars.

Livia no longer even tried to hide it—she stared straight at the emperors. Caracalla leaned over and whispered something to his brother, then lounged back lazily in his chair. Geta rose to his feet. Behind them, Lucilla sat, visibly uneasy.

Emperor Geta braced his hands on the edge of the imperial box, sweeping his gaze slowly across the crowd, across the men in the arena… Then he lifted his hand—and locked eyes with her. His smile was cold and crooked, his chin lifted in arrogance. The wretch. She didn’t bother to hide her grimace in response…

… And his thumb turned downward, sealing the death sentence.

The crowd erupted in outrage, but Geta sat back smugly, sipping from his goblet and raising it toward her with a mocking nod.

"Livia…" the High Priestess warned, but inside, Livia’s heart burned with indignation and hatred. Did he enjoy making her vulnerable? Humiliating her in front of the gods? Well, then…

She leaned forward, extending her arm, and raised her thumb, staring straight at the emperors.

Oh, their furious, twisted faces were a balm to her soul. They could do nothing to her, say nothing—everyone knew a Vestal’s word in such matters was final.

With a sense of quiet triumph, she settled back onto the bench, her smile unwavering, as the heralds proclaimed the verdict in a booming voice. This time, the crowd’s cheers weren’t for the emperors or the fighters—they were for her.

"You shouldn’t have done that. I told you to stay away," the High Priestess said sadly, but Livia barely heard her. Her heart raced with the thrill of the small victory.

They were escorted into the Colosseum’s inner halls, but Livia felt no fear, walking steadily, carefully holding her long tunic.

And of course, they were waiting for them. The emperors—both dressed in white and crimson, the colors of victory. Geta’s head was crowned with golden laurel, while Caracalla’s unruly curls wore a different wreath. Fresh green laurel leaves made his blue eyes seem even brighter, his skin paler, and he… She turned away. He once again reminded her of Sol.

Many of the senators were there too, and they quickly drew the High Priestess into conversation, leaving the younger Vestals to themselves.

Livia, keeping well away from the emperors, slipped toward a quieter corner of the hall.

"Pious Virgin, may I speak with you?"

Startled, she turned to see Lucilla standing before her, head bowed.

"Of course. Your company is always a pleasure," Livia said.

Lucilla glanced around nervously, then leaned closer, whispering,

"Thank you for sparing the gladiator today… Please, ask me nothing—I beg you—but know that I’m grateful. And in return, I’ll offer you a service. I will tell you how your sister died."

Livia freezes, blinking rapidly and opening her mouth in silence. Lucilla’s story is brief, dry, and lacking in details, but it is enough. Livia knew. She knew who was responsible.

After parting with the daughter of the former emperor, she felt an eerie, almost unnatural calm. Emperor Geta had killed her sister—and now he tried to violate her, as if mocking her grief.

She stood alone by the hall’s far columns, lost in thought, when the very one she had been thinking of found her, his brother beside him. Her gaze was empty, cold.

"Emperor Geta," she nodded. "Emperor Caracalla," another nod.

"I wish to apologize, priestess," Geta began. She could see how the words strained him, how he forced himself to be courteous…

But what was his courtesy to her?

"Tell me, Caesar, what exactly are you apologizing for? For the disgusting advances you made toward me, or for murdering my sister? Do you even remember her? Dark-haired, gentle-hearted. Do you even remember her name? Her name was Cassandra," she said through clenched teeth.

Geta took a step back, and for the first time, Livia saw him completely exposed, vulnerable. To her surprise, his black eyes weren’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring at Caracalla. And Caracalla, in turn, was looking right back at him. On his pale face, there was no smile, no familiar sneer—only an unnerving, stone-cold mask.

"It’s a lie, brother," Geta said, not addressing her once again, and Livia understood less and less. Caracalla didn’t believe him, that much was clear.

"Please, not here," he pleaded. Caracalla said nothing, but his blue gaze shifted back to Livia.

