summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?
chapter I chapter II chapter III
warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con, blood
tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, Caracalla’s a whole damn goblin and Geta’s just as cursed
word count: ~7k
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The feast hosted by the emperors seemed to draw every noble citizen of Rome. Servants and slaves rushed through the palace halls, nearly running, desperate to prepare everything to perfection—failure meant punishment, and punishment here was rarely merciful.
None of the guests had been warned that Livia would be present, so several men had already tried to court her, only to be met with her cold, sharp rejection. She couldn’t really blame them—not many knew her by face, and white robes weren’t worn by Vestals alone. Still, the looks they gave her made her stomach turn. They were full of… full of what, exactly? Livia paused.
She knew nothing of lust, desire, or the cravings of the flesh, yet she could sense what these wealthy, pompous men were thinking. The emperors wanted the same from her—of that she was certain—but why, then, were their looks and smirks so different from the ones she caught tonight?
Her eyes swept over the riot of color—so many faces. Old, young, dull, clever, noble, brutish. And though she hated to admit it, she was searching for two faces in particular. The young emperors.
Their game insulted her, sowed doubt and unease, yet it also sparked a fire of defiance. A challenge. She would show them she was no mere kitchen wench to be toyed with. She was a priestess of the great goddess, chosen by the divine. They were not worthy to test her.
Memories of her last encounter with Emperor Caracalla flushed her cheeks with shameful heat. How dare he! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by a soft, unfamiliar voice, and Livia quickly wiped the scowl from her face.
"Mistress, please, the emperors await you."
A young slave girl bowed, offering a cup of wine. Livia waved it away. She hated drinking.
Stepping deeper into the hall, she saw them. Oh, what a glorious sight! Her lips twisted, and her brows furrowed. Glorious for the corrupt, pompous nobles who hung on every word of the emperors. For her, the scene stirred barely concealed irritation, though she forced a polite smile to avoid seeming rude.
Geta at least kept some semblance of decorum, lounging back on the bench with his legs spread wide. Caracalla, on the other hand, had sprawled out completely, his legs stretched so far that his toga had ridden up almost above his knees. Livia quickly turned her gaze away.
Geta always prattled on about decorum—so why did everything around her feel like a mockery, an insult aimed directly at her? And he smiled at her now—sweet, soft, like she was a childhood friend and not a captive in his game. His white robes were so blindingly white they seemed to glow in the dimly lit hall, illuminated only by flickering flames. White and gold—holy colours. He was taunting her. She clenched her own white robes, refusing to show how much he angered her.
His golden belt, embroidered mantle over his tunic—it was the embodiment of divinity and high rank. A laurel crown adorned his fiery hair, and intricate gold bracelets gleamed on his wrists. Caesar had outdone himself.
Caracalla, in contrast, seems deliberately dressed in an entirely different manner. He wore black, and only the brightness of his hair and the glint of his golden laurel stood out against his pale face.
And, like his brother, he was dripping in gold.
A long, heavy golden earring swayed with every lazy tilt of his head, its delicate touch grazing his pale neck. Even in dark clothing, he drew her gaze—forcing her to look at the gold dusted around his eyes and the red of his lips, stretched in a smile not meant for her.
Captivated, she found herself following the path of his delicate fingers as they stroked the pale hair of the slave girl at his feet. The whiteness of his hand was marred by red marks—marks she had left on him not long ago.
Livia caught his mocking glance and quickly looked down at her own wrist. No gold bangles there—only dark, blooming bruises. She wrapped her fingers around them, desperately hiding the proof of her shame.
"Priestess of Vesta," Geta greeted her. The room fell silent, all eyes on her with curiosity.
Between the two emperors sat Lucilla, draped in gold silk, looking—if it were possible—even less pleased to be there than Livia. She offered a polite nod and a faint smile, which Livia returned.
Caracalla caught their exchange and leaned toward Lucilla, whispering something. Lucilla paled. Then, under Livia’s disbelieving gaze, she picked a grape from a golden dish and offered it to Caracalla’s red lips. He ate it with a sly smile, never taking his eyes off Livia.
A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Such public disrespect toward his adoptive mother only deepened her righteous anger.
"You’re even lovelier than Appius described!" a coarse, mocking male voice broke her thoughts.
