#getacalla

Geta had been aware of the troubling signs since an evening that felt like ages ago: his brother's trembling fingers, the dilation of his pupils, the barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his parched lips. An elderly doctor had referred to it as a nameless affliction.

Now, Caracalla had struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily like a ship on the brink of capsizing. A scream, more beast than man, tore through the stillness of the night.

"Vile traitors!" he roared, his voice breaking as he stretched his arms out wide, as though invoking a curse upon the heavens. "Rats! They stalk me, they watch me, moving between the columns! Do you not see them, Geta? They are there!"

Geta, his tunic dragging on the marble, walked slowly toward him, his hands outstretched in a sign of peace.

"There is no one here, brother. There is only you and I. Listen to my voice."

But Caracalla stepped back, heels hitting the edge of a table littered with empty goblets and shards of broken pottery. His chest rose and fell frantically, and in his piercing blue eyes Geta saw the reflection of the most primal fear: that of a wounded animal, trapped in an invisible cage.

“Do not approach!” His voice splintered like shattered glass. “It is you! It has always been you! You gaze upon me with those eyes, filled with hatred, seeking to choke the life from me!'”

Caracalla reached for something, anything, and his hand found the handle of a ceremonial dagger resting on the altar to Jupiter. He lifted it clumsily, but with enough fury that the edge gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

“Come, brother! Come closer and let us finish what we began in our mother’s womb!”

Geta didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. The dagger, trembling in Caracalla’s fevered hand, was no more than a shard of despair, sharp and cold like the abyss between them.

“If I am to die by your hand, then let it be so.” Geta moved forward, slow but resolute, the sound of his sandals striking the marble like the toll of a funeral bell. “But not tonight, Caracalla. Not like this.”

Caracalla groaned, his arm shaking and the dagger falling to the ground with a thud. At that moment, his body collapsed forward, straight into Geta, who caught him before he could hit the cold marble.

Geta's arms encircled his brother's fragile form, feeling the tension and spasms run through every fiber of his weary muscles. Caracalla sobbed, his nails digging desperately into his brother's shoulders, like a child clinging to a parent after a nightmare

“Hush now” Geta murmured softly, his voice barely a whisper through his disheveled curls. “No enemies here, brother. Only I remain”

Geta guided him to the couch carefully, almost tenderly, and forced him to sit. Caracalla could barely support his own weight, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Geta knelt in front of him, his firm, warm hands moving up to his brother's face, where the skin was cracked and damp with sweat.

“Look at me”, Geta's voice was a quiet command, firm yet tender. His dark gaze sought Caracalla's, until at last the emperor’s dilated pupils met his. “You are with me. There are no shadows here, no enemies. Only we two.”

Caracalla sobbed, his lower lip trembling beneath the layer of smeared makeup. Geta, with an almost instinctive gesture, leaned down and kissed his forehead, where the fever burned the strongest.

“Brother…” Caracalla’s voice was a shattered lament, as if torn from his very soul. “I would not be alone in the shadows”

“You shall not be”, Geta replied with quiet resolve, pressing a kiss to Caracalla’s damp cheek. “As long as breath remains in me, you shall never know solitude”

Geta’s lips moved slowly across his brother’s stained cheeks, until they brushed the corners of his mouth, where a tremor stopped them. Caracalla stood still, breathing heavily, his hands still clinging to Geta’s chest.

The world seemed to stop at that moment. The air heavy, laden with a silence that felt almost divine.

“Brother,” Caracalla whispered, and in his voice there was a plea, a total surrender. “Do not leave me”

Then, Geta embraced him, his arms a fortress of desperate strength, as if by that act alone he might piece together the broken fragments of his brother’s soul, preventing them from crumbling into ruin.

The dawn, once again, found them together. Caracalla slept with his head on Geta's lap, who slowly stroked his brother's reddish curls. His fingers ran over the scars and sores carefully, as if each one were a wound of his own.

On the horizon, Rome was awakening with its markets and forums, with the bustle of slaves and senators, with life that never stopped. But in that chamber, where the golden light was just beginning to filter through, there was calm.

Geta closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead on Caracalla's.

“No matter how much the world despises us, Caracalla. No matter how much we loathe ourselves. It shall always be you and I, until the marble of Rome crumbles to dust”

And in that instant, between the feverish sighs of a sick emperor and the tired gaze of his brother, time seemed to stand still. They were just two children again, lost in a palace too big, too cold, and with a destiny too heavy for their shoulders.

However, as time wore on, Geta found himself succumbing to the frailties of mere mortality. His affection remained immense, yet his patience grew ever more fragile. The illness consumed his will, suffocating his brother's body and mind in torturous madness.

The marble of the Palatine was cold even in the golden light of dusk. Outside, the Roman skyline burned with twilight fire, the silhouettes of columns standing like ancient sentinels, eternal witnesses to an empire that seemed infinite. Inside, in the dimness scented with olive oil and aged wine, the twin rulers were alone.

Caracalla, reclining on a purple velvet divan, watched Geta with an intensity that seemed to devour him from the shadows. The reflection of the light slid over his eyes, but there was something dull in them, something broken. Geta stood, his hands folded behind his back, his white tunic falling elegantly over his tall, thin figure.

“Why do you turn away, brother?'' Caracalla spoke at last, his voice raspy and tinged with a sweetness that did not match his hardened countenance. “Have I become a beast in your eyes?”

Geta pressed his lips together, shifting his gaze to the columns framing the balcony. For weeks now, something inside him had begun to twitch every time his eyes fell upon Caracalla's face. The small sores he tried to hide with makeup, the way his skin seemed more cerulean under the white powder, the faint but persistent smell of withered flesh that wafted in whenever his brother came too close.