Geta cast her a final look—one full of hatred, bitter disappointment—and hurried toward the Praetorians, disappearing into the crowd.

"Did you know?" she asked Caracalla.

He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, as if shaking off a daze. A crooked smirk slowly returned to his face.

"No, I swear," he says hoarsely, almost whispering. He’s angry—this much was clear—but for the first time, she wasn’t the target of his rage, and it felt… strange. "We…," he trails off, licking his lips, "Cassandra and I—we were good friends. Didn’t I tell you? I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt her, believe me, Livia."

She watches him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He meets her gaze with that same smirk, peering up at her from under his brows, his pale eyebrows drawn together—pure innocence. Livia shrugs, taking up her proud stance once more.

"And yet, you acted inappropriately towards me," she said, now feeling more confident as his attention was fully on his brother.

"Oh, I regret it," he replied, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue brushing over his upper lip. Did he truly regret it? Livia looked at him again. Not a hint of it. But even empty words carried weight now.

"How do you like my gift?"

A shiver ran through her, the memory of the chest with the severed hands sending a chill down her spine. She said nothing.

The emperor leaned in, his hand brushing the bust behind her, tracing the curve of the nameless marble girl’s neck. The scratches on his hand had healed. Her bruises had faded as well. He glanced at her hands before locking eyes with her.

"If you want," he whispered, his grin widening, "I’ll give you one just like it—with Geta."

For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was offering her the revenge she’d craved—for her sister, for her own honor! But he was his brother… And yet, with a breath heavy with fury, she answered,

"Yes."

The delight on the emperor’s face terrifies her. Caracalla breathed heavier, his tongue sliding over his lips again and again, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a low, strangled moan escape from his red mouth.

His delicate hand released the marble throat of the bust and rose toward her face. Livia nervously glanced behind him—was anyone watching? Fortunately, the column was wide enough to shield them from prying eyes…

What was she thinking? She quickly scolded herself.

But the emperor didn’t touch her. Instead, he plucked a rose from her flower crown and tucked it behind his ear, as if he were a mischievous street boy, not the Father of Rome. It seemed the talk of his brother’s murder didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Had such a thought crossed his mind before? Had it ever occurred to him? Like Romulus and Remus—twins, both of them…

She loses her train of thought as her gaze lands on the large medallion on his chest. Golden, elaborate, screaming wealth—she had no interest in it, until Livia noticed the embossed female profile.

At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes, wondering if it was her own face staring back at her.

"Oh, this is my mother," he lifted the medallion, showing it to her. Livia understands it’s another woman, but she can’t deny the striking resemblance. It terrifies her.

Nervously, she glances up at the emperor. The last time he spoke of Julia Domna, he pressed against her hips, shamelessly moaning. It’s hard to forget such a thing.

He smiles slyly, knowing exactly what she’s thinking, tilting his head, savoring the blush on her cheeks.

"I was just a boy when she died. Father always hated me, but she…" He steps closer, and Livia finds herself backed against the wall, nowhere to retreat. "She loved me. That much I remember."

Livia has no words to reply, but he doesn’t expect an answer. Their faces are almost level now, his eyes burning with feverish intensity. Caesar leans in, but then immediately tilts his head, turning to bury his face in her neck, not touching, leaving a small gap between his lips and her skin. Unconsciously, she tilts her neck, almost as if offering it. She feels his smile against her skin.

"You look just like her, don’t you?" he murmurs, inhaling deeply before once more searing her neck with his breath. "Your goddess didn’t hear your prayers, did she? Didn’t grant your wishes…" He leans back slightly, still staring into her eyes, chin raised arrogantly. She exhales sharply.

"Then I’ll be your god, Amata, and for my help, I don’t need thirty years of devotion. I think it’ll all end much sooner," he purrs.

"I’m sorry to come asking for this, but my heart won’t rest when my sister sends me such alarming messages. I have to see her…"

The priestess’s sharp eyes fixed on her. "Does she have no one else?"