To Geta’s right, slouched among half-naked slave girls, sat three senators—or rather, what passed for senators these days. She recognized Claudia’s husband, laughing loudly at his companion’s vulgar remark. She felt naked under their stares.
These weren’t the wise old men of Rome, the voices of reason and law—they were long dead, executed for treason, for conspiracies against the emperors. In their place lounged the young, the arrogant, the shameless sycophants.
Before she could answer, Geta gave a gracious nod toward a gold-trimmed bench.
An invitation.
Head high, Livia took her seat. Her back was straight, her hands rested gently on her lap. Everything about her posture declared who she was: a Vestal Virgin. No one in this room, no matter how powerful, had the right to disrespect a priestess of Vesta.
But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she met Caracalla’s gaze. Smirking, he nibbled at his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, while his other hand idly stroked the slave girl’s hair. Livia’s jaw tightened, and she quickly turned away, offended.
"I hope you enjoy tonight’s spectacle," Geta murmured, leaning in close. "I promised you, didn’t I?"
His words sounded more like a warning, but before she could reply, Caracalla clapped his hands, commanding the show to begin.
The crowd parted, pressing to the walls, as decorations were set in the hall’s center.
She couldn’t say why, but a bad feeling settled in her gut as she watched the performers take their places. And then she understood.
The Rape of the Sabine Women.
Her hands balled into fists as the show intensified, men "abducting" resisting girls under a cacophony of music, shouts, and screams, "accidentally" tearing clothes off some. Livia blinked but refused to look away, unwilling to give the emperors the satisfaction. Women’s bodies didn’t frighten her. She glanced, just once, at the brothers.
They watched, utterly engrossed—laughing, shouting, draining one glass of wine after another.
Livia endured, as expected, watching the performance until the end and even clapping politely. But as soon as it was over, a handsome, finely dressed young man stepped forward. A poet.
Irritated, she let out an impatient breath. Geta had indeed arranged an evening of "culture," but the moment the poet opened his mouth, her ears burned, and her face flushed with red blotches. Never in her life had she heard such filth paraded as verse. Livia could not help herself—her eyes darted away, and it took everything in her not to rise from her seat and flee the hall filled with laughing nobles.
The worst part—the worst—was that the women were laughing too. And that shocked her the most. How could they find this funny? Who thought this was amusing? Her gaze darted across the hall, until it met the sorrowful eyes of Lucilla. The older woman gave a slight shake of her head, silently urging Livia to stay seated.
A senator nearby roared with laughter, spilling wine and clapping. Nausea rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed to the Great Goddess, picturing the quiet, safe sanctuary of the temple. But the sounds didn’t fade, and she was forced to open her eyes—and found Geta watching her.
The paint around his eyes had smeared, the powder blurred and fading. He looked wickedly amused, drunk—and in those black eyes, Livia saw not a trace of reason. Beside him, Caracalla let out a full-throated laugh, throwing his head back in raw delight.
Animals.
The poet finished to thunderous applause and disappeared into the crowd. Livia rose at once. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear through her chest. She was terrified—feeling utterly unsafe.
But why? she asked herself.
"I am a priestess of Vesta, keeper of the Eternal Flame, my title…" she tried to steady herself, but a man’s jeering whistle behind her immediately scattered her thoughts.
Not long ago, the very thought that anyone would dare touch her seemed impossible. Yet now, she stared at her wrists, the dark marks glaring back at her—marks left not by just anyone, but by the emperor himself! Those who dared dishonor a Vestal were punished severely, executed even—but who would dare punish an emperor!? No one even knew!
"Gods, punish him, I beg you, protect me, let justice strike him!" she repeated, pushing through the crowd.
No one seemed to notice her departure, and with relief, she slipped behind a red fabric partition, leaned against a column, and finally exhaled. What she’d witnessed tonight had shaken her. It was worse than those awful encounters when the emperors had tried to provoke her. This time, they had succeeded. Her anger was gone—replaced by fear that made her hands tremble.
The entire hall, every guest, was drowning in wine and debauchery. She had even seen some of the men inhaling white powder from silver trays. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know.
Catching her breath, Livia slapped her own cheek lightly to steady herself. She had to leave. Return to the House of the Vestals. Tell the High Priestess everything. She couldn’t bear this burden alone anymore.
