#gladiator fic

one;

The thrum of hundreds of drums cocooned your ears in an awful medley, vibrations snaking like vines across your very skin.

Here and now, standing before scorching iron twisting into mangled gates, you allowed a chill to kiss your skin.

You were afraid—very afraid—and for good reason. But even so, gladiators didn’t cower before their fate.

It was a good thing that wasn’t what you were.

This was all just an unfortunate consequence of one painfully violent decision.

For my brother… you had whispered into the chill of the winter season as you plunged a gold, ornate blade into the chest of the wrong ginger.

Sure, the younger one was no better than the older. Even so, it was not his crimson you had wished to coat your hands with, for he had not killed Pietro. Geta had.

And Geta would kill you too. Whatever growled beyond these iron gates was no better than a gruesome death.

“Huntress,” Lucien called, clad in bronze armor and pleated wraps. You winced.

“Don’t call me that.”

But he paid you no mind as he stepped forward, wrapping your lanky arm in a cuff of gold.

“It’s what you are, what you must be, if you intend to slay whatever beast lurks beyond these gates. Listen to me: do not be foolish in there. Do not give them a show. You run, and you hide in the very dirt if you must. Here.”

With a worried glance toward the guards, he hastily pulled out three violet berries and pressed them into your palm. His calloused skin guided your hand to wrap around them.

“This is poison. You squeeze, and it erupts into a sea of death. Use these, and you may survive.”

May.

It was too awful a word—too insignificant.

“Bring out the girl!” a horrid, broken voice roared to his many peasants. The iron groaned in deep complaint as the gates began to part.

It was then that you felt every bit the weak, fearful girl you truly were. Your doe-like eyes locked on Lucien’s. His palms gripped your biceps, a huff of frustration escaping him as he scanned your face—perhaps to remember it. Then he leaned forward to press a warm kiss to your forehead.

He was saying goodbye.

“You will survive,” he murmured against your skin. All you could do was nod with a gulp as he pulled away.

Facing the liquid gold rays of the sun now blinding you, you stepped through the gates.

Despise was not a strong enough word to describe just how much these people loathed you.

So destroyed over the death of half of their precious emperors. You scowled at the thought—the same emperors who kept them on pretty leashes.

Slickened tomatoes crushed beneath your boots as you limped forward. You were no better than Pietro here, and it seemed as though history was only going to repeat itself.

Bruised beneath the bronze armor, thirsty and starved, they had purpled your skin, nearly dislocated your hip, and robbed you of any sustenance that could aid you in this impossible battle.

They had cheated, just as they had with your brother in this awful colosseum.

You would die on the very same dirt as your brother had—your twin.

Even so, a vicious grin tugged at your lips when your eyes locked on the lone ginger emperor scowling down at you. His jaw was taut, his arms littered with veins, but his eyes—they gave him away. Dark. Exhausted.

Even if you were to stain his dirt with your blood, he would remain as you were now: a lone twin. His brother in the dirt, too.

Perhaps your revenge had not been such a disaster after all.

“Traitorous whore!” he screeched at you, and the peasants roared in agreement.

His words were no bother. You’d fight well enough—and when you died, you’d die with a smile.

“Bring out her death!”

Vibrations crawled up your calves as you squeezed the oak wood bow clasped in your hand—your only weapon.

The gates opposing you parted, welcoming two awful horns held back only by frayed rope and a growling man atop the beast.

“He shall impale you as you impaled my brother!” Geta growled from his castle above, his voice guttural and animalistic.

“BEGIN!”

His roar was so vicious you swayed on your feet.

Perhaps the bow was meant to deter you from survival, but you were grateful for it now. With your weak bones, you had no chance of surviving close battle. No chance of escaping a sword fight or a seething rhinoceros.

But your bow—you could fight from afar.

Thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum. The beast neared closer, working into a charge so vicious it drowned out the crowd’s excitement. You could feel Geta’s eyes scorching your skin.

He did not simply want you dead. He wanted you mangled.

“HUNTRESS—KILL THEM!” Lucien roared from behind the gates, snapping you back into the present moment.

Your purpled hands trembled as you grabbed an arrow and loaded your bow. You had to treat this as any other time—locked away in the forest with just you, the glades, and your bow.

A rhinoceros could be no different from a fawn, right? Animals—all the same. And you were starving now, just as you had been all the other times you hunted.

Closer, closer. You steadied your rapid breaths best you could— imagining doe-eyes approaching as opposed to horns and squinting as you found the place between the beast’s brows.

Closer.

Even closer.

A moment more and you’d lose your shot, so you released the tension-bound arrow.

Laughter—cruel, cold, and entirely at your expense—rattled the stadium.

Your eyes fell to the ground, where the arrow landed not two feet away from your boots.

No, no, no.

Your fingers trembled against the string. It was loose.

Bastard.

Your eyes flicked to Geta’s, cold and swimming with satisfaction. He had rigged your bow.

And the beast was still charging.

“HUNTRESS!” Lucien’s cry was lost on your ears as you steadied your feet. Your heart hummed like a bird in your chest.

You hissed as sharp pain licked the flesh of your wrist. Violet trickled from your cuff.

The berries.

Crying out in exasperation, you shook the berries free.

You would be impaled in a moment, but at least the poison would piss the wretched thing off.

With a cry, you crushed the berries in your palm, tossing the violet liquid into the air just as the horn grazed your bronze armor.

And you waited.

No darkness or light found you.

A screech so awful it could have burst your eardrums shook the colosseum. The beast reared back, thrashing in a violent dance before collapsing to the dirt.

Its tongue slack, its eyes white, it crushed the man commanding it.

You breathed then. For the first time.

As your eyes lifted, you found a flicker of awe in Geta's gaze-beyond his rage.

The colosseum roared in disbelief as Geta flipped the fruits and wine before him, storming away.

And you breathed.

