#geta x reader

Hours later, the heavy oak doors of Geta’s private chambers click shut. There is no shortage of chains in Rome, and Geta stands by the table, holding a freshly crafted band of soft dark leather, lined with soft wool but studded with heavy gold rivets. A thick, polished chain is attached to the central ring.

"You have a dangerous mouth, pet," Geta murmurs as he walks toward you. He points his finger downward, and you kneel obediently. Geta wraps the leather around your throat and fastens the golden buckle. "It could cost you your life today. You must learn what you are."

The submissive game begins. Shifting onto your hands and knees on the thick Persian rug, you let the terrifying reality of Caracalla’s anger out of your mind. You tilt your head up, letting out a soft purr and nuzzle your cheek against his thigh under a short robe to soothe his lingering rage.

Geta lets out a sadistic chuckle and walks you by the leash over to the bed. His amusement deepens into a low growl as he watches you arch your back like a cat in heat and lick his hand, wiggling your hips invitingly on all fours . “Such a brazen little kitten,” his voice thick with lust. “Defying an Augustus… and now presenting yourself like this. You need to be reminded who owns you.”

He grabs the chain and gives it a firm pull, forcing your head up. The collar presses deliciously into your throat. Geta turns your chin and claims your mouth in a brutal kiss—biting your lower lip, invading with his tongue. When he finally pulls back, you are breathless and trembling.

“On all fours,” he orders, pushing you forward. He frees his heavy shaft and rubs the flushed head along your slick folds, teasing once, twice, and then slams into your weeping heat in one ruthless thrust.

You cry out, the sudden fullness stretching your core wide open as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t hold himself. He drives hard and deep, his hips snapping against you with punishing force. Every thrust tugs the leash, tightening the leather band around your throat in rhythmic pulses that make your head spin and your vision blur with overwhelming pleasure.

You moan and pant shamelessly, nails digging into the rug, your back arched as he rails you. The light choking only heightens the feeling of being tamed, dominated by his power. He goes on and on, taken by his sick fantasy. His rigid staff reaches deeper than ever before, dragging over your sweet spot with every thrust, bumping in your cervix. You cry breathlessly as the heat builds fast and tight in your core. Geta’s free hand grips your hip hard, pulling you back onto him with every stroke.

“That’s it, kitten,” he snarls, his throat is dry from endless panting. “Surrender”

He yanks the chain again, forcing your head back further as he leans over you, his teeth grazing your shoulder. The pressure on your throat combined with the relentless pounding sends you spiraling. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, your entire wet center spasming tightly around his thick member. You gasp, choking and melt, dropping your chest into the carpet .

Geta groans loudly, his pace turns erratic. He releases the chain just enough to keep you floating on that hazy wave of pleasure and submission, until he buries his length completely and releases his seed inside you with a guttural roar. Hot pulses flood you as he grinds against your center, riding out every last throb.

Only then does he loosen the chain, letting you breathe while his flesh remains buried deep. He strokes your hair almost tenderly, scratching behind your ear as you tremble and lean back against him with soft, satisfied purrs.

Geta empties the goblet into his dry mouth. “You’re mine,” he rasps against your neck, his voice fiercely possessive. “Collar or no collar… no one else will ever have you like this.”

Next day the sun shines blindingly bright over the marble of the palace courtyard. The formal procession is fully assembled. The senators stand in pristine white togas, foreign ambassadors, and the elite guards.

The heavy bronze doors are thrown open, and Geta steps out in his crimson military cloak. In his right hand, wrapped tightly around his knuckles, he holds the shiny chain.

At the end of that chain, walking on hands and knees upon the hard marble, is you. The senators stare in a mixture of fascination and shock; whispers spread out like waves from a stone in the water.

Instead of lowering your eyes or showing the crushing humiliation they expect, your survival instinct takes over. You hold your chin high, keeping your movements fluid, graceful, and wildly feline. When a guard steps too close to your hand, you pause, narrowing your eyes and let out a sharp, warning hiss right at his boots, baring your teeth.

Caracalla sits upon a raised stone bench at the far side of the courtyard, surrounded by his personal bodyguards. When his eyes fall upon you on the leash, his lip curls into a cruel sneer. He watches your elegant, unbroken posture with a mix of disgust and dangerous intrigue. He can see that Geta hasn't actually broken you at all. Caracalla spits onto the marble as you pass, muttering a low insult about Geta's weakness for exotic theater, but his eyes linger on the tight grip his brother keeps on the chain.

Geta looks down at you, completely ignoring his brother's simmering hostility, with triumphant delight. He yanks the chain lightly, pulling you right against his shins as he stops before the crowd.

Across the courtyard, standing among the lower-tier officials, Senator M. stands perfectly still. His face is a cold mask, his attentive eyes locked onto the collar around your neck. He watches you play the part of the perfect, dangerous beast with such flawless wit that you have turned a public degradation into a display of absolute majesty.

The imperial reception hall is still buzzing later that afternoon when Caracalla leans over to his brother with a sharp scowl. “This is distracting, Geta. Your whore is practically writhing in your lap while we discuss matters of state. Send her away.”

Geta chuckles, unbothered. “As you wish, brother.” He tugs the leash, forcing you to look up at him. “Wait for me in my chambers, kitten.”

Geta Masterlist

@itmekelpy

@wtfaidhblog

@getas-concubine

@loveu2themoonandtosaturn

@magicalhideoutengineer

———

BEFORE

The sky above Rome was spotless, deep blue and seemingly endless. Light beamed down upon the procession in a show of favour from the gods and gold and sharp metal glinted everywhere, on the horses, on the weapons, in the armour of the soldiers, their generals, and the masses of the audience. You had eyes only for one, however - or two, as they always came. They were impossible to miss even from further away, atop steeds which like the riches and shows of power around them glinted in the light like metal or precious stone: these two men shrouded in gold as if the sun from the sky had embraced them.

Geta, you bitterly tasted his name in your closed mouth. Straight-backed and expressionless upon a white horse, hands too tight on the reins. And Caracalla beside him on a black horse, whose skin was as pale as his brother’s mare and whom you knew was sickly and fragile, but who today nevertheless seemed more lucid and set to his task than you were used to seeing him. And you were used to seeing him, at least more so than most around you here. You, who were not unaccustomed to the palaces, or the company of certain emperors.

The bitterness grew, masking a sense of grief, and you lowered your gaze as they passed. You rather thought that you’d prefer to be missed, as if you weren’t there; you had to be, of course, but that did not mean that you wanted to give them the satisfaction of seeing you.

Them. Him. Caracalla had done nothing to you and held no interest in you. A small miracle, that, some people might have sniggered. No, it was Geta who had earned your scorn, though perhaps he’d not deserved it. Of course you understood, even if such an admission hurt your core. Deep, very deep inside your soul you knew this was how it was always going to end: his class and yours were not compatible, you were not a favourable match. But he had courted you regardless, and you had loved him, you thought. You had wanted to be more than a fleeting springtime entertainment. It wasn’t the position: you would have wanted him even if he’d been a farmer’s son, and not the gilded heir of ascended gods. But then if he had been a farmer’s son, maybe he would have held you now, instead of riding to war. You could have raised chickens together, you thought with a laugh bubbling inside you that had not one thing to do with joy or happiness. It was irony, and more grief: you would have raised chickens with him. You would have skinned rabbits. But of course he had to be the emperor, and your father a first-generation senator in a line descending freshly from freedmen. You were nothing. You were no one.

A plaything, you thought, and then discarded that thought. That felt unfair, more to him than to yourself. At least he’d left you with your honour, so that your disgrace was a passing memory between only the two of you, and left no complications for your future where it now lay. He’d never touched you, but his smiles hurt worse than a fling would have - flings like you knew your friends had had with pretty men, some even from quite notable places in the Roman hierarchy at that. What you’d shared had meant something, but now, under the scorch of summer’s sun, you thought that maybe that only made it worse.

And worse: now your father had found you a match, and your mother was in the process of sewing you a wedding dress. You did not love the man they had chosen, and he did not love you, but so these things went. Geta would return one day and you would be then the honourable wife of a young senator, perhaps the mother of his children already - and what of him? What of Geta? One day he would be the imperial betrothed of somebody worthy of his status, his standing too. You would not speak again with him, if not to exchange empty pleasantries and forced formalities. So much for love and loving, for all that curiosity, the sense of danger and excitement. There would be no poems written about you and him, or the stolen moments you’d had together: those long walks after dark where you’d all but hidden in the gardens, suppressing smiles, suppressing laughs, testing waters with daring words and hints towards vulnerabilities. Who did that with the emperor? Silly girl. Stupid, stupid girl. Your father was right to marry you away from these fanciful, childish dreams.

And still, it hurt so bad to watch him go, side by side with that strange brother of his. He, too, was strange - but maybe one day soon you would learn to forget how that very strangeness had made your breath still in your chest and left you craving for more.

———

PRESENT

For two years, you make for a very dutiful, and very bored, wife. You’re young but your husband’s eyes do not linger on you, and he seems not to care: instead, he cares much for the affections of his friends, and for one of his male servants in particular, whom you first suspect and then know that he has come to love. Love unlike he has ever loved you, but you can’t really be bitter about this, since you’ve never loved him in that way either. And like him, you’ve looked elsewhere - at least in your daydreams. You’ve hardly ceased entertaining the thoughts. Worse now, that is, of course, because you are married and it is your duty to be faithful, and you have no right as he does to stray from that. Men have that funny privilege in society; he is not chained to you like you are to him.

But he is kind, and you are not mistreated, and this is a kind of happiness that you do agree to feel. He is your friend, and where most men would live up to that right which they have to stray, he hasn’t. He might love somebody else, but he is also conscientious, and he doesn’t purposefully hurt you, and though you suspect it might be hard for him he doesn’t indulge the love that he feels. Not physically, anyway: he does spend quite a lot of time in the gardens with his servant, and they laugh a lot, and joke, and hold hands, recite poetry and… probably many other things of the sort that should be reserved for wives or lovers only, but this is not your concern. You’re grateful, and guilty; maybe he does this for his own status, his reputation, but you feel like you get in the way of his happiness. And he, for certain, gets in the way of yours, no matter how much love you hold for him as a companion only.

No children for you either. You’ve never so much as tried for them, though there is a consensus between you, unspoken as it is, that you tell others that you have, and do. This is bitter for you also because the blame is then put on you for the failure; it is now you who cannot conceive, but you try not to think of it. You’re both still young - maybe things will change. Maybe people will stop caring. Maybe you will.

But it isn’t the life you wanted. This isn’t the man you wanted. With another, you would put up with most of it, anything except being the less loved, the burden, the baggage. But with… him, you never were any of those things. You were always wanted: a relief, like an oasis in the sands. You remember how it felt, that thrill and excitement.

It’s been two years since the emperors rode to war. You’ve been thinking of Geta more because it’s finally time for their return, though you’ve not made plans to attend the triumph. Your husband’s leg ails, you’ve joked together. Reality is, neither of you wants to attend, and the pain in his hip socket is as good an excuse as any. Woe is the two of you, having to retire from such an occasion.

Of course you want to see him. But you don’t want to see him as he comes home. Something about it makes you fearful. Your emotions, perhaps - or the worry that he might not be the young man who left for war, that young Caesar who did not yet know how to be a real emperor. You miss that boyish Geta whom you got to know for a few short meetings over the span of a few short months: how could he be the same now? War makes men, your father says. The empire has been hopeful that it has made men of its rulers now, that it has shed their irresponsible and flighty natures, their youth.

You dread this. Dread the kind of a stranger who will ride back. Dread that seeing him again might bring to contrast the real misery and drudgery of your life and all the suppressed grief you’ve felt over your marriage, this thing that traps you, despite its comforts and security. You still want the adventure of him, but you worry that it is gone for good now.

At least there has been no talk of marriage for either of them, not that it would change your situation. But it would hurt your feelings more, if people stopped their disapproving mumblings for the time and began instead to debate the match, the future offspring, the suitability of Emperor Geta for someone else, someone you might even know. That would mark the death of a dream - your best escape from the dullness of the everyday, of waking up in the morning to endure your disappointments. This… other life you’ve lived as the empress of Rome for a while now. The sweetness of forbidden what-ifs, the idea, this fancy, that perhaps one day he will come for you, and take you away from all of this. That all this time he has missed you, and missed what was, and could have been, as much as you have.

You are no more a silly, stupid girl; you are now a silly, stupid woman. You cannot cease hoping that he is a man of your own kind also: that he, too, tells himself that these thoughts are ridiculous, and tries to suppress them. But you also hope that he is weaker than you are, because only he holds the power to make these thoughts… real.

You’re hanging laundry when you hear the celebrations, and this bites at your core somehow. Your husband puts his head in through the the doorway, grinning:

“Are you hearing that? It starts,” he says, and you nod and try to grin back at him.

He is your friend. But your heart is hurting, and he doesn’t know that. He knows nothing about Geta, or that you were once - close? Would that be the right word? No, you barely knew him. But you felt like you knew him. Better than most, if any. You felt like you knew the real him, which he never seemed to show to anybody else. Maybe not even his brother - though of them you knew not much at all then, and now even less. Geta would speak carefully of his twin, like saying too many words, or speaking them too raw, might have harmed Caracalla somehow.

You find yourself thinking suddenly that it is surprising that Caracalla is returning with him. You aren’t the only one who’d expected that maybe… only one man would return from this journey. But no accounts had been shared that suggested Caracalla was anything but alive and, if not healthy, then at least no worse than he’d been upon leaving. In fact, you’ve heard precious little word of him at all, so he has slipped your mind: Geta would not have appreciated that, you realise with a hint of a smile. When you look, your husband has disappeared, but you can hear him speaking excitedly indoors, entertaining two other young senators, his friends, as your guests. It isn’t exactly a secret that the senators do not approve of the emperors; they are not so shy about showing it among themselves, either. Nothing outright treasonous, simple disgruntlement - you’ve paid attention, you’ve made sure your house does not end up in the middle of any conspiracies, but you’ve heard of no such things brewing and that, too, has perhaps added to the tediousness of your everyday life. It is the kind of tediousness you’ve been grateful for, but the constant lingering vigilance has not done you any favours. You could go back inside now and join them, and pretend impartiality, or feminine silence. Or…

Later, you might think it must have been a kind of madness that comes over you here. Between the laundry, your own reflections, the laughter of the senators inside, and the thoughts about your past and your conversations with Geta and Geta’s thoughts about the world and his worries and - it is a madness. You know it even as you spin into the room, pull on your palla, wrap it around your head in the fashion of a married woman and march past the crowd in the atrium, where festive food is served in the name of the emperors returning, but in reality mostly for the show of it. You flash your husband a smile and tell him that you will go to the markets; the procession is on, so few will be mulling about making purchases. You will get there while the crowds are gone, and return again when they flow back; it’s the best time to strike a bargain, he knows as much.

And he nods, and you are out, though with no intentions of going to the markets despite heading that way at first. You head that way furiously.

It isn’t fair that only the man gets to decide, is it? In life, in love, in everything. Geta will never come for you, and nothing else of note will ever happen for the rest of your life either if you do not take charge of it. That is a given, a guarantee. You won’t go see him in the procession, that man who returns from war victorious. You won’t wait for him to start missing you either. None of these things will happen.

Instead, you head for the Palatine Hill, and you set to wait where you so often met with him before: in the gardens, with your heart beating, still repeating in your mind the excuses that you’ve given the Praetorians who’ve granted you access inside the complex. You are nobility; you have many good reasons to be there. Still, all of them now echo in your ears as lies. There is no hope that you might catch him here tonight but you are determined to stay anyway: stay until nightfall, when you will hire an escort to get you back home safely, and perhaps the madness will fade or it will resume again as furious the day after, but you will sleep in your bed after dark as every day, and do your tasks when the dawn breaks.

Or.

Or, as it happens, you will meet him here again. He comes at dusk, wrapped in silks that you’ve never seen him wear before: a mixture of rich imperial purple and gold, with embroideries of flowers, vines like fire climbing from the hem of his mantle to his shoulders where ruby-studded brooches hold the whole together. He stills in shock when he sees you, unaccustomed as ever to find that someone else might be there, this place that he has always thought of as his own, as secluded. It’s how you first got to talking: you had found this place away from a banquet to escape the noise, and he had come to you, just as he does now, because he was escaping also. Is he escaping now, or simply weary? You can tell he doesn’t immediately recognise you, that his body goes tense and he tries to reach for the appropriate reaction to being caught so off-guard. You smile, involuntarily, because this is exactly as he was before, when you first met - and this is when he seems to remember you also, as his body softens and his eyes widen ever so slightly.

For a moment you wonder what he will do: join you, as he did before? Turn and leave, because he has felt some other way about you than you have about him, or because he never was very good with confrontation? Or maybe, and this possibility worries you somewhat, he will call for his guards to make you leave. But why would he do that? These gardens are not off limits, and you’ve not parted in anger. You did not part, per se, at all. He just left, and you were married off.

The first option seems to win over, though his body language is hesitant. He walks closer, one hand crossing his body to the elbow of the other, and stops within a distance.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here again,” he says carefully, as if expecting there to be some plot to this meeting, something nefarious waiting under the surface.

You nod slightly.

“I wasn’t expecting to be here again,” you tell him, and this is sincere though your voice is unreadable. “But it has been a long time since you were in the city, and we were friends once, I thought. So I came to greet you, away from all that noise and…”

Your words fade. You don’t quite know how to continue from here. You didn’t really manage to plot this far, though you’ve supposedly had all the time in the world to do so while sitting here: you couldn’t imagine this conversation, couldn’t imagine how he would react to you, or how you might react to him either. He nods back to you, and takes a couple steps closer, like some kind of a frightened animal you’re trying to coax into trusting you.

“You’ve grown,” he tells you, which is a funny thing to say to someone who has been fully grown for quite a while now.

“They told me war would do the same to you,” you tell him, and realise this might be too bold. You don’t take it back and how could you, anyway? Instead, you hope it’ll spark conversation. Ask the questions you don’t know how to ask otherwise.

As if he’d tell you if he has changed. Maybe he wouldn’t even know. Instead, he takes more steps to you and finally sits by your side on the fountain’s edge, looks over into the water, and touches it. His eyes are on you then: he is not looking at the disturbed surface or the cascading waters. It’s you. He’s searching, and you let him search, but you’re holding your breath. You shouldn’t be here, you realise suddenly. It is madness. You’ve gone mad.

“Did it?” you finally coax him into speaking again when he hasn’t for a while. “I’ve only heard rumours. How does your brother fare?”

Now he shifts, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Let’s say that I am happy to return to Rome,” he says calculatively, “while my brother is not so much.”

You dare to smile a little, though it is a nervous smile. You’re not sure what to make of this answer. You’re not sure what you should say to it, either.

“Is it the creature comforts, or simply being home again?” you finally ask.

He manages a small, fleeting smile in return for you, which is reassuring at least.

“I prefer predictability,” he tells you, though you knew this of him once so it doesn’t surprise you. He did always wish that things were predictable. Stable.

“And your brother the excitement?”

Slowly, he nods.

“As always,” he confirms, and your smile grows.

Something loosens up in your chest, like being relieved of something tied too tight around your ribs. You can breathe again. You want to ask more, hear more. He seems the same as he was then, somehow. Not so very much changed that he might be unrecognisable. And you feel wildly for him now, all of a sudden: like this is exactly what you feared would happen if you went to his triumph and saw him again. You are so angry that tears are crawling into your eyes, not at him but at where your life has taken you instead, away from him: the dullness of routine, the loveless marriage, the two long years that you’ve wasted pretending to be someone you’re not. He wanted you the way that you were: witty, creative, fanciful, at times ambitious, at times profoundly lazy. You wanted him because these things echoed from him also. There was of course his vanity, his incurably anxious nature, his desire to become someone worth remembering which combined so unflatteringly with his resistance to doing anything at all which would have challenged him to grow. Beyond that, there was the particular softness which he tried so hard to repress underneath the rest, that boyish curiosity, the funny way he laughs when excited or nervous. With you, he was ready to crawl out of his shell - do things that he normally did not do, see the world in ways that he otherwise would not. Feel things that he so often otherwise locked away, or pretended not to feel. You were an adventure for him as much as he was one for you: a possibility, an open world that he did not yet know, and which seemed, you thought, unreachable. A fantasy.

Curse be upon the gods that made women subservient to the whims of their fathers. You wanted to ride with him into that unknown and see him when he was at his least comfortable, at his most challenged, at his most anxious - so that you could be a haven for him to take there, and you might be lazy together over long afternoons, and maybe cry when you needed to, which you doubted he’d done a lot after you’d parted. Did soldiers cry, anyway? Was there room for tears in war?

“And… you?” he asks you then, unexpectedly. “Has your life been predictable in my absence? I remember that I left in you in… some haste.”

Now it’s your turn not to answer: you’re not sure how to tell him. You don’t want to tell him. There’s so much to say: so much to explain away, to excuse. Yes, you married, but that is besides the point, your marriage is - unfulfilled, it is not real, but even if it had been you do not want it, you never did, but your father - but what is any of that to him? Would he even hear you on it at all? You are another man’s wife now. Old news. Would he care about that? You don’t want him to care about that, but you still can’t make the words come out.

You can see that this unnerves him. His expression darkens, his brows knit closer, and he pulls his hand back out from the water.

“Speak,” he tells you, and this is not a request.

He is your emperor.

“My father had me married,” you confess, and it is a hollow confession, and a heavy one. “Soon after you left.”

There’s no delay: he stands up, jumps up, like you’ve burned him. His hands fist and he steps away and looks half as if he’s going to run, and half as if he wants to strike you, but you realise this is not true. Instead his whole body is tense like he’s prepared to defend himself, but he is not making the first strike, nor planning it.

This… delights you, even though your heart is racing and aching. It’s an odd sensation, like the world is suddenly very slow. And what you’re thinking is two things at once: one, that you have to explain, you need to get the chance, and all the words are rushing through your mind as you’re trying to pick the right ones to make him understand. Two, maybe you always feared - the twins have a cruel reputation, after all. That maybe he might strike you. Maybe he would be that kind of a man to a woman. But he has not, and you do not fear that now. The thought doesn’t seem to have occurred to him at all, though of course he could. You’ve offended. You’ve wounded him, even if that has been with heartache only.

That, too, you’re realising half-consciously at once. It is heartache that he feels, and that is a relief to you. A hope.

You don’t get any words out before he barks out some of his own, however.

“Wedded? You’ve wedded. And here you are, in our gardens - where is your man? Are you trying to trick me? Dishonour me?”

Dishonour him? You almost laugh: what dishonour is there in this for him? He is the emperor. If he wanted another man’s wife he could have her and no one could say a word against it. Your honour is on the line here. You are to be faithful and never stray. He is an unmarried man, the ruler of the world, he has no such obligations.

But you don’t say this to him, though it confuses you. Instead you say: “It is a sham, Emperor. It has never been put to fruition. I’ve no intent to dishonour you! Nor to trick you - I’ve…”

You want to say that you’ve missed him, but you don’t quite get the words out. His eyes are so clear, you know that there are tears in them, but he’s still backing away from you with his hand between the two of you as if to keep you apart. And where is his guard? Are they watching? Listening?

