Hi there ✶
I'm a fiction writer who's finally decided to try Tumblr as a space to share my work and possibly connect with those who might find something in it that speaks to them.
I write drama-heavy, character-focused stories — mostly dark, layered, emotional. And yes, love is always somewhere in the marrow.
This blog is 21+. I write with full creative freedom, often touching on intimacy, obsession, identity, memory, power, and all the chaos in between.
I’ve been writing fanfiction for years — it’s my way of breathing feeling into silence. And now I’d like to do that here too.
At the moment, I’m working on a long, slow-burning fic set in Ancient Rome, inspired by the world of Gladiator II and my own fever dreams. There’s politics, blood, softness, ghosts of love, and too much wine.
📝 I’ll be posting chapters directly here as well, in English — and sometimes fragments, side scenes, or mood pieces.
I also write in Russian, and you can find me under the same name on AO3.
🔥 ✨ READ THE FANFIC HERE ✨ 🔥
👉 [CLOSER — full story overview]
(Fandom, content warnings, and chapter links)
There’s no update schedule yet — just fragments, emotions, and pieces of empire. I’d love to share this story and maybe find someone who feels the same pulse.
Sometimes I see the anti-LGBTQIA crap people comment on some of my posts and I’m just like….babe….you know you’re on TUMBLR, right? Like this place was built on a foundation of rainbows, slash fanfic, and gay porn.
📖 Closer| Chapter 5 - About thoughts, anger, and mutual attraction
The previous chapters can be found here.
AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62266017/chapters/159299281
"Quod cupio, nequeo; quod nolo, saepe necesse est."
"What I desire, I cannot attain; what I do not want is often inevitable."
(Ovid, Metamorphoses)
Far from the political intrigues and bustling gatherings, Lucretia found herself truly at peace. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she was able to wholeheartedly savor each passing day in solitude, with only the occasional presence of servants interrupting her tranquility. After spending an exhausting amount of time locked in verbal battles with Marcus Tullius, the young widow had finally secured a well-deserved reprieve from social engagements. The elderly senator, to his credit, hadn't pressured her out of malice; rather, he genuinely wanted to surround her with beneficial connections. Lucretia understood his intentions, but she had simply run out of energy for polite smiles. After much negotiation, she had managed to carve out a few precious weeks of peace and quiet—days of calm, and evenings spent at home in blissful stillness.
Nevertheless, from the various meetings, dinners, celebrations, and forums she had attended, the young widow had gathered a great deal of interesting information, as well as encountered several engaging and, at times, even pleasant individuals. The political climate grew more tense with each passing day, and, in her observations, conversations about the empire's affairs in private circles took on an increasingly negative tone. To some extent, Lucretia understood the dissatisfaction, particularly among the upper echelons of society, whose finances—though not plummeting rapidly—were nonetheless being steadily eroded by military campaigns and rising taxes. As for the common people, there was little more to say—they were always the first to suffer. Lucretia genuinely pitied them. Yet, on the other hand, she did not share the growing disdain for the young emperors. She believed that, at their age and with such immense power, any of their critics would likely have fared no better—or perhaps, been far worse.
Perhaps it was a matter of personal affection, as Geta continued his courtship in his characteristic manner—excessively lavish and ostentatious. However, his efforts, whether fortunately or unfortunately, had somewhat diminished due to the lack of reciprocation or visible interest from the young widow. The note he had sent with his first gift seemed to offer a fleeting glimpse into the young emperor's soul. Yet his true motives remained unclear to the end. Lucretia couldn't quite discern what specific response the emperor expected from her, but it was evident that mere gratitude wasn't enough. She had no intention of offending him—not in the slightest. Yet, she was determined to maintain her distance, fully aware of her status within Roman society and the potential consequences of becoming too closely entangled with the ruler, should their relationship progress too far.
In other words, becoming Geta's wife was unlikely at best. No matter how one looked at it, the disparity in status was glaringly obvious. Yes, she was a Roman, a wealthy widow thanks to her late husbands, especially the efforts of her second spouse. But by birth, she was still a barbarian, and in the eyes of native Romans, an outsider. Such circumstances could hardly result in a legitimate marriage—it would more likely spark a scandal. Perhaps not a public one, but unpleasant all the same. And the emperor, she hoped, was not a fool, though doubts lingered. He certainly wasn't in any rush to marry.
As for herself, Lucretia was thoroughly exhausted by the so-called happiness of married life. She was perfectly content with the idea of remaining a widow for the rest of her days. But most importantly, she had no desire to become someone's mistress. Pride wouldn't allow it—at least not so blatantly, out in the open. And Geta, it seemed, knew no other way. So it came to this: she accepted his attentions but offered nothing in return. And yet, she did not outright reject him either. After all, it was flattering. Besides, the number of suitors swarming her like dogs over a scrap of meat at every social gathering had noticeably dwindled since it became known that the emperor himself was courting her.
Unfortunately, such a precarious balance—caught between those eager to take an exotic foreigner as their wife and those intimidated by an emperor's interest—could not last indefinitely. Despite Geta's undeniable attentions toward the young widow, all he received in return for his efforts was a polite, restrained gratitude and nothing more. This infuriated him, yet he refused to relent, instead increasing the pressure on her. Lucretia's coldness and her attempts to maintain distance were interpreted by him as pride—a misjudgment in this case.
To temper his fervor, Lucretia devised a method of sending short notes in response to each of his gifts. These were not simple "thank you" messages but poems, ones she thought might please him or reflect aspects of his nature. They shared a mutual love for poetry, and these brief "letters" gradually evolved into a peculiar, veiled form of dialogue between them.
Even so, Lucretia began avoiding personal encounters with the young emperor, reducing them to the barest minimum. She hoped to cool his persistent interest this way, reasoning that it was unbecoming for an emperor to chase after a woman like a love-struck boy.
However, this was not the primary reason behind her attempts to maintain a distance and keep their interactions—like their correspondence—private. As previously mentioned, tensions were rising. Lucretia could keenly sense Marcus Tullius's unease and concern after every extended public conversation she had with Geta, especially if it lingered beyond the bounds of polite social interaction. Of course, she wanted to believe that the senator's worries stemmed only from his desire to protect her. He did, after all, treat her warmly, almost like a daughter. Yet, she knew there was more to it than that.
Lucretia was not only a witness to the increasingly critical whispers about the emperors but was also, in an official sense, under the guardianship of one of the regime's dissatisfied elites. Because of this, the old senator likely feared that if she grew too close to Geta, she might inadvertently say something careless. To be fair, Marcus Tullius underestimated his ward. Lucretia had never been foolish or easily swayed by men. Nor did she appreciate his misguided belief that he could direct her fate, no matter how noble his intentions might have been.
Lucretia had been confident in her neutrality until a certain evening shattered that illusion:
A blissful, relaxed afternoon that the young widow had been savoring in long-awaited silence was abruptly disrupted by a distant yet distinct knock on the main door. The old servant, Yuna, quickly answered it, exchanging a few brief words with the visitor before hastening toward her mistress's chambers, her heavy, ungraceful footsteps breaking the fragile peace.
Lucretia was half-reclining on a chaise near her bed, immersed in reading Horace'sSatires. The sound of the knock reached her ears, and Yuna's clumsy approach stirred a vague sense of unease, as though forewarning trouble.
