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It was silent in the Palatine; save for the rustle of silk and the moans of a dying man. Septimus Severus was dying. It was treason to say so: any, whether they be slave, servant or senator who mentioned it would be executed-  but it was true. 

Geta stared at the man he had looked up to all his life lying weak and emaciated on the bed. Death seemed to have shrunk him, his hair greasy and matted on his forehead and his beard coming away in patches. He had fallen ill while on a campaign in Britannica, an mild wound putrifying until it was grave enough to endanger the life of the emperor. 

He was currently lurking behind a plinth in the Emperor’s bedchamber, his brother Caracalla crouched behind him, mild whimpers escaping from his mouth, his hand clenching Geta’s leg. 

His father wasn’t lucid right now, and for that he was thankful. When the Praetorians carried him in, he was roaring with rage, spittle flying from his mouth. Geta could not believe his usually cool father could make such noises. His mother, Julia Domna had tried to placate the Emperor, but had received a strike to head in thanks. It was at that point Geta had retreated to the shadows of the chamber, thinking it would be best not to get in the way and somehow bring the familiar wrath upon his head. 

More moans left his father’s dry and cracked lips, and a sheen of sweat lay over body. His mother had now taken up guard by his bedside, a delicate handkerchief pressed to cut on her cheek, despite the strong stench of death flowing from the man. Her eyes were empty as the cloth was stained red. 

The oil lamps flickered and grew dim as the hours passed by. It was a clear night, and Geta could see the moon’s reflection over the city that stretched out before them. The news of the Emperor’s imminent departure to the next life had the citizens concerned; they knew the transfer of power was no sure thing. The vibrant stores that lined the Via Sacra were boarded up; no noises came from the pleasure houses and street food vendors absent. Silence fell over the great city- a collective breath holding. 

The only place that showed evidence that people still remained in the city was the light that burst from the temples. Geta wished he could join the worshippers, and beg for favour from the Gods.

A whisper made its way across the room, and Geta instantly stiffened, the blood draining from his face and the hairs on his neck standing on edge. This was it. 

‘Geta…, come, my son…’. His father was calling him over.

Caracalla’s whimpers turned into cries, and Geta reached down to smooth his hair trying to pretend they were still boys, playing hide and seek in many rooms in the palace.

His gold-trimmed sandals made no sound crossing the marble floor; he felt like he was floating.

The whisper of his name became more insistent, even in death his Father had no patience for him. He moved forward towards the imperial bed, and knelt down next to the edge. His Father already appeared corpse-like; his bloated skin taking already hanging from his bones. 

He glanced pointedly at his mother, but she either did not notice or take heed from it. If she had, then perhaps her fate would have been different. Geta noted her disrespect and stored it in the back of his mind, he would deal with everyone once he had power.

Prior to the Emperor’s departure for his most recent and evidently final military campaign, he had been named co-augusti to rule in his stead alongside Caracalla. It would not do thinking what would occur if Caracalla had been left to rule on his own. 

‘Geta, you are to listen to me carefully. My time is short, I know that, despite the sycophantic crowing from all that I will live. I am not a fool. You will reign, this I know,’

Geta sharply inhaled. 

His father’s bloodshot eyes locked onto him with fervour, and Geta felt like the Gods themselves had plucked his thoughts from his head and planted them into his fathers. 

‘You will reign alongside your brother,’ 

Geta began to protest, the madness that had been evident from his brother’s birth grew worse by the year, his lucid moments becoming further apart.

His father began to cough, blood and sputum flowing from his mouth like the Tiber. The Gods would claim his soon, Geta thought, not without a spark of anticipation. With clear effort, his father continued on.

‘You are as strong as your weakness, protect him, do not quarrel with him, it will be set against the other that you both shall fall’ The Emperor took a deep breath, his pale chest struggling to rise. He seemed panicked now, no longer so brave in the face of death. He spoke rapidly and breathlessly ‘Pay the soldiers, never allow a united senate and scorn all others.’

This last point was but an echo of a whisper, Geta felt the words imprint on his mind. Scorn alright. He would obliterate the others. 

He felt his mother’s quiet gaze return to the floor, no doubt weighing in her calculating mind what her next advantageous play would be. 

But the bubble of quiet reverence had been broken. Caracalla began to wail and scream, throwing himself to the floor in his fractured state. Geta looked at him and felt no pity, only acceptance. He had always been this way, still a child in many ways. Sometimes Geta envied him for his ignorance, but sometimes Geta hated him with a red fiery passion. How could it be fair that he was the younger brother taking on the mantle of the older. How could it be fair that he had to shoulder the responsibility for both of them? But whenever these thoughts struck him he reasoned the Gods must have placed him in this position for a reason. That reason was clear to Geta now. 

It was the will of the Gods that Geta took his place on the throne. With Caracalla, technically by his side. But that was a minor detail. One that could be solved, if he so wished, but he did not. At least he knew where his brother’s loyalties lay. 