Cautiously, she peeked past the partition into the room. The feast was still in full swing. Seeing no sign of the emperors, she breathed a small sigh of relief—only to flinch at a soft, unfamiliar touch.
Startled, she turned—and immediately exhaled. It was the same slave girl, dark-skinned, her wide eyes full of fear.
"Leave, Mistress, please!" the girl whispered.
"You scared me!" Livia replied softly, immediately taking the girl’s trembling hands in hers. "What is it?"
"I’m sorry… so sorry… please leave… not again…" The girl was trembling, repeating the same words over and over, her eyes darting in panic.
No matter how much Livia tried to comfort her, the girl only grew more agitated, babbling incoherently. Then—silence.
With a frightened squeak, the slave girl darted behind the curtain, leaving Livia alone. But not for long.
"You abandoned us so quickly," said a voice.
Geta.
His steps were uneven, his gaze hollow, and his tongue kept flicking over his lips, betraying his nervousness. He looked almost like himself… except he was terribly drunk.
Livia pressed her lips together. Pathetic. Did he really need to drown himself in wine just to find the courage to speak to her as he truly wished?
They stared at each other in silence. Only the muffled sounds behind the curtain reminded them they weren’t truly alone. The torchlight made his appearance ominous, aging him, twisting his features into something darker.
"I asked you a question," he said, no longer courteous but angry.
"I wasn’t impressed by the performance, I’ll be honest, Caesar." The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She cursed her own tongue the moment they left her lips. Angering him now was foolish.
As if reading her thoughts, he frowned, clicking his tongue in disapproval and stepping closer. She didn’t move. Geta was not Caracalla.
He seemed to read that in her eyes, too—and something in him twitched. His upper lip trembled.
Warily, Livia met his gaze, searching for some flicker of the old interest, that strained civility he used to wear like a mask. But there was nothing. Not even the torchlight touched those bottomless black eyes. She swallowed.
"I appreciate your invitation nonetheless, Caesar," she tried to soften her words.
It didn’t work.
He said nothing, squinting at her, lazily scratching his neck, smudging the white powder further. His gaze dropped to her hands, her wrist, and his mouth twisted into a thin, bloodless line.
"He does it to spite me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "But you’re here, with me, whether he touched you or not," he continued, lost in thought.
"May I leave?" Livia whispered, though she knew the answer.
Geta smirked and shook his head, rubbing his hands as if steeling himself.
"You… you’re devout, aren’t you? Please! The goddess…" she appealed to his reason, but it was futile.
He wouldn’t dare, would he? He wasn’t his brother! But no, he was exactly the same.
His hands were ice-cold, yet they burned her wrists. His palm pressed down exactly where Caracalla had left bruises, squeezing until it hurt. Desperate, Livia tried to scream, but he clamped his hand roughly over her mouth, stifling the sound.
"Quiet, priestess, quiet," his drunken whisper scorched her neck. "I don’t like doing things the hard way, understand?"
She shook her head frantically, a tear slipping down her cheek. She didn’t understand anything. Nothing but her own stupidity—thinking she could play games with emperors. Thinking she could win.
Geta lowered his hand, and she gasped for air. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, still gripping her wrist. She was trembling.
"Now, you’ll please me, won’t you?" he lifted his head and stared at her lips.
Disbelieving, Livia stayed silent, shaking her head, but her wishes mattered little. Who could resist an emperor’s kiss?
If his hands were cold, his mouth was hot, searing. For a moment, she lost all sense of reality, too terrified to react, but then the truth crashed over her. Someone else’s mouth on hers, someone else’s hands on her waist. A man was touching her—touching her in a way he never should have!
Whether Mars or Vesta herself had given her strength and fury, Livia bit down hard, her mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood.
Geta immediately pulled back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Oh, he was stunned! She’d bitten through his lower lip. Blood trickled down his chin, and only when a crimson drop hit the marble floor at his feet did the truth finally reach him.
Rage twisted his handsome face.
She breathed heavily, still reeling from what she’d done. But there was no time to think—before she could even process it, he struck her cheek with the back of his hand. And just as quickly, before the pain could even bloom, he dragged her into another kiss. This one was angry, punishing. Anything but gentle.