The aging woman entered the room without ceremony—a liberty afforded by her close relationship with the widow.
— An invitation for you, my lady, — Yuna announced, slightly out of breath as she extended the scroll toward Lucretia.
— We've an arrangement with Marcus; just leave it on the table, — the young widow replied dismissively, her gaze returning to the text she'd been interrupted from reading.
— But, my dear, — Yuna began cautiously, her tone hinting at something more significant, — this invitation is from the emperor.
— There weren't any planned events at the Palatine Palace today, as far as I know, — Lucretia said, now frowning as she set the parchment aside and cast a concerned look toward the servant. — Give it to me.
She snatched the missive from Yuna's hands more sharply than she intended and hurriedly unfurled the scroll. Her eyes darted across the brief contents several times before she froze, her expression unreadable.
A minute or so passed in silence, the tension in the room thick, before Yuna theatrically cleared her throat. Yet her mistress remained motionless. When nearly five minutes had elapsed, the servant's patience wore thin. Settling herself onto a nearby stool, she finally broke the stillness.
— Well, what does it say, child?
— He's invited me to dine with him, — Lucretia muttered, her voice heavy with resignation.
— And that's not a good thing, I take it? — Yuna asked, studying her mistress intently.
— Obviously, it's not a good thing, — Lucretia replied flatly.
— And why not? — Yuna laughed in disbelief, leaning her broad hands against the cushion of her seat. — You do seem fond of him.
— What makes you think that? — Lucretia shot back, her response far too defensive. She had a warm fondness for Yuna and rarely felt the need to hide her emotions from her, confident that whatever the older woman learned would remain private.
— No need to lie to my face, dear, — Yuna teased, her grin widening. — I'm no senator or patrician. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the way you smile at each of his letters?
— Don't be ridiculous, — Lucretia said, her tone sharp but unconvincing.
The young widow immediately rose from her seat at Yuna's last remark, abruptly shifting the conversation to instructions regarding her attire for the upcoming meeting with Geta. She wasn't entirely sure how she should present herself and had no idea what he truly meant by "dinner." Was it another lavish feast? Would others be present? Lurking in her heart was the hope that it wouldn't be a private affair, for if it were, the situation would grow infinitely more complicated. Inevitably, Marcus Tullius would hear of it soon enough, which meant she'd have to share the details with him. And if the old man knew, so would others. Rumors, after all, spread like wildfire, and a private dinner—even without the intimacy such a term implied—would leave no room for rebuttal. Whisperers never needed proof.
Refusing the emperor's invitation was out of the question. Annoyance slowly crept over her entire being as she prepared herself for the evening. Luctretia hadn't expected such a sudden move from Geta. For the first time in all their interactions, she found herself cornered, with no escape and no defense. The only one she could direct her frustration toward now was herself, for failing to foresee this inevitability.
Once her outfit was settled and a few carefully chosen pieces of jewelry selected—gifts, of course, from the young ruler—she readied herself to leave her home, steeling herself for the consequences this private meeting might bring. Reputation was all she had in this loathsome society of schemers and hypocrites. She couldn't afford even the smallest misstep. What would be harder, however, was ensuring Geta didn't take one himself.
***
The young emperor had always fancied himself a man with some reserve of patience, but this woman had entirely depleted it. Truth be told, he didn't fully understand what he expected from her or what kind of relationship he hoped to develop. At first, their infrequent encounters left him caught between intrigue and frustration, largely in response to her subtle boldness that tiptoed the line of polite mockery—particularly after the incident at the banquet, when she had caught him in a rather compromising position.
Their paths began to cross more frequently at various events. Despite the emperor's attempts to unsettle her or gain the upper hand in their conversations, she always seemed to emerge victorious. Over time, however, their exchanges grew more enjoyable, and the young widow appeared increasingly beautiful in his eyes. Yet, she showed no open interest in him as a man, which left him perplexed. Their interactions carried far too much emotional weight to be dismissed as mere formalities. While Geta was never short of attention from women, her obvious desire to maintain a polite distance only raised more questions in his mind.
He refused to accept the possibility that she might simply not like him, or that her courtesy was a mask to hide her discomfort—borne of the fact that, due to his position, she had no choice but to tolerate his company.
When preparing his first gift for Lucretia, the emperor had been nervous—a feeling entirely uncharacteristic of him when it came to women. Irritated with himself for harboring such unwarranted emotions, he eventually ordered his servants to handle the contents of the chest without his involvement, as was customary for his other admirations. Yet, recalling that Lucretia had once admitted to a love of poetry when he casually asked, he made the decision to include one of his favorite verses, hoping it might leave a lasting impression.
Having sent the gift, Geta expected the usual admiration but received only polite gratitude. Perhaps her behavior would have stung more deeply if not for the mounting pressures of governance. The young emperor continued his courtship, ordering increasingly expensive and exotic gifts to be sent to Lucretia, yet in return, he received only a courteous "thank you." It wasn't cold dismissal but rather formal appreciation dictated by decorum.
The growing demands of state affairs, troubles with the military campaign, and constant tensions with his brother drained Geta of the energy to dwell on the widow's lack of warmth. Yet he couldn't help but notice her distant demeanor during their public encounters. At one particularly grueling reception, her composure struck him as aloof—enough so that, in his frustration, he resolved to end his pursuit.
That same evening, in response to his most recent gift, she sent him a scroll. Opening it late at night, Geta braced himself for another polite, detached "Thank you for your generosity, my emperor." Instead, he found a short verse:
"Nec te decipiant, Veneris nova munera, Neaera:
Nescis quid vestrae mentis inane tegat."
"Do not be deceived, Naera, by Venus's new gifts:
You do not know what void lies hidden in your heart."
It caught him off guard. While the verse itself was beautiful, Geta was well-acquainted with the works of Propertius, whose elegies explored love's illusions and inevitable disappointments. The message carried a subtle reproach, elegantly veiled. Though he understood its meaning, he refused to accept this view of his intentions.
Thus began their exchange of short notes—a peculiar dialogue understood only by the two of them. While Lucretia maintained her public distance, the nature of their correspondence had an almost playful quality. And when the opportunity arose to turn their poetic dialogue into a real conversation, Geta seized it without hesitation.
***
Standing once again on the threshold of the Palatine Palace, Lucretia was gripped by mounting tension. The irritation that had consumed her earlier had slowly given way to unease as it dawned on her that Geta likely hadn't considered the awkward position his invitation to a private dinner would put her in. Moving with deliberate grace, her back as straight as a taut bowstring, she followed the palace servants toward the designated room, silently clinging to the faint hope that she might not be the only guest.
The route through the palace was unfamiliar, revealing hidden marvels of its interior—lavish murals and intricate patterns that seemed to come alive in the glow of the evening lamps. For a moment, Lucretia became absorbed in the sights, nearly falling behind the servants as they ascended a grand marble staircase, leading her to the palace's upper levels.
Carefully lifting the hem of her tunic, she climbed the steps until she emerged onto a summer loggia. The open pavilion, framed by elegant columns, offered a sweeping view of Rome, golden and serene under the fading sunlight.
Her eyes were drawn to the centerpiece of the space: a table, its surface meticulously set for two. The floor beneath her feet, a vibrant mosaic of twisting grapevines, seemed to guide her toward it. The arrangement only heightened her unease—a pair of finely carved chairs with high backs, placed opposite each other, and two golden goblets flanking dishes laden with opulent delicacies.