I’ve never been more aware of him. The underlying scent of snow-chilled wind and crackling embers, heavy even under the coppery scent of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. The sheer size of him, every bit of him hard and sculpted for battle. I knew it; I’d seen it in action, but I was practically in his lap, watching every swallow he took as he drank the wine down like it might be his last chance at tasting it, and I realized I’d never been so close.

When I pull the bottle away from his cracked lips to let him catch his breath, his head falls forward just enough that for the briefest of moments, our foreheads touch. A breath shakes out of him, labored and heavy, and pained. 

Instinctively, the hand not holding the bottle reaches up to push a loose strand of sweat slicked hair off his cheek, where it falls in his eyes. His stubble is rough against the smooth skin of my palm, my fingertips gently tracing the swell of his cheek as I tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t protest my touch like I expect him to.

“Thank you,” he whispers before pulling away. 

I want more. Damn me! Now that I’ve had a taste I can’t stop myself from wanting to trace more of him with my fingertips. I want to feel those damaged lips on mine, chasing the taste of wine away with my tongue. 

I lean back on my heels instead. “Do you want the mirthroot?”

Azriel screams from his cell, reality chasing away any lingering fantasies about what we can do down here. The bond echoes with his pain as the Healer calls for the Guard to help hold Azriel down so he can work. 

“Go help him,” Cassian says instead. “Please.”

Having them all in one place would make this so much easier, but I doubt we’ll ever be that lucky again. The odds are leaning towards individual matches in the future, I doubt the Emperor will ever let the mistake of letting them save each other happen again. 

Azriel’s screaming is getting more intense by the second and Cassian looks like he might try to stand and go to him if I don’t, so I make quick work of shouldering my way into Azriel’s quickly crowding cell. Two Guards have come to hold him down by the shoulders; his thrashing has knocked off most of the bandages I’d placed last night, blood flowing freely from the tattered membrane. His wings look like an old, tattered piece of cloth.

Between the three males, they’ve managed to get Azriel off the floor and onto the iron bunk welded to the wall, but the movement must have been excruciating because there’s a fresh puddle of vomit on the floor. I have to skirt around it to crouch in front of Az, where his chin sits against the edge of the bunk. 

I take his face in my hands. “Look at me.” His skin is hot to the touch, sweat dripping down his forehead as his body tries to fight off an infection.

He drags his eyes open, scarred hands fumbling to take hold of my wrists. “Make it stop. Make them stop.” He begs.

My heart clenches painfully tight in my chest. “They’re going to help you.”

His grip on my wrists is a vice as he tries to shake his head, the chain around his throat rattling. It has effectively cut him off from his shadows, the little creatures nowhere to be found now. The loss of their ever constant presence must feel like losing a limb. “Don’t let them take my wings!”

The fever’s making him delirious, but his panic is very much a real, thrashing thing down the bond. “They’re not going to take your wings, I promise.”

“I need to get to work-” the Healer starts.

“Shut up,” I hiss. “You didn’t even try to give him something for the pain first!” A bit of my darkness seeps out of my heels, hissing along the floor like their appearance might make up for my mate’s lack of shadows. 

The cell trembles around us, dust raining down from the ceiling. I don’t try to reign it in this time. The Guard will tell the Emperor about this, and I will tell him it’s all part of my plan. 

With some bullying of the guard I get my hands on some hot rocks in order to diffuse some of the mirthroot faster, letting the vapor rise like incense off the edge of the bunk. The smoke clouds the area around Azriel’s head, the high almost immediate. His hazel eyes glaze over, body relaxing as he slumps on the bunk.

I drift my fingers through his hair. “You’re going to be ok.” This is not the time to cry. The amount of things shooting down my bond with all three of them is a lot when they’re in this state, it’s taking everything I have to keep my own emotions in check, to not be swept away in the tidal wave of pain and fear that threatens to drag me under. 

I give myself a little shake. I have to be strong for them. “The Healer will help.”

Azriel groans, scarred hand reaching up to brush absent patterns along my wrist. “Hurts,” he slurs against the effects of the mirthroot.

“I know. It’ll be over soon.” I motion the Healer back over with my chin and the male has the good sense to look a little hesitant in getting so close to me.

I reign my darkness back in, little by little until it’s gone. The Guards share a look and I know this will get back to my Father eventually. I’ll have to be clever in my explanation; better yet, I should save myself the headache and go over to the Palace once I’m done here. It’ll keep me ahead, let me spin the narrative in a way that doesn’t make me look so bad in his eyes.

The Healer starts working and I instinctively intertwine my fingers with my mate, letting him squeeze as hard as he needs as the male starts dripping oils down his raw back. When Azriel whimpers in pain again, I set more mirthroot over the hot rocks. Everyone in the cell’s going to be high as hell by the time it’s all said and done, but it keeps Azriel from screaming, his breathing even as he drifts in and out of consciousness. 

Even as he starts to doze off, he doesn’t let go of my hand, his grip still firm and steady. I use my free hand to trace the grooves and ridges of his scars, the pattern like a map of valleys and hills. I wonder if he can even feel my touch, or if his nerves are permanently fried. I’d never thought to ask.

“Such delicate things, wings,” the Healer muses as he works. “You’d think something meant to carry a body this large would be less fragile.”

I tear my gaze away from Azriel’s hands to glare at him. “You will save them.” There is no room for debate here. 

The Healer rolls his eyes at me. “Sound like your Father.”

“Then you know what’s at stake if you mess this up,” I hiss in return. I won’t let the sting of the insult land. If that’s the monster I have to make myself out to be to ensure they are healed, so be it. There is no depth in Hel I won’t descend to to ensure their survival.

Azriel’s fully dozing now, his breathing even, body relaxed. I genuinely don’t know how he has the strength to still be holding my hand. 

The Guards leave when they see they’re not needed, I can hear them tormenting the other gladiators down the hall. 

The Healer makes slow work, between weaving strands of glittering magic along the frayed ends of Azriel’s wings and applying oils and antiseptics and bandages afterwards. Time becomes a steady unfurling of white bandages and blood. I keep myself busy by combing the knots out of my mate’s hair with my fingers; anything I can to ensure he knows, even in sleep that I’m here. I wish I could do more.