He released her. Her mouth tasted of blood, and she spat, unladylike, wiping her lips. Let him kill her! But first, she’d claw his eyes out!
But no, he only smirked, licking his own blood from his lips.
"Leave, priestess, or it’ll be worse," his voice was hoarse. "And remember, you’re still expected at the games."
Only once he slipped back into the hall did Livia realize how badly she was shaking. Only then did the sting of his slap truly bloom across her face. She wanted to sob like a little girl—but not here. Not in this place.
"Imperial blood spills far too often these days, Amata," said a voice behind her—calm, amused, almost gentle.
Caracalla.
Livia turned to him like a hunted creature, silently cursing him with every word she knew. He was drunk and cheerful, utterly at ease—if anything, exhilarated, almost thrilled.
His brother’s little performance had clearly entertained him.
"Perhaps you’ve been praying poorly to your goddess?" His pale brows furrowed in feigned concern. "Could something like this happen to a pure, devoted novice? Or perhaps your goddess is punishing you for something?" He leaned in like a conspirator, his hand covering his mouth as if to protect a forbidden secret. "Or maybe," he whispered, "this is exactly what she wants."
"Please, let me leave," she whispered, her lips stinging from the dried blood, her wrists aching with every movement.
"But what of your punishment?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, raising his hands. The bracelets on his wrists jingled. "Twice now, you’ve spilled the sacred blood of the fathers of the empire! Perhaps I should spill a little of yours?" And with a syrupy smile, his pale eyes, clouded with wine, slowly slid over her face.
The hint was so blatant that even her naive mind understood. The first touch. The first kiss. The first… She shook her head. None of this was ever meant to be part of her life.
"I’m begging you," she breathed, barely audible, not knowing what else to say.
It pleases him. She can see it—the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the lazy narrowing of his eyes as he savors her humiliation. Her pride, once unshakable, is crumbling, and he’s enjoying every second of it.
"Very well," he nodded playfully. She exhales, a breath of relief escaping her—
"But first…"
Caracalla extends his delicate hand, the same one where she’d left her scratches. Mesmerized, she watches the firelight dance on the golden rings. He tilts his head, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.
Her heart stutters. She knows exactly what he wants.
Swallowing her pride, Livia bent, brushing her lips against his wounded hand, hearing his satisfied exhale. It felt obscene to her.
He’d forced her. Forced her to touch him, to bow, to press her lips to his warm, soft skin. Humiliating. But if this was the price of her peace, so be it.
Livia hurried to leave, but as she passed Caracalla, she found herself caught in his iron grip.
He held her for just a moment, just long enough for him to lean close and whisper hotly in her ear: "Tonight, my brother won’t be the only one imagining your face."
The slave girl leads her out of the palace, accompanied by a young man with dark skin. Livia stumbles, nearly collapsing, but the man catches her, steadying her with a firm arm around hers as they descend the steps. She doesn’t care that he’s a man—right now, he’s her only salvation.
"This is my brother, Mistress," the girl whispers. "He’ll help you."
They seat Livia in a carriage. As the door is closed, she casts one last glance toward the palace and catches sight of a dark figure standing on the balcony, watching. She yanked the curtain shut with a shaking hand.
She didn’t have to see his face to know it was one of them.
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The High Priestess stares at her with disbelief, wariness, and fear. No wonder—Livia had burst into her chambers in the dead of night, disheveled, bloodied, bruised. She had shed all her tears on the way from the palace; now there was only one thing she longed for: to tell the truth.
"You weren’t at your sister’s," the older woman says, narrowing her eyes and drawing her cloak tighter around herself.
In the darkness, in her thin nightgown, her hair loose and her face suddenly aged, the High Priestess seems almost fragile to Livia—nothing like the stern, commanding figure she had always known. For a moment, fear claws at her: what if she won’t help? What could this aging priestess possibly do against the emperors? But Livia shoves the thought aside, falls to her knees, clutches at the woman’s legs, presses her cheek against them, and whispers fiercely:
"It was them!"
Her voice quivers with rage. The sister-priestesses loved her for her lightness, her cheerful spirit, but now there’s no trace of that left.
"The emperors!" she spits the words out with such hatred that the High Priestess flinches, stepping back, but Livia won’t let her go. She looks up, straight into her eyes.