Livia sighed. "Alas, no. Our mother has been gone for years, our father only just passed, and…" She swallowed hard, forcing back the lump rising in her throat. "…and our older sister, too. Claudia has a husband, but she’s carrying a child, alone in a foreign house… If I don’t go to her, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t lose another sister."

Whether it was Livia’s words or the sorrow on her face, something in the senior priestess softened. Her voice was quieter when she spoke.

"Very well. Go see your sister. But don’t linger too long, and…” She hesitated, frowning, before continuing, “remember—your place is here, in the temple of our goddess and protector."

"Thank you," Livia said, relief and gratitude flooding her. In a sudden rush of emotion, she bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of the Great Maiden’s hand before hurrying out. But just as she passed through the doorway, she caught the woman’s gaze following her—heavy, somber, devoid of any joy.

And just like that, her own joy vanished.

Dark thoughts crept back in, pressing in around her like shadows. The secret she hadn’t told, the truth she hadn’t shared with her sisters. Once, they had shared everything—joy and sorrow alike—but now… Now, guilt took root in her chest, and the weight of unspoken words threatened to suffocate her.

Her sisters didn’t know.

And it was his fault.

Emperor Caracalla had shattered her quiet, ordered world with nothing but his presence. He had brought with him chaos, lies, and… thoughts that had no place in the mind of a Vestal.

But the goddess knew.

Nothing could be hidden from her. And that made it all the more unbearable.

She had tried to tell Caesonia—truly, she had—but the words got stuck in her throat the moment the other priestess started talking, her eyes sparkling with excitement about Emperor Geta. Oh, how her sister admired him! She’d praised him, laughed, made silly jokes, and seemed so thrilled that they’d be attending the games again soon.

And how could Livia ruin that? How could she say that the father of Rome had stormed into the sacred temple, had whispered things to her that no young girl should ever hear? That he had touched her, behaved with brazen arrogance, nothing like the divine being so many believed him to be?

How could she describe the filth of it? The wrongness? The things that no Vestal should ever even think about?

Sin.

She longed to bathe, to cleanse herself, as if Caracalla had truly touched her, squeezed her throat, and kept purring in her ear.

A shudder ran through her, and she bit down hard on her lip, desperate to chase away the smiling image of the emperor from her mind.

She had no time for this.

She needed to think of Claudia. She needed to focus on her sister. Not waste another moment on impure thoughts.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

As soon as the chariot began rolling through the streets of Rome, a fresh wave of panic washed over her. Livia tugged the curtains tighter, not wanting anyone to see her. This visit had to be swift and discreet—there was no reason for the people of Rome to know that a Vestal Virgin was paying a visit to the emperors’ palace.

She had no interest in the outside world—she didn’t care to see how the capital lived, neither the lavish homes of the patricians nor the cramped, crumbling dwellings of the plebeians. And yet, when the chariot slowed, she couldn’t help but peek through the slightly parted curtain. What she saw made her gasp.

The emperors’ palace, a gleaming fortress of white marble, was overwhelming in its grandeur. Even approaching from the less prominent side, away from the central square, there was still plenty to marvel at.

She was expected. As soon as she stepped inside, she was escorted directly to her sister. To Livia’s surprise, they led her to a garden, where amidst fragrant flowers, elegant marble statues, and the quiet singing of birds, Claudia waited for her in a shaded gazebo.

The young woman lounged in a garden chair, looking bored. Her legs were stretched out on a low stool, one hand absently stroking her rounded belly. But the moment she saw Livia, her expression lit up with genuine joy.

Livia lifted the sheer, pale-blue veil from her face. Beside Claudia, a dark-skinned slave girl sat at her feet. At the sight of Livia, the girl’s eyes widened—not just in surprise, but in something else. Fear? Doubt? Did she find it strange that a Vestal Virgin had come to see her mistress? Or… had she seen Livia before? Livia didn’t know, and she had no desire to dwell on it. With a simple nod, Claudia dismissed the servants, leaving them alone.