“Do not speak nonsense, Caracalla” Geta replied in a measured voice, but he couldn't help the tense set of his jaw.

Caracalla smiled, a gesture that was meant to be seductive but in the uncertain light looked more like a grimace. He extended a trembling hand toward his brother, his fingers stained by the slight discoloration of his nails.

“Come here.”

Geta remained motionless, feeling the air thicken between them. That request wasn't new; The nights they shared more than wine and secrets were a tacit pact, a refuge in which the two emperors could escape the clutches of Rome. But now… now Geta felt something different. Something bitter that rose up his throat like a slow poison.

“I am weary, brother,” he answered at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow we must face the Senate. You should take rest.”

Caracalla dropped his arm with a sharp thud onto the divan. His smile twisted, revealing the wet shine of his teeth.

“You lie” he spat out, the words laced with contained fury. “You loathe to touch me, do you not? Do you think I do not see? Your gaze pierces me as though I were a corpse rotting in the sun!”

Geta closed his eyes for a moment, trying to contain the shiver that ran down his spine.

“Do not speak in such a manner”

“Why should I not?” Caracalla rose with a clumsy yet resolute motion, swaying for a moment before steadying himself. “Have we not shared all, brother? The empire, the purple, the power— even our bodies. Yet now you deny me, as though I were a leper.”

He moved closer, too fast for Geta to react. The sickly smell hit his senses as Caracalla took his face in his hands, his thumbs brushing his cheeks with desperate softness.

“Look at me. Have your feelings for me faded? Do you no longer burn with desire for me?” Caracalla whispered, his breath warm and bitter against Geta’s lips. “I am your brother, your other half, your very soul. You cannot turn away from me.”

Geta opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Caracalla's. Within those fierce depths, anger pulsed, but beneath it lingered an unsettling fear—deep and raw. For a fleeting moment, Geta felt a twinge of pity replacing his initial disgust. Yet, the sight of the sores at the corners of Caracalla's lips drew his focus back, shattering the illusion like fragile glass.

“Enough!” Geta pushed his brother's hands away with a sharp movement, taking several steps back until they crashed into a marble table.

Caracalla stood still, his hands shaking in the empty air where Geta's face had once been. His eyes widened, and for a moment he looked like a wounded child.

“Geta…” his voice was barely a broken thread.

“I cannot…” Geta muttered, unable to find the right words. The shadow of disgust was still there, clinging to his throat, and he knew Caracalla sensed it.

Caracalla let out a bitter laugh, teetering on the edge of a sob.

“I see.”

He turned slowly, returning to his couch with a defeated posture. His shoulders hunched, and for a moment he appeared less like the mighty emperor of the known world and more like a weary old man.

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument. Geta stood frozen, unable to move, as if his feet were chained to the ground. Caracalla, however, collapsed onto the couch, his face hidden in his trembling hands, as if trying to bury the weight of his own pain.

“Forgive me, brother,” Geta murmured, his voice barely more than a breath, a whisper meant for no one but Caracalla. “I did not mean to—”

“Begone,” Caracalla replied, his voice cold and distant, without even sparing him a glance.

Geta hesitated, but eventually turned and left the chamber. The door closed behind him with a hollow sound, like a stone slamming into a grave.

In the corridor, Geta leaned his back against a column, breathing heavily. His heart pounded, and the metallic taste of guilt filled his mouth.

He had loved Caracalla with the same fervor with which one loves a part of oneself, a bond so deeply woven into his soul that it was impossible to distinguish where one began and the other ended. But now, that love was tainted, shrouded in a veil of sickness, an affliction that gnawed at him, one he could no longer ignore.

And yet, deep within his chest, something still burned—desperation, yearning to return to the way they had once been, to hold his brother in his arms and attempt to heal the wounds that not even the gods of Rome could mend.

But he didn't.

Geta didn’t mind Caracalla’s novel interest in sharing a bed. It was nice to have a warm body with him. (Of course, he’d let concubines into his bed, but it wasn’t the same. They were only warm in touch, not in sentiment.) He would go so far, in the safety of his own mind, to say he liked sleeping with Caracalla. However, he did not like sleeping with the monkey. 

Dondas was curled up in the crook of Caracalla’s neck and Geta was locked in a staring match with the creature. He wondered what Dondas was thinking of. Geta was thinking of how easy it would be to accidentally roll over and crush her tiny body. He grimaced- he could think of little less appealing than primate innards in his quarters. Well, he appended to the thought, I would readily accept Acacius’ disemboweled corpse dumped in my bed, if only to deflower his traitorous body. 

Frankly, he worried just as much about injuring his fragile brother with his weight as he did Dondas. Caracalla was delicate, and only more so as he became sicker. Geta was cautious when Caracalla insisted nightly on Geta lying over him like a heavy blanket in bed. Caracalla’s bones had too much give for Geta to feel comfortable putting his weight over him, no matter how much he insisted the warm pressure helped calm his mind and body. 

Geta still couldn’t shake the image of their soirée last market day. Caracalla’s favorite party trick was to hook a finger under his lowest rib and wiggle it like a loose tooth. It was never amusing to anyone but himself, but even less as of late. Whenever he pulled his robes aside, it revealed the necrotic blemishes on his torso, and it was all others could do to smile politely as his stubby fingers disappeared behind his ribcage. 

Geta was brought out of the memory when he heard Caracalla quietly snore. Geta slowly raised himself up from Caracalla, hovering above him on all fours like a hungry predator. Caracalla stirred slightly. Geta held his breath for a moment, but slowly released it in relief as Caracalla curled into himself. Geta carefully eased himself into the bed, lying adjacent to Caracalla.