The emperor himself was not yet present. After briefly surveying her surroundings, Lucretia took a seat in one of the ornate chairs. The décor of the loggia was truly awe-inspiring, but the young widow was too preoccupied with the upcoming meeting to fully appreciate it. Her nervousness was mounting, and she could no longer pinpoint its exact source: whether it was genuine concern over the consequences of this dinner, or something else entirely.
She had never been overly concerned with maintaining a spotless reputation, fully aware of the social fabric of Roman society and even harboring a certain disdain for excessive formalities. This, however, meant the unease was tied directly to the meeting with Geta. He stirred something in her, more than she was willing to acknowledge. And while she could easily handle the rumors or the inevitable inquiries from the old senator, she felt far less assured about navigating private interaction with the emperor, especially without any witnesses.
— May I offer you some wine, my lady? — a timid voice broke the silence. The servant's tone was hesitant, almost overly polite.
— Yes! — Lucretia responded more sharply than she intended. — Yes, please, — she added in a softer voice, striving to regain composure.
The attendant gave her a curious glance before hastily filling her goblet and retreating back into the shadows. It was disconcerting to know that the boy remained stationed somewhere behind her, an unseen presence that brought an unpleasant sensation of being watched.
— Is the emperor delayed? — Lucretia asked, her voice cutting through the heavy silence as she attempted to shake off her unease.
— He sends his apologies for the delay, — the servant replied promptly. — An unplanned meeting has caused his lateness.
— The duties of the Great Empire, I understand, — Lucretia said, raising the goblet to her lips and taking a few deep sips, hoping the wine might ease her rising tension. Not wanting the conversation to falter, she pressed on:
— Will you remain here with me until he arrives?
— I am here to serve you this evening, to ensure your dinner is pleasant.
— What's your name?
— Quintus, — the servant replied, hesitating briefly.
The silence crept back in, wrapping around them like a heavy shroud. Lucretia, never one for patience, she began peppering the poor youth with questions. However, his answers were brief and clipped, offering little room to sustain any meaningful exchange.
— Step into the light or at least somewhere I can see you. I feel as though I'm speaking with a ghost, — she said suddenly, tilting her head slightly toward where she presumed the servant was standing.
— My lady, I am not to disturb your evening unless you have specific instructions for me, — Quintus replied, his tone neutral, almost practiced in its careful detachment.
Lucretia rolled her eyes in mild exasperation.
— Then pour me another cup of wine, — she commanded, placing her goblet on the table with a dull thud.
Afterward, she leaned back in her chair, visibly more relaxed now compared to how tense she had been during those first moments at the table. The servant dutifully refilled her cup, noting with some surprise how quickly it had emptied. The guest was growing bored. For a fleeting moment, she even entertained the thought that Geta might not show up at all, preoccupied with imperial matters. Strangely, the idea left her disappointed, even though just hours earlier she had been doing everything in her power to avoid this encounter. Now, with her resolve mustered and the wine beginning to take effect, she found herself almost anticipating his arrival.
Footsteps echoed on the staircase, but Lucretia kept her eyes fixed on the servant's hands as he carefully refilled her goblet.
— Apologies for keeping you waiting. It was rude of me to be late, — said Geta as he appeared in the pavilion, walking unhurriedly toward his seat.
His gaze was sharp and predatory, as though he had been preparing himself for this meeting and the verbal sparring it might entail.
— Oh, I understand entirely. Governing an empire must take an enormous amount of effort, — she replied calmly, pausing slightly before adding: — It's remarkable that you found the time to have dinner with me. It's an honor, my emperor.
— Stop that, — Geta interrupted sharply. — There's no need for formalities. We're alone here.
Lucretia faltered for a moment but quickly regained her composure.
— As you wish, — she said, taking another sip of her wine.
Geta took his seat, motioning silently for the servant nearby to fill his goblet. The servant moved swiftly, completing the task without delay.
— You must be hungry after waiting so long, — the emperor remarked, as if inviting her to begin the meal.
— Not particularly, — Lucretia replied, though she placed a few pieces of roasted game and olives onto her plate. She didn't rush to eat, sampling the offerings with deliberate elegance.
— Have I offended you somehow? — Geta asked, his eyes fixed intently on her measured movements.
— Not at all, I simply don't eat much in the evenings, — the widow replied calmly, lifting a small bite of meat to her mouth with poised grace.
— You've been avoiding me, — he said bluntly.
— What makes you think that? — Lucretia raised an eyebrow, feigning mild confusion.
— Don't pretend to be foolish, — Geta shot back, his voice carrying a clear note of challenge.
— Not in the slightest, — she countered, a faintly mocking smile curling her lips. — I simply don't understand your elevated interest.
— My interest is entirely warranted, — he replied, leaning forward slightly, reducing the space between them. His growing frustration was evident; her deliberate aloofness stirred conflicting emotions within him.
— I appreciate your attention, — Lucretia began cautiously, — but I don't consider myself a suitable match for someone of your stature.
— Oh, don't presume to decide that for me, — Geta responded coolly.
— This is delicious, — she suddenly interjected, clearly attempting to steer the conversation in a less tense direction.
Geta looked nothing like his usual self.Without the thick, dark makeup usually emphasizing his eyes and the elaborate, gold-embroidered robes. Instead, he was dressed in a simple tunic. His hair was slightly disheveled, catching the light with a soft shimmer, and the laurel wreath he nearly always wore was absent. The emperor's gaze rested on her, steady and unblinking, as though he wasn't entirely sure what to expect—either from her or from himself.
For her part, Lucretia allowed herself, for the first time, to hold her gaze on him openly and for longer than she ever had before, without worrying about being caught. He was striking. Even knowing they were the same age, Lucretia couldn't help but sense something youthful about him. His amber eyes glimmered in the soft glow of the oil lamps, creating an almost mesmerizing allure.
— I've noticed you always change the subject when you're uncomfortable, — he remarked, leaning in slightly closer.
— It almost seems like you prepared for this conversation, — Luctretia replied awkwardly, taking another sip of wine.
— I'm unsure what else I should do to express my interest and get a more straightforward answer.
— And what answer are you looking for?
— Yes or no.
— That's far too vague, Geta, — she said, for the first time uttering his name without the usual formalities. — I really don't understand what exactly you want from me.
— I thought my intentions were fairly obvious.
Luctretia felt a wave of irritation ripple through her body. He wasn't hinting anymore; he was directly stating his intentions, albeit cloaked in polite phrasing. The wine pulsed in her veins, emboldening her to risk greater honesty.
— Can I speak plainly? — she asked cautiously. — You might not like what I have to say, — she added as a warning.
— Naturally, — Geta tensed noticeably, setting down his utensils.
— I'm not willing to sleep with you just because you want it.
— Oh, so my feelings aren't mutual? — his voice wavered, but he quickly regained control.
— That's not the point, — Luctretia replied, taking another sip from her goblet. — But I have no intention of becoming your mistress.
— Any woman in Rome would be thrilled to receive even a fraction of the attention I give you.
— Then don't deprive them. Or should I have spread my legs the moment you walked in here?
Luctretia knew she was crossing the line. Despite the freedom she had gained to speak openly, she understood that it was only a matter of time before Geta lost his patience with her refusal. But the last sentence had slipped out involuntarily, a reaction to the tension in the air that was almost palpable.
