Geta looked down at you as you slept. He could hear every heartbeat, each individual ventricle pulsing, valves closing, a wet symphony. Waves breaking. Your steady breathing filled the room. He could smell the jasmine oil you dabbed behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts.

He was far too hungry to linger tonight.

“Mmm, come to bed,” you spoke sluggishly, reaching out to tug on his robes. 

“Later, mea lux,” he smiled, a deep pit in his stomach. It grew the closer he got, but he shoved it down so he could lean over and nuzzle at your cheek. He could smell the sunlight soaked into your skin. So tempting. “After our meetings.”

After the feed. While the bloodlust raged.

“Please,” you begged, your hand gripping the back of his neck to try to keep him there.

A brief flash of panic. His mouth watered and he swallowed it down. 

“I am busy, and you are…” He gently pulled your hand away and lifted his head, his eyes dark. “Distracting.”

Eyes dark, but unmistakably full of love for his new blushing bride.

A tamed shark.

“You will keep your word?” You smiled up at him, tone playful. “I do not care the hour.”

He kept his smile soft, lips shut tight. A nod. As he moved away, he allowed his mouth to open, the sign of his affliction not visible to you.

“I will keep it.”

Geta grimaced, looking down at the woman currently slung across his lap. He could see her impatience, staring up at him out of the corner of her eyes, stretching her scarred neck out. 

Inviting his thirst. Yet his stomach soured.

“Brother, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Caracalla giggled, pushing yet another of his concubines from his lap, blood fully covering the lower half of his face, his neck, staining his robes. He feasted like he was starved. “You keep on like this and you will slip up.”

A mocking laugh at Geta’s efforts.

Geta let out a frustrated growl, his anger at his brother’s suggestion pushing his muscles into action. The woman let out a panicked yelp as Geta hauled her up to his mouth, his teeth sinking in unkindly. 

As the hot, sweet liquid slid down his throat, he gulped eagerly, forgetting his earlier apprehension. He clung to her, his grip so tight it would leave marks. Even though the concubine occasionally winced, her face soon settled into a soft, blissful expression.

A nice trick. A gentle fever. A distraction from the threat of impending death.

The woman’s hand slid up his thigh, hoping for more from him than his hunger for her blood. A jolt of revulsion twisted his spine and he pushed her down to the marble floor, her neck still weeping. 

“E-Emperor?”

“Leave us,” he ordered, waving her away. She left reluctantly.

“You know, maybe you should give some more thought to turning her,” Caracalla suggested, moments before sinking his canines into another waiting neck.

A relieved sigh. A hand gripping his robes.

Geta turned away, Caracalla’s words echoing in his head.

No. Never.

The thought of never hearing your heart race for him again, never being able to leech the warmth from your skin into his?

Unthinkable. Not worth considering.

“Try not to kill anyone tonight, please,” Geta stressed to his voracious twin. “Silence is expensive.”

“I make no promises, brother,” Caracalla grinned, looking every bit a monster as he lapped at a still-bleeding neck. “That dreadful meeting worked up a mighty appetite.”

Geta stood, wiping at his mouth, feeling ill and far from sated. But he would not feed on another. He could handle himself just fine.

Discomfort. Cramping low. A glance down confirmed your fears. 

There would be no heir this month. 

It was hard not to grieve, even if it never existed. It was your one responsibility now, and you had hit your first stumbling block. 

Juno had not given you her favor.

The realization was uncomfortable, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Perhaps your offerings were not enough, too humble to wish for the child of an Emperor to take root.

For a moment you allowed yourself to lay there, knowing that getting up would be an ordeal in and of itself.

Geta could come back at any moment. He would surely want a clean bed to sleep in. It needed to be stripped. You needed to bathe. So you moved into action, despite the late hour.

As you worked, you wondered what Geta would make of this. Would he be upset? You honestly weren’t sure.

During your short time here at Palatine Hill, things were certainly unusual. People warned you that there was illness festering in the palace. That there was something strange going on. Dark rituals, or illicit affairs. The usual fantastical gossip. They told you that your husband-to-be was slowly being driven mad by his brother’s shocking antics. 

That at least seemed closer to the truth.

But you didn’t believe any of it until you were forced to marry under the moon, a quiet ceremony with minimal guests. Your new brother had been irritable all evening, Geta having to pause his conversation with you to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. More than once, he himself had disappeared to retrieve Caracalla more wine, instead of asking a servant nearby for a topping off. 

And there were these late night meetings every few days, meetings that you were not to attend. Meetings that lasted quite a while. It would be enough to worry any new bride.

Adultery was forbidden, yes, but would that truly stop an Emperor?

No. He’s shown you nothing but love and devotion. Even if he sometimes grows irritable, or will not walk in the sunlight, he has fulfilled all of his husbandly duties, quite well. And on the nights he returns from his meetings, he is insatiable–

No. Focus. Change your clothes. Strip the bed. 