The Healer’s eyes are rimmed with dark circles by the time he’s done, the strain of that much magic clearly taking a toll. 

White bandages cover every inch of Azriel’s wings, and there’s more along his back, sticky from the oils. There’s not enough skin left to be stitched back together, the wounds will have to be cleaned and dressed over and over until they can heal on their own. A thought that makes me shutter. They need to be somewhere clean to avoid infection at all costs. It’ll be months before they’re able to fight again. Months before they’re able to be up and moving at all. And I know that it’s months we don’t have. 

I have to find a way to buy them time.

I toss the Healer the first round of coin. He’ll get the full amount once he’s done with each of them, to ensure he’ll properly comply with my many demands. I’m going to need a lot more to bribe him to do this daily if I can’t find a way to get them back to the River House. 

“This is a whole lot of work for a couple of slaves,” the Healer grumbles. 

It takes everything in me not to blow the roof off the place. 

---

Joining my Father for dinner is surely a mistake, but I don’t see what other choice I have. Besides, it’s not like I can go home. Not without being drugged again. 

The Emperor lounges on plush pillows, propped up by scantly dressed servants and fanned with palm fronds by others. There’s a feast large enough to feed the city spread out before them, barely touched as he focuses all his attention on a plate of roasted chicken and a never ending supply of wine. 

My cousins join him today, on his left, reclining against each other. Brannagh eyes me with enough contempt to remind me that the last we’d spoken directly, I’d accused her of sleeping with Dagdan. The fact that his throat is littered with hickeys does nothing to prove me wrong. 

Amarantha arrives after we’ve started, huffing an excuse about dealing with a prison riot.

The five of us make a sorry excuse for company. Dagdan won’t stop rambling one nonsense story after the other, most of which annoy Amarantha so badly she has no choice but to dispute his claims. There’s little room for the rest of us to get a word in.

I have not missed these. 

The food sits heavy in my stomach; all I can think about is how I had to bribe the Guard to ensure my mates even got a meal, should they wake up to eat it after the amount of mirthroot it took to get them comfortable. Rhys had finished off the bottle of wine before the Healer was done. 

“I tell you the male ripped the beast a part with his bare hands!” Dagdan finishes. I don’t know what the rest of the story was, I’d tuned him out, filling the noise in my skull with my second wine glass of the evening. 

The Emperor seemed surprised by my visit, but he hasn’t said a word about it yet, despite the way those slate gray eyes watch my every move.

“I can assure you, he didn’t,” Amarantha counters. “Leon has got to be the worst Gladiator Beron has ever produced in those grimy little Pits he runs in Autumn.”

“You haven’t been to those Pits in some time,” Dagdan refutes. “They are much better run than they used to be.”

“You sink too much money into false hopes, boy,” the Emperor chastises, but his gaze remains fixed on me when he speaks. 

“None as much as my dear cousin,” Dagdan sneers. 

“I’m sure you’ve nearly drained your purse on those brutes by now,” Brannagh says with a laugh.

Amarantha eyes me curiously. 

“My purse is fine,” I say dismissively, hoping to end this conversation here and now.

“How are your little pets?” Amarantha presses. 

I absently stab at a piece of roasted vegetable. Telling her their actual condition might leave room for her to try and do something to them; lying might send someone down to confirm my story. “Recovering,” I say, trying to find a middle ground between the two. “I’ll be lucky if the Shadowsinger can fly after this.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t cheated,” Father says as one of his serving girls wipes a bit of wine out of his greying beard.

“It’s going to cost me a lot to fix, is all,” I say, using the excuse of biting my food to hide the way my jaw tenses. 

“I heard you were down there with them this morning,” he inquires.

Amarantha places her elbows on the table as she leans forward like she might miss this new bit of gossip.

Beside me, Dagdan frowns about being forgotten so quickly.

“I was.” I take another sip of wine to hide how dry my mouth suddenly feels. “It was fairly easy in the state they were in to convince them I had defied you to see them. I’d say their trust in me is fully cemented. They’ll start telling me things soon enough.”

“I want to know what Rhysand had planned after taking Illyria from me,” the Emperor says. It’s by far the closest he’s ever come to trusting me with political matters. “Surely he couldn’t have intended to push us out of the territory alone. His fighting men are strong, but it’s not enough of an army. He had to have been planning on aid from somewhere.”

I nod as I chew on another bite of food, pretending to think it over.

“His men have revealed nothing,” Amarantha sighs as she stabs at her plate with more force than necessary. “We’ve had to get creative with our methods to get them to talk and even under duress their… loyalty,” she spits out the word like its poison, “has won out.”

My chest constricts. Were the crucifixions not creative enough? Was making them walk here, chained and naked and beaten from Illyria not enough? We were torturing them now too?

“I can always put my talents to use,” Brannagh offers, tapping a manicured nail against her forehead. 

“Maybe they don’t know,” I offer. “Rhysand is secretive, allusive even to me. Maybe he held that card close to the vest for their protection.” I don’t like putting him directly in the line of fire, but I know what he would do if he was here, what he would offer to keep Brannagh’s hands off his men. All of them would offer themselves as a target to keep them safe. I can act for them in this.

“Give me a few more days, let me see what I can get out of him before you resort to that.”

“Awfully protective of these Illyrians, aren’t we?” Amarantha accuses.

“I’m merely thinking of the losses,” I counter. 

What was it my Father had always said? “A slave is more expensive to replace than to keep alive.”

To which the male raises his cup in salute before downing it in one gulp. The wine is quickly refilled.

“For once you were paying attention,” he praises.

The food sits heavier in my stomach. For so long that was all I’d ever wanted, for him to be proud of me, for him to see that I was trying my hardest to be the daughter he needed to me. I’d craved the faintest scrap of his attention for so long it had nearly destroyed me. To hear it now, to see what I would have had to become to earn it…

This whole Empire is a poison. It ruins everything it touches. 