The young emperor's face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He was clearly trying to tolerate her sharpness, but failing. With one swift motion, he swept the delicate dishes off the table, and they crashed loudly onto the floor. Luctretia flinched, instinctively jumping at the unexpected noise. The wine from her overturned goblet left dark stains on her dress.
The emperor quickly circled the table and was beside her before she had a chance to react. Now they stood face to face, much closer than she would have liked.
— How dare you... — Geta fumed with rage, his youthful anger flaring up once again. However, he didn't touch her, as if unsure how to express his frustration. His words tangled together, and his emotions were overwhelming.
— I must have exceeded my limit of frankness. I apologize, — Lукреция said with feigned calmness, holding her palms out in front of her, accidentally brushing against his chest.
— You don't have the right to tell me what to do, — the emperor snapped, gripping her chin. His fingers tightened more than necessary, not allowing her to look away or pull back.
— Of course, I don't, — she answered with defiant calm, though the blood in her veins boiled. — But, as far as I know, I have the right to my own desires. If, of course, the citizens of this empire have rights. Women included.
Luctretia didn't look away, remaining surprisingly steady. She placed her hand over his, the one holding her chin, and gently applied pressure in return, not yielding. There was something strangely magnetic about this standoff.
Geta looked threatening. There was no doubt that he controlled the situation more than she did, but his gaze betrayed confusion, as if he didn't know how to proceed next.
The citrus scent emanating from him filled the space between them. Under different circumstances, Lукреция might have even found it pleasant, but now it felt almost like mockery. She tried to figure out what to do. With anyone else, she would have undoubtedly used force — she knew how to fight and could handle it. But here, surrounded by the tension of heightened emotions, all she felt was the hot pulse in her body: the tight grip on her face — I highly... — she paused, then continued. — I highly advise you, my Emperor, to stop pushing me. You've clearly noticed that I don't possess the proper sense of tact. And I may not behave like a respectable woman, — she said, subtly increasing the pressure on his wrist.
— Your actions have already brought consequences, and I don't think you're capable of making them worse, — Geta didn't back down. His voice was low, but he kept advancing steadily, forcing her to step back until her back hit the cold marble wall.
— Oh, you... — Lucretia began, but didn't finish. Her back pressed against the stone, and she exhaled sharply.
Geta was so close that Lucretia could feel his breath on her skin. He was literally drilling into her with his gaze, filled with fury and contradictions. His chest rose and fell heavily, as though he was trying with all his might to contain a volcano of emotions that threatened to explode at any moment.
—I want you, — he said, his voice sharp and almost threatening. — And I always get what I want.
— By force? — Lucretia threw the words at him, her voice cold as ice, but with a barely noticeable challenge. — Will that satisfy you?
Her mockery struck Geta deeper than he was willing to admit. His face reddened, and his fingers clenched into fists, as though he was trying to restrain himself from acting impulsively. Without another word, he shoved her violently. Lucretia's back slammed into the cold marble wall, and she let out a soft breath, the pain from the impact only fueling her anger. They both seemed like wild animals trapped in their own emotions.
— Now I want to strangle you, — he hissed, his voice low, but fury still laced through it.
— The feeling is mutual, — she spat out, her words sharp, but her eyes burned with the same fire.
She took a step forward, almost as if challenging him; her movements weren't abrupt, but they carried an unmistakable threat. Geta didn't let her finish her advance. In an instant, he grabbed her by the waist, and their lips collided in a rough, almost painful kiss. It wasn't a tender moment; it was a clash, a release of anger that had no other way to escape.
Lucretia responded with the same fury, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails sinking into the fabric of his tunic. Their breaths mixed, interrupted either by the lack of air or the intensity of their emotions. Almost without realizing what he was doing, Geta lifted her into his arms and forcefully sat her on the table, where the remnants of wine spilled across it. The sticky feeling and the scent of the spilled drink didn't seem to bother them.
Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, just as instinctively as Geta positioned himself between her legs, closing the distance between them. Their anger and passion merged into a chaotic whirl, turning the moment into a struggle with no winners.
📖 Closer| Chapter 4- About a possible conspiracy, senseless cruelty, and brotherly love.
The first chapters can be found here.
"Panem et circenses."
"Bread and circuses."
(Juvenal, Satires, X, 81)
The Roman Empire, the epitome of earthly might, had endured for two hundred and thirty—six years, steadily expanding its horizons and solidifying its grandeur year after year. Emperors rose and fell, one after another, crafting a legacy destined to be recounted for millennia. Yet, the last five months of the reign of the young emperors had clearly fallen short of the expectations of both the populace and the Senate.
They ascended to power with grandeur and lavish celebrations, making a bold statement about their reign. However, they chose not to follow the wise path of their father, who had focused on building and strengthening the empire. Instead, they pursued the rapid and rather reckless expansion of Rome's influence into new territories—an approach that, in hindsight, had significant consequences for both the common people and the elite. These new conquests drained the treasury, taxes soared, and yet the celebrations, both for these victories and other occasions, seemed never—ending. The Senate and influential citizens of the empire grew increasingly uneasy with the impulsiveness of Geta and Caracalla. Behind closed doors, they began to discuss the looming challenges and potential solutions.
On this warm evening, the triclinium, the dining room of Lucilla's house, was filled with guests. The table was laden with delicacies, yet none of the attendees touched the food their hostess had so generously provided. The discussions were far more compelling than the prospect of filling their stomachs. Senators Marcus Tullius, Julius Scipio, and Gracchus were fervently debating the new military campaign aimed at seizing the remaining cities of Numidia. The men were deeply opposed to the emperors' decisions and used this safe haven as an opportunity to voice their discontent.
Lucilla remained silent, weighed down by the sorrow of being separated from her husband, who had once again departed for the front lines after spending no more than two weeks in her arms. She shared the senators' perspective on the futility of the empire's expansion, especially in light of this year's food shortages and the growing unrest in several provinces. These senseless wars pained the daughter of the great Marcus Aurelius, and like her father, she secretly yearned for a republic—a system where, in her view, decisions were made collectively and wisely. After all, absolute power inevitably corrupts those who wield it.
— And what do you think, dear Lucilla? — the elderly Marcus Tullius pulled her out of her thoughts.
— I think I would rather see my husband at home and the people in the streets well—fed, but I fear that day will come only after my death, — Lucilla replied briefly, placing her hand trustingly on the senator's forearm.
— Perhaps it is not you who should die, — Julius Scipio interjected hastily, adjusting his toga.
After these words, silence fell over the dining hall.
***
Caracalla was in an excellent mood today, lounging on a sumptuous couch in one of the spacious halls of the Palatine Palace. The high ceilings, supported by massive columns, allowed sunlight to flood the space freely, dancing gracefully on the marble walls and reflecting off the intricate floor mosaics. The couches, upholstered in copper—colored silk, were arranged in a semicircle, resembling an amphitheater.
The young emperor reclined carelessly on the central couch, amusing himself by twirling a lock of hair from one of the servants sitting at his feet. The previous day, he had issued orders to send out invitations for a private gladiatorial spectacle, reserved for an exclusive audience. Caracalla had a particular passion for such entertainments, and while regular games required a more significant occasion than his excellent mood and much more time to prepare, private fights served both as a source of personal delight and as a tool of political maneuvering: every noble sought an invitation to bolster their standing or expand their influence.