“I’d never want to hurt you,” you finally conclude, your voice shivering strangely as you confess this.

You don’t. You don’t want to hurt him. But you are hurting, and you don’t know how to tell him this. Or how to tell it to anyone, in truth, because who would listen to you? How miserable it is to watch your life pass you by, when you have nothing that you wished for from it and cannot even hope to reach for anything more? You don’t even have the right to complain: all is well for you, you are not abused, you are not mistrusted, you can love your husband and he loves you in return even if it is never the way that you would need it to be. You do not have a cruel man - in fact, you do not have a man at all, or so it feels like, you only have a friend whom you are chained to. Only in the eyes of others are you wedded, and you do not wish to be. You want something real, and - how unfair is it really that the only real thing you have ever had came from this man whom you cannot have? You do not have the status, and now you are somebody else’s by obligation alone. Of course he should wish for a woman who is fresh and new and beautiful and unclaimed, and of a higher breeding than you are. There is grief to these thoughts so painful that it threatens to double you over, and now you have tears in your eyes too, just as he does.

But he hasn’t fled yet, and so you hope that you are wrong, with your heart scarcely even beating, or your breath passing from your lungs.

“You should be ashamed,” he says, his voice so strained you think that he might cry, the way that children cry, which is pure and sincere to a point that you might not be able to endure it without breaking down yourself. “Coming here - wedded - another man’s wife. To me. For what purpose? To what end.”

He wipes his face angrily to the back of his hand and twitches to turn but stops.

“Do you not see that my day has been long?” he asks in a whimper trying to become a snarl. “Or do you simply not care?”

These last words are childlike also, vibrating with the sobs stuck in his throat.

You make a move to approach, and he makes a move as if you’ve turned to strike him. You wonder briefly if this is something he fears too: if you share that worry, when others are upset.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice softened, quiet, but somewhat frightened still. “I wanted to see you. It’s been - these past two years - like the summer season without a drop of rain. I can’t survive it. I try but I don’t have the strength. And you coming back, I… I only wanted to feel alive again. The way you made me feel alive when - before. Before you left. It…”

Was so much, but you don’t know how to summarise that in any few words. It would need a full night to recount, or more; how alive you felt. How much like a bonfire lighting up the night, consuming with endless hunger. How unsated you felt after it was over. And how dreadful, dreadful his absence has been.

“Don’t go?” you finally manage to choke out.

He twitches again, and then, at last, his fists unravel, white fingers turning bright red with blush though now that the sun is setting the colours are fading also.

“Why?” he asks, his voice both defeated and pleading for a reason. A good one, you fear.

“Because I’ve missed you so much,” you finally let it out.

It’s not a good reason. It never was. For being here, or for him staying: but it is the truth. And for that, he finally relaxes. His gaze falls and so do the tears in it, two drops into the grass beneath. Moments pass, and in that stillness you see behind him his guards - he is not alone, he did not come here without any protection. The men stand close enough to have seen all of this, to have heard, and now one of them is resting his weight ever so subtly to his right leg, making himself visible to you as he shifts. You try not to acknowledge him or the other, pretend again that you never saw them, or that they were never there. This is shameful. For you both, perhaps.

“A - sham,” Geta repeats after a long time. Hesitant. Disbelieving.

“Yes,” you say but your word is just a hoarse exhale; “It is not… he does not love me. He cannot. He has never touched me. I would swear this upon the gods.”

“Then why have you stayed? You have the right to divorce.”

You want to laugh. You do, a little, a small snicker turning into a snort because you tried so hard to suppress it, and then you cover your mouth and nose with the back of your hand and look away. It’s not a happy laugh.

“To what end?” you ask, and the desperation you’ve felt this whole time breaks through your voice, cracking it. “Who will be better for me? He is not a cruel man. I do not love him and he does not love me and he will not make a true wife of me, but I am treated well, and there is no one else who would have me. No one else who would…”

You swallow abruptly, shake your head. You can’t tell Geta this. You shouldn’t. But it begins to trickle out anyway, and then comes as a burst: “No one who has ever made me feel the way that you did, and it is you I cannot have. So why run from what is not misery? But I am miserable. I am unloved and bored and I - I cannot breathe. It is so dull. My life is… I am already dead, the way that I’ve lived these two years. Dead. And for that I’ve come to you, because I needed to breathe again, and taste cold water in this dry heat, and… if only just to remember what it was like, when we shared these gardens, and some secrets besides.”

Something gives way in your chest again and you breathe out heavily when he steps towards you, even if it is not a complete motion, and you do not meet for it. Tears are coming now, pouring onto your face but at least you hold onto your dignity: you’re not sobbing, and you feel a little better when he wipes another tear from his own face also. It reminds you of how you felt when you first fell for him, and you’d laugh about how easy it was to become tearful with one another, when nowhere else it felt safe to do so.

He’s hesitating and you wish he wasn’t. You need him to need relief and release as much as you do: you need him to have felt at least a little the same as you did. But he’s been busy; he’s been free. Something you’ve never been, trapped in the city and its men’s politics. You never had other freedom but here, in these gardens, when at night everything felt more… real. When you felt more real, and he was just a young man, and not an emperor. How much you hoped you’d get to know him then.

“And you left,” you finally manage to speak again. “What was I supposed to do? You never said - you never said that I should wait. One word would have done. My father would have never… if he had thought - that there was any reason…”

Suddenly, he’s clasped your wrist in his hand. He lifts yours and holds it in the space between your bodies and you notice your breath hitched audibly to this only from the echo of it in your ears. His fingers crawl along your hand and end up holding yours together, and your thumb twitches to return that hold, but never quite manages it.

You realise what you’ve done. It’s voiced now, and even if you never outright spoke the words your meaning was clear. You’ve said it: if he had married you instead. If he had gone to your father and asked for you. If he hadn’t left you, then none of this misery would be happening. And he would not be hurt. Gods, is he hurt? For you? Or maybe he really is tired, and this is a complication he never asked for, and you are stupid - but - no. He has a hurt look on his face, and not one of annoyance or irritation, or even one that would imply that he’s simply angry that one of his entertainments has been taken from him. The tears are still there, lining his dark eyes.

“I… did not have time to think of it,” he says then, quietly, so quietly that the words cannot carry to his guards. “I knew that I was leaving the whole time that we… but I could not give your father any word, nor you, and I - I had to leave. I had to. Do you understand that?”

You want to shake your head, but instead you nod. He is the emperor. His life is not simple, or boring, or confined. Not like yours is.

“More so, I…”

He hesitates here, lowers his gaze. His mouth tenses into a white line until he runs the tip of his tongue over his lips and looks away, and braziers from further away reflect from his gaze as it avoids yours.

“I could not make any such decisions with haste. It would not have served… you, any more than it served me. I was leaving. I had to leave, and… what then?”

There are unspoken things there, you can hear them still rattling about, trying to break free. But he’s holding onto them firmly and in the end you have to raise your hand to cover the one he’s holding yours with, because his grip is too firm and it hurts your fingers. He jumps a little to your touch, lifts his gaze, examines you before making a sound as he realises this: his grip loosens, but you don’t let him withdraw.

“What then?” you ask as quietly as he spoke before, and he shakes his head. “Speak to me; tell me of the things that worried you.”

He lets out a small laugh: bitter, like you’ve been for these past years.

“Maybe I would change my mind,” he says first, and then shakes his head again, this time with more vigour. “No. What if you would change yours? I knew I might be gone for years, and the only thing I might have done is send you letters. I did not, because I barely knew your name, or your house’s name, and - I did not want, one day, to receive word that you had met someone new. Someone who had married you first. Do you - do you know at all… to find you here, waiting, only to hear that…”

Now, though you have no such permission and no such privilege, you press your hand to his face when he tries to look away and he grasps that wrist also as you do so, but does not pull your hand away. Instead he leans his head into it and closes his eyes: his brows knit, his face looks pained for a while.

“The months have been very long. The years… The journey of it all,” he finishes, and you nod.

“I would have waited for you,” you promise him, though you fear it’s taken too long. “I would have waited for you for years and years. To feel what I felt here again, by your side. Is it too late now? If I was mistaken, and you did wish to take me as your own, and… I could have told this to my father, though he might have thought it a girl’s folly to speak such things, had your own word not backed mine.”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

He shakes his head for the third time and steps away from you, his hand still holding yours as he retreats. He squeezes it and lets both down, though your fingers linger locked in the middle.

“There are so many things,” he says then, and pulls at your hand. “Walk with me. As we used to then.”

———

You learn of his worries: that despite his man’s age, he did not think himself then so mature as to take a wife. The pressures of the court were making it worse - the expectations, the demands, the offers from notable families which he kept declining without being able to even consider them through, because they frightened him. And though when he did think of the matter and only one woman came to his mind, he was still worried that his brother might see you as something like competition, a threat to his position on the throne or between the two of them as brothers, or if not you directly, then any child you might conceive together with Geta like an usurper to his place. He also feared that you would not want to be his empress at all, and that he would either face humiliation when you would reject him, or else that your marriage would grow cold and the thrill of the nights you’d shared together would turn to ash and dust when tamed and brought inside from underneath the stars.

As you walk together again he remembers how to smile, and to laugh, and you smile and laugh with him, and then you are both very serious, and you speak of it: what you wanted then, and how in your unvoiced dreams you thought this reunion might go, or hoped, even if you didn’t dare to name the feeling that with how impossible it seemed that these dreams would ever come true. You even tell him how much you wanted to hate him, for leaving and for not wanting you, and how you ended up there in the gardens again, desperately hoping that he might appear despite professing such hatred. He seems appalled at first, and then laughs.

“It’s not proper,” he says softly when you reach the open doors back inside the palace complex, “for a woman to be out so late, and with a man no less. I shall call you a carriage, and - I should write to your father, and then, should all go well, to your husband as well. He need not be humiliated, but your marriage is void unless he consummates it. Do not invite such an act now, and wait for my word. Will you do this for me?”

You promise him this, and not much later, you sit in the carriage he promised you, on the paved road down from the imperial hill down toward the forum, and through that beating heart of the city, toward home. When you reach the villa, your husband waits for you at the door, and you don’t know what to say to him - until inside, you tell him everything. You don’t want to lie. It’s too big of a secret to keep, and too dangerous. And he is your friend. You hope that he is still, even now.

So you lay it out plainly: how you feel, and how you’ve felt, and what you know about him, his feelings and the lack thereof which concern yourself, and how these are all things that you cannot endure. Not anymore. He listens, and you cry together, but the only anger he musters is not for you but for the man you’ve come to favour instead. Like most senators, he finds Emperor Geta utterly lacking in the qualities that should make for a strong leader and a man, though he admits that your affections do not surprise him entirely. You promise that if the gods are to favour your union to the emperor, then you will try to make him better, but both of you know that you can’t really make that promise. You promise him also with more conviction that you’ll keep all of his secrets, and that you’ll never forget what you’ve learned while being his companion, even if you never really became his wife: that you have loyalty to him, and your shared ideals, and even if you part ways that will not mean that you wish to throw those things away. He seems content with that, and you hope that maybe this means that you will not lose him as a friend, because you have loved him, and laughed with him, and shared good times with him. It feels that neither of you has ever truly found any shred of happiness beyond convenience in this union, and so the freedom to abandon the pretenses should only strengthen you both.

Though the conversation is not so painful as you feared you both cry anyway, and the night is unhappy, and quiet, and full of trepidation. You do not share your bed, and when morning breaks, you take a carriage back to your father’s house.

He seems confused to receive you, and so does your mother. You’ve not seen them so much since you left their house, perhaps out of shame, or because you’ve always felt as if you were lying to them, or maybe feared that being back with them might break you out of your silence and you would fall apart somehow, pleading them that you might get to stay. You wouldn’t have known then how to explain it: why you wanted to escape, when nothing was so direly wrong. Now you tell them only to expect a letter from the emperor, and that you should not speak more of it before then, and for a while they both probably think that your husband will be tried of treason or some other terrible thing, but you trust Geta to make haste with his letters.

He doesn’t. You stay a week before the messenger reaches you, despite your father’s house standing not too far from the city’s centre. But then, what do you know of imperial messaging? Perhaps this is hurried for him, and for what it’s worth, he is thorough, though to the point also. Your father sits in silence with the message while the messenger, a young Praetorian soldier, stands waiting for what seems to be a mandatory immediate response to be delivered back to the palaces. Your body grows cold and you find your stomach rebelling, but you stand in silence also, by the wall, your hands crossed to your front, while your mother lays her hand on your shoulder.

Then, finally, your father budges: he folds the message and tells the messenger only one thing.

“We are the emperor’s faithful servants,” he says, and seems to shake as he continues: “You may tell him this union has our blessing.”

———

So this is how you become the empress to one of the two emperors of Rome, and for a full month, the world celebrates you. It is dizzying, and you worry - but you don’t feel a weight upon you like you did before, not once, though the fear of stepping into your new role is familiarly terrifying still. Somehow in the midst of it, Geta makes you feel as if your duty is already done, like you have, by simply receiving these blessings with him, fulfilled the expectations that he had for you. More may await, and you know this, but you await this with elation for a change, and you receive the blessings of the gods by his side trying to hold onto the moment: everything feels so unreal, the change from the dreariness of your life just two months ago to now, where suddenly all is filled to the brim with colour and anticipation and excitement. Your wedding is a contrast to the end of summer, an extension of it in all of its brilliance.

This union is not left unconsummated either, though you’d not make more of a mention of that in public. It feels a good secret to keep between the two of you alone, and you hold the memory close to your heart, where it warms and thrills and embarrasses you in equal measure. Life afterwards remains as odd and vivid and on the skin: you learn, bit by bit, to be the empress, to navigate the palaces, and, finally, to know the strange twin of your husband also. On the night of his return Geta had told you that he had worried of how Caracalla might receive you, but he had not brought it up since. Now that you settle into their everyday, Caracalla is at best fleetingly curious, and then already moving onto the next thing. He drags Geta along himself and then doesn’t, and then does again, and at night when Geta settles beside you, you can both laugh about it. With Geta, Caracalla will be your family too, in one way or another - but getting out of Rome and on the road for a while seems to have made him less fidgety, and much less unpredictable. The addition of you into his life hasn’t seemed to upset him much. You find him most often in the presence of his generals, seated on some map table debating impossible campaigns and claiming glories surely soon to manifest. He does not bother you, and you don’t seem to bother him, but in Geta you sense a sort of a relief that comes from having someone beyond his brother to confide in. Someone he gets to keep to himself, at least for the main part; it feels as if this is new to him, and you’re happy to indulge it.

———

You’d been brought to this land with promises of greatness, of a bright future both for yourself and for your people. Even then you’d known these promises had been empty - you were your family’s youngest daughter of three, and your coming here an act of gratitude and submission from your father, who held high position in your province. You were here for his sake, not your own, and… yet you’d hoped that at least the weather would have smiled upon you.

It was cold here. Cold inside the palaces, which were built in the image of vast caverns in the womb of the earth itself, but cold also in the city, and it had not ceased raining since your ship had landed. You’d been walked out of it like cattle, though you were supposedly of higher status than that. Here, your name was nothing, and your father’s domain a landscape of huts of straw and mud where goats slept beside their tenders. You were as lowly as a barbarian came, and the skies seemed to either despise you the like here, or else they were crying for your fate.

You’d left in the summer, and this was mid-winter: the citizens of Rome had still been cleaning the aftermath of their winter’s celebrations when you’d taken your first steps on the streets, where all had to it the stench of death.

But your father had been promised the emperor’s consideration. You, personally, were to deliver the note. But something had changed: on the road, you’d been informed that there was no emperor. No, there were two, and it seemed that they had not gotten your father’s message, nor did they know his name. And yet, you were now their… guest, a prisoner, carrying a letter to their father whose passing your lands had not had notice of. You’d been taught decently enough to know that this put you in a poor position: it was now on you to prove your father’s worth to these new rulers of whom you knew nothing, if not their baby-faced portraits upon the coin you’d exchanged in your lands. Two among hundreds of other faces. You could not even remember them from these, though you’d tried now to look; you’d had time to spare, waiting for your audience to be granted.

Now it was here, and the skies were still weeping. It seemed that servants were eternally busy here wiping away mudstains upon the floors, and trickling condension from stone, and puddles of water from steps which became all too slippery in a weather like this. You tied your own shoes, because you only had two servants, and they were busy shaping your hair in some fashion that only resembled the looks you, or rather your people would have worn so much as to revoke a Roman ideal of them. To you, this beautification was as Roman as the city itself: far removed from the things that might have made you feel at ease, or brought you closer to your kin. Flowers which had never known the warmth of sun were attached to your hair, with gems marking the centres to which all golden petals joined. Such a dark tone that it made you think of coagulating blood. You could even taste it in your mouth now.

Fear was what tasted so coppery, or else the smell from the dead cold metal poking at your head. You were grateful that notice of the audience had only come in the morning, so you’d slept a decent while at night expecting nothing more for the coming day than any other so far. You’d gotten so complacent with your containment, having nowhere you could go, and no one on the outside to speak to. Prisoner, you thought again; your otherness in this place was the chains you wore.

There was a guardsman at your door.

“Do you speak Latin?” he asked, his dark eyes examining you.

You nodded.

“I speak three languages,” you told him in the one he’d inquired about, “My own, Latin, and Greek.” “We will escort you to the emperors. You will follow my lead. Your servants will stay.”

You stood with numb legs, numb hands as your head was covered with the Roman shawl, and your heart was pounding in your ears as you nodded your head to your retreating companions. They’d been with you for years now: the only ones who could still conjure up the vision of home in your mind, whose tongues formed the syllables your ear was so fond of. Latin was crude to you. Rough and always angry. Then your father’s letter was pressed into your hands and you were… there: in the cavern again, where your steps echoed and the middle of each hall and corridor had a swirling layer of smoke, the sorts of incense you knew and the sorts you’d never smelled, which all combined to make your nostrils burn as you passed through. Romans prayed in the morning, but the smoke of their offerings did not stay around their family altars only. It was everywhere, because they, too, had to know that their city had the stench of death etched into its foundations, that even here it lingered, and the smell of sewage and manure and worse. You could always tell it as an undertone to the wind, even from atop this hill which looked over so much of the worst of it: the city’s poorest roamed where the miasma gathered, and you pitied them, because to you the very whiff of it was too much to breathe.

It was no wonder that plagues ravaged this place so often, or that so many were destitute here, maimed and blinded and starved and hopeless. You tried to drive these thoughts out of your mind and think of your home instead - the roads and hills of your city, and all the richness of the world which surrounded it. It would not do to think of such bleary things: you might let it all trickle into your words, and come across disrespectful or bitter, or uncharming. You could not afford it. Not when you were the only thing which could introduce your people to these men, whose faces you’d never seen.

The hall into which you were brought echoed, and was so large that it truly could have housed the gods one and all. Here even the smoke lingered higher than elsewhere, because through open doors air gathered below it, letting it out from the space which you needed to breathe. Massive columns kept the sky where it needed to be, and rain was coming down heavy into the impluvium, this beatiful pool in the middle of the room, surrounded by sheer curtains and statues, and some plants with thick and robust leaves, deep green in colour, as if they were defying the cold of the season by standing there. Beyond all this you could see them, shadowed as they were: two men wearing black and gold, seated on enormous stone thrones, quietly chatting to one another until your approach caught their attention.

One had the look of a god to him, the other… the look of a satyr, you thought with a hitch in your breath. A wild man, he seemed to be - wild in hair, wilder in gaze, wild in the manner he was cast upon his seat like some doll thrown aside by a child. A satyr doll. A small thing. You pressed your eyes closed for another blink’s time to get your eyes off of him, and moved them back to take in the statue-like being beside him.

They did not look like twins.

Weapons were crossed before you where you were expected to stop, calmly and ceremonially and further ahead of you so that you did not need to come to a sudden and disgraceful halt on the spot, but could slow down to one behind the long strides of the guards ahead of you. You were announced, and you bowed first your head and then your knee, and you greeted the emperors as you’d been taught to greet the emperors, as you had read and tutored to do. The marble of the floor was wet. The whole damned city was wet.

“Rise,” an amused voice called to you, “Rise, daughter of the great Roman provinces.”

You rose. The cold stuck to your ligaments and made your gesture slower than you might have liked it to be. It was the smaller and wilder twin who’d spoken; you knew because he was breathing still through his gapped lips, leaning forwards.

“Isn’t she something, brother?” he asked, voice lowered.

“Mmh.”

The godlike brother’s judgement of you was unclear. You felt observed, but offered ahead your letter. A pair of hands took it: the hands of another guard in purple, who gapped the distance between yourself and the thrones. There the letter was held forwards again, and the taller of the two brothers held out his hand to have it placed there. Then, for a long while, he read it - too long, you thought, for what your father had told you was written upon the page, as if he had to parse each sentence for far longer than one might have expected - until finally it came down again, left to linger upon his silk-covered knees. His clothes were abundant and all you could think was that their combined weight must have been crushing. Perhaps it was no wonder that his smaller brother was so collapsed in his seat; whoever could hold himself up under such layers? But this brother had his back quite unnaturally straight, his head lifted, his golden curls set to his forehead in waves, and his expression was cold and unreadable. The only sign of expression you could read off of it were the crinkles to his eyes as he squinted at you ever so slightly - sharply, like a bird of prey.

His eyes were black and he frightened you. They both did. They did not feel… human. You’d never met a pair of whom one was so stonelike, cold as frost on the ground, and the other so much like fire which you feared would spit embers and turn into an uncontrolled blaze at any moment. You could hear your heart beating and wished desperately that they would not, or that it would not make your voice shake should you ever be invited to speak again.

“Hm,” the taller brother hummed again. “One might ask for context to such… demands made of the emperor.”

“Emperors,” the smaller brother said quickly, but the taller one raised his hand as if to dismiss the correction.

Perhaps it had been meant to pacify, to agree; you’d not gotten this impression, and you wondered if the thought was shared between you and the satyr on the throne. His expression had soured, you thought, and he slumped deeper into his seat.

“What’s it say, brother?” he asked then, reaching his hand for the letter which was passed.

His eyes ran through the text much faster, and when he dropped it, he dropped it with a sharp sigh.

“Why’s it always demands, Geta? It is always demands. Everyone only ever wants things of us. What are they giving to us? Why is it never an offer, always - always - give this, we need that, we need this - funds to build - defenses - guarantees - brother, I tire of all these demands.”

You opened your mouth, remembered your position, and shut it. Still, a cold dread had settled in the pit of your stomach, right beside the stirred anger: there were no demands made in the letter. There were agreements only: of self-governance, lawmaking, taxes. These were foregone orders from the dead emperor’s time, terms at which your lands had been joined into the empire. Your purpose here had been only to gain confirmation that these were still upheld. You were here to seal that good will, in your father’s stead, as a messenger. Should there have been anything which might have been contested - which might have been added - then your father would have stood here himself. It was you, the youngest of his daughters, because the purpose of the visit had only ever been to entertain. You were the entertainment: a beautiful young woman with little diplomatic training but plenty of courtly manners and pleasantness to share. You were a messenger. You were to go home once you’d received the emperor’s seal.