“Brannagh, Dagdan, you may leave us.”

The twins look surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. Surely they thought they were going to be given an opportunity.

“But-”

He waves a hand at them. “We have matters to discuss that don’t concern you. Go. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

Brannagh grits her teeth as she stands, her eyes, the same shade as my Father’s narrowed in on me as if this is my fault. I supposed, in my absence, she’s gotten used to standing in my place, to being recognized. With me here now, there’s not as much room. The admiration of the Empire can only hold so many people. I fear I’ve made a bigger enemy out of her than I meant to.

Dagdan’s mouth opens and closes like he might say something, then thinks better of it. After his drunken outburst yesterday he knows he doesn’t have the sway he needs to be here.

They leave with their arms linked together, like the weight of the dismissal is too much for them to carry alone.

The glare Brannagh throws over her shoulder as the doors start to close tells me I need to be aware of just how many enemies I’m making these days.

“I need to make sure you are prepared for this task you’ve set out to do,” Father says once they’re gone.

My heart stutters in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“This information will not just come to you, if you intend to appeal to this bond they think they have with you and get the information we need, you need to make some… adjustments.”

Amarantha watches me over the rim of her glass.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Torture clearly won’t work,” he explains. “And it would ruin this trust they have in you. You need to be more persuasive in your approach, I think.”

“The faster we have results, the easier to deal with this mess will be,” Amarantha adds.

“And you’re in a… unique position.”

I don’t rub my temples like I want to. “Speak plainly, please.”

“Seduce them.”

I accidentally drop my fork, the clang of it hitting the plate deafening in the wide space.

“It's what they want from you anyway, what a mating bond demands happen. If you can convince them that you’re as desperate to be with them as they are you, they’ll tell you more readily. More secrets have been spilled in bed chambers than in temples.”

“Plenty of sponsors reap the benefits of their champions anyway, it would not be out of the norm,” Amarantha shrugs.

Bile rises in my throat. “Aren’t you still in the process of marrying me off?” 

“Romulus is intrigued by you, but he will not ask for your hand while you are tied to them. You ruined that chance.” He takes another long drink of wine, clearly displeased with that fact. “Tamlin and Eris are still competing, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

I take another long drink of wine. “I’ll need them returned to my care at the River House. Attempting to do anything in the Arena barracks could lend ear to gossip and that could poorly affect a marriage proposal.”

“You can take Rhysand back, not all three of them.”

Any sort of excitement that I’d managed to actually pull this off fades in an instant. 

“They’ve proven that being together is dangerous.”

“They are not fools, they will see through this arrangement,” I try to argue, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.

“You have proven to be equally as unpredictable and I need assurances that you are not playing me just as you are them. I know what a bond is capable of, I have seen plenty of children turn on their parents for a mate. Prove yourself useful with Rhysand and then perhaps I will find a usefulness for the others. Until that time, they stay with the other gladiators.”

“They need a clean environment to heal if you are to keep them as gladiators.”

“This is not a debate. It is a test. You’ve revealed a weakness in yourself. Show me it isn’t one.”

“There are plenty of other ways for us to get results if you’re incapable,” Amarantha says with a shrug. “I don’t personally think you’re capable of separating your feelings on the matter, but I’m eager to sit back and watch it burn.”

My cheeks burn but I bite my tongue.

“I’ll get the results we need when you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” I say through my teeth. 

But it’s certainly going to take a lot more than I’d anticipated to play this Game, and play it correctly. Hell, I still have to find a way to get this to work around Anise! And manage to go back and forth between the House and here to ensure Azriel and Cassian are safe.

I don’t rub the tension headache building in my temples. I don’t let the mask slip. I raise my glass in mock toast to my Father. “Here’s to ensuring the safety of the Empire.” The wine helps the unease lodged in my throat go down a little easier. I’m going to need a lot more before this is done.

--------

Tag List:

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissesfromnovalie,

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime,

//

@marrass, @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

//

@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444, @raccoonworld,

//

@byteme05, @art1012, @the-tummo, @kiwi-mothball, @onthewaytotimbuktu,

//

@dreamloud4610, @justtryingtosurvive02, @sapphichotmess, @nishinoyastoes, @acourtofladydeath,

//

@amelya5567, @cardanenthusiast, @auraofathena, @edance2000, @acourtofbatboydreams,

//

@getosimping, @georgiadixon, @throwing-up-butterflies, @marv3lsold13r, @mystirica-18,

//

@lucilia9teen, @elaselat, @deadlydemon, @erin-reads-stuff

The colosseum devolved from violent jeers and excitable cries into dead, still silence. Not mournful, no. Not for him, at least- never for him. The women cried for Maximus, the men exchanged silent transactions and amongst it all, he listened. He waited. No cries came for him, no lips wept his name. Only blood, heavy and sticky in his throat as his chest tightened and his body convulsed with a desperate cough.

His fingers twitched, aching to reach out. Towards what, he didn't know. Perhaps a last attempt at reminding himself he was still there, amongst it all. Still alive to hear the hatred, the relief of a tyrant's death, a sort of pain that didn't need words to be understood. It entirely overshadowed the tight, suffocating throb in his neck, shooting up his jugular and towards his forehead in a splitting ache.

For all he did, they hadn't cared.

But alas, he lay there, head against the hot sand as he stared up at the pure blue sky. Clouds rolled, birds sang, and if he knew any better? Perhaps it was an ordinary day. Perhaps he was in the palace, or Lanuvium, years ago. Only his mind mattered now, he supposed. If he was to let go, he would do so on his own accord. Not by the need to please his long dead father, not by the need to chase Lucilla's love. No- he'd do it differently.

The gardens were warmed by the ever looming sun, decorated with more flowers than you cared to name, backdropped by the steady trickle of fountains and rush of servants in the domus behind you. The scroll in your lap was worn well with love, a precious thing. Unfurled in your hands, it curled inwards towards the corners and the parchment had torn at the edges, the ink cracked and dry, yet the words discernible. Memorable.