"Livia, sister, I’m so happy you’re here," Claudia said, reaching out with both hands.

Livia covered them with her own, squeezing gently. “How are you feeling?” she asked, searching her sister’s face for answers.

"Oh, this…" Claudia’s expression faltered, her eyes darting nervously. She didn’t look sick. "Forgive me for the little deception, Livia. I—" She hesitated. "You must forgive me. I just wanted to see you so badly, and I couldn’t think of any other way to distract you from your prayers!"

Livia stiffened. Anger flared through her body, and she pulled away, her movement sharper than intended.

"Do you realize," she said, her voice rougher than before, "that because of your 'little' deception, I’m in a difficult position? I have duties. What am I supposed to tell the High Priestess? That my sister is a liar?"

"You don’t need to explain anything," Claudia said smoothly. "Just tell them I’m feeling better, and that’s all. Is it really such a crime to visit your pregnant sister? Do you truly believe Vesta would be angered by that?"

But Livia remained resolute, crossing her arms and taking a step back.

"Lies—those are the real sin,” she said, eager to return to the temple immediately. “Answer me, Claudia—why did you really come up with this story?"

Her sister straightened, lowering her feet to the ground, placing a protective hand over her belly. Her gaze turned distant, uneasy. Her lips parted, but she hesitated, avoiding Livia’s eyes. She was hiding something. And Livia didn’t like it.

"I was asked to…" Claudia finally murmured.

"By who?" Livia’s voice came out hoarse. She already knew the answer.

"The emperor…" Claudia admitted softly.

Livia didn’t wait to hear more. She pulled the veil back over her face, turned on her heel, and strode toward the exit. Away from the garden. Away from the palace. Back to the temple, where her sisters—though not by blood—would never lie to her.

"Wait!"

A sister’s hand, hot and desperate, grabbed her wrist.

"I had no choice, Livia, please!" Claudia’s voice broke into a sob. "Appius is always at the Senate, and when he’s not there, he’s off carousing with the emperors. I’m alone all the time! I really did want to see you, and when Emperor Geta told me—"

"He ordered you to do this?" Livia yanked her hand free. Through the thin veil, she regarded her sister’s small, trembling figure, unwilling to show her own face. Or her emotions. The resentment in her chest tightened like a knot.

"No, but… You know the gods’ power lies in the hands of the emperors. Who am I to refuse a request?"

"You’re my sister," Livia said sharply, turning to leave again.

"Livia…" Claudia’s voice cracked.

She clutched her belly, breathing heavily, and sank back into her chair.

Livia’s heart softened, and she hurried to sit in front of her sister, inspecting her, stroking her dark hair gently.

"Don’t upset yourself, please. I forgive you," Livia said softly, fixing her sister with a steady gaze, brushing the damp curls from her forehead… and then she froze.

Claudia had always been frail. Both Cassandra and Livia had been strong, healthy—tall, just like their father, and eerily similar since childhood. But Claudia had always been different, with her dark hair and blue eyes, she took after their mother with her frailty and shorter stature.

And now, looking at her, Livia realized: Claudia truly was ill.

Her gaze drifted lower. Without touching her, she traced a faint red mark on her sister’s skin. Then another. One near her collarbone, half-hidden beneath the fabric of her deep burgundy tunic.

"What is this?" Livia breathed.

Claudia hurriedly shifted her long hair over her chest, hiding the marks.

"Nothing…"

A lie. Livia saw it in her eyes. She wanted to press her, to demand the truth—but they were interrupted.

A palace guard had arrived. The emperor was summoning her. And she couldn’t refuse.

Casting one last, sorrowful glance at her sister—now curled up in her chair, her face unreadable—Livia rose and followed the guard into the palace.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

This time, she doesn’t stop to admire the gold or marble. The sculptures and frescoes fade into the background. All she can think about is her sister—those marks. She’s seen them before… she’s almost certain.