A terrible thought was beginning to brew in your mind, but you refused to let it become a wholly revealed one, and shoved it aside with a noisy kind of a silence. You tried to fit into it another train of thought: the satyr had spat out a name, Geta, which meant that you now knew their names. Geta was the taller one, the one with his hair on waves and his stance like a statue of the divines, which meant that the smaller one was Caracalla, and you needed to remember this.

Still as you were focusing on this, Geta stood from his throne. Perhaps it was because his back was aching, you would not have been surprised, but whatever it was his motion alone made some primal instinct still your body wholly so that barely your breath could have been measured from the rise and fall of your chest. Your hand lifted seemingly of its own accord to trail the hems of the palla which covered your heart as much as it covered your head, and you tried not to tremble. Was it the cold? Or the dreadful thought which had not become a thought yet but which would inevitably surge, any moment now, into…

“No doubt your father is a respectable man and a noble governor of Rome’s lands,” Geta spoke quietly as he approached you.

His guards made room for him so that it brought to your mind a vision of waters splashing to his sides with every barely audible step that he took, waters which the guards were avoiding. He demanded that space. You did not like this man. You were right to fear him. He did not hold to his father’s agreements nor yours and he was going to tell you this. There was the thought: ugly and cold as the weather outside, its stench as foul as the city’s.

“But he sends us nothing in return.”

“He demands,” Caracalla pressed, and Geta nodded.

Your insides churned.

“With your permission,” you heard yourself speak as if from afar, like you were not in this hall with your body at all, “my father pays the taxes for the lands he oversees, and sends the emperor his share of all that those lands yield: food and ore and gemstones and more. Our people pay to Rome in labour and in men for the armies also, and -“

“And you want… Brother, remind me,” Geta asked, with a twitch to his mouth on the right side as he tilted his head toward his twin. “Autonomy of rule and lawmaking, no change to taxation, and…” Caracalla lifted the letter again, then dropped it again as quickly. “… Roman armies to secure the borders of your lands. That is a lot to demand from such a petty lot of land. Does your father not know that we are at war? That troops were drawn to fight for Roman conquest.”

“It is only what Emperor promised -“

Geta’s gaze was sharp when it landed on you, and his mouth tight. You felt like you’d made a grave mistake in mentioning his father, though you could not understand why. The late emperor had been deified, and much grieved - you knew this because you’d been told it all before you’d arrived, when you’d first learned of his passing. His soul had ascended to the gods and - but his own sons seemed to curse his name.

“The emperors have promised your father nothing,” Geta said, and his voice was like a whiplash. “We’ve agreed to nothing. It seems in poor taste to make demands - he may have had some standing here once but he is not in any position to hold the highest rulers of his lands to any order of his own. Not without some form of repay. Your people must give to Rome what they demand of Rome; your region’s wealth is not enough to cover such needs as are outlined to us here, and in no greater detail than this, as if assuming we should simply sign our wealth away to anyone who might come begging. Does your father think his needs greated than those of the rest of the Empire? Does he think his borders more dear than those of Africa Nova, of the greater Germania? What offers he, to justify his demands?”

You stared, because you had nothing else that you could do. You had no authority to make offers, or to negotiate. Your region had nothing more to offer, either, and you knew as much: the taxes were fair, what you paid was fair, but should you give more, your people would fall into hardship, into starvation.

“We have no more to give,” you said then, softly, already aware that softness would have no more effect on these men than the falling of rain in the impluvium behind you, but at least it would be unlikely to make them any angrier.

“I am bored, brother,” Caracalla told Geta from his seat, throwing his leg onto the seat so that you could quite clearly see the black undercloth wrapped about his hips from underneath his tunic. He was examining his fingernails now, almost sideways to you. “Send her away. She is pretty but not pretty enough.”

Geta licked his lips. For a brief moment, his gaze failed to keep you nailed where you stood, and his head dropped and turned part of the way toward his twin. He seemed still there through a heartbeat or two before he finally lifted his gaze again and his expression was even.

“Your audience is over,” he said calmly, his voice utterly without tone.

You shook from head to toe, and there was no hiding that, but at least it was one shudder only - one, which seemed to bring words to your mouth like harsh bile.

“Emperor,” you pleaded toward him, “Geta - Emperor Geta. Emperor Caracalla.”

Your eyes flitted toward the satyr on his seat, who ceased digging at his nails for just about a breath before carrying on, looking truly as bored with this as he’d claimed to be.

“What can I do? For my father’s sake I must find agreeable terms, some compromise, which we can reach together. I cannot promise more but perhaps I can argue for less, find some middle ground which would please you.”

Caracalla threw his head and sighed loudly, but said nothing. Your father’s letter flowed from his lap like a dead leaf, and with a small sound it landed on the marble. Even that small sound made Geta’s body jump, as if something much heavier and much louder had fallen unexpectedly. Your brows furrowed at his wide eyes, and the slow manner at which he seemed to return to the world which you shared with him. When he spoke, however, his voice remained as cold and still as it had been before.

“We have no more time for your pleas,” he said, void of any emotion that you could recognise. “You may plead for a second audience and perhaps we will grant you one when we have such a time to argue your father’s demands. You should not expect it to be fast. If I were you, I would board a ship home, and tell your father he should pay his emperors fairly before embarrassing his people any further.”

“I will stay,” you said without hesitation. “I plead for another audience. I will wait.”

Geta nodded. His eyes fell to half-lidded, and you realised that you’d not seen him blink once while he’d stood there, not even when he’d startled at the sound of the letter falling. That was odd to you - another thing which made you question whether he was a man at all. Maybe they were both wild things, you thought; something that had replaced the late emperor’s babes in the cradle, or else only after his death, and now ruled over Rome with only hatred in their hearts for those who were truly human.

It would have explained the rot in the city. The helplessness of its people.

“Return then to your chambers,” Geta told you, as softly as you’d made your admission before, though that softness was not any warmer than his other words had been. “And wait.”

———

You could not shed the bitter cold from your chest that night. You spoke to your servants - your friends - and after dark you fought tears and that horrible gnawing sense of despair, which you did not want to make its home in your chest. Upon waking to the sounds of the palace stirring just before sunrise, you felt it again, like rocks being laid upon your body.

No summons came that day, or the next. You wandered the palace grounds part in awe that you were not physically restricted, not because anyone had threatened you with it but because you felt the part and expected it, and tried to plan. Once you even picked up your pen to write your father a letter, but what good would it do? It might take a year for your letter to reach him. You might have as well made home in that time, rather than make your family worry. This would worry them, but by then, the situation would have resolved a long time ago, one way or the other.

No, you could not afford to long for his guidance, or anybody’s. You needed to use your own mind to help them now, because no one else would, or could.

On the fifth night, much after sunset, you’d settled before the fireplace in your chambers. The rain had finally ceased but the light it had left behind was cold, and the humid air still brought that chill inside as much as the rain had. But this cold was harsher, more biting - it was drying, though it was not dry yet, and again you missed home and the kind of a fire you might have sat before there, and the kinds of blankets that your mother had used to wrap about your shoulders when you’d been there still. Your servants had retired, and the loneliness was worse in their wake than before, and the time you’d spent lingering in this inbetween place where nothing was certain or known was making you feel perhaps worse than you’d felt soon after your first audience. The second one did not seem forthcoming, though you weren’t sure what you’d expected. The emperors had made it quite clear that they did not prioritise seeing you again, perhaps ever. It pleased them well enough to leave you locked inside these structures, like an acquired exotic pet.

And then a loud knock rang from the door. Its heavy, dark wood seemed to echo with the sound, and you could easily hear the guard’s voice as he made his announcements.

“Make yourself decent,” the man from the other side voiced into your chambers, “The Emperor approaches to visit.”

You’d jumped from your seat, and now you stood there, heart beating loudly in your throat. Only a few moments passed before your limbs remembered their function, but there was not much you could do to make yourself decent: you wore loose silks against the night, and your hair was wild from an evening bath, and your body was in its entirety without the kind of paint which the Roman nobility enjoyed on their women. You were yourself, perhaps wild to them but comfortable to yourself - no business in Rome was conducted after dinner, and dinner had passed a while ago.

This unannounced visit did not ring to you as one of official business, and this, if anything, made you wonder if you could simply pretend to be somewhere else altogether. But they knew, you knew this as well as they knew that you were inside. The guard had not changed since you’d come inside. You could not have taken flight through the metal grids in the windows of your room. The fall was too long to survive outside besides. You were inside. Imprisoned, as you’d thought you were. And there was only one door out of the rooms, the rest covered only by sheer curtains, separating a humble bedroom from this one where you dined and sat and spent your time, if you were not wandering about the gardens of the Palatine Hill.

Of course, you thought to yourself, feeling as if you could not calm yourself again half as fast as you needed to face what was coming with dignity. Why else would they keep a woman of your status in the palaces? Why else? You’d been a fool to think they’d grant you an audience. What else could a man want? They were men, and cruel, you’d learned that much. Everybody knew that much. Gods, you should have fled when you still had the chance.

Clearing your throat, you walked briskly to the drawer between the room’s two small windows, and pulled from it a woollen shawl around your shoulders as if it could keep you from appearing altogether exposed in front of this invasion. You had no idea which emperor was approaching you, and could not in the moment decide which option was worse to you. You could fight neither of them. Wouldn’t have had the option even if they’d been flightless doves in the cup of your palm. You had no power here.

“I have made myself decent,” you lied and backed another step to wait, fingers trailing the polished wood of the drawer behind you.

It felt as if the doors opening happened very slowly, in increments, though you knew this was not the case. A small breath escaped you against your will when you faced the man standing behind: Emperor Geta, but unlike the one you had seen almost a week ago now entirely. He, too, had freshly bathed, and his face was unpainted, which at least by Roman standards now was appropriate for him where it was not for you, but you dismissed the thought as useless for this moment. Some ashen shadow lingered from the kohl he’d lined his eyes with, making his black eyes seem even wider and darker than they were, but otherwise his skin was at least a little healthier now than you’d pictured it in your mind, less deathly pale and hinting toward pink in places where the baths had left his body flushed. He was dressed, at least, but even his tunic and the shawl which he too carried upon his shoulders to fight the cold of the night appeared rather like he’d intended to retire to his bedroom with them, and this did not spark you with any emotion besides terror, which lashed at your chest and throat and gripped them like claws in the aftermath. At least he had his shoes on still: matching red wraps to the red and gold tunic on him, underneath that gold-woven, capelike shawl which, now that you gave it a better look, did not appear like one which would truly keep the chill at bay.

What a tortured existence it must have been, you found yourself thinking though the thoughts were distant and foreign to you, to always be judged first by how you looked. Was it not the lot of women to be so? Women, and the men who were like gods in these marble caverns atop the city of Rome.

You bowed your head and let your knee touch the rug upon the floor.

“The emperor’s visit surprised me,” you told him, though you’d meant to tell him that it pleased you.

It did not please you, and evidently your tongue had refused to lie.

“Rise.”

You rose, though you did not want to. Your knees still complained of it, though the warm had made them less hesitant. Worse, the door was now closing - it closed - the ring of its closing echoing in the room long after the sound was already gone. No one else was there but the two of you. You could have taken a blade and driven it into the man’s heart and he would have died like men died, wouldn’t he? Gurgling and collapsing, mortally wounded, and then dead. Even animals had the option to fight their predators, or at least the option to try to run. There was nowhere here to run now, any more than there had been a moment ago. Just you and this emperor, a boy really, a boy who was not wholly taller than you were, and had soft clothes and a soft body underneath those clothes. He did not look an emperor. Not the smallest bit the emperor.

“What has granted me this pleasure?”

Now you’d managed to paint the right word with your mouth. It was ugly and poorly shaped, slurring, because you did not want to say it. Still you smiled.

He licked his lips and cast his gaze aside, so much like a boy, and so little like the emperor.

“After cena I did not feel the desire to retire to sleep, and have spent time in the baths thinking of your proposition. I wanted to come discuss it before I forget with the more urgent matters which will surely crowd my morning again.”

He sounded almost sincere, but you knew there was something else. Still, his apparent lack of any overt dishonourable intent toward you made your body release some tightness from its frame, and you could feel your muscles loosening, like the string of a bow laxing. With a slow nod turning faster and then ceasing, you gestured your hand toward the reclining seat you’d abandoned when the knock had come. “Should it please the emperor to take seat?”

You saw his frame tremble and his jaw tense.

“It’d please me,” he said, moving his gaze back to you with seriousness unfit for the suggestion made, “if you would take seat and rest yourself instead.”

His lips kept forming a word then which never started, and he shook his head subtly as you moved to put the seat between the two of you. Then you took to it, on your knees so that at no point you would face away from him, and after adjusting the shawl on your shoulders you leaned your arms to the back for the illusion of relaxation. It seemed to satisfy Geta, who took a few tense steps as if to pace the room, and then stilled again.

“Is it proper to discuss the matter without Emperor Caracalla’s presence?” you asked, though you were not sure if it was proper for you to be asking this. Still, it seemed more important to clarify, so that no argument could be made later that the talks were not binding.

If you’d have to pay for them somehow… then gods, you’d do your best to ensure the sacrifice would not be for nothing.

“My brother is otherwise occupied,” Geta noted with a small twitch to his cheek, “He’s made it known to me that he’d rather not be bothered with official matters in the night time, and besides I doubt he finds this worthwhile his attention.”

Your eyes met, and though you bristled once more, you found his voice inoffensive and this confused you. He did not hold the mocking sneer or coldness now which you remembered from your initial meeting, as if his baths had also washed away those qualities from his slender youth’s body.

“I do not deny our lands are not vast,” you spoke calculatingly, trying to find common ground through this admission. “Nor of any particular strategic importance to the realm.”

Geta shook his head. His legs loosened as yours seemed to have done earlier, and now he did take to pacing the room, though his movements were small and limited, and took him from one piece of furniture to the other. He put his hands on all of them, as if touching these objects could ground him or calm him somehow. You were sure that you were not mistaken that he was nervous, though you could not decide why. Then again, he’d jumped at the sound of parchment shifting - perhaps he simply was wired too tight, like an instrument strung by a student who did not know yet how delicate such things could be.

“Caracalla’s mind is more to matters of war, or things of - other, more immediate importance. I’ve thought of your audience, however, because your father’s letter was insulting in its simplicity, and I could not so easily shed such arrogance from my mind. No formal plea of loyalty, a tone as if he could make demands of the emperor, as if he was owed something by Rome with no regard to her needs in turn, or his position before the seat of power. No recognition whatsoever of our position at all in truth, or more than a passing blessing to the domain of a god whose name no doubt he’d simply assume we’d find appropriate.”

“Emperor,” you started again, “If it offended you that my father did not with so much as a word recognise your recent ascent to the throne, or speak his condolences for the loss of your divine father, I assure you it is only because when I left home, such news had not reached my town yet.”

Geta slowed his pacing, and his eyes returned to you. He squinted slightly, and you realised suddenly that his eyes were not entirely dark: rather, there was a glimpse of amber to them in this light, now that the fire hit them from the right angle. Warmth, for the first time. You took this as an opportunity to argue your case in more detail, in the hopes that he was truly in a better mood to listen.

“My father had made arrangements once in person with your father, Emperor, and had since exchanged many more letters with him and his advisors pertaining to matters of governance, though our lands are insignificant, as I admit to you. We are provincial people, and distances are long - this letter was merely the concluding piece of a much longer exchange, which I was sent here with in person to deliver, as a show of my father’s personal appreciation and loyalty toward the emperor and his great empire. We are your servants, though we’d not known of your father’s passing. If it please you, Emperor, then I will recite all my father’s oaths to Rome and her emperors, for I do remember these oaths, and can swear to my heart and line that every one is kept and none changed since I have left home. I’d speak them with my father’s authority, as if he were there before you in person.”

These, too, were words which your father might have approved of. Words of a dutiful daughter raised to do her family’s bidding, but not expected to rise to any power after the most important unions had already been made to the names of your siblings. But you’d been given a chance, and you were to take it: here you had the emperor’s ear, in private, with no one else in sight, and he was listening to you, so you would do what you could to convince him. And then you’d be free to leave.

Should the gods will it for you.

You watched Geta as he took in your words, as he stood for a while in stillness and then resumed his examination of the window that he’d stopped beside. For a long time he said nothing, head bowed, eyes keen on the stone sill, on his own fingers as they treaded the stone. You wondered if he was always slower than his brother - Caracalla had seemed to have the patience of an animal being pebbled with small stones from all angles, unable to hold his stillness or his silence, but Geta had seemed to read a short letter like it had been written in a foreign language he barely comprehended, and now he was here five days after, claiming to have thought this whole time of the business you’d brought in for him.

He was so terribly young to be an emperor, you thought suddenly. You’d seen the image of his father many times, his bearded face and his firm eyes, the lines upon his forehead and the creases in the corners of his eyes, the way that his cheeks had rounded in, giving him a firm expression fit for the name Severus. That was how you’d imagined an emperor to look like, but Geta was limber like a colt and his cheeks still had plumpness to them, though he was not so much a boy anymore even if that was the impression he had permanently left upon you by now. He was a man, surely enough, he just did not seem like it, not in his mannerisms, his hesitations, his anxiety, or indeed in the crude way he’d treated you before, the immature and uncourtly things he’d said, as if racing his twin to prove how little he respected you or cared for your audience.

Was that all it was? Posturing for Caracalla? A consequence of that game that men played, or were stuck in, where each had to outdo the other in whichever mad idea had come to them at the time?

Finally, Geta spoke again, though his eyes did not turn for you now.

“It would please me,” he said slowly, “should you recite those oaths, and remind me of what they mean to you….r father.”

The way he corrected himself amused you, though you tried not to show it. Now this was diplomacy between an emperor and a provincial official, was this? He’d forgotten a woman could not serve in such a role, and you were not equals.

A splatter of warm relief had appeared in your chest, which tingled as it rushed your fingers and feet. If he thought of you now as an equal, he would not harm you so easily.

“Shall I rise for them?” you asked, and he nodded, giving you once more his full attention.

He stood up straight again - unnaturally as he had before - and you took up from your seat once more, crossed it, and returned to your knee before him, thinking how… easy that was. How you’d ceased feeling such gripping anxiety so quickly. Had it been the notion of his youth reassuring you, or his slip of tongue, or his own seeming uncertainty in the circumstances? Or perhaps it was his dress, and yours, the stripping of all ceremony from this meeting between you. It was hard to remember you were actually speaking to a real emperor with both of you in such a state, in your private chambers, and… his whole demeanour being so unfit for his role, and his inexperience so obvious. It felt more like playing pretend now.

You’d started to adapt, you noted quietly as your mouth took to the words you’d heard your father cite so many times before. To the empire first, before the gods: then to the emperor, the father of all the land and its people, commander of armies, the high priest and mouthpiece of all gods. And he was a boy. Just a boy, in his young man’s form, his hand shaking as he raised you with it. His fingers were cold and his eyes, distinctly brown from this close as they were, peering at you with some apprehension.

“These oaths shall bind you,” he said quietly, “as well as your line and your people, to the word of how you’ve spoken them.”

“I have spoken them true and my people will hold to them.”

He nodded, his hand returning to worry the chest of his tunic, his gaze wandering.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he spoke after some time, and you felt a funny tug at your core of - excitement, or relief again, or startlement because he’d said something, you weren’t sure what it was. “In either case, your taxes will be raised and I will do nothing to exclude your region from such changes. Your people have been Roman long enough that there is no basis for preferential or exceptional treatment even over old agreements. Such cannot be kept forever, the needs of the empire change and so do payments owed. But you are provincial so most of your kin are not citizens and so they pay no taxes, and as that is I cannot imagine a reason they would have much reason to complain. Per again the matter of soldiers sent to your borders, I’ll need a better understanding of the threats that your region faces; Rome fights many wars, which have need of men, and we have not many to spare. The rest of the letter’s named privileges and demands do not concern me and you can write to your father as you please to inform him that those are set and the seat of the emperor has no qualm with keeping them as they are.”

Now, what you felt was distinctly relief. This was what you’d wanted to hear: there was nothing in that letter which should have been so difficult to agree to, or which should have prompted such contempt as you’d faced for delivering it, but it seemed that Geta had meant it when he’d told you he’d thought of it. Maybe it was obvious from your face, because as he examined you a hint of amusement - or something close to it - seemed to cross his features, too. It was not malicious, but he covered it in an instant and dropped his hands back to his sides.

“Does this conclusion resolve the matters raised, in your mind?” he asked, and you nodded firmly.

“The emperor’s word will surely please my father’s ear,” you told him in turn, “though I would like to receive word still on the subject of our defenses before I leave, so as to spare you from the need to answer any further communication on the matter. My father would insist on it, and I fear this would unnecessarily crowd what I can only assume is already a very time-consuming part of the emperor’s daily routine.”

“Your father seems a persistent man.”

“He can be so, Emperor.”

“Remind me, what is your - standing, position, in your tribe?”

Before you could stop yourself from it, you’d already licked your lip in a show of nervous hesitation. By the flicker of Geta’s eye, you knew he’d noticed.

“My father has the highest seat of the council,” you told him then, trying to appear as if you’d not faltered.

“Yes, but your own?”

Some amusement had crept back into his voice, and this time, it was distinctly at your behalf.

“None, Emperor. I have no formal standing in my tribe beside being my father’s daughter.”

“He’s raised a very headstrong woman out of you,” Geta pointed, “Such is not always seen as a virtue in Rome.”

To this, you could say nothing: Roman women were allowed few virtues, and all of them seemed to benefit its men more than its women.

“My intent is not to displease,” you finally said, as diplomatically as you could.

“You have not, but I advice caution. Nevertheless it is late and I should - leave you, then, with our conversation concluded. I would expect to have better understanding of this final request within the week but I cannot guarantee anything. You may stay to wait at your will.”

“I’ll wait.”

He nodded, a certain sharpness to the brown of his eyes before he straightened his back again - you’d barely noticed his posture had faltered before he did so - and made a distinct motion to leave. It prompted you to bow your head again, though you were getting tired of it: as much as he’d put it, it was late, and this unexpected test of your will and nerves had certainly exhausted you. Still you doubted you would get much sleep before you’d written home, and drank something warm to calm yourself for rest.

Your head stayed bowed until he was gone and the door closed, and the only thing left in the room with you again the distinct scent of his perfumed oils: cinnamon, frankincense, and myrrh.

———

You were left thinking of him that night, and found that those thoughts did not leave you as you continued to wait in your voluntary detainment. Its tone had shifted, however: you were no longer anxiously waiting, nor did you feel so directly threatened, but the palaces were torturously boring to you now as before, and that boredom left you little else to do but wonder about your visitor. It wasn’t usual to catch a glimpse of the emperors, but over the coming week you saw them twice. First was together, heading with their trail of admirers and guards and advisors towards morning audience when you had just been out with your servants for a walk. You were so far from them then that neither of them would have noticed you, and even if they had - would that have meant anything to them? For some reason, you’d developed a feeling after Geta’s night time visitation that perhaps it should have meant something. What a preposterous thought that was. He’d stayed for moments to address your audience, which had bothered him, and that was all. You were not on closer terms, though few could say they’d had such a personal encounter with either.