You heard him, before you saw him.

"You gaze upon that scroll as if it were more precious than me." His tone was lilted with teasing, quiet humour as his steps resumed, approaching the marble bench you had perched upon. Your head lifted, eyes squinting in the Roman sun to make out his silhouette. Regal, proud, even as a shadow. "You know nothing is more precious to me than you are, Commodus." You murmur, although your tone holds no exhaustion, no shyness. If anything, it held an admiration that seemed to please him, as with a quaint smile, he lowered himself to sit beside you.

The gardens cast a view over the lower country, far ocean. Rome sat to your right, the colosseum an ever protruding landmark amongst mazes of streets. You cast your gaze out to the distant ocean, whilst his remained on you. For a while, it was quiet. The gentle breeze in the leaves, the crinkle of parchment, steady breathing, all coming to form something you figured resembled peace. "Do you think of crossing the ocean?" You asked suddenly, and Commodus looked at you strangely, his brow furrowed. He followed your gaze, looking out to the steady blue.

"That's laughable. Why should I dream of leaving Rome?"

"I don't know."

Your answer wasn't entirely truthful, and he seemed to realise that, as he turned his attention back to you with a newfound look of concern. Not a rare thing, but somehow, it surprised you nonetheless. You swallowed, and lowered your head to slowly roll up the scroll. "Yes, you do." He called you out, and you fought back a wince. For a moment you were quiet, casting him a sidelong glare. "I know." You said. He was quiet, unmoving, as if his sudden stillness would will you towards giving an answer. And somehow, it did.

Rome had been your home since your wedding. One out of political goodness, you hadn't meant to fall for him, initially. You had heard the rumours, mostly bad, surrounding his name- yet the union had gone through nonetheless, and you had found yourself pleasantly at ease with Commodus. Tales of arts, poetry, extravagant meals and countless baths, melancholic staring upon the city, fingers fumbling against ties and warm palms over bare skin. It was all done together, and yet selfishly, you wished for a different life. Quieter, humble. Just the two of you, in some quaint homestead nestled in a silent valley, steadfast in undying love and burning loyalty. Not that you couldn't have it, but you knew he didn't want it. He hungered for power, lapped up every lick of it whenever he could, despite how his own claims differed. "I don't know if I want to leave. I don't think I do, truly." You whisper, and he leans in, encouragingly gentle. "But often I find myself wanting something different."

He didn't pry, but watched with as close to understanding as he could get from your vague description. "Something quieter, I suppose. With you, I think of something quaint." You finish, not particularly eager to potentially embarrass yourself in front of the man you called a husband. But when you snuck a glance at him, there was no mockery on his face. Only a certain understanding you knew you wouldn't find with anyone else. "That's beautiful." He complimented, and you flushed. "I suppose." Commodus drew back with a sigh, his arm reaching out until his hand covered your own, holding your fingers. "You sadden me. I can feel myself wishing for that, too." He murmured, and as he looked out to the ocean, his gaze took on the same distant want as your own. You didn't know what to say, and so you moved your hand to hold his. Raising it to your mouth with a gentle kiss pressed to his knuckles, you had his attention reeling back to you only moments after. "Perhaps in another time." You sympathised, meeting him halfway as he leaned forward in search of love. Your lips met in quiet tandem.

When he next woke, his surroundings were foreign.

The same blue sky, slow moving clouds, the same warmth. The pain was gone, he noted. No slim impalement to his neck, no blood dripping from his mouth or staining his armour- no heavy silence, no one to see him die in shame. What was this? Had he healed in an unconscious time? How long had it been? Perhaps he was hallucinating, perhaps this was exile. He didn't know. So, slowly, he lifted his head.

The movement was reluctant. He would much rather stay on the ground, bask in the sun some more before he gave into movement and the ache that would inevitably come with it. His head raised from the soft grass pillowing it, his palms flush against the green blades. Pushing himself up, he was momentarily dazed. That awfully splitting ache was gone, his throat was clear: he could breathe, take in mouthfuls of fresh, country air as he rose to stand on unsteady feet. He looked back at where he'd been laying. Grass, and a subtle imprint of his body. No feathered pillow, no imperial bed, nothing but grass and soil.

Humiliation, perhaps.

He raised a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck with an unsteady noise. Around him, the Italian countryside shifted quietly with the afternoon turning into day. Shadows were cast, elongated by the sun's constantly shifting position, birds sang and insects hummed, grass crunched quietly underfoot as he took wary steps forward. Guarded, uncertain. Paranoid. As he looked around, searching for some point of familiarity, he found it in the shape of a quietly quaint homestead and a familiar voice.

"I missed you."

The words were so simply spoken that it broke him instantaneously. Your figure, stood in the doorway, felt so unfamiliar that he almost felt guilt. He had struggled to remember your face on his own in the time that followed your own death: he had despised himself for it. Your body, your hair, your face. Everything down to your mannerisms, he had steadily forgotten, let it slip between his fingers like sand. And all he did was watch, helplessly. He uttered your name in a breath, and was moving towards you before he knew better.

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush to his chest as his nose pressed against your hair. Inhaling the familiar scent of you, the one imprinted onto the pillow he'd clung to at night, the one that'd met his wrath so many times. Commodus exhaled, something uneven and shaky, and you drew back just enough to meet his eye. "Don't cry." You murmured, and somehow, that made it a struggle not to. His eyes were wet with tears as he blinked, lashes fluttering as his brows furrowed with a poorly swallowed whimper. Your hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into it, letting the pad of your thumb stroke against his cheekbone, wipe away his tears. He didn't know how you were there, in front of him, but he didn't want to know. He didn't care, because with you in his arms safely returned to him, there was no thought nor care in his previous life that he wanted to revisit if they didn't involve you.