However, the most sensitive souls could never endure such spectacles, and those who did witness them often expressed unease. Caracalla's cruelty and his love of bloodshed reached extremes: he devised new rules to make the fights even more brutal. At times, gladiators were forced to fight to the death without weapons, or he would order their hands tied behind their backs, compelling them to battle with their teeth and feet like wild beasts. Yet, if the emperor's chosen bet lost, his rage would be swift and unrelenting.
On this clear, warm day, the hall was packed to capacity. Spectators had taken their seats, eagerly awaiting the start of the games. Caracalla had already chosen his favorite among the slave—gladiators—if the man lived up to his expectations, the emperor planned to buy his freedom and take him into his personal service.
Cassius, a lanista—one of the owners of gladiator schools—was the master of the slave on whom Caracalla had placed both his money and hopes. Cassius, not a Roman by birth, had managed to rise to the upper echelons of society through cunning and an unyielding ambition. He diligently sought to please the young ruler, fully aware of the advantages he could gain from the emperor's favor.
The games had begun, and soon the mosaic floor was awash with fresh blood, seeping carelessly into the cracks between the stones and accentuating the intricate patterns. A heavy, faintly perceptible scent of blood and sweat filled the air, causing some guests to grimace and others to stifle the urge to retch.
Servants hurriedly carried away the fallen bodies, leaving faint traces on the mosaic as they worked to ensure the arena could once again become a pristine canvas for the next clash.
Finally, the fight Caracalla had been waiting for arrived. He shifted from his relaxed posture, sitting upright on the couch. His bare feet slid onto the cool surface of the floor, and his toes twitched slightly, as if sensing the impending victory. The emperor's face spread into a grin—wild, almost deranged. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, and his entire body, as if already savoring the triumph to come, leaned forward.
Two gladiators stepped into the center of the hall. They stopped opposite each other, like statues frozen in anticipation. The first, short and stocky, with a powerful build and reddish, sun—scorched skin peeling in places, resembled a bull. His face, marked by a network of small scars, held a sullen expression. Slowly, he raised his massive fists to his chin. His movements were heavy, yet they radiated unyielding strength.
His opponent was the complete opposite. Tall and wiry, with a chiseled physique and rich, almost shimmering dark skin, he stood with ease and agility. His long arms seemed almost too long for the rest of his body, giving him a clear advantage. The young man's gaze exuded calm confidence, as if he already knew the outcome of the battle was decided.
The hall was steeped in anticipation. Even the faintest rustle suddenly felt unbearably loud, as though the very air had grown heavier. Caracalla inclined his head slightly, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the couch, betraying his impatience.
The emperor's wager had to meet his expectations.
All sounds and people seemed to vanish for the two gladiators the moment the signal to begin the fight was given. The air in the hall grew heavy, almost tangible, as though the entire atmosphere had frozen in anticipation. Two bodies surged toward each other with incredible speed, rapidly closing the distance between them. The sunbeams, which had earlier gracefully framed the space, lost their brilliance, shifting into deep hues of an orange sunset. The cries of the spectators melded into a deafening, endless roar, pressing against the ears and rendering everything around blurred and unreal.
The floor beneath the fighters' feet was slick with sweat and blood from earlier battles, causing their movements to appear uncertain, almost unsteady at times. This fight marked the culmination of the evening, the most eagerly anticipated event for the guests, who longed to win and multiply their wagers. For one of these men, this fight was also destined to be their last.
The men traded blows without pause. The first, stocky and powerful, relentlessly pressed his dark—skinned opponent with sheer force, driving him backward. Yet the taller gladiator, despite the onslaught, skillfully dodged the heavy strikes and even managed to counter with sharp, precise attacks of his own. As time wore on, their strikes grew slower, their breathing heavier, and their movements lost their initial sharpness. With all the strength they had left, both struggled to bring each other to the ground.
It became clear, however, that the "bull" was more resilient. The emperor's favorite—a young slave with dark skin—began to falter. His legs betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably, and his breathing grew ragged, tearing at his chest. Sweat dripped in heavy beads from his face, stinging his eyes, yet he could not wipe them away. His vision blurred, and he failed to dodge several painful blows. One of them split his brow, sending a crimson stream of blood cascading down his face, dripping onto his chest and the mosaic floor.
Caracalla clicked his tongue in irritation, gripping a lock of hair at the nape of the servant sitting at his feet. His displeasure rippled through those seated nearby, who shifted uneasily.
The shorter fighter seized the opportunity and lunged forward. Dropping his shoulder, he drove it powerfully into his opponent's stomach. The air whooshed from the young slave's lungs, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Yet he managed to defend himself, striking the stocky fighter in the chest with his knee, forcing him to stumble back. A sharp crack echoed—the rib had fractured.
Caracalla's favorite, wasting no time, summoned all his remaining strength and delivered a crushing heel strike to his opponent's face, breaking his nose. The stocky fighter fell onto his back, arms splayed, though he was still alive.
Caracalla leapt up in surprise, his hand slipping from the servant's hair. The emperor clapped his hands loudly, grinning with excitement, the jewelry on his wrists jingling with the sharp movement.
— Finish him! — Caracalla shouted to his favorite, clapping his hands so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls. — Kill him! Kill him! — His voice, brimming with impatience, rose to a near—screech.The red—haired emperor stomped barefoot across the mosaic floor, barely containing his excitement.
The slave, hearing the command, threw himself at his opponent lying in a pool of blood without hesitation. He landed several sharp blows to the fallen man's face, turning his already battered features into a bloody pulp. His heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, he no longer saw a man before him, but the embodiment of death—one that, by some lucky chance, had once again passed him by.
The dark—skinned gladiator grabbed his opponent's chin, staring into his face with a smirk. Then, deciding to finish him for good, he shifted his hands to the man's neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. But at the last moment, as if driven by sheer desperation, the stocky man raised his hands and clutched the back of his attacker's head. His fingers plunged deep into the eye sockets of his enemy. A sickening, squelching sound filled the air, prompting many spectators to avert their gaze instinctively.
The slave's scream pierced the hall. He frantically clawed at his opponent's hands, trying to pry them away from his face, but the grip was too strong. The man, who had been lying helpless just moments before, rolled onto his side and then propped himself up on an elbow, ending up on top. His fingers remained deeply embedded in his rival's eyes as the dark—skinned fighter writhed in agony.
Finally, the stocky gladiator, now towering over his opponent, grabbed his head and began slamming it against the mosaic floor, each blow harder than the last. A sickening crunch echoed, followed by a spray of blood mingled with brain matter. The floor beneath them turned sticky, and the cries ceased. The dark—skinned slave went limp, his hands falling lifelessly to his sides, fingers unclenched.
The fight was over.
Caracalla froze, watching the final moments of his favorite's life. His face, brimming with excitement just seconds ago, now bore no expression. The emperor seemed to have turned to stone, except for his fingers, which tapped softly against the fabric—covered seat.
The guests remained silent, exchanging uneasy glances as they awaited their ruler's reaction. But Caracalla seemed utterly oblivious to them.
— You knew he would lose, didn't you? — he said, his voice hoarse, as though it no longer belonged to him.
Cassius, seated to the young emperor's left, flinched and then began to stammer, almost squealing as he spoke:
— M—my Emperor, w—w—what are you... This was my best f—fighter... — The lanista raised his hands in a defensive gesture, turning his entire body toward Caracalla.