"Wait here, priestess. Emperor Geta will join you shortly," the guard tells her before leaving her alone in the vast, empty throne room.

Livia clasps her hands together, her gaze drifting over the towering arches and columns. She doesn’t like it here—it’s too ostentatious, too… too dangerous. The sheer size of the space makes her uneasy; she longs to return to her small, familiar room in the House of the Vestals. She avoids looking at the intricately carved thrones at the center of the hall, but a bas-relief above a small, almost hidden door tucked behind the columns catches her eye.

She’s heard the story countless times—first as a child in her parents’ home, then later from the High Priestess, who taught her about the sisterhood. Carved into the white stone is a she-wolf nursing two infants. Twin brothers. Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, who…

"Their mother was a Vestal, wasn’t she?" a quiet, sudden voice makes her flinch.

Caracalla is standing close—too close—as if he’d been there all along. Livia wills her racing heart to calm, determined not to let him revel in her fear. Thankfully, her face remains hidden behind the veil.

"Yes, my Caesar," she replies politely, bowing her head. "She bore them from a god."

"What could be more honorable, hmm? Mars, the god of war, blessed her womb with great sons," he stood in profile, his eyes locked on the relief, but she could see his lips stretch into a smile.

"And couldn’t protect her when she needed it," she retorts, bristling.

"So now we’re judging the gods, are we?" He turned to her, and she swallowed, her gaze dropping, cursing her own foolishness.

"No, we are merely humble servants, Emperor," she replied softly, and Caracalla smiled again.

The faint clink of golden bracelets fills the air as he gestures toward another wall. Livia’s gaze locks onto his pale, well-kept hand. This time, there are no rings—instead, his thin fingers are coated in gold up to the middle knuckle. She’s seen priests do this, though they used sacrificial blood… She could easily imagine blood in place of gold.

"Another one of your sisters," he giggled, eyeing Livia with interest, still smiling with slightly parted lips, like a mischievous child.

Livia presses her lips tighter. The young emperor is testing her, teasing her. She glances at the other bas-relief. Tarpeia, the traitor who betrayed her city, is depicted with a look of terror, buried under heavy shields, one hand reaching desperately toward the sky.

"The claim that she was a Vestal is a myth," Livia replied curtly.

"But the rumors exist, don’t they?" he said lightly. "Of course, not something a Vestal would take pride in. But you’re different, aren’t you? Faithful to your calling."

This time, his eyes met hers directly—so piercing, so heavy, it felt as though the veil between them didn’t exist at all. As if she stood before him bare.

"I am faithful to my vows, Emperor."

«How many times do I have to say it before you stop looking at me like that?» she thinks, clenching her fists. He immediately notices her tension, his eyes flicking downward. He seems relaxed, unserious, smug even—but Caracalla is watching her closely. He is attentive.

Dressed in sapphire blue, his eyes are even more striking—dark, tempestuous, mirroring the hue of his tunic. His hair is a wild tangle of curls, untamed by a golden laurel, and his cheeks burn with a feverish glow, just beneath a delicate layer of powder. Livia’s gaze snags on the tiny, nearly healed marks on his cheekbones, and her mind flashes back to Claudia. Could it…?

"I’m here to visit my father," Caracalla says with a nod, as if the strange tension between them never existed.

Only now did she realize that the small door led to the altar.

"You praying?" she asked, genuinely surprised. In her mind, Caracalla was a god unto himself.

"Praying?" he echoed, a sly twist in his voice. It was hard to tell whether he was answering or posing the question back at her, daring her to guess. Livia stayed silent.

"You can join me. My father may not have been a devout man or given your temple the attention it deserves," he says, his eyes swept down her body and back up again, "but a Vestal priestess might brighten his afterlife."

She hesitates for only a heartbeat before following him. She has no choice.