"I'm sorry." He blurted. He didn't know why. His inability to protect you, maybe. How he had let himself forget you, how he couldn't recall a clear memory without assistance. He watched through tears as your brow furrowed, gently shaking his head. "Why?" You whispered, and his chest heaved as he shuddered out a sob. "I let you go." He answered quickly, too quickly, and your finger pressed to his lips in a gently shushing gesture. It seemed to work, his sobs evened into shaken breathing as his gaze stayed stuck to yours, unable to wander. But he didn't want it to. "You had to. I don't blame you for it, there was nothing you could've done." You said, and that understanding, that blameless comfort, almost brought him to his knees. His chest tightened and his stomach churned as he brought his head forward. His nose nudged against your own, forehead bumping your own as his eyes closed.

"Truthfully?" He whispered through a sniffle, feeling the movement of your nod against him. Your lips found his in a chaste, gentle brush, but it didn't seem enough for him. His hands gripped your waist as he sought out your lips again, pressing them to his with all the passion years of loss had torn from him. His nose nudged and brushed your own, lips moving in a fashion that could only be described as clumsy. Desperate. Your hands moved to his hair, and he whimpered, drawing back with an indiscernible sound of relief. You were there, he reminded himself. You were real, he was holding you, kissing you. It wasn't some cruel jest, some tricky vision. It was real, and whilst he might not have been living, he knew this was as close to a real life as any man could have. "Truthfully." You echoed.

He knew then in that moment, as you took his hand and led him back inside, that this was what you had meant. All those years ago, in the gardens, this was what you wanted. The one thing he couldn't give you, until now. Perhaps in another time, you had said. Oh, did he wish he had listened. He knew now, though. And he would continue to know.

Acacius hated the "arrangement". It was presented to him as a choice; either him or Lucilla. He loved her far too much to let her do something so vile, so if letting Caracalla get on his knees and suck him off would let her live without going through such a thing, then he would endure. Lucilla loathed this, possibly more than he did, but she knew that once Acacius had made up his mind about something, he was hard to argue with.

That's typically how it would go, but sometimes they'd bring out the olive oil and make him mount them. "He's such a brute, brother, he may as well act like one, hm?" Caracalla would giggle. Geta would always laugh, an unamused sneer on his face. Fierce eyes bore into Acacius', daring him to challenge their orders.

It never came.

In Rome, it was preferable to be in Acacius' position, the one to "give" rather than "receive". However, in the young Emperors' quarters, they often called him "brute" or "beast" or his title of General to demean him. He had to continue taking their orders, no matter the position he was taking. He was simply a "cock on legs" as Geta called him once. This made him question his own manhood at times, and wondered if he was even fit to lead anymore. But of course no one actually knew what was happening behind closed doors, adding another layer to his internal turmoils.

Usually the arrangement consisted of Caracalla eagerly touching and rubbing Acacius' cock through his robes, then slowly kneeling in front of him as Geta watched carefully. Acacius wasn't allowed to speak a word during their "play time", as Caracalla called it, unless ordered to. Caracalla was always more attached during these particular evenings, often getting jealous if Acacius looked at Geta for too long or didn't praise him enough.

Tonight, Acacius could feel something different in the air and it made his stomach turn. He knocked on the brothers' bedroom door, four times exactly in a rhythm, as was the code, and felt a chill run down his spine. He wore a simple robe and sandals, the rest of his clothes waiting for him in the stables with his horse. He didn't want to think too hard about getting his things as he left nights like this, eager to get home to Lucilla as soon as possible.

The door swung open and Geta stood before him, looking down on him despite being shorter than Acacius. His lips were pursed and his nostrils were flared. "General," he said pointedly.

"Emperor Geta," Acacius nodded once. Geta stepped to the side and extended his arm in greeting, letting the general enter the room.

"Mmm, you're finally here," Caracalla giggled from the bed. He was naked save for a satin cloth covering him precariously. "You're looking very handsome this evening, General."

A small pit formed at the base of Acacius' stomach, his mouth dry. "Thank you, Emperor Caracalla," he forced out. Flattery towards Caracalla always went well, and despite how difficult it was for him to voice it, it always made the evenings go by more smoothly.

The only sound in the room was the fire crackling and Geta pouring a glass of wine. "You know where to sit, General," he said calmly, placing the pitcher of wine back on the table. Geta took a seat, facing the bed, and drank his wine silently, piercing eyes finally meeting Acacius'.

Acacius swallowed a lump in his throat as he sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on his bare thighs. Subtly, he pressed his fingernails into the skin, avoiding Geta's gaze. The young emperor's eyes were like a snake's, in Acacius' mind. Any direct eye contact would provoke him, and that sinister streak of his would rear its ugly head in matter of moments.

Caracalla crawled to the edge of the bed, hands roving over Acacius' broad shoulders and chest appreciatively. He leaned over to kiss and nip along the general's skin leading up to the base of his neck, pushing the sleeve of Acacius' robe out of the way. "He smells like sweat, brother," the emperor groaned in pleasure, one of his hands traveling down Acacius' torso. "Were you training hard today, beast?" He asked quietly, hand hovering over the general's soft cock.

Acacius shuddered in disgust, but to Caracalla it probably translated as desire. "Y-yes," he grunted. His brows furrowed the further Caracalla's hand traveled, and his breath hitched once the emperor gripped his cock underneath his robe. The young emperor pouted at his softness, but saw it as a challenge.

Slowly, his soft hand started stroking the general's cock, a small, wicked smile painting his features.

Acacius shut his eyes briefly, exhaling a heavy breath through his nostrils. It always took a while for him to get hard on these nights, and often he had to think of Lucilla or the goddess Venus to get there at all. He wished that wasn't the case, because the sooner he got hard, the sooner this would be over with.

Caracalla leaned over and pushed Acacius' robe to the side. He hummed at the sight of the general's strong thighs and thick cock between them. He'd always preferred the company of men in the bedroom and when he could have one as pretty as Acacius, he took full advantage. His strokes grew quicker, his eyes glued to the fat head slowly twitching to life and pushing through the foreskin. Caracalla groaned at the sight and spit on the tip before covering it with his lips. He hummed happily, bobbing his head up and down, eyes shut in bliss.