He felt heat pool in his belly as he thought of the future. But he couldn’t ahead of himself. Not yet. His father was still in the realm of the living, his mother plotted against him, and the loyalty of the army and senate had not yet been secured. There was work to do. 

Caracalla had moved on from simply harming himself and now began to tear the decorative hangings and tapestries off the wall; knocking over busts of Emperors past and topple furniture. Must he do everything in this family, Geta thought to himself. 

He spoke with new-found authority to his mother, Julia Domna, ‘why don’t you see to my brother, ensure he does himself no harm. It is not good for my father the emperor to see him so distressed at this time,’. He tried to hide the excitement he felt at taking that tone with her, and still his racing heart. 

He felt himself, be weighed, measured and found wanting by his mother. She made no reply as she stood up and went over to Caracalla. He clung to her robes and cried loudly into her stomach. Julia Domna stood with her arms at her side and held herself rigid, hands slack. She guided Caracalla away, back to his own chambers no doubt, where he could be comforted by whoever was warming his bed tonight. Geta turned back to face his father. He had no wish to see his mother’s empty platitudes. 

Geta was finally alone with his father. The only noise was the death rattle of his chest as his body continued to fight the inevitable. Geta walked closer and closer to the bed, uncaringly stepping over the broken glass and wooden splinters littered over the floor. 

The flecks of gold in Geta’s dark eyes flashed in the dim light as his face pressed close to his father’s face. He saw clearly that the Gods had renounced their favour and protection from the Emperor, with every passing breath his father seemed more man than immortal Emperor chosen by the gods.

He slipped a dagger from his belt. It was a small thing, for ceremonial use only. But he reasoned this was a ritual of sorts, and it felt fitting. The light weight of it felt heavy in his hands; the weight of consequence. 

It had a golden hilt, with a careful depiction of the twin founders of Rome with the she-wolf standing protectively over them. Her eyes were set with winking rubies, and Geta felt their divine stare upon him. 

His father did not see the metallic shine of steel in the moonlight; did not hear the grunt of effort as the blade was thrust into his chest; did not feel Geta’s fist bracing itself against his shoulder; did not taste the coppery salt of his blood dripping from his lips; did not smell Geta’s spice and incense scent as he leaned over to remove the knife. 

No, his father would not notice anything anymore. Geta watched the red blood bloom against the pale of the sheets, as his father gurgled and turned translucent. The dagger was slick in his fingers, coated with blood.

He let it drop from his hands, the clatter it made on cool marble flooring obscene. Its purpose was served. He had prevailed. His father was dead. The emperor was dead. 

He felt laughter bubble up inside him, but he knew the gods would not approve of humour at this most sacred of moments- when he had been made their vessel, through which their divine judgement had been rendered.

A high-pitch giggle broke the silence and Geta tensed, almost checking it was not him that made that noise. But it was his twin; his other-half. Caracalla must had wandered back into the room and had been standing there for Gods knows how long. 

Geta didn’t know how to break the silence- and was about to speak when Caracalla said, ‘He’s dead,’ in a soft, airy voice. Geta nodded. 

‘You did this for us? For both of us?,’. Geta nodded again, not trusting himself to remain emotionless if he answered using his voice. 

‘Well, this will make things more interesting…’ Caracalla trailed off, as if not sure exactly how things would become more interesting, but certain in the knowledge that they would. 

The brothers could have stayed there in that moment, forever. On the cusp between childhood and adulthood; the uncertain intake of breath before moving on from one stage of life to next. Caracalla was often happy to remain in this shapeless place, not concerning himself with reality, with the practicalities. 

But Geta knew had to act to control the narrative, to seize control of the guards, to summon the senate, and to proclaim his divine authority- and to protect his brother. 

Caracalla stalked over to the body of his father and gave his rapidly cooling body a poke in the stomach. His finger came away stained red. Geta turned away and reached over to a bell to summon a servant, letting the collected mask of his face fall, allowing his anxiety and nerves to rule him for a moment. 

The slave drifted into the room silently, eyes cast downwards, not wishing to bring Geta’s rage upon his head. 

Geta looked up and snapped his face back into one of cool arrogance and hard eyes. ‘Summon the senate, the first proclamation from their emperors is to be heard.’ 

The slaves hastily bowed and darted away. 

During the exchange Caracalla had slipped beside him and grasped his hand, their father’s blood sealing their palms. 

‘What do we do now?’, Caracalla asks hesitantly, glancing at Geta from lidded eyes. 

Geta paused, before answering with a smirk on his face, ‘Whatever we want.’

A/N: well…. that was dramatic. Apologies to those looking for historical accuracy- I played around with the death of Septimus Severus (he didn’t make it back to Rome and died on a military campaign); and anything else wrong is my fault, sorry!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are encouraged and greatly appreciated. 

Let me know if you would like this series to continue, and if so, what other snippets of Geta’s life you would like to see…

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