The room fell silent. In the vast hall, bathed in crimson light from the setting sun, a suffocating tension filled the air.
— You knew! — Caracalla suddenly shrieked, springing to his feet. He shoved the servant at his feet away, striking him with the back of his hand so hard the sound reverberated under the high ceilings. In an instant, the emperor was looming over the terrified Cassius. His pale blue eyes glinted with madness, his pupils so tightly constricted they looked as if he were staring directly into the blazing sun.
— I will punish you, — he continued, his voice still unnaturally high—pitched. At the end of the sentence, he let out a hoarse laugh, as though unable to contain the malice surging within him. — I will puuuunish you! — he repeated, drawing out the words like a child toying with his victim.
The young emperor suddenly seized the lanista by the back of his neck and slowly leaned toward his ear. His voice dropped, quieter now but no less threatening:
— You stole from me the joy of victory. I must take something from you in return.— Cassius tried to jerk away, to pull back, but Caracalla's hands held him with alarming strength. The grip was almost painful, a stark contrast to the emperor's otherwise frail physique.
— Perhaps an ear? Or a tongue? So you can no longer lie to me about your fighters. I really, really don't like being lied to. What's your name again?— The final words sounded almost like a joke. Caracalla chuckled briefly, but there was no joy in his laughter—only mounting tension.
Despite his desperate attempts to explain and plead his case, the lanista failed to placate the young ruler. Caracalla pulled away from him with a look of disgust, as if the mere contact with Cassius was an insult in itself. Lazily, he waved his hand, signaling the Praetorians to seize the offender and drag him to the center of the hall, where the fallen slave still lay.
Cassius struggled, but his feet slipped on the crimson liquid coating the mosaic floor. He writhed in the guards' grasp, trying with all his might to break free and return to his seat. As he was hauled closer to the center, the lanista broke into sobs, begging for mercy. His voice cracked, and his words were drowned in hysterical gasps as he cried out that it was all a mistake, that he deserved another chance.
The emperor was unmoved by Cassius's cries. On the contrary, Caracalla let out an unpleasant, high—pitched giggle that grew louder and sharper with each second. None of the guests dared to intervene. Their silence wasn't a show of disdain for the lanista—they simply feared ending up in his place.
The scene was absurd, terrifying, and cruel. Cassius, trembling on his knees, was held upright by the Praetorians. His toga and tunic, soaked with another man's blood, made a sickening squelch with every movement. He screamed and sobbed so desperately that it was unbearable to watch without shuddering.
— Cut out his tongue,— Caracalla ordered, leaning back on the couch and resuming his reclined position. His face spread into a broad grin, as if the unfolding events were a source of amusement to him.
— No! Please! My Emperor, I beg you!— Cassius choked out, barely able to string words together. His body trembled violently, and his eyes filled with tears.
Footsteps echoed through the hall. Geta entered, accompanied by several praetorians. His face bore signs of fatigue, though he didn't appear alarmed. He had likely just returned from a drawn—out military council—the very one his brother had chosen to ignore. Whether Caracalla refused to attend or had simply forgotten, as he sometimes did, remained unclear.
Geta paused, surveying the scene and taking in the atmosphere. His brown eyes moved slowly across the hall until they met his brother's gaze. The young emperor tapped his fingers lightly on his thigh, unnoticed by the others, as though weighing his words, before taking a few more steps forward.
— Caracalla,— Geta called out to his brother, who lay at the center of the spectacle. — Is this how we treat our guests?
His twin's gaze sharpened immediately. He sat up and, without hesitation, snapped back:
— He's guilty,— he said irritably, sounding like a boy trying to justify his actions.
— Enough to justify torturing him like this?— Geta retorted calmly, maintaining his composure.
A tense silence filled the hall.
After a moment, Geta gave a short but firm order for everyone to leave the hall, leaving the brothers alone. The crowd, eager to obey, scattered in haste, as if their very lives depended on following the command.
***
When the hall finally emptied, Geta allowed himself a weary sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with a hand adorned with rings set with large stones.
— You wanted to humiliate me! — Caracalla suddenly exploded, leaping to his feet and striding toward his brother, his bare feet splashing in the pools of blood.
— You can't maim people—Roman citizens—just because you feel like it, Cara, — Geta said without moving, watching as his brother clumsily stepped over the dead slave's body.
— You weren't here! You don't know how he deceived me!— the red—haired emperor continued, advancing confidently. — Maybe you want to deceive me too? Or mock me?— His anger mounted, his voice growing louder with each word. He wasn't just walking now—he had broken into a hurried stride.
— Caracalla, stop,— Geta said calmly.
He knew exactly what would happen next. It always did when his older brother lost control. Caracalla would lash out with fists, sticks, or sometimes even grab a weapon or anything heavy within reach. These outbursts didn't happen often, but they left behind cold memories and painful bruises.
The red—haired emperor charged at him suddenly, shoving Geta in the chest and hooking his leg in an obvious attempt to bring him down. He shouted insults mixed with incoherent phrases, attacking with ferocity. At one point, he managed to grip Geta tightly enough to throw him off balance. But the younger brother didn't fall backward onto the mosaic; instead, he dropped to his knees, maintaining his coordination.
Caracalla didn't stop. Consumed by his emotions, he had already completely forgotten what had caused the conflict. All he could see were his brother's weary eyes, desperately trying to stay upright.
Geta held his brother's arms tightly, preventing him from changing their position. The expensive fabric of their togas strained and tore under the tension.
— Caracalla, calm down!— the younger brother shouted, his voice loud and firm, while mentally running through options to subdue his relentless sibling and force him to listen.
Caracalla continued to struggle, stubbornly trying to win this absurd fight. Geta decided to lean back, lowering himself to the floor and pulling his unruly brother down with him. Caught off guard, Caracalla fell onto him, but Geta seized the moment, swiftly flipping the older brother off him and pinning him beneath. He pressed Caracalla's arms above his head.
From the side, it looked more like a childish scuffle. Caracalla growled angrily and flailed, trying to break free from the firm grip, but to no avail. Frustrated, he began kicking his brother in the back, landing painful blows. Geta winced but didn't loosen his hold.
— Calm down!— he repeated, leaning closer to his brother's face, but his words had no effect.
In desperation, Geta abruptly grabbed Caracalla by the shoulders, lifted his upper body off the floor, and gave him a violent shake.
The golden wreath slipped from Caracalla's head, hitting the floor with a loud clang and rolling off somewhere. The red—haired emperor froze, blinking.
— What? Are you trying to kill me?— Geta muttered tiredly, still holding his brother by the shoulders.
Caracalla suddenly burst into laughter, throwing his head back before snapping it forward again, meeting his brother's gaze.
— Nonsense,— Caracalla finally replied, his voice unexpectedly calm. — You're my brother. I wouldn't kill you.
He softened, easing the tension in his body, and Geta, sensing the change, reluctantly released his grip.
The younger brother removed his hands but remained seated on Caracalla for a while longer, ready to stop any new outburst. However, Caracalla showed no signs of aggression. On the contrary, he sprawled out on the floor, arms spread wide. Satisfied that the danger had passed, Geta slowly rolled onto his side and then settled next to him on the cold mosaic.
— Why didn't you come to the council meeting?— he asked after catching his breath. Turning his head, he looked at his brother.