The second time you were wandering the gardens in the afternoon, when the sudden approach of voices caught your attention. This time it was only Caracalla, walking briskly ahead of his guards and shouting something indistinct to them until they stopped a fair distance away to keep an eye on the premises. You’d thought whether you should make yourself known then, but you weren’t alone in the gardens, and no one else seemed to be announcing themselves to the guards or leaving, so you’d stayed as well.

You’d watched him with some curiosity, this wild one who was now to you as obviously just a boy as his brother was, as Caracalla had rested his body over the edge of a grand fountain and brought his hands into the water. He’d drank from the cup of his palms and then washed his face and then, for a moment, your eyes had met: your instinct had told you to withdraw but you’d not moved, and he’d merely smirked at you before losing interest.

He intrigued you, but he also still frightened you; you’d returned inside soon after, and spent the rest of your day trying to fend off insanity in the silence of your chambers by any means available to you.

Finally, nine days after his unannounced visit, Geta chose to make another one. This time you were given some time to prepare, and though it was past dinnertime, you received him in your chambers in full dress, though you’d not stepped into your Roman costume as you had on that first day. Instead you wore what you would have at home: the clothes of your people, crafted by hands you knew, from materials which were familiar to you, and you wore your hair as you pleased and as you always did it, and you wondered what he thought of it all when he stood there, waiting for the door to be closed in his wake.

You were not the kind of Roman that he was accustomed to. You were spirited, and while your family were Roman citizens, you were not the same blood as he was. But how many Romans were? The empire was vast, its provinces many, and you knew as well as any other that all whom called themselves Roman had in their ancestry a slave or a freedman from someplace else, someone who had not been a citizen but had become so: the concept of being Roman was as shifting and intangible as it was otherwise strictly defined.

But if you’d thought he would be there to make an announcement to conclude your diplomatic entanglement, he wasted no time proving you wrong.

“Take your seat,” he told you without greeting.

With a blink of surprise, you shifted from where you’d stood and walked hesitantly to the reclining seat, upon which you then settled as you had the past night, with your arms crossed over the back and your knees to the cushions.

“Your father’s request.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve no soldiers to send. Rome has need of her men elsewhere. I told you as much before.”

You weren’t sure why he’d come down here to tell you this, but here the both of you were, and he was pacing again. Agitated. As if he had more to say, but was mulling it over.

“If you think guarding the borders of your lands is difficult,” he continued, tense in the voice, as if trying not to break apart, “you should try to think of how it is to manage the whole empire. From one side, the Persians; one kingdom here, one kingdom there, clans and ragtag groups of bandits arranging themselves into an eternal nuisance of plundering attacks everywhere and no amount of Roman men will ever stretch so thin as to put an end to it. You must raise your own men to fight if you wish to defend your cities and towns, that is how it has always been and that is as it should be; the empire is not supposed to nanny your children or herd your goats, you are responsible for this, you are, not I.”

Still you said nothing, because there was nothing to say: you’d never asked for goatherders or child-tenders, and certainly managing an empire was rough, but this was not your area of expertise.

“The senators,” he carried on, spitting the word as if it was an insult, “only ever ask for more. The provinces, the people we’ve put in charge - only ever asking for more, sending us demands, they claim we do not do enough for them, that Roman gold is not enough to provide them for their needs. A famine here, a plague there, and it is all my fault? Our fault? As if I could simply command the gods to bless the land and it would happen, as if I am the ruler upon heavens and not the land, as if I -“

With a shaky breath, he came to a halt. He seemed now as wild as his twin brother, but also quite like a child caught from wrongdoing, anticipating a father’s harsh order or some punishment to come. You could feel his heartbeat in your body, his agitation and nerves were that palpable: it all seemed to beat in his veins a feverish kind of fear, like an animal which desperately desired to escape. Had he realised he’d been shouting all this at you? A no one from the provinces. He was losing his control and you were the witness to it, you, a woman he did not know and could hardly trust, if not for the oaths you’d spoken to him. But what good was an oath if you did not know its speaker’s merits? You’d told him what you were, but he did not know who you were, not really. Your character, beyond a notion of some degree of headstrong nature, was as hidden from him now as it had been before. After all, every word that you’d spoken to him had been recited, learned, and none from your own heart.

Slowly, his posture softened, and he tilted his head toward your direction though he did not look at you. Then, stiffly, he spoke: “Wine? Honeyed. Spiced. Will you drink wine with me?”

Again, you blinked.

“Certainly,” you said.

Fear had not returned to you for his erratic behaviour. He was angry, but not at you; you were simply his audience, like the surface of a pond to stay still as a mirror to his pacing and ranting. But he’d seen you now, and he was visibly trying to calm himself, to regain his composure to show a better side of himself to you again. Someone more emperor-like, you were sure enough.

With stiff steps he crossed the room to you, and for the first time moved around the reclining seat to fall onto it beside you. He was a shimmering mess of gold tonight: gold tunic, gold mantle, gold laurels in his hair. Eyes rimmed with smudged black kohl and the red of sleepless nights and severe infection. Skin pale, lips pink because the paint which had been smeared over them early into the day had worn off by now. He looked exhausted.

“If you would not mind asking for it,” he said in a colourless voice, “Send your servants on errand to the kitchens, or ask them to ask ours. I do not care. I want strong wine. As I described it.”

You did, and recited it as so at the door to your servants: honeyed, spiced, to be served to the emperor’s liking in this room. They left you in a hurry and you returned, noticing how much the room you shared with the ruler of Rome felt like another world now, separate from the night-time quiet vastness of the palaces.

In the wake of his words, the silence was still ringing. You sat beside him again, your legs crossed under your body and your elbow leaning to the back, your whole body facing him with curiosity. A casual stance, but he’d been the one to sit on your seat. You presumed you had the right to face him, if he’d chosen to share. After hesitating for a moment, you decided to follow your instinct: he seemed to have responded to you well before, and he’d come here for a reason, so perhaps he would take to you talking again and find some calm in it.

“Even the council meetings at home will often leave the town’s men in despair,” you told him then, your voice softened to soothe. “Often it seems no one can agree on any one thing, and they drink the night away to bear facing each other again the next day.”

“If only I had such privilege,” Geta huffed sharply. “My brother will drink himself into a stupor without a second thought but I have never…”

He winced when he caught himself from what he’d been saying, and gave you an apprehensive look to see how you’d judged it. When you did not react, he finished his sentence, though much more meekly.

“… been as resistant to the after-effects of such indulgements.”

He drew breath then through his teeth and turned his eyes to you again, unblinking and hard and somehow desperate.

“I do not criticise my brother. I wish I was more like him at times. This is not about him. The Senate - the - I’ve had my fill of their disrespect, that is all. Rome does not work as they wish it did and it should not fall on us to explain this to them. Ideology drives them. Ideology is nothing; if Rome needs more gold then sitting about waiting for it to grow on trees will accomplish nothing. That is why we need our armies. Roman wealth is won at war. Do you understand?”

You didn’t, but you didn’t think it mattered much, so you nodded instead.

“I did not take your words for criticism,” you said instead, latching onto the part of his woes which you best knew how to approach, “I think all of us would sometimes prefer to simply be free of our worries but cannot find a way, and then it seems natural to envy those who have an easier time forgetting about them.”

He seemed to soften a little to these words, and you let out a small, slow breath of relief to that. He’d intrigued you, however, because even if he’d claimed not to be criticising his twin, he had certainly spoken of him in a tone of severe disapproval either way. You had a suspicion, though no way of course to confirm it, that perhaps it had been partially Caracalla’s fault that their evident meeting with the Senate had ended so displeasingly. And if his behaviour at your audience had been anything to go by, this was no wonder to you.

But though Geta parted his lips to speak, he got little chance to do so: a sharp knock on the door announced to you both the arrival of the requested wine, much faster than you would have ever thought it would be delivered. In silence, two pitchers were served to the table between you and the fire, which against the night’s cold was burning again. From one two cups of swirling green glass were filled, and the first served to the emperor’s hand, the second to yours. Not one word was spoken before the servants had left again, and in their wake, Geta rose and walked to the door with his glass still in hand to ensure once and for all that the door was closed. Then, inexplicably, he stayed there facing it to drink, seemingly lost for any intents to speak the words he’d had on his tongue before the wine had arrived.

“When I first saw you,” you spoke then to break the silence, and quite before you’d really thought your words through, “on your thrones, I thought that it was strange that twins could be so dissimilar.”

“Are we?” he asked from the door, unmoving if not for drinking again.

“I don’t know. In your mannerisms, and your looks, very much so I’d say. And you tell me now that Emperor Caracalla is good with his wine but you do not indulge so easily.”

“Do you have siblings?”

His voice was neutral and colourless, but still it did not prick you as hostile.

“I do.”

“Are you the same?”

You thought about it for a while, then gave a simple, honest answer to this - as simple and honest as you could, subject considered. It allowed him to turn his head back to you at least, and slowly his whole body shifted away from the door and toward you again. His eyes softened also, the fearful beast in him calming again. Then he walked to you and sat back on the seat, knees apart and elbows firmly planted into them to support his leaning weight.

“I’m not sure if I’d say that my brother is good with his wine,” Geta said after a long silence, shifting his gaze down to his lap, his glass and his hands resting to his forehead. “Merely that his body does not object to it as mine does. He gets happily drunk when he is in the mood and I struggle even with that. It’s not - I told you that I do not fault him for this. A Roman man must scorn drink and only have it in moderation, except when he is festive, in which case he must be very drunk but it is always done so that none around him is any better. The court is a place of contradiction: ideals and reality are as oil and water here, they do not mix.”

He breathed out the last words: “It exhausts me.”

“It sounds tiring.”

“It is.”

You drank your wine, too. It was sweet but its sweetness was overwhelmed by the taste of spice in it, and for a moment, your tongue was left baffled as to what you had just tasted. Then you drank it again and decided that it was not the worst drink you’d ever been served.

“Is it…”

You hesitated. What you had intended to say could have been taken as insincere, or backhanded: even an attempt to sow discord between the brothers, or test the waters for doing so at the very least. In the end, with Geta’s head lifting only so much that he could peer at you searchingly with a somewhat pressing look in his eyes, you decided to continue anyway.

“Is it difficult to share such a position with a brother? It has never been done, I’ve never heard of it.”

He straightened again, drank his wine and then poured himself another glass. You’d hardly ever seen a nobleman pour his own drink and only at this did you think how odd it was that he’d chosen to wave away the servants to begin with, or that you were both here with none in attendance. He was the emperor, but he seemed to prefer no one stood behind his back at any time, for any reason. Not even his own brother, if he jumped even at a letter that Caracalla had dropped without noticing.

Now, however, he suddenly did not look so tense. Instead, his mouth curved into a small smile as he drank from his glass and then he laughed, the first laugh you’d heard from him, and it was - a solitary chuckle, so quiet that it was nearly lost in his throat, but you saw its force in his shoulders as it passed.

“Sharing anything with my brother is difficult. But I’d not have it otherwise.”

You’d never heard him sound more sincere, either.

“I hate to think I might have given you the impression that I do not respect him, or that I in any way… It is not true,” he carried on, gesturing dismissively. “I love my brother. More than anything, he - is my closest ally, a brother but also my best friend. There is no bad blood between us. But ruling Rome…”

Your eyes met, and his darkened; once more they looked as black as scorched stones.

“Why do you ask? Others have ruled jointedly before. We are not the first to share the throne.”

You shook your head and drank your wine again, despite knowing it might come across as nerves.

“For no other reason than curiosity,” you told him. “You are the first brothers, are you not? At least since Remus and Romulus.”

This had him huffing out a breath, but he seemed comfortable allowing the topic to continue for now.

“I’d hope that our rule ends better,” he said, then shifted again. “We are the first brothers by blood, yes. Others who’ve done it - Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus for one, before Commodus and our father, were not brothers by blood but through adoption. There is no real difference. Except…”

“Except.”

He tilted his head, then drank a good mouthful from his wine which went down still as he wiped his lips to the back of his hand. They were pinker now than before - flushed - and his eyes wetter.

“Except that not many would come close to the bond that we share. We are twins, we came to be within the same womb, even before birth we were already together, already knew each other then before we knew anything of the world outside at all. But it is not only that. I’d not know how to explain it. I’d not know how to even start. I’ll try with this: all our life we’ve fought the same war, which only ever existed for the two of us.”

You watched him for a while, trying not to take too many guesses as to what he might mean.

“On the same side?” you finally asked, and he nodded. “Oftenmost,” he said with a small smile to that.

The smile caught to you as well. It did not shift much on either of you when your eyes met.

“It is your turn then,” he said; “I’ve told you about my family, now tell me about yours.”

An equally suspect request as yours had been, you noted grimly. Anything you told him he could have used against you later, should he come to regret sharing about himself and his brother, or suspect any political intrigue having underlined your question. But you told him regardless: shared some of the good and some of the bad, and talked about your home and the town which had raised you. He’d called your father persistent, and yourself headstrong; perhaps what you said would not convince him otherwise, but in exchange, you’d received something which felt like softness from him, about himself and his twin brother.

“I did think at first,” you admitted from this thought, at the end of your story with the wine warming your veins perhaps too much by now, “of you and your brother, that maybe you weren’t twins at all, because of how different you seemed.”

“You thought it was…”

“Politics,” you filled with a crooked smile and a tilt of your head, “For the show. Maybe you had a small age difference but because of Roman legends and tradition - for the sake of making the transfer of power easier… but after what you said, it seems ridiculous now.”

“Was it so easy to convince you?”

He, too, had a crooked smile on his lips. He drank again, but you’d noticed his sips had grown smaller - he was pacing himself, because the wine was strong. It seemed that he’d not lied about his tolerance.

“It was the way that you spoke of it, rather than what you said,” you told him. “I don’t know your brother, but it’s clear that you mean it when you say that you have a bond unlike others.”

His eyes softened again, but his expression also changed: he seemed down now, not anxious or tense or angry but simply like the weight of the world had suddenly settled on his shoulders and they already ached from all that he’d been carrying before.

“What I was going to say - before I caught myself from it… Rome has made it difficult. We used to be different, my brother and I. To each other, and… but it is straining, and so difficult, to deal what we must deal with every day. I shouldn’t have come here spitting fire about the senators. None of that was for your ears. But it feels like every day, someone is trying to drive splinters between us so that we would break, they’re pitting us against each other like we’re dogs in a ring and they’ve laid bets on which one of us will win if we fight. And we are not fighting, but it is so hard to deal with the pressure of - everything. Our father left us abruptly, I… I thought we’d have more time to observe, to learn, to prepare for this. And then it was here and - we have none to ask for advice now. Everyone only ever looks out for their own profit, their own ends. It would be greatly beneficial to some to see us turn against one another.”

He chuckled, this time more audibly than before, and looked at you with some real sincerity and wonder.

“I’ve no idea why I would tell you any of this,” he confessed, and it made you laugh too.

“Perhaps I am convenient,” you suggested; “Almost foreign but not foreign enough to be an enemy, from a place so far away most would not find it on a map, and though my father sits on a high seat, he has no stake in Roman politics. I am no one, Emperor, but I am very convenient.”

“Does it bother you? That I should speak of these things.”

You shook your head.

“Not at all,” you told him; “Besides, I’m drinking your wine, which must be the finest Rome has to offer. Is that not akin to paying me for my ear already?”

For a heartbeat, Geta looked almost scandalised: then he laughed, and his laughter was more high-pitched than you’d imagined it, and hasty, and he covered the end of it with another drag of his wrist about his mouth. Then he shook his head, incredulous. “I feel better,” he said with some amazement. “Like I’ve already forgotten about the Senate, or it is very old news to me now. I can’t blame the wine for this, it only ever serves to make my mood darker at night.”

He must have been lonely, you thought: his lot was to never trust anyone, and the only one he could talk to must have wanted to forget these things just as much as Geta himself wanted to forget them. They could only ever trade to each other the burden of remembering.

“Thank you,” he said then, suddenly serious.

“I will not have the emperor thanking me for this,” you said with an air of quick, frightful dismissal, “I am privileged to have his audience.”

“Certainly. But it is now my audience, is it not, and not yours. I’ve come to you and you have not come to me and I am talking to you about my troubles, and not you to me about yours. Do you not even care to complain of what I said about the soldiers?”

Again you tilted your head with some apprehension.

“I cannot and will not argue military matters with the highest commander of Rome’s armies,” you said simply, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“Perhaps we’ll send you arms instead? For the men that you need to train,” he suggested.

“I’d think you’d worry of an uprising then. Or armed bandits pillaging the countryside,” you noted in return with something of a subdued grin.

He sighed, but it was dramatic in nature and drowned soon in the last of his wine.

“Take up your arms, then,” he said wearily, “and then my brother and I shall send you the armies you asked for, to cut down your own fathers, husbands and sons with.”

“It does not seem a reasonable gamble,” you told him in a measuring voice, though there was no real consideration behind your words whatsoever. “Our men against the legions of Rome. I don’t think we should win in that game. Or if we did - I’d imagine it would come at a cost of a man or two, which would make it more difficult to tend the harvest in the coming years.”

You watched Geta as his next laughter caught up as a snort in his throat, and as he crossed his hands on his lap and stretched then his neck to one side and the other before letting out a deep sigh. Then, finally, he turned to you again with a tired smile that crinkled his eyes.

“I’ve enjoyed your visit to Rome very much,” he said courteously then, “and I’d like to apologise for the manner in which my brother and I first greeted you. I have a preposterous proposition now which I’d like for you to hear before I leave, would that please you?”

“A preposterous proposition before sleep? I am all ears, Emperor.”

He nodded, then spent some time gathering his courage - for that was quite obviously to you what he was doing. When he spoke, he did so seriously again.

“I must let you leave,” he said, “to carry your news to your father, and, I’d expect, because you must miss your home by now. But my preposterous proposition is that perhaps you’d like to return to Rome again for the coming summer as a guest of the emperors, to see games at the great amphitheatre, and to enjoy all that the city has to offer during the warmer months - if only to make up for the dreadful weather we’ve had since you have arrived here this winter. To ensure your whole year is not taken up by travel, we’ll of course provide you transportation, so that your journey will be much faster this time around.”

For a reason you refused to examine closer right there in front of him, your heart leapt at the notion. Yes, you thought: you’d love to come back, to see the city if only someone would escort you then and show you about so that you’d not need to worry for your safety or being lost, and more than that the thought that you might then have more time to spend with Geta - that he might wish to know you better, and that you’d get to know him - this, in particular, thrilled you. With a wide, genuine smile, you nodded.

“Your preposterous proposition is exciting, and I would be honoured to agree to it,” you told him.

The smile he gave back to you squinted his amber eyes, and he nodded back to you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Come now, brother. There is no need for modesty.”

“Wishing to be clean is hardly modesty. Not all of us enjoy the sensations of sweat drying on our skin.”

Laughter, bright and light and with just a hint of something unfamiliar lying beneath rings out throughout the room, echoing across marble floors and filling the near-empty space. You do not dare look up from your position to one side, ready and waiting for Melitta’s signal to bring forward fresh towels or alternative oils for the Emperors.

Were it not for your experience in the bathhouse, your back would already be aching from the rigid position you have been holding. You weren’t amongst the attendants selected to help the Emperor’s remove their clothes and to begin preparations. A pretty young man had been selected for Emperor Caracalla, all sleek muscles and a slim waist. From what you could see at your position towards the end of the queue of waiting slaves and servants, Emperor Geta had been attended by one of his delicata, though she did not appear to have accompanied him through the subsequent rooms. 

Melitta had not allowed you – nor any of the other waiting attendants – to linger as they moved through their exercises, instead ushering you to slip into the heated, steam-filled chamber to await their arrival. Sweat trickles down the back of your neck, the gauzy fabric of your tunica sticking to slick skin already. This has always been your least favourite of the rooms. The heated tiles beneath your feet feel slick, urging you to move with more caution that someone in your position can truly afford. Steam curls from the nearby pools, water hot enough to turn sunkissed skin ruddy. 

You are one of half a dozen waiting on the Emperor’s command. The elder of the two – red hair dishevelled, signature white-painted skin bare for once for all the world to see – lounges against the side of the pool, arms spread wide, golden tooth glinting in the bright midafternoon light. A wide, easy smile splits his lips as he cajoles his younger twin, a look of irritation flashing across the more stern Emperor’s face. Emperor Geta is slower to sink beneath the heated surface, one hand neatly shielding the space between his legs from clear view until he has settled into the pool fully.

There is a tension amongst the slaves, an unspoken readiness that sits between you, as you all await the Emperor’s commands. Neither seems to be paying any of you any heed. It is enough to take the edge off of the tension in your shoulders, though judging from the sharp look that Melitta slides your way, it should not. 

The whims of the Emperors are unpredictable and swift. They should not be questioned. I should not allow myself to be lax in my attentions, you silently chide yourself. Shoulders push back, the fabric of your tunica whispering around you as you readjust your stance. To your side, Melitta lets out a barely audible hum of approval. 

“You want her, do you not? You can be honest, brother. I would not hide such a thing from you.” Emperor Caracalla’s voice rings out throughout the room, filling the empty space with his presence. Somewhere along the way, both delicatas and the male attendant have been lost or discarded, though there is no telling which. 

“It would be a blessing if you would hesitate to share your more carnal thoughts at least some of the time, brother,” Emperor Geta says dryly. 

You risk a look towards the two, the kind of barely-there eye-flick that is allowed of slaves in the serving of their masters. His skin is flush from the heat of the pool, closer to red than pink creeping up the pale column of his neck to stain Geta’s cheeks. If you did not know the procedures yourself, you would think Emperor Caracalla to still be wearing his powders, his cheeks bright with colour usually used to contrast with the white he so clearly prefers to hide any little blemishes and imperfections that none dare speak of.

Which delicatas could they be talking about? You wonder.  You have only seen them at a distance of course, each prettier than the last. Or perhaps they speak of some new senator’s daughter or visiting noblewoman. Crass words need not be censored when you are an Augustus.

“Do not be shy. Who would dare refuse?” Emperor Caracalla says, and your world stands still. Geta’s dark brown, fathomless eyes meet yours across the room, and you forget how to breathe.

“It is only a matter of a simple command.” Caracalla’s words break the spell between you, your eyes snapping down as you take a deep, shuddering, gulping breath as best you can without giving yourself away. You can still feel his eyes on your skin. You wait, listening for the inevitable command. For the call for punishment for daring to look the Emperor in the eye without permission. If you are lucky enough to have not drawn his ire, perhaps you will only be sent away.

The snapping of fingers fills the air. You wonder who is being summoned for half a beat before remembering that you too should be looking, should be checking to see if Emperor Caracalla has need for you. Blue eyes stare back, fever-bright, a sharp slant to his lips, his smile just on the edge of dangerous.

“Come here,” he commands, voice barely above a whisper.

You move as soon as the words leave his lips, knowing better than to keep an Emperor waiting.”

“Leave us.”

Your footsteps falter. 

Even Caracalla’s surety flickers and falters as Geta’s command – louder, sharper, leaving no room for disagreement – rings out over his. You look between the two, uncertainty and fear freezing you in place. You know better than to refuse an Emperor, but cannot see any way to obey one without displeasing the other. 