"Look at me!" She thrusts out her arms—pale, bruised, trembling.
"My child…" the priestess whispers, stunned. "Why did you go to the palace?"
"Why?" Livia’s breath grows heavy, anger rising in her chest. "Because of my sister, of course! Did you think I stayed there willingly—for what? For a man?"
The High Priestess presses her lips into a thin line. Pity flickers in her eyes, but so does doubt.
"You’re young, beautiful… perhaps you did something wrong, somehow…"
Enraged, Livia springs to her feet, towering over her.
"Me? You think I’m to blame for this?" She scrubs at her lips and wrists as if trying to erase the shame. "You think I would lie? I, who took the sacred vows? I, who gave up my family, my life, everything—just to trade it all for disgrace and dishonor?"
Something shifts in the priestess’s face. She reaches for Livia’s hands, squeezing them, then pulls her into an embrace, gently stroking her back.
"What did they do? Did they…" The look in her eyes says the rest.
"No," Livia snaps, breaking free from her arms, "but they did enough to be judged."
"And who will judge the emperors?" the priestess says, throwing up her hands.
"The Senate! The people! The gods!" Livia’s voice rises, and the priestess hastily motions for her to lower it. "Someone will, Great Virgin!"
"You forget whom you’re speaking of, child."
"What, are they above the law? The people hate them—that’s no secret. Everyone in Rome knows what they are—everyone but children! And they themselves are like children—cruel, vicious—"
She’s cut off.
"And yet these children rule us. They rule Rome. You’ve seen what happens to those who oppose them. The Praetorians, the army, even the Senate—they all stand with them. What is your word against theirs?"
"I am a Vestal Virgin! My word is not nothing!"
"Then stay away from them. Don’t provoke them. Devote yourself to your duties."
The conversation is over.
Livia storms out of the priestess’s chambers without a word of farewell, furious at finding no support. And yet, having finally spoken, a weight lifts from her chest.
She doesn’t want to tell anyone else—but Caesonia is different. Her friend, her sister, her mentor—she cannot keep this from her.
A storm rages over Rome. Lightning flashes illuminate the city with ominous bursts, and Livia is certain it’s the ancient Goddess herself, furious that her priestess has been defiled, dishonored. The thought warms her heart. Let Emperor Caracalla say what he will—she is under her Virgin’s protection.
Here, within the House of the Vestals, she finds refuge—and in Caesonia, the understanding she needs.
The elder priestess asks no questions. She only gently helps Livia undress, combs out her tangled hair, kneads the tension from her shoulders.
Livia sinks into the warm water, closing her eyes in exhausted bliss. Caesonia, wearing only a thin tunic, sits by the pool’s edge, watching her in silence.
Her wrists are almost white again, as they once were, with only faint yellowish marks hinting at the painful memories. She notices Caesonia’s gaze lingering on them.
"What did you talk about with the High Priestess after your visit to your sister?" Caesonia asks, circling the truth.
Livia leans her head back against the marble edge, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Should she tell her everything?
"That’s not what you really want to ask, is it?"
Caesonia licks her lips, tilts her head, and smiles slyly. She slides into the pool beside Livia, her soaked tunic clinging to her skin before she pulls it off and lets it drift away. She presses close, resting her head lightly on Livia’s shoulder. Cool, delicate fingers trail along Livia’s wrist, barely brushing the bruises with feather-light touches.
"Was it one of the emperors?"
"Who told you?" Livia’s heart lurches.
Caesonia laughs softly, stroking her wrist.
"I’m not a fool. I saw the way they looked at you. I might never have known a man, but I can imagine what’s in their heads when they see a beautiful girl." She tucks a strand of hair behind Livia’s ear and meets her gaze, waiting.
Heat rises under Livia’s skin—not from the water. She looks away, murmuring the whole story. Caesonia listens, wide-eyed, drinking in every word. It’s not the reaction Livia expected; she grows even more embarrassed.
"And what was it like?" Caesonia lowers her voice, though the slaves outside the door can’t hear.
"What…" Livia whispers, confused.
"You know," Caesonia’s hand gently caresses her cheek, "what’s it like to feel a man’s touch? Is it like mine?"
The priestess’s hand strokes her, leaving Livia stunned and flustered, but then Caesonia laughs and pulls away.