All the ruined linen was carried off by a waiting servant just outside the door, replaced with clean, fresh bedding. 

Now, to bathe.

As you turned to leave, Geta stepped into the room, his dark eyes big and searching. Nostrils flaring.

“Mea lux, are you alright?” His voice was strained. Muscles tensed in his neck as he took slow steps closer.

“Yes,” you answered, building up your nerve to tell him there would be no heir this month. “Geta, I–”

He interrupted you, eyes raking over you, voice frantic and unsteady. “Do you have a cut? Where is it coming from?”

Your face felt hot as his hands tugged and pulled at your limbs, inspecting your skin. “My love, what?”

He sank to his knees before you, hands bunched up in the fabric of your slip. A moan fell from his lips and he pressed his forehead into your belly, breathing heavily. Your hands attempted to bring his head up, but he fought you. It was like trying to bend a metal bar. 

“Geta?”

A low rumble in his throat. Hunger stirring. Salivating.

He did not consider this.

“You bleed.”

Heat traveled up your neck, to your ears, your face. “Yes. I’m sorry, Geta.”

“I do not care about heirs,” he muttered, his face pressing into the fabric of the slip, his inhales deep and languid. 

Large hands released the fabric, sliding around to grip the back of your thighs, hauling you in closer, if that was possible. 

Your hands found his shoulders and you very nearly fell over. “Geta!”

He hugged your legs, his face dipping lower, and suddenly you were trying to fight him again, your self-consciousness not able to tolerate this.

“Geta, let me go, I am unclean,” you hissed at him.

“I cannot,” he whined.

“What do you mean? Let me go!”

His grip only grew tighter as you squirmed, his face pressing closer. Testing his will. 

He promised himself he wouldn’t ever let this get to you. He wouldn’t allow Caracalla’s carelessness to infect you. You were pure, his. He loved you.

And yet here you were, able to give him such a gift. 

He needed it.

Each inhale full of iron sent a buzzing through his brain, a wave of pleasure he felt all the way down to his toes. Even when he fed, he never felt like this, so lost to it.

Weak.

“I cannot control this urge, I am sorry, mea lux.” Pain was laced through his voice. “Please, you must go.”

“Geta?” Soft hands pressed at his cheeks, his shoulders. 

“Go!” he yelled, pushing you away from him. 

Mild fear gripped you, not used to seeing him like this. Something was very wrong. But he was resolute, unable to look you in the eye. You obeyed your husband, taking a few steps back towards the door.

“Wait,” he begged, reaching out for you. 

As you neared him, he struggled to breathe, opting to instead open his mouth, the smell overwhelming.

Clarity, then. 

His hands shot up defensively. “Do not listen to me. Go, get out of here. I cannot be trusted!” 

He could hear vividly how your heart raced, a different rhythm than what he was used to. Too fast. Uneven, as if it were scrambling to escape your chest.

“Geta, are you alright? Do you need–”

“Go!” he roared, getting to his feet.

“I-I will go get Caracalla–”

You were swept up and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed.

“No,” he growled, his eyes black as pitch. “You will not go near him.”

“I won’t,” you placated, hands on his arms.

Guilt coursed through him, even as he enjoyed the erratic racing of your heart. It was a miracle he hadn’t already fed, the aroma enough to seriously strain his convictions.

“I am sorry,” he sighed, his nose pressing against your cheek, moving down, pausing over your pulse, tongue slipping out to lick your skin.

No.

“Geta, are you unwell?”

A pained sound was torn from his throat, but he did not answer. His hands slid down until they reached the edge of the slip. He parted your thighs easily, fingers sliding up, your mumbled warnings not heard by him.

Wet. Warm. Viscous. 

He pushed off the mattress and brought his fingers in front of his eyes, his breath leaving him in delight. 

A relieved moan poured out of him as he slipped his red fingers between his lips, eyes falling shut.

Heat filled your face at the sight. You had always been told that the Emperors were a bit… unusual. But surely they didn’t mean this.

“Mea lux,” he drawled, bliss easing the stress from his voice. He looked quite satisfied. “This is… divine.”

Licking his lips, his dark eyes fell down to you. As his lips parted, you saw them. Long canines, not unlike a wolf’s, but perhaps more pointed. 

Unnatural. 

He tongued at one of them and a deep-seated hunger filled his eyes. “I need more, mea lux,” he spoke, lowering himself until his nose pressed against your soft belly again.

The fabric of the thin slip was pulled taut, up off your abdomen. He bit through the linen, the sharp canines making easy work of it. A loud ripping sound filled the room and cool air washed over you, now laid bare for him.