“Geta–” Caracalla begins. Before he can get any further, Geta is standing, water sluicing off of him as he hauls himself from the hot pool. He brushes past you without so much as a glance in your direction, heat wafting from him, the air around him damp and thick. He doesn’t pause at the row of waiting attendants, instead moving to the next room, where he will no doubt be scrubbed and scraped and oiled down. 

The sound of a second body leaving the water soon follows, a long sigh falling from between Caracalla’s lips. You turn back just in time to get a clear view of a pert behind, pale skin pockmarked and lined with heavy silver scars unbefitting an Emperor. Eyes fall deferentially, only for a little hitch in your breath to ring out as you catch sight of the impressive endowment between Caracalla’s legs. No man has any place having quite such a large appendage. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

A hand grips your chin, tilting your head back and up, forcing you to meet Emperor Caracalla’s eyes. That roughish, boyish smile of his looks far sharper up close. Were it anyone else, you would say it looks almost… predatory. You do not look away as eyes roave over your face, taking in every inch of you until, at last, he purrs, “Oh, I like this one. How sweet. You shall do. Come; you will attend us in the next pool.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Time slips past you in a blur. Emperor Geta speaks to no one as sweetly scented oils are rubbed into his bare skin, another slave already at his side with a strigil ready to scrape him clean. Despite Emperor Caracalla’s command, you find yourself brushed to one side as a pair of young men move to assist him, one kneeling, the other drawn towards his chest. 

You are thankful for Melitta’s guidance as you instead find yourself sent to help move fresh towels between rooms, and to set up refreshments in the tepidarium. After the heat of the caldarium, you can’t help the shiver that passes over you, sweat rapidly cooling as your heated skin feels almost chilled in the low warmth of the room.

Waiting, it is with a hint of trepidation that you realise none of the other slaves have taken up their positions in the next room. 

Footsteps approach. The sound of their bickering proceeds them, chasing away any thoughts that Melitta may be on her way to join you, or one of the other nameless faces you have yet to grow close enough to share pleasantries with. 

“Must you turn everything into a spectacle? Even here?”

“Why not?” Caracalla’s smile is slow. “They will look regardless. Better they speak of what I choose to show them than what their idle minds might conjure.”

Caracalla sees you as soon as he enters the room, his gaze flicking over you as if you are little more than part of the backdrop. He is completely bare, not so much as a towel slung around his hips, his skin tinged pink, perfumed and sweet-smelling. Emperor Geta follows half a step behind. Brow furrowed, modesty intact. A small towel is wrapped around his waist, covering him to mid-thigh. Unlike his brother, he seems not to take note of his surroundings, instead intent on making his way into the water with as much haste as possible. It is almost sweet to watch how carefully he keeps himself covered, as if embarrassed to be seen completely bare. Surely that cannot be the case? Not for someone of his standing?

“Wishing to be the centre of attention has nothing to do with it, I am sure, brother,” Geta says dryly as he settles in place, the water up to his shoulders. Tension ebbs from him as the warmth sinks into his skin, brown eyes at last flicking around, taking in the lack of slaves on hand to fetch wine and towels. Geta’s gaze rests on you, his expression shuttering. He stands abruptly, every hint of relaxation dropping from him in a matter of moments. 

“By all means, go.” Caracalla’s gaze flicks briefly to you, then back. “If you leave now, I will take it as your answer. You might learn to relax, brother… or I shall see for myself whether she is worthy of imperial attention.” 

Caracalla holds a hand out towards you, the unspoken command clear. You get no more than a single step forward before Geta speaks. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Even as the hissed words leave Geta’s lips, you can see the doubt flickering there, the resignation. He knows his brother better than anyone else. Knows that when it comes to such things, Caracalla does not speak in jest. This time as Geta speaks, his words hold an air of gravitas that cannot be ignored. Gone is the boyish bickering between brothers as Emperor Geta’s gaze turns instead to you. “Come here.”

Somehow, Emperor Caracalla is quicker than you are. He slips into the water beside Geta before you are even halfway towards the pool, your stack of towels forgotten, nerves thrumming beneath your skin. Irritation flashes across Geta’s face, though he makes no move to push the other man out of the way as Caracalla settles beside him, lounging back against the side of the pool as if it is his. You suppose that it is. 

“I wondered how long it would take. Tell me – if you were compelled to choose, which of us would you favour?” His smile is easy, almost boyish, though the danger in it is unmistakable. 

“Augustus, I-I would never dare to even think of such a thing,” you manage to say, words tripping over themselves in your haste. Despite your words, you cannot help the way that your eyes dart towards Emperor Geta. 

Caracalla laughs, clearly bemused with your response, though it is the way that Emperor Geta seems to almost relax, tension easing from his shoulders, that captures your attention. It is no more than a momentary wavering of your focus as you finally reach the edge of the pool, but it is enough for Caracalla to seize the moment. A hand wraps around your ankle, tugging firmly. 

There is no time for you to react. 

Slick tiles go out from beneath you, a shriek filling the air as you land in the water with a splash. Laughter fills the air – all Caracallas – as hands wrap around your waist, helping to steady you, to guide you back towards the surface even as panic takes hold and leaves your lungs screaming. 

You have never had the opportunity to learn how to swim. 

You cling to your saviour with trembling arms, your tunica plastered against you, hair dripping. Emperor Geta holds you carefully, allowing you to cling to him even as you try to convince yourself that this is completely unacceptable behaviour, that you should not dare to touch the Emperor – no matter how accidental the circumstances might be. 

“I apologise, Augustus. I should not–” Lips clamp shut as Emperor Geta waves a hand dismissively. It could be a trick of the light, but he almost looks concerned, you think, as he helps you regain your footing, leading you carefully to the edge of the pool. Concern soon melts away to irritation as he turns his attention to Caracalla.

“Was that truly necessary?” he asks, voice barely more than a hiss.

Caracalla shrugs, his easy smile unwavering as he takes a step forward, not a trace of guilt or remorse to be found on him. “No more so than this.”

Fingers wrap around the back of your neck, turning your head towards him as Caracalla leans in to capture your lips. Eyes widen, lips parting instinctively, giving the other man enough room to press forward. The sharp edge of his golden tooth catches on your lower lip, a single bead of blood welling there. He quickly chases it away with his tongue, eyes dark, his other hand moving through the water to cup your hip, to tug you closer without hesitation or question. 

“Absolutely not!” 

Hands wrench you away from Caracalla as Geta neatly inserts himself between the two of you, his back turned towards Caracalla, hands falling to your hips. In a move that you are not sure which of you is surprised the most, Geta lifts you from the water to sit on the edge of the. 

“Why must you always be like this?” Geta snaps, voice tight. Controlled. “Can I have nothing–”

“Do not speak to me of being forced to share, brother,” Caracalla cuts in smoothly. “I can hardly be faulted for taking action where you would do nothing but watch and wait impotently. Or perhaps it is that you prefer to watch?"

There is a pause. Smooth, and quiet, and deadly. Caracalla’s smile widens, the sharp glint of his golden tooth drawing your eye. 

“If so, I will be certain to make the spectacle worthy of your attention, if you would just–”

“I saw her first,” Geta says, voice low. There is no room for disagreement in his tone. “She is mine.”

Caracalla laughs. Shaking his head, he says, “Fine. You may have first taste. But do make it a worthy one, or I shall be forced to relieve you of the effort.”

Your head is spinning as words fly back and forth between the two. Geta’s hands never leave your waist, despite his attention solely being focused on his brother. When at last their words fall to silence, the weight of their gazes is enough to make you shiver. 

Geta’s hands tighten on your waist; one trails down from the sodden fabric of your tunica to brush against the soft expanse of your thigh. Without thought, you shift in place, thighs parting, granting Emperor Geta better access. He hesitates, almost as if he did not expect such willingness from you. A bright burst of laughter leaves Caracalla.

“See? She is eager and willing. Do not keep her waiting, for she may bestow her favour on another if you are too slow.” Despite the teasing lilt to his words, Geta stills. His hands tighten, his gaze narrowing before it turns back to you.

He says nothing. He does not need to. A faint smile curves at your lips. You dip your head, barely, but noticeable. It is enough.

He may be the Emperor, there may be witnesses, but you are no blushing maiden. You would not have made it as far as you have, having lasted nearly a year working here, without learning how to go unnoticed when the need calls for it, and how to attract attention when it is wanted. 

“Shall I give a demonstration, brother? If it has been so long, I would hate for you to forget the order of things,” Caracalla’s teasing drawl breaks the moment between the two of you.

Geta doesn’t waste any words, instead sending a splash of water towards Caracalla that leaves his brother spluttering with glee. Dark brown eyes don’t leave you as Geta’s hands tug your thighs forward towards the ends of the pool. You shift without hesitation, anticipating how this will go. If you are lucky, he will bend you over the edge with no heed for how uncomfortable the marble will dig into your stomach as he takes his fill. If he is less considerate, he might press you beneath the water to please him with your hands and mouth. You tense, ready to slip back into the water, when Geta’s hands press down, keeping you sitting in place. Eyes flick to meet his, uncertainty clear in your gaze. 

The pink of his tongue glistens against his lips as it darts out, wetting the thin lines. He holds your gaze as hands shift to push the fabric of your tunica up and out of the way, baring you completely for both brothers to see. Heat rushes beneath your skin, embarrassment leaving your stomach fluttering, words nowhere to be found. A thumb rubs soothing circles against your thigh, as if Geta can sense your trepidation. 

“If you need reminding–” Caracalla begins again.

Geta does not allow him to finish. “You shall be quiet or leave, brother.”

Geta leans in, Caracalla all but forgotten. He holds your gaze as he presses forward, lips glancing across your knee – tough feather light, barely there. It’s still enough to make you shiver. Brown eyes take on a warm edge as he repeats the motion and your shivering stops. Lips trail up, and up, and up, kissing and biting across the sensitive expanse. 

“Augustus, there is no need–” you begin to say only to fall silent. Lips part in a silent gasp as a finger swipes across you, slow and firm and sure, starting at your hole and travelling the length of your seam until he glances against your clit. 

“Do not presume to instruct your Emperor. I decide what is required.” Geta’s words are low, and smooth, leaving no room for disagreement. You find yourself nodding along all the same, willing to agree to anything if it means that he will not stop.

“Yes, Augustus.”

His hand twists, thumb rubbing a slow, teasing circle around your clit – not quite touching, but close enough for the anticipation to leave your thighs trembling, wide-eyed gaze locked on him. Geta’s hand cups your sex for a moment, holding it, his touch a casual kind of possession, not a hint of question or uncertainty that this is his – that you are his – to do with as he pleases. 

Hands press your thighs open wide. The ghost of a smile twitches over his lips at the desperate little noise of protest that escapes you as he leaves your clit unsatisfied. He settles himself more comfortably between your thighs, shifting so that your legs can move over his shoulders, his face pressing closer. Your mind stutters to a halt. He cannot possibly mean to– 

Lips press against your seam with a clumsy confidence, as if he is more used to witnessing such things or receiving than he is to giving. The first broad stroke of his tongue – warm, and wet against your heated skin – draws a shuddering sigh from you, and it is as if his confidence increases all at once. 

Thumbs hook over your outer lips, keeping you open as he leans in, tongue tracing a line across you; it is as if he is trying to chase every last drop of slick from your skin. A hot puff of breath skitters across your skin. Without thought, you reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer to where you wish to feel him the most.

Eyes half-lided, pleasure beginning to pool low and hot in your core, it is not until you meet sharp blue eyes across the expanse of the pool that you realise your mistake. Caracalla watches the two of you, hand lazily fisting his length, movements slow and steady. His eyes cut down, flicking to where you dare to grip onto Geta’s hair. You release the Emperor without a sound, swallowing down the noise that threatens to break free as Geta’s lips wrap around your clit, two fingers bumping against your slick entrance. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, brother.” His smile lingers a beat too long. “Watching like this… one might almost think you prefer to give rather than take.” A soft huff of laughter follows. “Though we both know better.”

You bite back a whine as Geta pulls back. Lips glisten, his fingers steadily working inside, twisting, seeking out that one spot guaranteed to make you see stars.

“Not all of us mistake indulgence for need. There is no need to be selfish in such things,” Geta says, voice even, unwavering. His fingers twist, satisfaction blossoming as you shudder, hips arching, a wordless cry echoing throughout the chamber as he finds just the right spot to leave toes curling. 

“Selfish?” 

Caracalla’s words mean little to either of you as Geta holds your gaze, his fingers moving with a steady efficiency, as if there is nothing that he wants more than to see you tip over the edge. Fingers twitch, the urge to reach for him, to hold him close, to beg, is almost overwhelming. It is this, more than anything, that you think masks the sound of water splashing, of Caracalla moving closer and closer still.

“Selfish? I shall abide by a great many things, brother, but I will not be called a selfish lover. My reputation could never recover. I intend to prove otherwise.”

“Your reputation–” 

Geta’s words cut off with a gasp as Caracalla blankets his back, one hand neatly wrapping around the delicate column of his throat, the other reaching around his waist to encircle his length. A thigh presses between Geta’s, forcing his legs apart, as Caracalla begins to work his length at a steady, unforgiving pace. 

Caracalla holds your gaze over Geta’s shoulder. “Perhaps it is your reputation that will suffer. Did I say that you should stop? Or do you intend to leave her unsatisfied?” 

Geta snarls, the sound breathier, needier than he intends. Hips flex as he tries to fuck into Caracalla’s grip with little success, the other man merely laughing as he struggles. The hand on his throat tightens briefly, golden rings glinting in the light. 

“Now, be a good boy and finish what you started.” 

A little shove sends Geta forward, his hands curling around your thighs as he catches himself before he can fall fully. Behind him, Caracalla keeps hold of Geta’s length with one hand, the other tightening around his hip. Fingers move back between your legs with a level of caution, of uncertainty, that doesn’t last for long. You watch as Caracalla’s hand trails across Geta’s skin, moving from him to lower back in a soothing trail. His touch looks gentle yet possessive, a familiarity about it that reminds you more of lovers than anything else. 

“Or must I do everything?”

One hand remains working Geta’s length even as Carcalla’s other rises to fist in the back of his hair, forcing Geta’s head back between your thighs, pressing him against where you need to feel him the most. You gasp at the first bump of his nose against your clit, his fingers sliding in deeper, pressing against your sensitive spot with an almost bruising pressure. Thighs tremble as he curses against your skin, the low rumble inching you closer towards the edge. Caracalla shows no mercy, hand guiding him, pressing until Geta’s lips wrap around your clit, his fingers curling, your voice rising above everything as pleasure builds. 

“You always did have the better tongue for pretty words, brother. A pity it’s wasted where it might actually be appreciated.” Gold glints in the warm glow of sunlight bathing the room as Caracalla’s hand strips Geta’s length with a confidence that speaks of experience. Geta’s fingers twitch within you, his mouth going slack, as Caracalla drags him to the precipice right alongside you. 

“Calla–” It’s a broken cry, soon cut off as a different kind of warm wetness splashes against your skin, dribbling down into the water, coating Caracalla’s hand. The elder of the two doesn’t pause in his ministrations until Geta is whining, pleasure shifting closer to pained whimpers of overstimulation by the time that he finally allows his hand to still. 

Disappointment stirs as Geta’s cheek presses against your thigh, his fingers unmoving inside of you. Now that he has found his release, there is little use of you. Unless– you watch as Caracalla’s hand curls possessively in Geta’s hair, his other hand working furiously across his length, stripping it with an efficiency that speaks of how close Caracalla is. Walls flutter, clenching around Geta’s intruding fingers as you watch Caracalla cover Geta’s back with a possessive snarl, his length pulsing as ropes of spend land across the other man’s back, his hip, his buttocks, dripping into the water. 

It will be uncomfortable to wait to see to yourself later, but you are certain that is what you will have to do. Now that they have both found their completion, there is no more need for you. Melitta’s advice resurfaces in your mind. Hands fall to the edge of the pool, thoughts of pulling yourself up and out already at the forefront of your mind. In front of you, hazy blue eyes begin to focus.

Caracalla glances down, displeasure flashing across his face as he takes in Geta’s lax form. Fingers curl, yanking on dishevelled locks. Instead of pulling Geta back and away, he presses his prone form forward. 

“If you are going to begin something, brother, have the decency to see it through. Do not start what you lack the nerve to complete.” Caracalla leans in, body blanketing Geta’s, uncaring for the mess smeared between them. “Go on. Finish it. Or shall I?”

“Not everything requires such a heavy hand,” Geta says, and Caracalla laughs, shaking his head.

“Not everything. But clearly your skills are lacking in such matters… unless you intend to leave her unsatisfied?”

At last, Geta’s eyes turn to you, and he takes in the state of you: dishevelled hair, the tightness around your eyes and lips, the way that your hands clench and tremble at the edge of the pool. Fingers flex and you clench around him, swallowing down the pleas that threaten to break free. You cannot remember the last time that you wanted to find completion quite so desperately. 

“Please?” The word is wrenched from you, a near broken sound. Geta takes pity on you. Lips wrap around your clit, a third finger pressing against your entrance, spreading you wide, filling you past comfort until you feel that delicious, burning stretch that you need so much. 

It doesn’t take much for Geta to push you over the edge, pleasure washing over you in inescapable, pulsing waves. Your vision goes black, body trembling, the world narrowing down to nothing by the feeling of Geta’s tongue and lips and fingers.

Low murmuring barely registers as you struggle to come back to awareness, your body limp, limbs weak, the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your body in waves. Eyes blink open slowly, the world around you coming into hazy focus. It is blue, not brown, that meets your gaze.

The look that Emperor Caracalla sends you is too sharp to truly be called a smile. He moves towards you through the water, lifting himself out of the pool with ease, a hand resting heavily on your shoulder. He bends, lips brushing the shell of your ear, water dripping from him and onto you as he speaks.

“It would seem that you have attracted my brother’s attention. For now,” Caracalla says softly. “But do not confuse his attention with indulgence or leniency. Geta is mine. He always has been. I do not object to sharing…”

His hand tightens on your shoulder and you wince despite yourself. He feels it. Of course he does. 

His smile widens. “But I do expect people to remember who they are borrowing from. And to show proper thanks in return.”

His thumb presses in, hand tightening – not enough to bruise; not yet. But enough to remind you of your place, and of his. 

“Do you know what happens when someone tries to keep what is mine?”

You shake your head, gaze fixed somewhere just below his chin, not daring to say a word. 

A soft huff of amusement escapes him, warm against your skin and entirely without kindness. His grip eases. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Not yet. I would suggest that we keep things that way, yes?”

Silence stretches between you, until at last, the pressure is too much. 

“Yes, Augustus. Of course. I would never presume–”

“See that you don’t.”

Footsteps approach. You both turn in tandem to find Geta has returned, a towel neatly wrapped around his waist, two more slaves in tow. Both move towards Caracalla without a word, soft towels ready. Caracalla welcomes them with open arms and a pleased twist to his lips. Behind Geta, you can see Melitta hovering, unspoken questions in her eyes.

“It has been suffocatingly hot as of late, hasn’t it, brother?” Caracalla says, all lazy smiles and bright words once more. There isn't a trace of that dangerous edge of his to be found. “It would be a shame to cut our time here short. Perhaps we might  indulge in another soak this evening.” 

His smile comes easily. Too easily. Bright and effortless, you would not believe this the same man who wrapped his hand around Emperor Geta’s throat such a short time ago. Nor the same man to leave your own skin sensitive to the touch.

Geta’s gaze drifts from Caracalla to you, then back again. His lips press thin, searching for a reason to refuse and finding none. A beat passes. Then another. At last, Geta inclines his head. 

Caracalla’s grin sharpens, something glinting beneath the surface “Excellent. Then it is a settled. We shall make an evening of it.”

His eyes find yours, and you find yourself locked in place, unable to move beneath the weight of their combined gazes. 

“We shall continue this later,” Caracalla says, holding your gaze. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Geta incline his head in agreement.

“We shall look forward to it.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The emperor Geta is not used to Egypt’s scorching summer sun. His heavy togas are not made for the hot climate, neither is his daily rhythm adjusted to it. He wakes by noon, when Alexandria is already basking in the sun and one should already have finished their business so they may return to bed and sleep the suffocating heat away. His Roman-style binge drinking does not help him either. He adds too little water to his wine, which is a recipe for disaster.

But you do not much mind disaster and you believe there is great potential for this emperor. He does line his eyes with kohl, after all, which is as good a start as any.

He has been a guest in the house of your father, the prefect of Egypt, for at least three weeks now. You have returned from your deceased husband’s estate outside of the city just for the occasion. Usually you avoid Alexandria’s bother and noise, but for a Roman emperor you can find it in your heart to return to society. You have made his acquaintance, but only formally. You still have to assess what sort of man he truly is.

Stories about the emperor Geta have made their way into the eastern province easily. To say you have become curious is an understatement. Is he truly as cruel as they say? Is he intelligent, as some claim, or does he only seem so in comparison to his purportedly feral twin? And what about his clothes, is he as extravagant in his fashions as the nobles whisper?

He is extravagant, you found out, but in a disappointingly Roman manner. You may have had a Roman education yourself, but having been married for half a decade to an Alexandrian man of importance has transformed you. In your opinion, after having tried both, Egyptian tastes are the superior ones. If only you could introduce them to this emperor.

If only.

Your eyes cross his. You hold his gaze for a moment, but do not falter in your step, do not flash him a smile nor otherwise acknowledge his presence. Propriety would have you bow or avert your gaze, but you expect that in this case a lack of propriety will bring you further to achieving your goals. You only turn your eyes from him when you are confident that he will continue to look at you for a while longer. With a sigh you sit down on the fountain’s edge, covered by the shade of a parasol carried by your maidservant. The goddess Isis looks down on you as if intrigued, as if she too wonders whether your gamble will play out as you hope.

And it may yet.

Barely have you dipped your fingertips in the cool water or the emperor Geta’s tall figure appears before the sun. His shadow falls over you, but you do not rise to greet him as you should. Instead you just look up at him, a single eyebrow arched, and wait.

‘You are Roman, my lady, but you wear the Egyptian summer well.’

‘Emperor Geta,’ you reply.

And just to give him something the hold onto, you offer him a soft smile.

‘And you wear Egyptian fashions,’ he observes.

‘A kalasiris is much more comfortable in this heat than a stola. I am certain that you understand, Augustus.’

You lower your eyes deliberately, to his heavy blue toga. His face is red and puffy due to the heat, and to your own amusement you have just given him an reason to blush an even darker shade of crimson. His lips part, but so flustered he is that only a heavy puff of breath comes out.

‘If I may be so bold, my emperor, I heard that you will be staying for a while.’

‘I have business to attend to.’

Seemingly out of nowhere a perfectly white cat jumps on the fountain edge beside you. Sweet Nedjem. One day she showed up in the villa and of course you have taken her in. A perfect white cat with gleaming green eyes; she must be god-sent. She bumps her little head against your arm and, giggling amusedly, you scratch the pretty feline behind her ear.

‘But surely, Caesar,’ you continue, trying to stay focus on the task at hand, ‘you will not let Alexandria’s many wonders go unappreciated.’

Nedjem begins kneading biscuits in the flesh of your thigh as you lazily pet her.