"Forgive me! Forgive me, sweet Livia," she says with a wink, sinking into the water up to her chin. "I’m too weak for beauty, and to hear about a handsome man…"
"Caesonia!" Livia tries to sound stern, but can’t help laughing.
"You should be ashamed of your words and thoughts!"
"I’m just teasing, you know that," Caesonia says, then theatrically leans back against the pool’s edge, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Oh, Emperor, I think I’ve twisted my ankle!"
Anywhere else, the joke would have horrified Livia. But here, safe and warm in the water, she bursts out laughing, grabbing her friend’s shoulders and shaking her.
"Stop it, you fool, it’s not funny at all!" When he grabbed her roughly, it wasn’t funny. When he kissed her, it wasn’t funny. But Caesonia fluttering her lashes like some lovesick emperor—yes, that was funny.
They never speak of it again. The bruises fade. Life settles back into its old rhythm. And Livia throws herself into her sacred duties, heart and soul.
But the faster the carefree days flew by, the closer the games drew near. Livia tried not to think about them, but in the restless moments before sleep, the emperors’ faces haunted her—their voices, their touches, their smiles…
One radiant, sunlit day, slaves arrived at the House of the Vestals carrying a covered palanquin. From it, they hauled a massive chest onto the terrace.
The priestesses gathered around, eyeing the ornate, gold-trimmed chest with curiosity. The slaves withdrew quickly, but none dared open it without the High Priestess’s permission.
A wave of dread washed over Livia. Sensing her unease, Caesonia reached out and quietly took her hand.
When the High Priestess finally appeared and lifted the heavy lid, the Vestals gasped in unison, recoiling in horror.
Livia clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned by the sight.
On a bed of crimson velvet lay two severed male arms, hacked cleanly at the elbows. A tightly wound scroll rested beside them. Nausea rose in her throat.
The High Priestess, regaining her composure quicker than the rest, seized the scroll, scanned it, then nodded sharply for Livia to step closer.
"Emperor Caracalla expresses his deepest regrets and begs forgiveness for the inappropriate behavior of a slave who dared leave those marks on you. He sends his warmest regards," she said, her voice like a verdict. Both of them knew he was lying brazenly — and so did he.
Livia’s lips trembled with outrage and fury as she realized whose arms these were. The slave who had helped her escape the palace, who had held her by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing on the steps. So it was Caracalla on the balcony! He had seen them!
"Dispose of them," the High Priestess commanded coldly. "And I shall convey your gratitude to the emperor for his… justice."
Livia only nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She had glimpsed the depths of his madness—and it terrified her.
Now the days leading to the games became a slow, grinding torture. She buried herself in ceaseless prayer, trying to smother the rising panic that no words could soothe.
"Don’t worry, we’ll be with you, won’t we?" Caesonia said. Livia, dressed in a long white tunic, her hair braided with red ribbons and veiled, stood ready. Caesonia hung an amulet around her neck and stepped back, admiring her.
The arena greeted them with a deafening roar as they took their seats to the left of the imperial box. Young girls approached, holding out wreaths of flowers, and the priestesses accepted with gracious smiles, settling them gently on their heads.
As usual, Livia sat beside the High Priestess, her back as straight as a string. Her gaze was fixed on the arena, and she didn’t allow herself even a glance toward the emperors.
"Emperor Geta is watching you," Caesonia whispered in a low tone. Livia curled her lip in disdain, waving off the comment with a flick of her hand. Let him watch.
Heralds in masks of the seven gods announced the start of the games, held in honor of General Fulvius Plautianus’s victory, who had seized part of Persia in the emperors’ name.
"As if they conquered it themselves," Livia scoffed under her breath, careful no one overheard.
As the gladiators entered the arena, she stole a quick glance at the imperial box. For a moment, their red-haired heads caught her attention, but she quickly turned away, unwilling to meet their eyes.
The games began, the crowd roared, and Livia, finally forgetting the emperors, leaned forward, gripping the railing, her gaze fixed on the combatants below.
The sun climbed higher, and the arena grew bloodier. She noticed the crowd favoring a young gladiator—dark-haired, tanned, powerful. The barbarian fought fiercely, clearly not for the emperors’ amusement. For a moment, his eyes swept toward the Vestals’ box, and Livia, her heart pounding with some hidden sympathy, nodded slightly, silently wishing him victory. He gave no sign, but his next fight was another win.