“Geta,” you flushed, nerves worming into your gut. “This is–”

“Please, mea lux, I am still so hungry…” he whined, lips brushing low, his tongue leaving behind a wet line. “You would not deny me this, would you?”

His voice was all sweetness, but edged with mania. 

“I have not bathed–”

“Good,” he growled, hands firmly pushing your thighs apart. 

He heard the transition, the moment when fear left you and your heartbeat settled into a more familiar rhythm. It made him salivate, his breathing matching yours, his desire growing for more than just your blood.

Your embarrassment only lasted until his tongue met the skin of your inner thigh.  

Soft, satisfied sounds rumbled from his throat with each stripe of skin he cleaned. He was immersed in it, each little taste making him stray further and further from himself.

Your hand gripped his shoulder.

Slow. Or you will frighten her, he told himself, his desperation only barely restrained. There was something about you that always made it easier. 

The blood alone was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, but mixed with your own desire for him? Truly a gift from the gods. He would not let a bit of it go to waste. 

Dark eyes met yours. 

“Do you have any idea how delicious you are?”

“Me?”

He made a sound of assent before pushing his face into your warm, wet center, eyes shut in relief.

Eyes rolled back. Sighs full of relief from both of you.

Geta wondered if this was what his victims felt, what kept them coming back for more. If it was anything close, he could understand. He could live here.

There was no room for cleanliness or concern for anything other than the taste on his tongue. The sounds ripped from his throat were obscene, the sounds he was making, even more so. 

Wet smacking, deep grunts, the slick pop of flesh leaving his suction.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.

It didn’t matter. You were seeing the stars. It was almost too much, the way it felt. So wonderful, in fact, that you couldn’t even begin to spare a thought for how loud you were. It was everything you’ve ever needed. 

Tremors in your muscles, all down your legs. That was all the warning you were able to give before your body seized, your thighs attempting to clamp shut around his head. 

Wave after wave pushing out low moans until they finally stopped.

“Geta.” 

You pushed at his shoulder. The sensations were too much to bear.

“A moment longer,” he mumbled, lapping up anything else he could.

When there was nothing left, he resurfaced. It should have been horrifying. Streaks of blood spread over the bottom half of his face. His tongue was already swiping at his bottom lip, collecting what was within reach.

But you weren’t scared of him.

“Are you feeling better?” you asked, watching him closely.

His eyes were still dark, but there was some light returning. He wiped at his cheeks, licking away any remnants from his palm.

“Geta?” You moved over to him. 

He caught your wrist as you reached for him, his grip tight. “Not… yet.”

You waited, wrist still in his hand, watching him lick his fingers completely clean, his face almost entirely back to its usual state.

“Geta,” you spoke, your voice merely a whisper. “What happened to you?”

“I am the monster you married.” He looked up at you, eyes shining in the warm firelight. 

A monster. Surely not. Yet the proof spoke for itself.

“How did this happen?”

He took in a deep breath, let it out. “I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t see how it started. I just… I went to check on Caracalla, and the next moment I was sitting up from the floor, and he was crying over me, his wrist in my mouth. That was a few months ago.”

“And now you…”

“Feed.”

You felt dizzy.

“At first it was awful. You know what my brother is like. Unrestrained in everything, including this new appetite. I was having to pick up after him, to protect him. I think he understands now, the value in keeping his food source alive. At least, I hope he does.” 

“So tonight, your meeting…?”

He nodded, pulling your wrist into his lap. “I don’t take pleasure in it. I want you to know that.”

“Is that why when you return, you are…” Heat filled your cheeks.

His full lips curved into a grin. “Yes.”

Relief. Concerns stuffed down deep melted away. He noticed.

“What is it?” Damp fingertips smoothed circles over your wrist, your pulse.

You drew up your knees, holding them close. “I thought maybe I wasn’t enough, or you were still set in your ways…”

He sighed deeply. “Not a chance, mea lux. Do you know why I still married you, knowing what I have become?”

You met his eyes, intensely curious.

“I am selfish. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And so graceful. I resolved to make it work. I have made it work, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Tonight was… I was reckless.” His other hand smoothed up your arm, to the crook of your elbow and back, slowly exposing himself to more of you, testing his hunger. “I did not take enough. It was stupid of me, I put you in danger.”

“But I am fine.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Are you… you’re still…?”

A nod.

His eyes raked up your arm, to your neck, staring hard at the pulse there. He could feel it beneath his thumb, at your wrist, a millisecond delay. If only your heart didn’t beat so nicely. Hard and strong, not a lullaby, far worse, the opposite. A siren call. Normally tuned out, but now…

“Mea lux, I need more.” His grip on your wrist tightened slightly. “Can I have more?”

You would give him anything he wanted. Yes, even that. Your imagination filled in the gaps. You understood what this was. What would happen.