‘I have yet to see a sight in this city which calls for my appreciation.’

‘Truly, Augustus?’ You look at him with feigned exasperation. ‘It saddens me to hear it.’

He straightens his back somewhat awkwardly.

‘I do not dislike what I see now,’ he admits with almost boyish clumsiness—is he talking about you or about the cat?—but he is quick to add, ‘I will be here till autumn. The empire has neglected some crucial business in this province.’

‘If so, then perhaps you would like to become acquainted with the local fashions. So that you may be more at ease in the Egyptian summer.’

‘Perhaps,’ is all he replies.

You place Nedjem on the floor and rise to your feet, moving slowly. As you hoped, his attention immediately drifts, to brush over your body. His gaze lingers on the golden bejeweled belts adorning your waist.

‘Or so that you may more distinguish yourself at tonight’s banquet,’ you propose. ‘I would be all too happy to help to become you acquainted with our customs. I believe they will be to your tastes.’

‘I—I am certain,’ he mutters, frowning displeased at the white feline rubbing her head against his calf.

Oh, what a silly man.

You smile and feigning some absentmindedness you trail your fingers over the bracelets adorning his wrist. ‘Do call on me, Augustus.’

You turn your back to him, returning to your quarters. You would much like to continue that nap. You have the inkling that you should be well-rested before evening falls.

The sun is setting when your maidservant wakes you.

‘Domina, please, the emperor Geta requests your presence.’

You blink up at her panicked face lazily. You only just catch the white cat jumping from your bed—apparently Nedjem had found her way into your bed without you noticing. You had a nice dream, although you remember only fragments of it. Pink fabrics, soft to the touch. Cool water over hot skin. Fingers fidgeting with the golden belts at your waist. You stretch your body and rise.

‘Help me with my hair,’ you command the girl.

You take a seat at your vanity. As the servant does as commanded, you busy yourself with your cosmetics. You only need a bit of a touch up. Sleeping so well comes at the cost of smudging your perfectly painted eyes, but that is easily fixed. You like to imagine yourself a sort of artist in this department. It does not take too long for you to achieve a pleasing result. Satisfied you smile at your reflection: dark-lined eyes, eyelids painted a soft shade of golden, your lips a ripe shade of red.

‘I beg you to hurry, domina, they say the emperor can be cruel when left to wait,’ the maid whispers.

She is so concerned. Poor thing.

‘He may find that cruelty does not impress me,’ you reply. ‘But no need to worry, I am ready.’

You find the emperor in his chambers. He is covered merely by a light red dressing gown, held together by a single golden string that appears to be holding on for dear life. Bemused you catch a glance of what hides underneath the fabric. A smoothly shaved chest; a belly that is not exactly soft, not exactly muscled; but what lies further below is disappointingly obstructed from your view.

He does not comment on your presence. Instead all his attention is focused on various sets of jewelry, displayed trays held out by slaves. Unbothered by the lack of acknowledgment, you come closer, inspecting the pieces. They are fashioned to local customs: elaborate pectorals depicting gods and other holy hieroglyphs in a marvel of colors; brilliant usekh collars that would be a heavy, but opulent burden to bear; necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings in all sorts of extravagant fashions.

‘You took your time,’ emperor Geta mutters.

You hum, not of mind to respond to the reprimand. You have no tastes for arguments. Overall you dislike anything which is ugly and dreary. You’d rather appreciate the beauty of this world. You walk behind him, brushing your fingers over the back of his neck. He shivers slightly, but says no word. You gesture at the only piece which, in your opinion, could befit an emperor.

‘This one, Augustus.’

‘Are you ridiculing me, woman?’ he hisses.

You frown and tut. ‘If you are of mind to follow the local fashions, a gorgerine would most befit your station. Even more a gorgerine of such craftsmanship.’

And indeed, it is simply a gorgeous piece. The golden discs, arranged so they depict a snake and eagle intertwined in a dance or fight, are adorned with red jewel beads.

‘It is not a piece for…’ He trails of, but you have an inkling about what concerns him.

He fears that the piece is one fashioned for women, that you are tricking him into cross-dressing.

‘A gorgerine is for the powerful,’ you placate.

He gestures the servant holding the piece to come closer. Trailing his fingers over the jewels, he lets out an appreciative hum. Your eyes are hooked to his mouth; he is gnawing on his lower lip anxiously. The gesture has you feeling giddy. To think that en emperor of Rome would be so easily unsettled. You are uncertain whether you want to increase his disquiet or calm him.

‘This one will do,’ he decides and the other servants disperse, bringing away the disapproved jewels.

Yet, he hesitates for a moment.

‘It is a piece to be worn over a…’ He falters.

‘Over a naked chest, yes,’ you finish.

He swallows down and, unable to keep the smile at bay, you lay a hand on his shoulder and come closer. You toy with the edge of his dressing gown, there where the fabric rubs against his slender neck.

‘You are not in Rome anymore, Augustus, but in Egypt. Here men of power and strength do not hide their bodies underneath thick fabrics.’

‘Neither do women,’ he mutters.

This time he does not just look at that gap between your breast, where the cut of your kalasiris leaves your skin exposed to accentuate the curves of your bosom. No, he dares to trace his fingers over your naked flesh. His touch grazes over the valley between your breast and you swallow, surprised by the awfully—agonizingly—intimate gesture. Goosebumps spread over your skin. Biting down a grin, you take hold of his hand and tell him sternly, ‘Do not get ahead of yourself, Caesar. You may look as you please, but you will only touch as I please.’

‘You dare—’

You intertwine his fingers with yours. His bejeweled rings are cool against your hot skin. His breath hitches, much to your pleasure. Leaning in, you whisper in his ear, ‘I dare, Augustus. You will come to find that such is in my nature. But let’s remain focused, shall we? We need to dress you.’

You slip from his touch and clap your hands, ordering the slaves to bring in the emperor’s clothes. You sit down on a settee expectantly, not losing sight of Geta for even a single moment. The pleasure of dressing him you mean to leave to yourself. Emperor Geta appears to have caught onto your intentions. His eyes, slightly narrowed, lie heavily on your body as he scrutinizes you. You are not so easily dissuaded, let alone by something as harmless as a grim gaze, and so you meet his staring with a playful smile. A plated wrap-around skirt is brought in, made from fine white and golden linen, as well as a golden belt which fits the chosen gorgerine perfectly.

A slave means to take off his dressing gown, but before you can call the man away, Geta gestures his attendants to back off. Still all eyes for you, your emperor loosens the poor string struggling so to keep the gown in place. He lets the fabric pool at his feet.

He is handsome—smooth, pale skin; pink nipples; toned muscles. He is a bit stronger than you first thought, yet not overly muscled, for there is a softness to his belly that makes you want to touch his navel. Dare you say, he is entirely pleasing to your tastes. Your attention lingers on his thick thighs. Your fingers flex as you imagine how it would be to wrap your hands around them. Disappointingly enough the part which you are most curious about is properly covered up. What a bother.

‘Well?’ he says.

You ignore the scorching heat that has settled in your cheeks and rise, telling him, ‘Let me assist you, Caesar.’ And, to your own delight, he lets you. Humming you set to dressing him. You take your time in draping the skirt over his waist, and are even slower in buckling the heavy belt. When finally you drape the gorgerine over his chest, pinning it in place at his back, you let out an appreciate hum. You cannot help but let your fingertips slide over the curve of his shoulder blades, and then, along the pattern of birthmarks scattered over his skin. He is as a sculpted piece of art.

A shiver runs through Geta’s body and you bite down on the tip of your tongue to keep from giggling. He is so easily unraveled. How amusing. Brushing your fingers over the curve of his shoulder you move to face him.

‘You look regal, Caesar.’

He does not reply, but from the way he fidgets with the jewels hanging over his bared chest, from his lowered gaze it is obvious that he still is not so certain about this whole ordeal.

‘Let me do your eyes,’ you propose, taking hold of his chin so that he must look at you. ‘To the local fashion.’

‘If you insist.’

‘I do.’

You sit him down at his vanity, you yourself leaning down. It is a joy to work on his make-up, if only because he has such pretty, doe eyes. Emperor he may be, but as you trace the kohl along his waterlines, he more has the looks of a deer facing a lion.

Or a lioness.

Once you are satisfied with your work, you drop the piece of kohl on the vanity and lean back with a hum. ‘How envious I am of your eyes, Augustus. They are so pretty, I could just eat them up.’

He scoffs, more amused than aghast. He reaches to grab at your waist, but you stand just in time to evade his attempt to take hold of you.

‘You are a rare specimen, my lady.’

‘You do not know half of it, Caesar. Shall we go?’

You offer him your hand. He considers it for but a moment, brown irises shimmering as he considers your hennaed fingers. Licking his lips he finally relents, accepting your hand. No sooner is he on his feet, or he has wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his hot body. You quite like how his naked arm brushes against yours. Even more so do you appreciate how he takes hold of your hand, raising it slightly to further treasure the henna intricately patterned over your skin.

‘I admit to have forgot. How fares your husband?’ he asks as you step through the courtyard.

The sun is setting now, the insufferable heat of the day diminished to a rather languid warmth. The sort that makes one drowsy. The sort that makes one thirsty.

‘My husband fares in the underworld.’

You pass the fountain adorned by the goddess Isis again. You smile up at the goddess. If tonight goes as you wish, you have to make a proper offering to her, to show your gratitude.

‘Have you been… without him for long?’

‘A year or so,’ you reply.

‘How lonely you must have been.’

You only hum. He guides you into the hallways, where servants are hurrying about. The soft drone of music and talk swells, indicating that the banquet has already begun. You are late. But then again, the two of you can permit yourselves such tardiness.

‘That will not do,’ he decides, as you stroll through a broad gallery, adorned with pretty frescoes that remind you of the Roman lands where you grew up. ‘To think a woman such as yourself is so neglected—I could not stand for it.’

‘And yet, I have been lonely and neglected, Caesar.’

You pause in the doorway. No matter that mere paces away the banquet has already degenerated into near debauchery, all you have eyes for is him—and he for you. He is gnawing at his lip, the deep brown of his irises almost swallowing up his pupils. He looks at you as if he wants to devour you whole. And you are of half a mind to allow him the pleasure.

‘A worrisome state of affairs,’ he says lowly.

You lean in just a bit, guiding his hand to the naked skin of the valley between your breasts. ‘Will you do something about it, Augustus?’

‘I think… I will.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’

He spills in your hand with a broken moan. The sound is so delightfully pitiful that you cannot help but giggle against his lips. It is not an unpleasant view; him underneath you on your bed. He is only wearing that ornate gorgerine. Of the skirt and belt you got rid off rather quickly, finding them to be more bothersome than beautiful.

He is breathing hard—panting, really—and his eyes, wide and lined with smudged kohl, shimmer wet as a boy’s. How pretty he is, how pathetic. Yet, you must admit, he managed to last longer than you expected. No matter; you have time. The night still spreads long and wide around you.

You trail your fingers over his softening cock. The ghost of a touch is enough to send a tremble through his body.

‘What do you say then, sweetness?’

His mouth opens, but a moment passes before he stammers, ‘Th-thank you, my lady.’

A tear is sliding over his cheek. You smile and sit up straight, absentmindedly wiping the single droplet from his cheek.

‘My pleasure, Caesar.’

Meanwhile his hands are slipping beneath your kalasiris, there where a slit bares the valley between your breasts.

You have been depriving him of the pleasure for a while now. Some extra delay, in your opinion, only makes the delight taste the more sweeter. But now that he is so doe-eyed and fragile under your touch, you let him do as he pleases. He has been good for you, after all, letting you toy with him as you desired.

‘We spoke about me being neglected,’ you say as you slip your hand from between your bodies. ‘Yet, here I find it is you who needs to be tended to more urgently than I.’

He is palming your breasts with an almost painfully hard grip, fingers tugging at your nipples. You do not mind the attention. In fact, you cannot deny the heat that is pooling in your tummy. But you must keep your cool for a moment longer. Someone has to be the disciplined one. And Geta has proven to be utterly, utterly wanton. You raise your fingertips, smudged with his pearly white seed, to your lips. He swallows down hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily, as he watches you lap at it.

‘Let me—Let me tend to you, my lady.’

You hum, looking down at him.

‘I just wonder, sweetness, do you have what is needed to please a woman such as myself?’

His hands slip from your body as he preps himself up on his elbows.

‘I have,’ he insists. ‘Please, allow me.’

You tilt your head, toying with the jewels adorning his pretty chest, so nicely emphasizing his pink nipples.

‘Go ahead then, Caesar.’

She wasn't sure which God to thank for the fact that this was as swift as Aelia's birth had been.

If this had dragged on for two days like Cassia's birth had, then there would be no way that (Y/n) would get through it alone. Someone would have found her, Geta would have found out, and everything would have gone up in flames.

Her heels were digging down into the stone floor that was soothing and as cold as the sea against her skin that was trying to rival the pure beams from the sun. (Y/n) couldn't feel her lower legs and her feet had long since gone numb, frozen in place against the floor.

The only thing she could feel was the contractions ripping her apart, the constant throbbing in her hips and lower back, the aches and violent implosions bursting throughout her blood.

It was almost over now.

Her teeth chomped down on the towel draped over her chest, there mainly to mop the sweat from her brow and smother any sounds she made that were too loud and threatened to attract attention from any passing servants. Spit and hot air foamed on the fabric as she allowed herself to scream, to shake and bite until the towel was beginning to come apart at the seams from the pressure she applied.

Everything trembled. Everything hurt. The pain was a vicious cycle that didn't come with a break or a glimpse of peace.

Blood and fluids coated her trembling hands that moved between her thighs to cradle the new life she could feel bracing to make it into the world.

(Y/n) felt the greatest need to close her eyes, to try and stop or pause her body so that she could pray. Not that she hadn't been praying since the moment she huddled up in this room, but she was getting so close now.

She wanted to pray, to ask for a boy. To have her first boy, her only boy if that was what the Gods wanted. She just needed a booy to make everything easier, to make the world fall into place and secure her place beside her husband.

If this was a boy then the Senates would forever be at (Y/n)'s mercy. They wouldn't be able to try and overthrow her, to cast her aside and replace her with someone they deemed more suitable. A boy would make the Senate vulnerable to her, not the other way around. They would have to respect (Y/n) and her marriage to Geta and her daughters.

She would be safe if she had a boy. Her daughters would be safe here in Rome, her marriage would be as solid as the ground they walked on and Geta would be secured on the throne.

A girl would unsettle the already broken foundations. A girl would make the Senates certain that they would have to get rid of (Y/n), that she was useless to them and then her life would be in danger. That would also put all of her daughters at risk. (Y/n) couldn't have that. Rome wouldn't be safe to her or her children if the Senate tried to usurp her from her throne, from her rightful place beside Geta as his wife.

Nothing about this would change how Geta felt for (Y/n) or how she felt for him, but that didn't matter compared to what the Senates were going to try and do. Cassia had heard it for herself, they had already tried to persuade Geta to find another wife.

What would stop them from trying to secretly get rid of (Y/n), to push her aside or try for an annulment of her marriage without Geta's consent?

No matter whether this child was a girl or a boy, one thing was crystal clear. Nothing was going to be the same as it was before.

(Y/n) was sure she could feel a tear in the fabric she was biting and a low, shiver-enducing scream shuddered through the material and made her entire frame jerk and spasm, no limb under her own control anymore.

They were here.

A fresh round of tears began to pour from (Y/n)'s eyes like the river; the salt water trickling across her otherwise dry lips that parted for a proper breath that wasn't smothered or heated from the towel she had previously been biting.

Everything continued to tremble and shake as she lifted her newborn up towards her, allowing her legs to slide down and slump against the floor, useless and numb.

With her baby laid in her left arm, (Y/n) began to smooth her knuckles and the back of her fingers up and down their warm, sticky chest. Trying to invoke a first breath, to encourage those little curved lips to part and take in a large gulp of air and get those lungs working. Her left hand tremored worse when she patted their back, leaning them up and down on her arm to try and get them breathing.

It worked. Mewling cries and gasping breaths left those parted lips along with a slither of fluid.

Her baby was okay, they were breathing. They were safe.

Reaching for the towel draped over her chest, (Y/n) carefully bound it around her baby, coiling them close to her damp chest with her lips attached to their temple.

She couldn't stop the sob that wracked her lips and made her chest shudder and ache horribly.

What was she to do?

What had she done to offend the Gods? Why were they testing her? Did they think (Y/n) had the strength to endure this kind of torment, this kind of dilemma and horrors? Why wouldn't they give her a son?

Another little girl was in her arms. Another daughter. Another girl to protect, to shield from the men who run Rome out of the palm of their hands and treated it like their very own house to govern and control. Another Princess they would despise and ignore and try to pass off as insignificant.

But as (Y/n) stared down at this fourth daughter, this little girl who needed help, who needed to be shielded and protected, all (Y/n) could feel was love. Adoration. Besotted with this little life that hadn't even opened its eyes to take their first look at the world.

This wasn't her fault. She hadn't done anything wrong. This little Princess hadn't decided the rules of the world or decided her fate. She had done nothing wrong and yet the Senate would take one look at her and deem her unworthy, deem her unsuitable and wrong and say that her beautiful, perfect life was a failure to be placed solely on (Y/n)'s shoulders.

Her lips were caught between wanting to curl into an adoring smile for her newest little girl, and wanting to sob in fear for all of them.

With her arms raised against her chest, she pressed her trembling lips to her daughter's temple, feeling each little breath and whimper that vibrated through into (Y/n)'s chest and right into her heart.

"I- I'll protect you, I swear. They won't harm you."

There was no telling what the Senate would do; if they would actually go as far as to endanger the Princesses of Rome or threaten them.

They might only be plotting something for (Y/n), a way to get rid of her, to send her back to her homeland or to a dark part of Rome where Geta won't be able to find her. They wanted Geta to remarry. There was no hope of Caracalla becoming married or having any legitimate heirs, their hopes were placed solely on Geta.

The Senates might not want anything to do with the Princesses, they might leave all of them be and set their sights on getting (Y/n) out of their way. But (Y/n) couldn't take that chance, she couldn't pin her hopes on that. If she herself was in danger and needed to flee from Rome, then her daughters were going with her.

Her heart churned as she stared down at her little girl. Despite the disappointment everyone tried to inflict on her each time she produced a daughter, not a son, (Y/n) had always felt that glimmer of hope, that flicker of adoration and the swell of love.

When she had Cassia, (Y/n) had been fearful when her girl was placed into Geta's arms. She worried what kind of reaction he would have, if he would sigh, his shoulders slumping with disappointment. She worried he wouldn't want to hold her or be involved, that he would discard her and wait for the son everyone told him that he needed.

It had been the exact opposite. Geta had swooped Cassia up into his arms, kissed her temple, her nose, her cheeks, he cradled her to his chest to keep her warm. He soothed her when she cried, paced the rooms with her, barely let anyone else soothe or touch her or even look at her.

She was his precious gem, as delicate and beautiful and serene as a flower, and he vowed it was his priority to love and protect her.

Each time a daughter had been placed into his arms, Geta had been overwhelmed with love. He doted on his daughters and (Y/n) sobbed at the thought that she had robbed Geta of seeing this moment. She wanted to see their daughter placed into his arms.

But in order for that to happen, everyone would have to know she had given birth. The Senates would know. Everything would change; (Y/n) would be in jeopardy; her daughters wouldn't be safe.

"They won't hurt any of my girls," her fingers shakily brushed along her daughter's cheek, soothing her as she mewled and used her lungs for her first proper cries.

Using some strong threads, (Y/n) made two tight knots in the cord and with a sharp knife from one of the drawers, she cut the cord and held her daughter closer. Ready for whenever she found the willpower to start moving and make a plan of action.

Time seemed infinite and paused at the same time, it stretched out and felt like no time at all had passed her by as she sat there on the floor.

The towel she had been gripping and biting down on was now wrapped around her baby, swaddled and safely cradled to (Y/n)'s chest for warmth and protection.

The wall behind her was as cold and soothing as the floor she was slumped on; the back of her head pushed against the wall, feeling the damp stone soaking against her sweat-ridden hair. She knew she would of been slumped down on the floor if the wall weren't there to prop her up.

What little reserves of energy she had left, (Y/n) tried to call upon and bring forwards, but she felt like she could close her eyes and disappear into oblivion. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to get up or crawl or try her best to walk out of this room and do something with herself. Disappearing and fading away was all she wanted to do.

When she had been in this position before, (Y/n) had always been in bed, comfortable, able to rest as soon as her trial was over. The healers were strict on her remaining in bed for at least three days, only moving to come to the privy chamber and then straight back into bed. They didn't want her walking or moving about until she was rested and better and not at risk of bleeding or infection or taking a bad turn.

There was no time for rest. If she rested, if she slept here on the floor or crawled and huddled herself up in bed, someone would find her. Geta would see her. The maids would come in and alert the palace of what had happened. Everyone would know, and that was the last thing that needed to happen.

A whimper broke past her lips when she slumped herself forward. She knew if she didn't move now then she never would. Her legs felt awful. They felt as if they had been hollowed out and filled in with water, no bone left to support her or keep her upright. Just quaking knees that wavered back and forth when she tried to lock them in place and support herself.

One arm cradled her baby to her chest while her other hand glued against the wall, using it to push herself up until the stone was grating against the skin of her palms and her nails were digging in and wearing down.

Her bare feet were flooded with pins and needles once she was stood upright, and her knees continued to shake violently as her thighs ached and screamed out from being stood up. This was the last thing her body needed, but (Y/n) didn't know what else to do.

A small sob tumbled past (Y/n)'s lips and tears began to streak down her features once again, with no way or willpower to stop them.

The horrid squelching feeling between her thighs made (Y/n) look down and try to pull on the hem of her gown before she let it fall back down quickly. It was blood trickling down her thighs. The pale cream gown that reached her knees was already crumpled and soiled; now it was going to be dyed crimson too.

She did her best to ignore the feeling, put the thought to the very back of her mind so she could continue. It wouldn't last long, a bit of blood was normal, it was something (Y/n) could deal with; she had to keep moving.

Her feet seemed to shuffle against the floor rather than lift and pick up properly, but at least she was getting herself moving, that was the main thing.

The jostling movements seemed to soothe the newborn in her arm who was tucked and nuzzled against her chest. Her mewling cries had stopped and she was still breathing and settling in (Y/n)'s embrace, that was what she needed. If her daughter began to wail and cry then she would alert and draw attention to them.

The air in the bed chamber seemed warmer and more suffocating when (Y/n) passed through. She could scarcely draw in a proper breath and it made the magnificent stars twinkle before her eyes once again.

Her right hand continued to scour against the wall and the back of the sofa and the cabinets, using anything and everything within her reach to prop herself up and keep moving forward. Walking unaided didn't seem to be achieveable right now, in this state.

When she passed through the adjoining room and made her way into the hall, the dim lighting was comforting. The corridors back here weren't lined with windows to let the late afternoon sun creep in. The only source of light was the candles and scornces lining the walls, giving a dim burnt orange glow which casted dark shadows along the walls and over the stone floor.