The emperors leapt from their seats, clapping, clearly pleased with the spectacle. A small monkey on Caracalla’s shoulder screeched, mimicking its master’s applause.
The crowd chanted "Hanno," and Geta, visibly stung, sank back into his chair, followed by his brother. Livia smirked.
To her dismay, the final bout turned against Hanno. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand. Her sisters, the crowd, the entire stadium froze in tense anticipation. The verdict rested with the Caesars.
Livia no longer even tried to hide it—she stared straight at the emperors. Caracalla leaned over and whispered something to his brother, then lounged back lazily in his chair. Geta rose to his feet. Behind them, Lucilla sat, visibly uneasy.
Emperor Geta braced his hands on the edge of the imperial box, sweeping his gaze slowly across the crowd, across the men in the arena… Then he lifted his hand—and locked eyes with her. His smile was cold and crooked, his chin lifted in arrogance. The wretch. She didn’t bother to hide her grimace in response…
… And his thumb turned downward, sealing the death sentence.
The crowd erupted in outrage, but Geta sat back smugly, sipping from his goblet and raising it toward her with a mocking nod.
"Livia…" the High Priestess warned, but inside, Livia’s heart burned with indignation and hatred. Did he enjoy making her vulnerable? Humiliating her in front of the gods? Well, then…
She leaned forward, extending her arm, and raised her thumb, staring straight at the emperors.
Oh, their furious, twisted faces were a balm to her soul. They could do nothing to her, say nothing—everyone knew a Vestal’s word in such matters was final.
With a sense of quiet triumph, she settled back onto the bench, her smile unwavering, as the heralds proclaimed the verdict in a booming voice. This time, the crowd’s cheers weren’t for the emperors or the fighters—they were for her.
"You shouldn’t have done that. I told you to stay away," the High Priestess said sadly, but Livia barely heard her. Her heart raced with the thrill of the small victory.
They were escorted into the Colosseum’s inner halls, but Livia felt no fear, walking steadily, carefully holding her long tunic.
And of course, they were waiting for them. The emperors—both dressed in white and crimson, the colors of victory. Geta’s head was crowned with golden laurel, while Caracalla’s unruly curls wore a different wreath. Fresh green laurel leaves made his blue eyes seem even brighter, his skin paler, and he… She turned away. He once again reminded her of Sol.
Many of the senators were there too, and they quickly drew the High Priestess into conversation, leaving the younger Vestals to themselves.
Livia, keeping well away from the emperors, slipped toward a quieter corner of the hall.
"Pious Virgin, may I speak with you?"
Startled, she turned to see Lucilla standing before her, head bowed.
"Of course. Your company is always a pleasure," Livia said.
Lucilla glanced around nervously, then leaned closer, whispering,
"Thank you for sparing the gladiator today… Please, ask me nothing—I beg you—but know that I’m grateful. And in return, I’ll offer you a service. I will tell you how your sister died."
Livia freezes, blinking rapidly and opening her mouth in silence. Lucilla’s story is brief, dry, and lacking in details, but it is enough. Livia knew. She knew who was responsible.
After parting with the daughter of the former emperor, she felt an eerie, almost unnatural calm. Emperor Geta had killed her sister—and now he tried to violate her, as if mocking her grief.
She stood alone by the hall’s far columns, lost in thought, when the very one she had been thinking of found her, his brother beside him. Her gaze was empty, cold.
"Emperor Geta," she nodded. "Emperor Caracalla," another nod.
"I wish to apologize, priestess," Geta began. She could see how the words strained him, how he forced himself to be courteous…
But what was his courtesy to her?
"Tell me, Caesar, what exactly are you apologizing for? For the disgusting advances you made toward me, or for murdering my sister? Do you even remember her? Dark-haired, gentle-hearted. Do you even remember her name? Her name was Cassandra," she said through clenched teeth.
Geta took a step back, and for the first time, Livia saw him completely exposed, vulnerable. To her surprise, his black eyes weren’t looking at her. Instead, he was staring at Caracalla. And Caracalla, in turn, was looking right back at him. On his pale face, there was no smile, no familiar sneer—only an unnerving, stone-cold mask.