Acacius gasped at the feeling, brows drawn together. He grunted, forcing himself not to look down. If he didn't look, then it could be anyone down there, and not the spoiled brat of an emperor. His eyes drifted to the fireplace in the corner. Geta watched his face carefully as he sipped his wine.

"Does that feel good, beast?" Geta asked, voice smooth.

Startled out of his thoughts of Lucilla draped in silk, Acacius blinked rapidly. "Y-yes, Caesar," he grunted, eyes flicking anywhere but below him or straight ahead.

Caracalla moaned around his cock, using his hand in tandem with his lips, stroking him where he couldn't fit.

"Get off him, you slut," Geta hissed. "Do you want him finishing so soon?"

Caracalla lifted his mouth off of Acacius' cock, panting heavily and lips swollen. His eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. "N-no, of course not!" He pouted. "Get the oil, brute," he spat, crawling to the middle of the bed unceremoniously.

Acacius' stomach dropped. He slowly made his way to the small shelf of various perfumes and oils. It felt like he wasn't completely present, like trudging through mud to get to the other side of the room. His eyes couldn't focus on the correct bottle fast enough it seemed because Geta sighed angrily from his seat. "Apologies, Caesar," Acacius grunted, grabbing the olive oil bottle and walking back over to the bed. His cock softened some in that time, but it still protruded through his simple robe.

Casting a quick glance in Geta's direction showed that the young emperor had his eyes glued to the area between Acacius' legs, his gaze hungry. It wasn't common for Geta to participate, but it wasn't unheard of and that made the older man anxious. He knew what to expect when it was just Caracalla, but it would often turn into a different evening entirely should the other brother take part. "Disrobe, General," Geta demanded, taking one last drink of his wine before standing. "How do you want him, brother?"

Caracalla hummed in thought as Acacius slowly removed his robe and sandals, eyes blank. "I want his heavy body to mount me, fuck me into the mattress like the beast he is," he giggled in delight. The young emperor got onto all fours, presenting himself to the general lewdly.

A bitter taste filled Acacius' mouth, not unlike the aftermath of a long battle. He stepped closer to the edge of the bed to get this over with. But before he could reach for the young man's narrow waist, Geta gripped his cock in a smooth hand, pumping hard. The older man groaned in response, looking at Geta in confusion. The eye contact made his stomach turn. He did his best to school his features and hide his repulsion.

"You're not hard enough, brute," Geta seethed. He always had a calmer demeanor but a much angrier disposition under the surface during Senate meetings and their "play time" was no different. He stroked Acacius almost angrily, thumbing the head roughly. He released his cock briefly to spit into his hand before resuming. "Is my brother not beautiful to you?" He challenged, head tilted to the side and eyes dark.

Caracalla sidled up to Acacius' side, his small, soft hands rubbing over that broad chest and the swell of his belly. He pouted up at Acacius' face, kissing along his shoulder and neck as he roughly dug his nails into the older man's chest, near the sensitive skin of a nipple. He wanted to be beautiful to the older man, even if he meant he had to force it out of him. Acacius flinched in pain, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Acacius grappled with his words, afraid to break the eye contact from the emperor. "H-he's very beautiful, Caesar," he grunted, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Try as he might, his body unfortunately started to react to the brothers' ministrations. It was also clear there was a hint of jealousy painting Geta's features, so he did his best to please him as well. "As— As are you," he stammered, cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Caracalla giggled, kissing his way down Acacius' chest to suck a nipple into his mouth. He moaned around the ruddy skin, flicking his tongue back and forth. "Such a way with words, our brute," he hummed happily.

Geta grunted in response, breaking eye contact with the general. Acacius deflated a little, but forced himself not to seem too obvious. "Get on with it," the emperor muttered, releasing Acacius' cock from his grasp.

Acacius swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded, quickly notching the head of his cock to Caracalla's hole. Caracalla moaned and giggled in delight, gripping the sheets in tight fists, anticipation taking over his body. Acacius drizzled the olive oil over himself and thought of Lucilla in these soft, expensive sheets instead. A flash of her unbelievably soft skin passed through his mind, getting him that extra bit harder.

If Caracalla were a different man, Acacius might even do him the decency of preparing him a little better, but he was nothing if not impatient in all things, so once the general was in position, he pushed forward until he couldn't go any further. It knocked the wind out of the young emperor, a weak moan piercing the air and a blissed out smile on his face.

"Oh! You stretch me so well, beast," Caracalla giggled, sweat dotting his hairline and toes curling already.

Acacius decided to play the role a little and just grunted in response, starting up a steady rhythm. Caracalla seemed to like it when he was a little rough, so he gripped the younger man's hair in a tight fist to hold him in place. He went to another place mentally during these moments, forcing himself to disassociate while his body took over. He noticed Geta move on his left and get comfortable on the edge of the bed, watching carefully, but none of it really registered.

As he stared out into the distance, eyes facing the wall in front of him, he thought of Lucilla. He thought of her on top of him, her soft curves under his rough hands and sweet moans and gasps in his ears.

Caracalla leaned down on his elbows and pushed back against Acacius' thrusts, moaning wantonly. "Harder," he whined, looking back at the older man. Acacius was getting a little too gentle for his liking. He wanted to be bruised and tired by the end.

It almost didn't reach Acacius' ears, but he followed the order, resting a foot on the mattress to get a better angle and picked up the pace. The younger man groaned in pleasure, his entire body rocking back and forth.

"Good," Geta hummed, eyes looking over the general's strong body hungrily. He stood from the bed and made his way behind the general, eyes raking over the muscles rippling underneath the strong, but aged skin. There was so much experience and battles won in the scars and markings littering the tan expanse. Geta's eyes fell to the taut muscles of Acacius' ass and thighs and he groaned, unable to help himself.