(Y/n) continued to keep her right hand pressed against the wall, trudging ahead though the stars continued to sparkle in her eyes and her head felt like it was filling up with air. She needed to keep moving. She needed to get out of this palace. She needed to get her children and take them somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the Senates.

"Oh, Empress!"

That high-pitched voice made (Y/n)'s nerves ignite and spark like they had been set on fire and she outwardly cringed, coiling her hunched frame closer to the wall as if for protection.

It was Gia. (Y/n)'s maid, only a few years younger than herself. Someone who (Y/n) often found herself talking to because in a place like this, she needed people she could confide in. Especially when (Y/n) moved from her homeland to Rome when she married Geta, and the only person to travel with her from home was Luena. A stout woman who had been the head of (Y/n)'s household since she were a child.

Gia looked shocked, one hand pressing to her chest over her heart while her other hand flapped at her side like she were a bird trying to take flight. Her jaw hung down and her wide brown eyes deepened and doubled in size as she took in the state of her Lady.

It took her a moment to realise that the Empress wasn't crippled over in agony or out here looking for help; she wasn't going into labour or having a complication with her pregnancy. She'd already had the baby; the newborn was already settled in the crook of her arm.

She stepped closer to (Y/n), but not quite near enough to reach out for her. "I'll fetch the Emperor, and- and the healers-"

"You'll fetch my daughters, and a carriage. We're g- going on a journey."

(Y/n) surprised herself as the words left her lips and sounded firmer than she thought she would manage in this state.

When she lifted her head, she saw that Gia's expression was gaping, hollow, horrified. She was shaking her head and finally reached out to rest a hand to (Y/n)'s elbow, but (Y/n) wouldn't step closer or lean into her. She didn't want sympathy, she needed someone she trusted to help her.

"No, my lady, please. Sit with me for a while, you need rest." Gia made a small motion towards the room (Y/n) had just come out of, hoping that if she sounded kind and warm enough, that her Empress would agree and listen to her.

No such luck.

A sob broke past (Y/n)'s lips as she began to shake her head. "I have four daughters, and the Senates w-want Geta to take another wife. I can't- I won't… it isn't safe. Get my daughters."

The young maid looked torn between her duty, and wanting to help the woman she promised to serve.

She knew her duty would be to go to the Emperor, he was the highest form of command, he was the one who made the orders and set the rules. She was bound by her obedience to Rome to go and tell him that his wife was unwell, in peril, that she was struggling and needed help.

But her moral code was inclined towards (Y/n). Her Empress was asking her to do something, and Gia wanted to comply. She could see and understand the peril (Y/n) was in.

If the Senates were trying to do this then they would go to any lengths they deemed necessary. They would try and send (Y/n) away, hide her, hurt her, make her disappear. They would do what they could to get her out of their path and secure an absolved marriage for Geta so they could pick someone they deemed more suitable and favourable for him. They might go as far as to hurt the Princesses.

Gia couldn't be associated or condoned with those actions, she had to help (Y/n) if her conscience was to remain clear and her Empress had any chance of getting through this ordeal.

"I'll get them." Gia nodded furiously and squeezed (Y/n)'s elbow with as gentle a smile as she could muster. She couldn't refuse, no matter the cost, and she needed to help her Empress.

She didn't feel right about leaving the Empress in such a state, but she had been told to go and fetch the Princesses, and (Y/n) was already moving down the hall once again. She was leaning against the wall, shuffling her feet and breathing small puffs of air rather than deeper breaths.

Gia turned and hurried in the opposite direction, telling herself not to turn and look back. The quicker she did as she was told and got the girls, the sooner she could be back with (Y/n) to help and assist her in whatever scheme she was trying to come up with.

(Y/n) felt like she was walking over hot coals. Her body, from her neck down to the very base of her feet, was boiling over and clammy with sweat. She could feel the blood sticking to her thighs and she was sure that it hadn't stopped yet, but she tried to push that to the back of her mind and push through the burning sensation rising on her skin.

She had to keep moving. She had to find a carriage and get her daughters out of Rome. They had to be safe; even if that meant going back to her homeland, where her children had never been.

Being out of Rome meant the Senates wouldn't be able to reach them, and being close to her father meant she would be under his protection.

Someone needed to protect them.

***

Something didn't feel right.

Geta had a gnawing feeling deep in his gut that something wasn't right, and he needed to put that feeling to rest or he was never going to get through the dsy and get anything done.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he powered down the dimly lit hall and aimed for his chambers. He hadn't heard from (Y/n) all day. She hadn't come to find him, she hadn't sent any message to him through the servants, none of which had been in to check on the Empress and see if she needed anything.

Geta needed to check she was alright; she hadn't looked well to him this morning and he chided himself for leaving her and not fetching the healers. But he hadn't wanted to upset her, she would of told him if she needed a healer and if she refused, he could hardly get them anyway and end up infuriating her by going behind her back.

The sensation of coold chills crawling through his blood and the golden hairs on his arms standing on end made Geta's gut clench. Something wasn't right, he could feel it.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers stretching and spasming as he approached the door to their chambers, which was partially open. That wasn't the best sign.

He walked in and passed through the study, which didn't look like it had been touched at all today.

The door to the bed chamber was open, which again made Geta uncomfortable and uncertain. Apprehension flowed through him and his steps slowed down as he approached the door and carefully stepped inside.

He wasn't sure what exactly made him look down but when he did, his heart lurched up into his throat and his breathing came to a halt.

Blood.

Why was there blood on the floor? Oh Gods, what had happened in here? Where was his wife?

His hands trembled as he walked around the room almost in a daze, his steps slow and precise as he tried to take in every aspect. The sheets on the bed were strewn and thrown about, and Geta knew his wife liked things to be in order, she liked to have the bed properly made once they were up.

He peered over at the bed and found his nostrils flaring as his throat tightened. Stained sheets. (Y/n)'s waters had broken. She had gone into labour at some point since this morning. Why hadn't she sent for him? Why hadn't she called out, why had no one sent for the healers? What on Earth was happening?

He called out her name, though he wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer. And he aimed for the privy chamber just to make absolutely sure that his wife wasn't anywhere in their quarters so he could find the guards and go on a rampage.

His stomach clenched and he gagged when he looked inside the smaller adjoining room to the bed chamber.

Blood tainted the floor. Stained sheets and towels strewn about the room. A bloodied knife. A placenta. But no (Y/n). No Empress to show for what she had endured.

And no baby either.

Geta could feel the blood pulsing through his ears and causing his body to become overwhelmed with heat as he turned and bolted from the room and left the chambers. He needed to find his wife; she could be hurt, in peril, in need of the healers.

What was she thinking, leaving their room like that? What was she doing? Had she gone to try and find help? Was someone with her now, or was she somewhere in the palace, all alone with their newest babe in her arms?

A growl vibrated through Geta's chest when he fled down the hall and almost crashed into one of the maids as he turned a corner.

The young girl gasped and tried to take a step back, clearly about to go into a curtsey for her Emperor, when Geta snagged her wrist in his hand. His grip was tight enough to bruise and she whimpered as he yanked her hand close to his chest and sneered down at her.

"Where is my wife?" He seethed through gritted teeth, eyes full of venom while he yanked her wrist close to his chest and his other hand reached out to flag down the guard stood dutifully at the end of the hall.

The maid cried out, petrified as she started to tear up from sheer terror; everyone within the palace, in all of Rome in fact, knew that the Emperor was fearsome if his beloved wife or children weren't around him.

"I- I don't know Emperor," the girl trembled as she spoke, though her eyes wouldn't lift to look at Geta.

She feebly pointed with her free hand down to the floor until Geta looked and realised that there were smudges of blood and droplets trailing down the hall, soaked into the stone floor.

With this new revelation, Geta thrust the maid's arm back at her with such force that she stumbled until her shoulders hit the wall and she cried out, bending her knees to brace herself so she didn't collapse. It was clear that she was of no more use to Geta; she was already forgotten to him by this point.

Geta's hand reached out towards the guard who approached them and he snapped his fingers to gain the attention he desired.

"Search the palace and find the Empress; she's unwell, she could be hurt. I want her safe, now."

Within the blink of an eye the guard had vanished, following the blood trail and hoping to bump into some other guards for extra help to find the Empress. And the maid made quick work of scuttling off in the other direction, wanting to be as far away from the madness as possible.

Both Geta's hands found their way to his hair, tugging and pulling until strands were coming loose between his fingers and getting snagged and hooked within his rings.

He felt like he was going mad.

Where was (Y/n)? Tears welled in his reddening eyes but Geta pushed them back, taking deep breaths through his nose until the feeling disipated and he felt somewhat in control again. He needed (Y/n). He needed to know she and the baby were okay. He had to find them.

His sandals echoed as they slapped and thundered against the stone floor, each step faster than the previous one until he was running around the palace he could navigate even with his eyes blinded and his hearing shot.

Geta didn't know how much time had passed as he trolled through the palace, looking in every place he thought possible that his wife would go to. She wasn't near the council room where Geta had been previously- he thought she might have tried to look for him. She wasn't in their daughter's apartments, she wasn't at the gardens or near the library quarters where (Y/n) spent a lot of her time.

It felt like he had seached the entirety of the palace, twice, without any luck and Geta was close to losing his mind.

The sun was already fading into the horizon and servants were rushing by lighting candles and sconces in their midst of keeping a look out for their beloved Empress.

Then they came into sight.

Past the hall that led off to the gardens and past the great hall, close to the main entrance doors to the palace. What was she doing here- was she planning on trying to leave?

Geta's brows furrowed with frown lines and deep setting grooves around the corners of his mouth as he looked at the scene ahead of him.

His wife, his beautiful Empress, slouched with her back pressed up against the wall, her skin glistening in the candlelight so that even from afar, Geta could see that she was clammy and overcome with sweat and heat. Her eyes were almost closed, head tipped back against the wall, and there was a bundle wrapped up tight and held fiercely to her chest.

But what confused Geta even more was the sight of all three of his daughters, huddled around their mother with tears in their eyes and wobbling lips letting out whimpers and the occasional cry.

There was a maid stood protectively in front of the children, trying to keep them all huddled close to her skirts with (Y/n) behind them like all of them were trying to crowd their Empress and protect her.

What scared him the most and caused his heart to jump up into his throat was the sight of his guards, his own protection, stood around the group of women, with their swords raised and pointed at them. He told his guards to find his wife and make sure she was safe, not threaten her and treat her like an intruder.

"Leave them be!"

He roared as he pelted towards all of them, desperate to make his arms grow and stretch so he could hold all of his girls to his chest and encase them in his embrace and safety.

But (Y/n) had to be his first priority.

His knees ached as they hit the cold floor the moment (Y/n) seemed to give up and slide down. She couldn't hold herself up any longer, she couldn't hunch or crouch or try and stay on her feet that had long since turned cold and numb and her knees were too weak to prop her up any longer.

Geta shuffled closer until he was kneeling in front of his wife, arms outstretched towards her until his hands were delicately cupping her features that were burning hot like he was holding the sun within his palms.

He hated that he had to shake and pull her head forward from the wall to get (Y/n) to open her eyes and focus on him. She was barely breathing, shallow breaths escaping her chapped lips as she blinked furiously to try and focus on him.

He felt like he couldn't breathe either, gasping for each proper breath as he looked down at the child swaddled in a towel within (Y/n)'s embrace.

His child. Their fourth child, already here and alive and seemingly well enough, curled up in (Y/n)'s arms. How had this happened? Why had it happened? This should have been a joyous occasion, not a harrowing ordeal.

"What's happened?" The tears that fell from (Y/n)'s eyes, and the look she gave him when their gazes finally locked, made Geta's stomach clench. "Oh my love, what have you done?"

His hands left her features so he could encase his arms around her and reel her into his chest. As soon as (Y/n)'s head was settled against his golden robes and the soft fabric brushed her cheek and Geta's scent flooded her nose, a broken sob tore from her lips.

"A girl." She could barely talk, her voice scratchy and broken and her head felt so strange and far away and full of cotton.

Geta's eyes cast down and he tried to lean back enough so that he could see the bundle resting in between them. His hand shook as he graced his palm over the back of their daughter's head. He wanted so badly to break out into a smile, to grin and laugh and proclaim that he had another girl, another child safely delivered. He wanted to thank Juno for the delivery of this little girl and the safe deliverance of his wife, but he couldn't.

There was no one to thank for a situation like this. Something had terrified his wife into going through this ordeal on her own with no help or guidance. This could have ended horribly. He could have lost one or even both of them, and for what? Why?

"Papa," his head turned sharply to the left when he felt a soft pair of hands curling around his bicep and clutching tightly. "You were talking about a new wife, if mama's baby wasn't a boy."

Cassia's mellow yet frightened tone made Geta's brows knit together and his lips parted, but he couldn't find any words. He began to shake his head in denial. Where had she heard that? He hadn't said anything of the sort. Geta had never proclaimed or made any indication that he wouldn't be happy to have another daughter.

"But I didn't-"

As he looked between them, the words faded out on his tongue and his frame deflated. Someone had overheard his meeting with the Senate last week. Someone had caught part of that conversation and taken it out of context, they hadn't waited to hear Geta's reply.

They presumed he had been on board with what had been said to him. They truly thought he would agree and go ahead with such a horrid plan, to have his marriage annulled and another wife found for him because he hadn't had a boy just yet.

Such a look of anguish flooded Geta's dark eyes and when he turned his head back to (Y/n), a single tear traced down the bridge of his nose.

"You thought I'd do that to you, to all my girls?" He looked around them again, seeing the reddened, teary-eyed faces of his children looking at him in confusion, fearing what was happening.

Did they all think that of him? Did his daughters believe he would cast them aside, that he would throw them away and discard them to try and find something better? When he knew that there was nothing in all of Rome, all of the world in fact, that could be better than his Empress and daughters combined.

Another sob wracked (Y/n)'s chest, but she couldn't pull herself out of his embrace. "The S- the Senates, they won't be happy."

Geta knew instantly by the tone of her voice that that was what this was all about. It hadn't so much been anything he had said or not said during that meeting, it was what the Senate had implied. It was the fear of what they could do which had invoked such terror into (Y/n) and turned the events out like this.

He began to shake his head, furious breaths escaping him as he looked around towards the useless guards who had only served to rile him up thus far.

"I want the healers brought to my chambers right now. No one is to talk to any of the Senates, is that understood? Not a word of this to anyone."

Once his wife was looked after and his family was safe and calmed, then Geta would deal with the Senate personally. He would tell them of his fourth child, his little Princess. He would make it clear that his children were his word, and if any of them were put in jeopardy or afraid, then there would be Hell to pay. And if any of the Senates so much as looked at his wife in the wrong way, their lives would be lost.

His arms tightened around (Y/n) and with a kiss to the top of her head, he carefully moved from his knees to his feet and helped her up along with him. When his gaze fell upon the young maid, a dubious look flooded his pupils. He wasn't pleased she had helped in this, she had tried to get his wife and children away from him, but Geta recognised her as (Y/n)'s most favoured maid.

"Come; we will talk of this later." His tone was stern but Gia knew thatnothing bad would happen to her, she could feel it.

When Geta's eyes set upon his children, his features softened into a loving smile annd he ticked his head to one side to beckon them along with him.

"Come on flowers, you're not going anywhere without me."

As soon as he began to help (Y/n) walk down the hall, his arms around her and her shivering frame encased to his chest, all three children soon followed like ducklings.

Cassia stood to Geta's right side, her hand curling around his elbow to try and keep hold of him and not lose pace with him. While Antonia grabbed the scruff of his robes and clung tight, trotting on his other side as she sniffed and wiped her face against his robes. Her papa was here, and he would make everything alright. She hadn't understood what was happening, but at least things would be better now.

And Aelia followed along behind, kicking her feet out as she tried to keep up, with the maid following swiftly behind her.

A sigh blended in with a whimper as (Y/n) closed her eyes and let her head drop forward, too heavy for her to try and hold up. She could feel her mind clouding over, becoming drowsy, too heavy for her to hold up or try to control. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to be somewhere safe with her children and hide away until the world righted itself again.

The moment her steps began to falter and she started to stumble to one side, she found Geta's hands on her hips, bringing her to a swift halt.

Within an instant, his arms were around her and she was swooped up into his embrace. Her legs hung limp over his arm and her head leant into his chest, feeling his hand gripping and comforting on her waist as he held her bridal style and began to walk down the corridor as if he were carrying a stack of feathers, not his wife and youngest child.

(Y/n) tried to tighten her arms around her baby, keeping the newborn close to her chest, though they were still settled and already on their way to sleep.

"What were you thinking?" Geta whispered against her temple, burying his nose in her hair as all his thoughts began to spill from his mouth.

"Do you know how dangerous that was, to do that alone? What if something happened, what if I lost either of you? Do you not realise what that would do to me?"

He couldn't live without her. If something had happened, if Juno hadn't been watching over (Y/n) and helped her get through that ordeal on her own, then Geta would have died. He would have burned all of Rome to the ground and taken it with him in his demise. He couldn't survive without (Y/n), she and the girls were his everything.

(Y/n) didn't trust her voice to respond, nor could she find the words, but she managed to incline her head back just enough to pepper her lips against Geta's throat. The touch made his skin vibrate with shivers as she began to prss open-mouthed kisses to his throat and Adam's apple, tucking her face up against his shoulder, glad to be in his arms once again.

She felt his chin rest upon her head, keeping her moulded against him like two broken pieces that fit together perfectly.

"Keep up, flowers, come on."

When Geta turned to look around him, he found all three of his girls trotting along with him. Clinging to him, following close behind, making sure they didn't get lost or left behind. They wanted to stay right where their father could see and reach them.

Geta pressed his lips to the crown of (Y/n)'s head and rested his lips there, breathing in her scent that worked like a drug to calm his raging nervous system and make his erratic heart settle. He wasn't sure when he got to their chambers that he would be able to put her down at all.

When they reached the apartments, Cassia pushed open the door and trotted inside first. It was clear the six year old was about to head straight into her parents bed chambers until Geta cleared his throat.

"You three remain in here with Gia until I come and get you. Understand?" There was no room for debate in Geta's voice and although each girl huffed, frowned and even shed a few tears, they made themselves comfortable on the sofa.

Once he was in the bedroom, alone with his wife, Geta kicked the door shut with his heel and headed towards the bed that was still in a state of tussled sheets and covers. He was as gentle as ever when he leant over the bed, pressing his knees into the mattress to carefully ease (Y/n) down onto the bed, trying not to jostle their newborn within her arms.

Once she was laid down, Geta perched on the edge of the bed and began to card his fingers through her sweat-ridden hair, brushing the strands away from her face and eyes.

"Just stay awake with me, sweetheart, until the healers come and make you better."

(Y/n) hummed, doing her best to keep her eyes open, but the pained look on Geta's face was too hard to look at. So she stared down at his chest, rising and falling deeply beneath his golden robes with sewn threads of crimson and burnt orange.

"I promise that I'm not going anywhere, love. The Senates can't do anything to you or the girls. All five of you," his hand reached out to cup the back of their youngest daughter's head, "are my world. I love each of you, and I won't lose any of you, not for anything in the world."

That was a promise, a vow, a pledge.

None of those men were going to get close to Geta's family. They wouldn't be able to look at (Y/n), to make snide remarks to her or try and scare her like this again. They couldn't get rid of her, they couldn't stop her from being Geta's wife and Empress. They couldn't stop his girls from being his succession. They couldn't do anything to his family, or else they would unleash Hell onto Rome.

He could see that his words caused (Y/n) to relax, her limbs loosening as she sank deeper into the pillows and a ghost of a smile traced across her mouth.

Though she did try and open her eyes when Geta moved his hands to cradle their youngest girl.

When he finished with the last knot, Geta trailed his hands down (Y/n)'s sides towards her waist, curving his hands around her hips to softly pull her back against his chest so there was no inch of space between them.

His lips attached to her neck, placing soft, open mouthed kisses to her skin while he looked at the reflection shining back at them in the mirror that was haloed with gold from the morning sun.

"There," he murmured against her skin, feeling the way his words sent vibrations through her skin.

"Thank you," (Y/n) was grateful for his help, though she knew all she had to do was ask and he would help her in any way he could, it was still warming that Geta had helped her today without needing to be asked first. As soon as (Y/n) pulled the gown over her shoulders, Geta was suddenly behind her, pulling and arranging it into place and getting the strings woven into place.

She felt his hands squeezing her hips before they slid around her waist until both palms were cupping her stomach, something Geta was well accustomed to doing each time she was pregnant.

"They're active this morning." He commented quietly, an amused look on his face with his lips quirked up to one side.

Their eyes met in the reflection when (Y/n) tiredly opened her eyes and tilted her head forward again, lifting it from his shoulder.

He could feel the baby kicking against his hand. Geta loved to feel the baby moving, it was the highlight of his day more than anything else; more than the fights in the colosseum.

(Y/n) hummed and glanced down to her stomach. The baby had been moving quite a lot during the night too. She was getting to that stage where sleeping was becoming difficult when she couldn't find the right or comfy position to sleep in, not with the baby wriggling and kicking and making her feel queasy a lot of the time. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy now, within the next full moon, the baby would be here.

(Y/n) felt a kiss to her cheek before Geta's chest heaved a sigh and his hands were sliding from her stomach to cup her hips again. He wanted to part himself from her, but leaving her was always such a hard task to complete.

"I have to go, the Senates have called a meeting." The tone of his voice gave away how irritating this was to him.

The last thing Geta wanted to do was go to a meeting with those men first thing in the morning. Especially when it was a meeting they had called, for reasons unknown to him. Whenever they had a topic to discuss, it was usually something boring, something draining and a waste of Geta's valuable time.

Time which could be better spent doting on his wife or being with his children or watching over his brother and seeing what kind of mood his twin was in. Spending his time listening to those men drone on and bore him with things that weren't of interest or high importance was not a good way for Geta to spend his time.

But needs must. He couldn't ignore a call from the Senate for long, otherwise they would come to him and bore him wherever he was in the palace. Getting this over and done with now was his easiest option.

Turning her head to look up over her shoulder, (Y/n) pressed a kiss to his cheek and nodded. "I'll go and see the girls."

If the girls weren't having their lessons this morning, then (Y/n) would pay them a visit. Most of her free time when she wasn't sitting with Geta and going through his notes and the commissions he had to sign, was spent with their girls. Especially Aelia; their youngest wasn't ready for lessons yet. The nursemaid was only there for early mornings and evenings when the Royal couple retired to bed. Otherwise (Y/n) was the one tending to her children.

As much as Geta wasn't ready to go and be bored into slumber by the Senates, he knew he had to go now and get this over with.

He turned (Y/n) around in his arms, hands still finding purchase on her hips while he bent down and caught her in a kiss. Before he parted from her, he bent over to press his lips to her rounded stomach, grinning to himself as they finally parted.

The council were waiting on him.

Geta's fingers began to drum against the armrest he was slouched towards. This meeting was become tedious, and he hadn't been here for very long.

When he first came into the great hall and took his seat, he had been little more than confused to look around and realise that his twin wasn't here. It wasn't usual for them to call a meeting but only summon one Emperor over the other.

Sure, half the time Caracalla's condition rendered him useless in such meetings and his temper was hit and miss, but they always called him. It wasn't worth having a meeting without him and letting his rage get the better of him if he found out he had been excluded.