Alone with the emperor in the small, dimly lit room, Livia freezes against the wall, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t.

He stares at the gilded altar, a smile playing on his lips—not a sad one, but rather sardonic, cruel even. As if he’s pleased his father is dead, his bones buried beneath, while Caracalla stands here, alive, the emperor…

"Five years to the day since he died," his hoarse, quiet voice cuts through the silence.

"I’m sorry," Livia replies. "My father’s gone too. I understand…"

"Do you?" His high, hysterical laugh jolted her, and she stepped back toward the exit, warily watching the flushed cheekbones, the dilated pupils, the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath the blue toga. "Were you glad when your father died too?"

And then it hits her. He hated the old emperor.

Oh, how foolish she had been, believing he could ever love anyone.

She recalls the day the emperor passed. Whispers had spread, suggesting he’d been murdered… Could one of his sons have been responsible? Unease settles in her chest as she wraps her arms around herself.

Caracalla, as if reading her thoughts, turned toward her, narrowed his eyes, and then approached so closely that she could smell the scent of aromatic oils. His hand rose, and she recoiled, fearing he might touch her. But no, his fingers merely grazed the veil, pushing it back to reveal her pale face.

For a moment, they were silent. She seemed to stop breathing altogether while the emperor studied her face with surprising seriousness and focus. They were the same height, and Caracalla was only slightly older than her, but for some reason, Livia felt like a child, a little girl. It was frightening.

"Your sister was here," he says, running his tongue over his lips, his breathing quickening again.

"Claudia?" she whispers, almost without thinking.

"Who?" He laughs. "No, your other sister."

"Cassandra?"

The name of her sister causes the emperor’s pupils to dilate even further, the blackness swallowing the blue of his irises. The shifting torchlight casts shadows across his face, transforming it into something tragic, unsettling. He stepped back from her, turning once again to the altar, standing next to his father’s bust.

Now Livia saw two profiles—one marble, one alive, human.

Yet the living emperor, standing still, was no different from the statue. Pale, youthful, beautiful, he surpassed even the finest work of the sculptor who had carved his father.

"Yes," he replied. "Little bird often brightened my days when she lived here. Sweet, gentle, obedient…"

His voice dips into a purr, and Livia’s brow furrows. Little bird. He’d called her that too.

"You’re nothing like her, though your face is hers exactly."

She felt a wave of disgust ripple through her at the tone he used when speaking of her dead sister—as if a single tender purr could tarnish Cassandra’s memory.

Livia silently turned away, unwilling to speak to him any longer. She needed to meet with the other emperor and leave the palace.

But as she took a step toward the exit, his hand roughly grabbed her wrist, and he slammed her against the wall, chest-first.

Stunned, it took her a moment to register what had just happened.

He had grabbed her!

Touched her not playfully, but brazenly, shamelessly! As if she were… Her!? Livia gasped, her cheek flat against the cold wall, his hot body pressing into her from behind, grip squeezing her wrist to pain.

"Let go! This is sacrilege!" she whispered, trying not to sound too frantic.

"I touched you—grabbed you like some common kitchen wench," he whispers in her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, his nose burying into her neck.

"And look—my hands are still here. Your goddess hasn’t cursed me. Who’s going to punish me, huh? You? Come on then. Fight back. Hit me. Here I am, touching you again and again, right on my father’s grave! So what are you going to do to me, priestess?"

His other hand settles on her neck, brushing her hair aside. She couldn’t move.

Not wanting to anger him further, Livia freezes.

So does he.

"Emperor Antoninus, please," a desperate whisper escapes her dry lips.

His breath on her neck quickens, grows hotter.

His name stirs something in him—his grip on her wrist even loosens slightly.

"Say it again," he commands.

"Please…"

"Not that! My name!"

"Antoninus…" Her voice trembles, and he presses into her hips harder, letting out a quiet moan.

"My mother used to call me that," he whispers, finally releasing her wrist.