"It’s a lie, brother," Geta said, not addressing her once again, and Livia understood less and less. Caracalla didn’t believe him, that much was clear.
"Please, not here," he pleaded. Caracalla said nothing, but his blue gaze shifted back to Livia.
Geta cast her a final look—one full of hatred, bitter disappointment—and hurried toward the Praetorians, disappearing into the crowd.
"Did you know?" she asked Caracalla.
He lifted his head, blinking rapidly, as if shaking off a daze. A crooked smirk slowly returned to his face.
"No, I swear," he says hoarsely, almost whispering. He’s angry—this much was clear—but for the first time, she wasn’t the target of his rage, and it felt… strange. "We…," he trails off, licking his lips, "Cassandra and I—we were good friends. Didn’t I tell you? I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt her, believe me, Livia."
She watches him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He meets her gaze with that same smirk, peering up at her from under his brows, his pale eyebrows drawn together—pure innocence. Livia shrugs, taking up her proud stance once more.
"And yet, you acted inappropriately towards me," she said, now feeling more confident as his attention was fully on his brother.
"Oh, I regret it," he replied, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue brushing over his upper lip. Did he truly regret it? Livia looked at him again. Not a hint of it. But even empty words carried weight now.
"How do you like my gift?"
A shiver ran through her, the memory of the chest with the severed hands sending a chill down her spine. She said nothing.
The emperor leaned in, his hand brushing the bust behind her, tracing the curve of the nameless marble girl’s neck. The scratches on his hand had healed. Her bruises had faded as well. He glanced at her hands before locking eyes with her.
"If you want," he whispered, his grin widening, "I’ll give you one just like it—with Geta."
For a brief moment, she forgot how to breathe. He was offering her the revenge she’d craved—for her sister, for her own honor! But he was his brother… And yet, with a breath heavy with fury, she answered,
"Yes."
The delight on the emperor’s face terrifies her. Caracalla breathed heavier, his tongue sliding over his lips again and again, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard a low, strangled moan escape from his red mouth.
His delicate hand released the marble throat of the bust and rose toward her face. Livia nervously glanced behind him—was anyone watching? Fortunately, the column was wide enough to shield them from prying eyes…
What was she thinking? She quickly scolded herself.
But the emperor didn’t touch her. Instead, he plucked a rose from her flower crown and tucked it behind his ear, as if he were a mischievous street boy, not the Father of Rome. It seemed the talk of his brother’s murder didn’t trouble him in the slightest. Had such a thought crossed his mind before? Had it ever occurred to him? Like Romulus and Remus—twins, both of them…
She loses her train of thought as her gaze lands on the large medallion on his chest. Golden, elaborate, screaming wealth—she had no interest in it, until Livia noticed the embossed female profile.
At first, she couldn’t believe her eyes, wondering if it was her own face staring back at her.
"Oh, this is my mother," he lifted the medallion, showing it to her. Livia understands it’s another woman, but she can’t deny the striking resemblance. It terrifies her.
Nervously, she glances up at the emperor. The last time he spoke of Julia Domna, he pressed against her hips, shamelessly moaning. It’s hard to forget such a thing.
He smiles slyly, knowing exactly what she’s thinking, tilting his head, savoring the blush on her cheeks.
"I was just a boy when she died. Father always hated me, but she…" He steps closer, and Livia finds herself backed against the wall, nowhere to retreat. "She loved me. That much I remember."
Livia has no words to reply, but he doesn’t expect an answer. Their faces are almost level now, his eyes burning with feverish intensity. Caesar leans in, but then immediately tilts his head, turning to bury his face in her neck, not touching, leaving a small gap between his lips and her skin. Unconsciously, she tilts her neck, almost as if offering it. She feels his smile against her skin.
"You look just like her, don’t you?" he murmurs, inhaling deeply before once more searing her neck with his breath. "Your goddess didn’t hear your prayers, did she? Didn’t grant your wishes…" He leans back slightly, still staring into her eyes, chin raised arrogantly. She exhales sharply.
"Then I’ll be your god, Amata, and for my help, I don’t need thirty years of devotion. I think it’ll all end much sooner," he purrs.
It’s only now that Livia realizes what she’s agreed to.
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