Why did it excite you?

“Yes.”

He moved over lightning fast, immediately nuzzling at your neck. Only seconds passed between giving him permission and his teeth slowly sinking into your skin.

Like he was trying to be careful.

They were sharp, piercing. Forcing a gasp from your lips. 

Your hand pushed at his head until a soft, warm wave washed over you. Your fingers tangled in his hair instead as you let out soft, relaxed breaths.

Dreamlike. The lights all had halos, radiant like stars. 

 A sound you felt, each of his steady gulps, his grip on you tightening. 

And then you felt that warmth spread out, your free hand sliding down his clothed back.

A warning growl. 

Heat like the sensation of the sun on his skin filled him as the fresh, rich blood poured down his throat. But yours was sweeter, like what he remembered honey tasting like. Even better than that. 

He would take his fill, and absolutely not a drop more, he promised himself. 

He couldn’t afford to get carried away, or distracted, even as your hand sought his hip. Even as it pulled him in closer, even as he settled between open thighs.

Open, inviting, warm, soft, plush, velvet–

Your gasp woke him from his trance. 

He was already buried deep, so lost in you he didn’t even realize. 

He moved to lift his head from your neck but your hand pushed him back down, pressing his lips to the wound as your thighs squeezed at his hips, urging him to continue.

The blood smeared over his lips until he opened his mouth, lapping at the trickle. And then his hips began to move. 

The Elysian fields. He could see them. The closest he would ever get to them was right here. He never wanted to leave. But he knew he had to. 

One final drag of his tongue and he moved to your lips, pressing his mumbled gratitude against your mouth as his hips continued to move. 

He tasted of hot metal but you didn’t care. Never before had you felt this good, this free. You already wanted a next time. And there were others that felt this? That got to experience this? 

No. Only you.

He lifted his head. Looking down at you, watching you so relaxed, so blissful, coming apart. He felt such relief.

A squeeze at his hips, your thighs tightening. A whispered “more.”

It was all the urging he needed. 

He let his hands move to your hips as he sat up, drawing you in along with each thrust. Your legs were unable to hold on, giving up their grip, your hands covering his, back arching. 

Your sounds could probably be heard out in the hall, or down in the gardens, not that anyone would be out at this hour.  

It didn’t take much more, especially at that pace, that angle– 

A great tide. 

It was brutal as it crashed over you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to what you could reach of him. Clenching firmly around him.

And he followed you. Collapsing. Gasping. Pushing in even deeper. Cheek smearing blood as he buried his face in your neck. Not to bite.

More than a minute went by.

He finally pressed a gentle kiss to the marks he’d left behind before sitting up, pulling the tunic up and off, revealing the smear at his collar, the rest of his torso.

“We’ve made a mess,” you commented, your eyes following the trail down from his mouth, his chin, his neck, even a little on his chest. 

“We have,” he agreed, eyes fixed to your neck, the stain in the fabric beneath you.

“I need to–” 

As you moved to sit up, Geta was there, pushing you back down. “Rest, my love. I’ll take care of it. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

A nod.

And so he got to work, cleaning up his mess. A moist cloth wiping you clean, strong arms moving you to the other half of the bed. Smoothing your hair out of your face. Then he cleaned himself. Full, sated, he gave no thought to any lingering traces, the washbasin now reddish-pink. 

Geta returned to your side, resting a hand on your cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m tired,” you confessed, pressing a hand to his, eyelids already only half-open. The blood loss didn’t help things.

“Sleep, mea lux. I will look after you.” He meant it.

A soft smile. “Thank you, my love.”

It didn’t take long after that for you to slip into a steady slumber. 

Geta allowed himself a moment to study you, to admire you, before he was up, walking over to the door.

He shrugged on a robe and held it shut before opening the door, eyes falling to a young servant who immediately turned bright red.

“Please, bring breakfast, fruit, whatever is ready.”

The servant nodded, walking quickly down the long hallway. 

Geta slid the door shut quietly, looking to where you slept. You looked so relaxed. You were a vision, the only thing marring it being the wound at your neck. 

Guilt crept up on him until he could hardly breathe. The one thing he told himself he’d never do, and he caved as soon as it was offered to him. He should have put up more of a fight. He should have left the room the moment he realized. 

But he didn’t. And he had unburdened himself of a big secret. It did feel better not having to hide it from you, but there were other things that now needed discussing. 

A gentle knock. 

Geta took the tray and shut the door up tight. He set it down on a small table at your bedside and got to work straightening the thick woven tapestries now used to cover the archways that led out onto the terrace. Once he was satisfied that no sun would be breaking through as he slept, he climbed into bed, pulling you in against his chest. 

He listened to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.

'Mea lux' translates to 'my light.' Get it?

Taglist: @prettycalla ; @europixie

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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."