Geta had been moments away from walking out the room and telling them he would fetch his brother if they were too incompetant to do so, when one of the Senates, Osaris, told him this was an informal meeting. This was about Geta, they had personal things they wished to discuss with him and didn't want to inconvenience or bore Emperor Caracalla.

That news wasn't so much relieving as it was disconcerting. Geta didn't like where that train of thought took him or what this meeting was going to be about. This meant they weren't happy with something, they wanted him to make some changes or bend to their will.

The last time they had some kind of 'informal discussion' like this, the Senates had tried to convince Geta that his daughters shouldn't be schooled or tutored, that it would be better to teach them etiquette and embroidery. To forgo their reading and Latin, their history and scholars and the workings of Rome and the councils.

Geta wouldn't hear of it. His girls were smart, they were his pride and joy and they needed as good an education as any son he might one day have. Everything that he and Caracalla had learned- and the lessons they had ignored and skipped- were to be taught to his children.

His fingers continued to tap against the armrest while one leg crossed over the other beneath his gown and he began to bite the inside of his cheek. His lips formed into a pout and Geta raised a brow as he looked around all these elder men who were starting to get on his nerves.

"Out with it." With a sigh, he clicked his fingers at them and began to tap one foot against the floor.

They needed to get to the point or he was going to end this meeting and leave. They had been dancing around whatever issue it was that had brought them all here. He needed them to be clear, to explain what was on their minds and see if they could come up with a solution to whatever it was, or else this meeting was pointless and therefore had come to an end.

A few of them looked between one another, as if drawing invisible straws to decide who would come out with it.

Finally one of them cleared his throat and took a careful step forward. He had a plain smile on his face that was more unnerving than calming, and both hands were clasped together in front of him as he tried to word it carefully. They all knew that both Emperors had short tempers.

"Emperor, we wanted to discuss the… delicate situation, regarding the Empress."

Now that got his attention.

Geta narrowed his eyes, still biting the inside of his cheek as he straightened his stance and sat back on his throne.

"This 'situation' is the same as the previous three times, is it not? My views are the same, the healers know their main priority is the Empress."

Was that was this was all about? The upcoming birth of (Y/n) and Geta's nect child. If so then this was a rather pointless meeting, because everything was the same as it had been with Cassia, Antonia and Aelia.

Geta had been a nervous wreck when they had Cassia. It had been (Y/n)'s first pregnancy, and this was a perilous thing. He didn't want to lose his wife or for her to suffer immensely like other women were prone to, and he didn't want anything happening to his first child, his heir, either. But things had gone incredibly smooth without issue.

It had been made clear that the best healers in Rome would remain at the palace, they would be here for when (Y/n) went into labour and they would stay for up to a week afterwards to ensure there were no adverse reactions or problems with mother and child. And they knew that their priority was (Y/n).

If anything happened during labour and problems arose, the healers had to put all their efforts into saving (Y/n). Geta could lose a child, he could overcome that, but he wouldn't survive losing his Empress.

Again, the Senates looked between one another before a different one spoke up this time.

"Yes, but what if she produces another girl?"

"What of it?" Geta sighed through the words as he planted his elbows on the armrests of the throne and inched forwards.

He had a gut instinct of where this conversation was going, and he wasn't impressed. He didn't want to be having this conversation, it had happened a lot over the years.

All of these same men had been eager that the first heir should be a boy, and their disappointment was clear when Cassia was born. There was little over thirteen months separating Cassia and Antonia, and again the Senates had hoped and tried to prepare for a boy, but alas they had another Princess in their midst.

Three years later, Aelia was born and the Senates had grown wary of having this conversation with Geta, because he didn't seem phased. He was delighted with each daughter he was blessed with and he didn't seem disappointed or in a rush to have a son. If this child was another girl, Geta would count himself lucky and proud and that would be the end of the matter.

"This would be the fourth girl, Emperor… perhaps the Gods have little faith in her to give you an heir-"

"You think my daughters are not my heirs?" His words were almost sarcastic, on the verge of becoming a joke, but the implications were clear. He was getting irritated and his patience was starting to wear thin.

Geta knew that no one in Rome would be pleased if Cassia or any of his daughters took the throne after something happened to him and Caracalla. But they wouldn't have any other choice if Geta only had daughters and there were no other relatives to take the throne.

Sure, if his daughters were married then their husbands would take charge of Rome, but at least his children would be there beside them on the throne. They would be Empress to Rome, and Geta saw no wrong with that.

His daughters were heirs to all he had, and it was clear that Caracalla was going to have no legitimate heirs to take after him, so it would be Geta's blood that stayed on the throne and took over from them.

With a sigh, Geta clasped his hands together and looked around them all. "I am not worried if my Empress gives me another daughter; this is her fourth child and each time has been safe and smooth. There is plenty of time to have a boy; my wife is clearly blessed by Juno."

Why should he be worried?

They were in their twenties, there was plenty of time to produce a male heir if that was what the Gods intended for them.

Each pregnancy thus far, (Y/n) has come through clear on the other side, she hadn't suffered or had complications and her and their babies had been safe and well.

Juno had become the God that Geta most associated and prayed to these days because of how often she had looked down on (Y/n) and seen her through these ordeals. Hell, Geta would make Juno his patron Goddess for how much she had done for him.

The healers had always commented on how lucky and blessed the Empress was to get through each labour and not lose her health or her children in the process. The people of Rome thought of (Y/n) as a Goddess, they praised her every day for what she had gotten through and for how she loved and cared for the people so deeply.

If the people of Rome had despised the Emperors before, then they loved them now, simply because of (Y/n).

"But your daughters cannot take your throne, as you know. Four girls would be a bad omen, Emperor." Senator Dius stood to his feet and spoke louder to get his voice heard.

It was a sign that the Gods weren't happy with Geta. He had been given four daughters. One was enough. One daughter to marry for an alliance was a good thing, a bargaining tool for the future to supply their armies and keep Rome in favour and make her the most powerful in the world. But four, that was an omen. A sign that Rome would be in turmoil and struggle for a blood heir, a leader, to take the throne.

If Geta didn't have a son then there would be war when he died over who would take the throne. Caracalla was a lost cause when it came to marriage and heirs, his mind was too far gone with disease for any hope to be placed on his shoulders.

When Geta gave them no response and they couldn't identify the anger burning within his eyes, another took it as a sign to carry on the conversation and pitch in the idea that all the Senates had earlier agreed to try and push for.

"Perhaps you should consider taking another wife, one who would bear more fruitful heirs… give you a son, your Highness, if the Empress fails again."

"Then you would finally have the heir you want. A son would take precident over all those girls."

"A son, over my girls?"

A sigh rumbled through Geta's gritted teeth and past his dry lips. He wasn't impressed with where this conversation was going, nor with how they were being so bold as to suggest such a horrid thing.

Dread sparked in Cassia's stomach and her hands trembled as they pressed against the wooden door she had been one minute away from bustling through to find her father.

The six year old stood in shock, her fiery orange hair flowing in ringlets past her shoulders and pinned behind one ear with a lily plucked fresh from the garden.

Is that what her father wanted? Did he want a boy? What would it mean if he did marry someone else? What of their beloved mother, what would she do, what would happen to her? Would the girls stay with her, wherever she went, or were they all to be separated? Would the girls see their father or would he not want them if he found another wife, if he had a boy?

Tears welled up in Cassia's eyes and she turned, hurrying away from the room with deflated shoulders and a churning stomach.

"It would be relatively easy to obtain a dissolve of the marriage, and find you a more accomodating wife."

This is what the Senates had been discussing. They wanted what was best for Rome, and they would easily help their Emperor obtain a moure suitable wife who could produce an heir. Geta needed a legitimate heir to teach and train and make ready to take the throne, this would secure their future and the future of Rome.

If (Y/n) couldn't do that, the Senates would find someone who would. They had been all for Geta's marriage to (Y/n), until the couple fell in love. Then they realised that Geta couldn't be persuaded, poison couldn't be dripped into his ear.

He would take the advice from his wife, he would consult her. He doted on her, he loved his daughters like they were more valuable than a son. The influence (Y/n) had, coupled with her lack of producing the right kind of heir, made her a hinderence and a threat to the Senate.

"Be very careful what you say to me next." With his nails digging into his palms until they felt like they were cutting apart, Geta rose from his throne to stand tall before them.

They were going to invoke his anger if they continued trying to talk such treason right in front of him.

"My wife is worthy of your respect, not distrust. If you've forgotten how much I happen to love my Empress, then let me remind you that talk like that is worthy of treason. And I doubt her father would be best pleased if I told him what the mighty Senates of Rome are trying to plot against his child. Would you turn Rome's greatest ally into her worst enemy?"

It was pleasing to see a round of pale grey faces staring back at him and eyes wide as rabbits that knew they were about to become prey.

If it had escaped their notice that (Y/n) was the sun that rose in Geta's world each and every morning, then he would gladly remind them. And he would also remind them that not only would they invoke Geta's wrath by talking like this, but they would have an army on their doorsteps if her father heard of this.

The whole reason behind Geta's marriage to (Y/n)- which had been arranged since she was twelve years old- was to unite their two countries and create a fortified alliance.

(Y/n)'s homeland was their ally, and they had an army at their disposal whenever Rome was in need.

If her father learned that the Senates wanted to upend her, to take her from her rightful throne and replace her like she was nothing more than a common woman from the brothal, he would send his army over the seas to Rome without a second thought.

(Y/n) had done her duty, she had married Geta, fallen in love with him, given him three heirs which was about to become four. They couldn't cast her aside simply because she hadn't given birth to a boy just yet.

Geta wouldn't allow it and Rome would be put in peril if they did, Rome would have to fight an ally if that happened. Troops would descent upon them and they wouldn't be able to fight them off. It wasn't worth the risk simply to please the Senates; they would soon find something else to complain about. Whoever Geta or Caracalla married, would have some quirk or job they failed at which would be picked apart for the Senates pleasure.

"Do not talk of this again." This meeting was at an end; Geta wouldn't hear of this carrying on. It wasn't happening; not in this lifetime or the next.

Cassia's heart pounded so furiously against her chest that it began to hurt as she pelted down the corridor, her shoes slapping against the stone floor as her mother finally came into view.

"Mama!"

"Why aren't you with your tutor?" There was a smile on (Y/n)'s face when her eldest came barelling down the hall towards her.

She could never be mad at any of her girls, even if Cassia was skipping her lessons right now and she should really be there paying attention. She was a smart girl, and the sooner she started learning, the more advanced she would become.

But the smile on (Y/n)'s face quickly turned into a frown when she took in the look on her daughter's face and her wild, panting breaths.

Her hand reached out and brushed beneath Cassia's chin, tilting her head back so their eyes were level. "What is it?"

"Papa, he… he- they were talking, about papa having a new wife."

(Y/n)'s hand dropped from Cassia's chin immediately and moved to cup the back of Aelia's head, since the two year old was perched on her hip with her leg curved around (Y/n)'s protruding stomach. Her brows furrowed and her lips pursed as she took a deep breath.

"That isn't funny, don't tell tales-"

"I'm not! They were telling papa to have a boy with a new wife if- if you fail?" The six year old frowned as she spoke. She wasn't quite sure how it worked, or why having a girl would be classed as failing. She was only six, her lessons in the studies of Rome and the rulers hadn't covered the subject of heirs and all the ins and outs of the rules and what they implied.

Nor could she quite understand or gather why (Y/n) couldn't choose what baby she had and make it a boy or a girl. (Y/n) had told her countless times that it wasn't a choice, that the baby would form and grow within her but that didn't mean she decided what she was having. Cassia couldn't see why she didn't get a choice in the matter.

(Y/n)'s heart dropped like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake and her stomach gave an awful twist.

She realised that her daughter wasn't lying, she couldn't be lying, because what she had just said was indeed something that the Senates would come out with.

When she had Cassia, they had told her that she could always try again, they liked to remind (Y/n) that it was her duty to produce a male heir, to give Geta a son to take over the throne one day. Their disappointment in her had just grown and grown with each daughter she gave birth to.

Were they plotting against her now? They had a growing disapproval of her and dislike towards her, but to try and persuade Geta to cast her aside? To dissolve their marriage and find someone better, someone who could give him a son? Would they really do that?

Any woman understood more than a man did that having a son wasn't something that could be plotted, decided or agreed upon. No woman could choose, it was the luck of fate and the Gods whether the child was a boy or a girl. Some women gave birth to half a dozen sons. (Y/n) had been given daughters, and she loved each of them dearly.

But with each daughter she had, her panic grew because she knew the Senates were conniving, they were meticulous and deceitful and hateful. What would they do if this baby too was a girl?

Her body began to tremble as she reached out for Cassia and pulled her daughter into her side, running her hand up and down her back to try and calm her down.

"Ignore them, they're j- just being silly…" she had to swallow a deep breath to stop the tears from falling down her face. "Let's go for a walk."

Geta wouldn't do that. He wouldn't let them do that… would he?

***

A horrible headache raged behind (Y/n)'s eyes as she rubbed at her temple, willing the feeling to go away.

The afternoon sun shining through the windows was intense enough that it felt scorching on (Y/n)'s skin and she could barely keep her eyes open as she walked down the open hall. She knew where her youngest was toddling off to, Aelia was trying to find her way to the garden, she loved being around the flowers. Especially since Geta referred to all his girls as his flowers, his petals, his garden of beautiful things.

Now (Y/n) was regretting telling the nursemaid not to follow and to remain in the nursery. Her two year old was surprisingly fast, and (Y/n) was increasingly slow the more her headache persisted and the child within her started to kick up a fuss.

It didn't help matters that her mind was in turmoil over her husband these last few days.

Since Cassia had told her what she heard, (Y/n) had been woried, unsettled, uncertain. She tried to avoid Geta, something that cut deep into her heart and made her feel ill. She pulled away from him, tried to keep distance between them just in case the Senates had gotten to him and were trying to change his mind towards her.

If he listened to them and let them persuade him that (Y/n) was a bad omen, that she was unfavoured by the Gods, then her life and her daughter's futures would be in jeopardy.

What would Geta think if the next child they had was a girl? What would the Senates do, how would they try and influence him against her?

(Y/n) had never been eager to give birth, she knew how perilous it was for most women and she always worried that this time, she would suffer or something would go wrong. But she had always been excited at the thought of meeting her newest baby, of holding them in her arms and being besotted with a new, innocent little life to nurture.

Now she was worried about labour. She was terrified of the moment where the healer would hand her child to her and go straight to the Senates and deliver the news to them. She feared what the Senates would do and what Geta might say if they had already turned his mind against her.

(Y/n) loved Geta with all her heart and soul. She had never been more thankful that her arranged marriage had been to him and that they had fallen in love. She knew he loved her, but he was an Emperor, his duty was to Rome. If the Senates convinced him that having a son was his duty and that (Y/n) was leading him to fail, then if he believed them, her fate was in danger.

She tried to keep up with Aelia who was babbling to herself as she turned the corner, and (Y/n) swiftly followed. One hand pressed to her lower stomach as she tried not to go too fast and overdo it, but keep close enough to her daughter that if she tripped, (Y/n) would be within reach of her.

All the blood in (Y/n)'s body drained down to her toes when she lifted her head and caught sight of one of the Senates walking in the other direction, about to pass her by.

He had a daring look in his eyes when he realised who he was about to walk past, and his grin was frightening as their eyes locked and he bowed forward. A meagre sign of respect that almost felt like a taunting sign of indignity.

"Empress." When he straightened up, his gaze immediately diverted to her stomach. "Any day now… should we prepare to celebrate our first Prince, or yet another girl?"

He glanced in the direction of Aelia with a smirk still dancing across his lips as he waited for a response to his baiting remark.

(Y/n) hated that she let her expression fall, that her torment and fear was plastered across her face and clearly visible in her eyes. Her throat tightened with the need to be sick and heat crept up her skin like she was about to pass out.

She didn't grace him with an answer or a quick witted remark, she didn't trust her voice and nothing she said would put him in his place or make him regret what he said or the implications in his words.

With her head held up and her gaze set on her daughter, (Y/n) walked past him with squared shoulders and her breath held deep in her lungs.

Her hand raised to her mouth and her teeth bit down on the side of her hand beneath her thumb, digging in until the flesh felt raw and started to burn and her jaw ached. It was the only way to stop herself from bursting into tears and letting out the scream that was welling up in her lungs. She couldn't give him the satisfaction or let herself get worked up over this.

She had to carry on. She had to keep going. She had to pretend that everything was okay; even if it wasn't.

***

A frown slowly worked its way onto Geta's face and he felt his heart deflating in his chest as he looked down at his wife.

He felt the way she tensed when he rested his hand on the dip in her waist just above her hip. He didn't know what he had done or what he was doing wrong, but this last week he hadn't seemed to do anything right.

Each time he tried to curve himself around her, when he tried to pull her into his embrace or even kiss her, she almost seemed worried. (Y/n) didn't lean into his touch like she usually would, she didn't cling to his arm when they walked together or lay against his side when they went to bed at night.

His concern was multiplying each time he tried to reach for her and she either didn't respond or tried to move away.

What had he done? Why was she pulling away from him?

With a deflated sigh, Geta leant over her and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her cheek before he turned and got off the bed. It was time to be getting up and getting dressed, he wasn't going to broach the subject now or ask what he had done, not if she wasn't going to tell him or even acknowledge it.

(Y/n)'s heart pained and felt stabbed when Geta retreated from the bed, but in her mind, she was relieved. The tension slowly started to loosen from her limbs and she let out the air she had been deeply holding within her lungs.

Her eyes remained closed and she buried her face into the mountain of pillows that always littered the bed for their comfort. Both arms were huddled to her chest and her knees pulled up as much as she could manage without hurting or constraining her growing stomach.

She heard Geta dismiss the maid and the sound of clinking glasses and trays; the breakfast tray must have been brought up.

It wasn't often that they would eat a lot in the morning, or that they would eat a meal in the dining hall this early in a morning. That was reserved for evening meals together with the girls and Caracalla, and quite possibly the Generals too.

"Are you ready for something to eat?"

Geta approached the bed once again and sat down, reaching a tentative hand to her arm. When she didn't pull away, much to his surprise, he leant over and perched his chin on her shoulder, pressing a slower, more loving kiss to her cheek this time.

"No, I- I think I'll lay for a bit longer, my head is aching." (Y/n) couldn't find the will to open her eyes, but she managed to turn her head in Geta's direction to acknowledge him at least.

It was hard to talk at the same time as she was fighting off the pains that were stabbing at her insides and trying to split her apart.

The contractions had started.

She had felt horribly uncomfortable during the night, barely able to get an hour of sleep before she was waking up again to try and move around or settle the rising sickness she felt or the ache in her lower back.

Before the sun rose, the familiar tearing feeling was back and (Y/n) had to stifle her cries so she didn't wake Geta when she realised she was going into labour. For the past four hours or so, (Y/n) had laid in bed, feeling as uncomfortable and constricted as ever as she curled in on herself, biting the pillow to smother her whimpers and remain quiet.

A frown worked its way onto Geta's face and he straightened up, pulling away from her with an affirmative look on his face.

"I'll fetch the healer."

"No." It was hard not to sound frightened or desperate and she reached behind her to grasp his arm. "I just n… just need to rest."

She gave a sharp tug on his wrist, pulling his arm closer to her until he sighed in that manner that told her he was giving in. He could never deny her anything, and they both knew it.

The last thing (Y/n) wanted was the healers being fetched and confirming what she already knew. The Senates would be notified that she had gone into labour. They would hover around and wait for any news; they would become vultures picking (Y/n) apart if she had another girl and didn't give them the boy everyone was hoping for.

Deep down she knew it wasn't right to suffer through this without a healer, but (Y/n) couldn't face one. She couldn't face the reality of this crushing situation. She wanted to have more time to prepare, to decide what she was going to do if she ended up with a fourth daughter, not her first son.

When Geta leaned down and pecked her lips, (Y/n) tried her best to smile and gave his wrist another squeeze.

"Keep the girls away, until I feel more rested?"

"As you wish," he spoke against her lips, claiming her mouth once again and scraping his teeth against her lower lip before he finally straightened up and clambered off the bed once again. "Send for me if you need me."

He knew she wouldn't want the girls running around the room, trying to show her their latest creation or what they had learnt or trying to rope her into getting up and going on a walk with them if she was feeling like this.

She was coming to the end of her term, she would be having this baby soon and Geta agreed that his wife needed rest, not stress and the children comandeering her for their games. He would instruct the maids to watch the girls for the day and to keep them away until the Empress was feeling better.

"I'll be back soon, love."

(Y/n) nodded, barely managing to hum her response. Her hand pressed to her temple, shielding her eyes from the small streaks of morning light creeping through the drapes.

As soon as the door clattered shut and she knew she was alone in her misery, (Y/n) moved her hands to the mattress and slowly heaved herself up into a sitting position.

She felt horrible for lying to Geta; she had barely told him a single lie before and it crushed her not to tell him that she was going into childbirth. He had always been by her side, holding her hand, cradling her in his arms, encouraging her through the ordeals. He had always been full of excitement and anticipation each time. And this time, she hadn't even told him it was happening. She let him walk out that door none the wiser to the situation.

The tears finally began to pour from her eyes and drench her features as she tossed the covers to one side and looked down at the sheets.

A guttural wail broke past her lips and her head tossed back at the sight of the drenched sheets. Her waters had broken. Things were moving swiftly, and if she didn't get a healer she would undoubtedly be suffering this ordeal by herself.

But that was much easier than having the Senates waiting in the next room, ready to pounce and lash out at her if she delivered them the wrong heir.

(Y/n) had done this three times before, her body knew what it was doing and she knew what to do and what to expect. She could do this alone.

If this baby was a boy, she could rejoice, she could call for the servants and lie that it had all happened so fast that she had no time to tell anyone or get help. The Senates would leave her alone, Rome would celebrate their first Prince and the world would right itself. (Y/n) would have no reason to worry.

If she had another girl, plans wouold have to be made. She would have to do something, take her daughters away, keep them from the Senate, maybe go back to her home country and seek refuge and protection for herself and her children. She certainly wouldn't be safe here if she produced another daughter.

Her legs wavered and quaked beneath her when she got to her feet and hunched over, using the tables and walls as leverage to prop herself up and make her way towards the adjoining privy chamber.

It was a smaller but more secluded room, further away from the bed chamber and the study. It was far from the corridor and the halls, no one would hear her in there, she could be alone, secluded, safe.

She snagged one of the blankets from the bed on her way and trudged into the room, glad the maids had set a fresh supply of towels in here that she could use to swaddle the baby and tidy herself up.

The floor was cold and soothing to her burning skin when she sank down and stretched her legs out in front of her, bunching her gown around her thighs while her trembling arms curved around her middle.

"Juno, please…" her head tipped back against the marble wall as prayers fell from her lips in helpless pleas. "Help me; watch over me."

Juno had favoured her in the past. (Y/n) had been blessed with Cassia soon after she and Geta married, and she had been watched over during the pregnancy and birth. She had sailed through each childbirth she endured with no complications. (Y/n) needed that protection once again, now more than before as she was doing this alone.