Livia can’t bear it any longer.

While he’s distracted, relaxed, she spins around, shoving him hard in the chest—consequences be damned. Her nails rake across the back of his hand as she rushes away, her heart pounding, dreading he’ll follow.

But he doesn’t.

Only his laughter echoes behind her.

"Fly, little bird—we’ll meet again!"

ৡ ৡ ৡ

She rushed to leave the throne room, desperate to escape the palace, but as she reached the exit, she collided with Emperor Geta. His face froze at the sight of her, his eyes scanning her disheveled appearance with a stunned disbelief.

Only then did Livia realize how she must look. Her gaze was wild, her hair a tangled mess, her veil crumpled, and her wrists were marked with blossoming bruises, streaked with traces of gold paint left by Emperor Caracalla. Geta noticed all of it. He pressed his lips into a thin line but didn’t comment on it, speaking as though everything were perfectly ordinary.

"Apologies for the wait, priestess" he says politely, inclining his head. Unlike his brother, his hair is neat, crowned with a golden laurel, as it should be. He’s dressed in night-black robes—impeccable, composed, focused. Yet, Livia can’t help but notice the red blotches seeping through the layer of powder. He’s furious. His dark eyes bore into her as if she’s betrayed him.

"Why am I here?" she said hastily, still fearing that Caracalla might appear behind her.

"I told you—I enjoy your company, I want to see you more often," Geta replied softly, licking his lips.

Her mind immediately flashed back to his brother’s words: "Geta wants you." A wave of nausea hit her.

"We agreed to meet at the games."

"Yes, I remember," his black eyes remained fixed on her wrists, and she suddenly wanted to strike him. How dare he!? He knew exactly what his brother had done! He knew it was Caracalla—he knew, and yet he remained silent, endured it! If he likes her so much, why is he tolerating this? Coward.

"I wish to see you. Without the High Priestess and your sisters. Just you. There will be a feast tonight. I want you to be there."

Livia blinked, stunned. What did he think she was?

"That’s insulting," she spat.

"It’s an honor," he replied sharply, his voice growing colder. "Didn’t your sisters in the past attend feasts, gatherings? Watching gladiators spill blood on the arena floor is acceptable, but spending an evening with Rome’s noble citizens is condemned? There will be poetry readings, singers, harpists. You’ll spend your time as you see fit. If you think of anything improper, that’s not my fault…" He smirked, brazenly tilting his chin, reminding her once again of Caracalla.

Anger overwhelmed her completely. Oh, so he wanted to show her off to his friends like some precious trinket? To brag?

Livia bit the inside of her cheek as hard as she could, forced a fake smile, and nodded.

"One evening, Emperor. And then you’ll leave me be."

Geta mirrored her smile, his curious gaze lingering on her face, before replying, obviously lying:

The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.

They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.

"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.

"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.

"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.

"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"

It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.

Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.

"That bandit again!"

The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.

"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."

The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.

It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.

Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.

"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.

"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."

They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.

"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.

"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.

Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.

The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.

Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.

The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.

Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.

At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.

Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?

A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.

"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.

The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?

"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.

"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.

"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.

Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.

He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.

"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.

"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.

For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.

She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.

"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.

"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"

He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.

Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.

Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…

"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.

Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.

"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.

Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.

"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.

She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.

"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.

Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.

"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.

He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.

"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.

"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.

The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.

"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."

The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?

"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.

Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.

They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.

Livia caught only fragments of his words:

"…where is he?"

The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.

The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.

Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.

In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.

That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.

"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.

"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.

Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.

"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.

If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?

He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.

"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.

His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.

"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."

"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?

"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."

Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.

"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!

Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.

A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.

With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.

The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?

As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.

"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.

"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.

"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"

His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.

"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"

What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!

"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.

She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?

No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.

"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.

"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"

Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.

Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.

"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.

"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.

Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.

Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.

"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.

At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.

The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.

Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.

This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.

As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.

Truly alike, indeed.

ৡ ৡ ৡ