— You didn't say anything about a meeting,— Caracalla responded immediately, meeting his gaze.
— I told you yesterday. Several times,— Geta replied calmly, studying the thoughtful expression on his brother's face.
— Oh, I don't remember much about yesterday,— the red—haired emperor drawled, as though discussing something trivial. — Must not have been an important meeting if I forgot about it.
Geta frowned and shifted onto his side to be closer to his brother. His feelings were mixed: on one hand, he was alarmed by the thought that Caracalla's memory lapses might become more frequent. On the other hand, he realized he couldn't fully rely on his brother. And yet, it saddened him to see Caracalla losing himself without even being aware of it.
— It was a military council, Cara. It was important,— he finally said.
— But you were there, so you'll tell me everything, won't you?— the older brother replied serenely, not breaking eye contact.
— Of course, I'll tell you,— Geta agreed, suppressing the urge to reach out and touch his brother. Instead, he simply kept his gaze fixed on him, sinking deeper into his thoughts.
Though Caracalla's fits of rage weren't rare, Geta didn't think of him as weak and had no doubts about his intellect. He knew how to handle his brother's moods for now, but he worried about what to do if they worsened. Still, despite everything, he loved his brother and was always ready to protect him.
"why do you write?" because it’s the only way to silence the characters pacing around my brain like victorian ghosts with unresolved issues that prevent them from moving on.
📖 CLOSER — A Fanfiction Set in Gladiator II Universe
🏛️ CLOSER
A story of empire, obsession, and the silence between power and desire.
📍 Setting: Ancient Rome.
📍 Fandom: Gladiator II · historical drama · original female character
📍 Genre: drama · slowburn · psychological intimacy ·
📍 Languages: English (posted here) & Russian (available on AO3)
📍 Status: ongoing — chapters will be posted individually
🩸 In Rome, nothing happens without reason — not a feast, not a whisper, not a glance.
Here, people live too close to be honest, and too far apart to truly understand one another.
The emperors are young, ambitious, vulnerable. They are surrounded by luxury, blood, and expectation.
Lucretia does not seek power — yet each step draws her deeper into the dense fabric of the Empire.
She does not fight, but she does not yield.
This is not a story about the struggle for power.
It’s a story about how hard it is to remain yourself when everything around you demands you become someone else.
And about how, sometimes, silence speaks louder than any command.
“Love is full of both honey and gall.”
— Plautus, Curculio
Additional themes:
• ancient Rome · political intrigue · trauma bonding
• hurt/comfort · emotional spirals · unhealthy desire
• twins · imperial decadence · moral ambiguity
📌 Posting format:
Each chapter will be posted in a separate entry.
All links will be gathered here once published.
This is a 21+ space — please mind the content.
💬 English version will be posted here.
A full Russian version is available — feel free to reach out if you're curious.
(You can also find me on AO3 under the same name)
📖 Closer| Chapter 4- About a possible conspiracy, senseless cruelty, and brotherly love.
The first chapters can be found here.
"Panem et circenses."
"Bread and circuses."
(Juvenal, Satires, X, 81)
The Roman Empire, the epitome of earthly might, had endured for two hundred and thirty—six years, steadily expanding its horizons and solidifying its grandeur year after year. Emperors rose and fell, one after another, crafting a legacy destined to be recounted for millennia. Yet, the last five months of the reign of the young emperors had clearly fallen short of the expectations of both the populace and the Senate.
They ascended to power with grandeur and lavish celebrations, making a bold statement about their reign. However, they chose not to follow the wise path of their father, who had focused on building and strengthening the empire. Instead, they pursued the rapid and rather reckless expansion of Rome's influence into new territories—an approach that, in hindsight, had significant consequences for both the common people and the elite. These new conquests drained the treasury, taxes soared, and yet the celebrations, both for these victories and other occasions, seemed never—ending. The Senate and influential citizens of the empire grew increasingly uneasy with the impulsiveness of Geta and Caracalla. Behind closed doors, they began to discuss the looming challenges and potential solutions.
On this warm evening, the triclinium, the dining room of Lucilla's house, was filled with guests. The table was laden with delicacies, yet none of the attendees touched the food their hostess had so generously provided. The discussions were far more compelling than the prospect of filling their stomachs. Senators Marcus Tullius, Julius Scipio, and Gracchus were fervently debating the new military campaign aimed at seizing the remaining cities of Numidia. The men were deeply opposed to the emperors' decisions and used this safe haven as an opportunity to voice their discontent.
Lucilla remained silent, weighed down by the sorrow of being separated from her husband, who had once again departed for the front lines after spending no more than two weeks in her arms. She shared the senators' perspective on the futility of the empire's expansion, especially in light of this year's food shortages and the growing unrest in several provinces. These senseless wars pained the daughter of the great Marcus Aurelius, and like her father, she secretly yearned for a republic—a system where, in her view, decisions were made collectively and wisely. After all, absolute power inevitably corrupts those who wield it.
— And what do you think, dear Lucilla? — the elderly Marcus Tullius pulled her out of her thoughts.
— I think I would rather see my husband at home and the people in the streets well—fed, but I fear that day will come only after my death, — Lucilla replied briefly, placing her hand trustingly on the senator's forearm.
— Perhaps it is not you who should die, — Julius Scipio interjected hastily, adjusting his toga.
After these words, silence fell over the dining hall.
***
Caracalla was in an excellent mood today, lounging on a sumptuous couch in one of the spacious halls of the Palatine Palace. The high ceilings, supported by massive columns, allowed sunlight to flood the space freely, dancing gracefully on the marble walls and reflecting off the intricate floor mosaics. The couches, upholstered in copper—colored silk, were arranged in a semicircle, resembling an amphitheater.
The young emperor reclined carelessly on the central couch, amusing himself by twirling a lock of hair from one of the servants sitting at his feet. The previous day, he had issued orders to send out invitations for a private gladiatorial spectacle, reserved for an exclusive audience. Caracalla had a particular passion for such entertainments, and while regular games required a more significant occasion than his excellent mood and much more time to prepare, private fights served both as a source of personal delight and as a tool of political maneuvering: every noble sought an invitation to bolster their standing or expand their influence.
However, the most sensitive souls could never endure such spectacles, and those who did witness them often expressed unease. Caracalla's cruelty and his love of bloodshed reached extremes: he devised new rules to make the fights even more brutal. At times, gladiators were forced to fight to the death without weapons, or he would order their hands tied behind their backs, compelling them to battle with their teeth and feet like wild beasts. Yet, if the emperor's chosen bet lost, his rage would be swift and unrelenting.
On this clear, warm day, the hall was packed to capacity. Spectators had taken their seats, eagerly awaiting the start of the games. Caracalla had already chosen his favorite among the slave—gladiators—if the man lived up to his expectations, the emperor planned to buy his freedom and take him into his personal service.
Cassius, a lanista—one of the owners of gladiator schools—was the master of the slave on whom Caracalla had placed both his money and hopes. Cassius, not a Roman by birth, had managed to rise to the upper echelons of society through cunning and an unyielding ambition. He diligently sought to please the young ruler, fully aware of the advantages he could gain from the emperor's favor.
The games had begun, and soon the mosaic floor was awash with fresh blood, seeping carelessly into the cracks between the stones and accentuating the intricate patterns. A heavy, faintly perceptible scent of blood and sweat filled the air, causing some guests to grimace and others to stifle the urge to retch.