Long fingers traveled over Acacius' body from behind, startling him out of his daydreams and thoughts of his beloved. Those same fingers ghosted over his skin until they gripped at Acacius' pounding hips. "Keep going, General," Geta hummed quietly. He leaned over and kissed along the general's broad shoulders tenderly. More tenderly than usual, but he knew better than to trust the younger man.

Acacius forced himself to block it out, but it was so out of character that he couldn't help but feel thrown off balance. His hips still kept a steady pace, but he started sweating more, the salty drops falling from his head and down onto Caracalla's back.

Geta lifted his robe, his own hard cock beneath the fabric now on display. He cupped Acacius' muscled cheeks and groaned at the tense skin as he pressed the length of his cock between them.

Acacius burned under his skin, disgust and bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to push it down and prayed to the Gods that Geta wouldn't go any further than that. The young emperor never got involved in this way, or at least never had with him in the room. Goosebumps covered Acacius' entire body as he quickly drove into Caracalla, hoping that he'd finish soon.

"I'm— I'm going to c-come, General," Caracalla moaned weakly, his face buried into the satin sheets and ass held high in Acacius' strong hands. His eyes were half-lidded in pleasure, completely drunk on the general's cock. Acacius had a passing thought for how beautiful the young man looked, so blissed out like this, before he remembered just who he was.

Geta's moans were lower than Caracalla's, quieter too, and the way he rutted against Acacius' ass was similar to that of a novice. It was clear he didn't have much experience and the older man briefly wondered if that's why he didn't get involved much. "Good," Geta panted. "Make us come, beast."

Tears welled up in Acacius' eyes as a weak noise left his body. Everything in his life leading up to this moment washed over him, shame filling him from the inside so quickly the he barely even registered the twins shuddering with their releases. And even less his own. The anger he felt towards himself for letting this happen almost rivaled that shame. He was a respected man in Rome, had worked hard for his status, and this is how he was being treated.

Caracalla fell into a heap on the mattress, breathing heavily as a smile painted his features.

Acacius felt his cock twitching with exhaustion and the aftereffects of an orgasm, but he didn't remember it happening at all. His back also felt colder once Geta stepped away. A chill ran down his spine and the cooling release on his back made him sick to his stomach.

Acacius' limbs felt heavy as he stood still next to the large bed. He stared at Caracalla's heaving stomach and knew that this was his chance to make an exit. They always got tired and didn't have the energy to argue if he left a little too soon by the end.

"General," Geta muttered, clearing his throat. Acacius startled, forgetting where he was temporarily. "You did well this evening, you may leave. I'll take care of him," he said, gesturing to his brother's exhausted body.

Acacius nodded slowly, watching Geta's face for any other orders. When none came, it felt like his body was moving through thick honey as he grabbed his simple robe and sandals. He dressed quietly, the sounds of the twins whispering to each other passing through his ears without registering.

As he made his way to the bedroom door, he stopped briefly and turned back to look at them. Geta pulled away from Caracalla's face, the sound of a kiss dissipating into the air. "G-good evening, Caesars," Acacius said shakily.

"Goodnight, Acacius," Caracalla hummed happily. Acacius winced, shivering at the sound of his name on that tongue. It felt like ice cold water being dumped on his head after being called "beast" and "brute" so much.

Geta said nothing, watching as the older man left the room.

The ride to his home passed in a flash, his poor horse panting once he made it to the stables. One of his servants, a young boy no older than sixteen, helped him get down and took the saddle off his horse. "Night, general," the boy said kindly. Acacius nodded, a quiet grunt leaving his lips in response before turning and making his way inside.

Lucilla. He needed Lucilla.

The smells of his home washed over him as he stepped inside; incense and a faint hint of citrus. Tears welled up in his eyes again and his heartbeat began to quicken.

"Dulcissime?" (Dearest?)

Acacius gasped, head turning quickly in the direction of Lucilla's voice.

"You're back late," she said, standing in the doorway of their bedroom. Worry etched its way across her features, making him crumble almost instantly.

Acacius fell to his knees in front of her, strong hands gripping onto her soft clothes like a lifeline. "I'm sorry— I—" He gasped, voice shaking with sobs.

"Justus…" Lucilla cooed, helping him stand to his feet gently before guiding him into their bedroom. She closed the door as another sob wracked through Acacius' body. "Shh," she whispered, sitting him down on their mattress. It was so much softer than the one he'd just been in.

"Lucilla, I—" Acacius sniffled, eyes red and raw.

"No, my love," she said softly. She cupped his face in her delicate hands, wiping the tears away with her thumbs. "You don't have to say anything. Come here." She kneeled before him, removing his sandals and slowly untied his robe. "Would you like a bath?"

Acacius nodded, breaths hiccuping weakly.

She nodded in return, guiding him to their private bath. Removing his clothes was a slow task, but it gave the water enough time to warm up a little. Once he was seated in the water, he didn't move much save for the periodic shaking of his shoulders as he continued to sob. Lucilla's heart broke with every weak noise or sniffle that left his body. She was always gentle with him, but she doubled her efforts on nights like this, cleaning off the stain of those two monsters.

Once they were back in their bedroom and in comfier robes, she made sure that he got into the bed before her. Strong hands gripped her wrists and didn't let go until she joined him so she complied, crawling into bed with him. With his head resting on her chest, his tears fell more softly, but not less frequently.

Lucilla combed her fingers through her husband's soft curls and it calmed him down significantly. She hated these evenings with every fiber of her being. Her strong, capable husband was brought down to his knees and forced to perform acts so vile it made her sick. She tried to get him to fight it, but they both knew he couldn't deny the young emperors' wishes.

So, that evening, while her husband cried into her chest and fell into a restless sleep, she thought. Lucilla began planning. She had to get her husband out of this, no matter the cost. Rome hadn't been happy in years.

There had to be a way to get rid of those two that would benefit both of them as well as the city.

She looked down at Acacius' sleeping face and gently rubbed her thumb between his brows, softening the furrow between them. She sighed softly, her own brows drawing close in worry.

———

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.