Servants hurriedly carried away the fallen bodies, leaving faint traces on the mosaic as they worked to ensure the arena could once again become a pristine canvas for the next clash.
Finally, the fight Caracalla had been waiting for arrived. He shifted from his relaxed posture, sitting upright on the couch. His bare feet slid onto the cool surface of the floor, and his toes twitched slightly, as if sensing the impending victory. The emperor's face spread into a grin—wild, almost deranged. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, and his entire body, as if already savoring the triumph to come, leaned forward.
Two gladiators stepped into the center of the hall. They stopped opposite each other, like statues frozen in anticipation. The first, short and stocky, with a powerful build and reddish, sun—scorched skin peeling in places, resembled a bull. His face, marked by a network of small scars, held a sullen expression. Slowly, he raised his massive fists to his chin. His movements were heavy, yet they radiated unyielding strength.
His opponent was the complete opposite. Tall and wiry, with a chiseled physique and rich, almost shimmering dark skin, he stood with ease and agility. His long arms seemed almost too long for the rest of his body, giving him a clear advantage. The young man's gaze exuded calm confidence, as if he already knew the outcome of the battle was decided.
The hall was steeped in anticipation. Even the faintest rustle suddenly felt unbearably loud, as though the very air had grown heavier. Caracalla inclined his head slightly, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the couch, betraying his impatience.
The emperor's wager had to meet his expectations.
All sounds and people seemed to vanish for the two gladiators the moment the signal to begin the fight was given. The air in the hall grew heavy, almost tangible, as though the entire atmosphere had frozen in anticipation. Two bodies surged toward each other with incredible speed, rapidly closing the distance between them. The sunbeams, which had earlier gracefully framed the space, lost their brilliance, shifting into deep hues of an orange sunset. The cries of the spectators melded into a deafening, endless roar, pressing against the ears and rendering everything around blurred and unreal.
The floor beneath the fighters' feet was slick with sweat and blood from earlier battles, causing their movements to appear uncertain, almost unsteady at times. This fight marked the culmination of the evening, the most eagerly anticipated event for the guests, who longed to win and multiply their wagers. For one of these men, this fight was also destined to be their last.
The men traded blows without pause. The first, stocky and powerful, relentlessly pressed his dark—skinned opponent with sheer force, driving him backward. Yet the taller gladiator, despite the onslaught, skillfully dodged the heavy strikes and even managed to counter with sharp, precise attacks of his own. As time wore on, their strikes grew slower, their breathing heavier, and their movements lost their initial sharpness. With all the strength they had left, both struggled to bring each other to the ground.
It became clear, however, that the "bull" was more resilient. The emperor's favorite—a young slave with dark skin—began to falter. His legs betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably, and his breathing grew ragged, tearing at his chest. Sweat dripped in heavy beads from his face, stinging his eyes, yet he could not wipe them away. His vision blurred, and he failed to dodge several painful blows. One of them split his brow, sending a crimson stream of blood cascading down his face, dripping onto his chest and the mosaic floor.
Caracalla clicked his tongue in irritation, gripping a lock of hair at the nape of the servant sitting at his feet. His displeasure rippled through those seated nearby, who shifted uneasily.
The shorter fighter seized the opportunity and lunged forward. Dropping his shoulder, he drove it powerfully into his opponent's stomach. The air whooshed from the young slave's lungs, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Yet he managed to defend himself, striking the stocky fighter in the chest with his knee, forcing him to stumble back. A sharp crack echoed—the rib had fractured.
Caracalla's favorite, wasting no time, summoned all his remaining strength and delivered a crushing heel strike to his opponent's face, breaking his nose. The stocky fighter fell onto his back, arms splayed, though he was still alive.
Caracalla leapt up in surprise, his hand slipping from the servant's hair. The emperor clapped his hands loudly, grinning with excitement, the jewelry on his wrists jingling with the sharp movement.
— Finish him! — Caracalla shouted to his favorite, clapping his hands so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls. — Kill him! Kill him! — His voice, brimming with impatience, rose to a near—screech.The red—haired emperor stomped barefoot across the mosaic floor, barely containing his excitement.
The slave, hearing the command, threw himself at his opponent lying in a pool of blood without hesitation. He landed several sharp blows to the fallen man's face, turning his already battered features into a bloody pulp. His heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, he no longer saw a man before him, but the embodiment of death—one that, by some lucky chance, had once again passed him by.
The dark—skinned gladiator grabbed his opponent's chin, staring into his face with a smirk. Then, deciding to finish him for good, he shifted his hands to the man's neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. But at the last moment, as if driven by sheer desperation, the stocky man raised his hands and clutched the back of his attacker's head. His fingers plunged deep into the eye sockets of his enemy. A sickening, squelching sound filled the air, prompting many spectators to avert their gaze instinctively.
The slave's scream pierced the hall. He frantically clawed at his opponent's hands, trying to pry them away from his face, but the grip was too strong. The man, who had been lying helpless just moments before, rolled onto his side and then propped himself up on an elbow, ending up on top. His fingers remained deeply embedded in his rival's eyes as the dark—skinned fighter writhed in agony.
Finally, the stocky gladiator, now towering over his opponent, grabbed his head and began slamming it against the mosaic floor, each blow harder than the last. A sickening crunch echoed, followed by a spray of blood mingled with brain matter. The floor beneath them turned sticky, and the cries ceased. The dark—skinned slave went limp, his hands falling lifelessly to his sides, fingers unclenched.
The fight was over.
Caracalla froze, watching the final moments of his favorite's life. His face, brimming with excitement just seconds ago, now bore no expression. The emperor seemed to have turned to stone, except for his fingers, which tapped softly against the fabric—covered seat.
The guests remained silent, exchanging uneasy glances as they awaited their ruler's reaction. But Caracalla seemed utterly oblivious to them.
— You knew he would lose, didn't you? — he said, his voice hoarse, as though it no longer belonged to him.
Cassius, seated to the young emperor's left, flinched and then began to stammer, almost squealing as he spoke:
— M—my Emperor, w—w—what are you... This was my best f—fighter... — The lanista raised his hands in a defensive gesture, turning his entire body toward Caracalla.
The room fell silent. In the vast hall, bathed in crimson light from the setting sun, a suffocating tension filled the air.
— You knew! — Caracalla suddenly shrieked, springing to his feet. He shoved the servant at his feet away, striking him with the back of his hand so hard the sound reverberated under the high ceilings. In an instant, the emperor was looming over the terrified Cassius. His pale blue eyes glinted with madness, his pupils so tightly constricted they looked as if he were staring directly into the blazing sun.
— I will punish you, — he continued, his voice still unnaturally high—pitched. At the end of the sentence, he let out a hoarse laugh, as though unable to contain the malice surging within him. — I will puuuunish you! — he repeated, drawing out the words like a child toying with his victim.
The young emperor suddenly seized the lanista by the back of his neck and slowly leaned toward his ear. His voice dropped, quieter now but no less threatening:
— You stole from me the joy of victory. I must take something from you in return.— Cassius tried to jerk away, to pull back, but Caracalla's hands held him with alarming strength. The grip was almost painful, a stark contrast to the emperor's otherwise frail physique.
— Perhaps an ear? Or a tongue? So you can no longer lie to me about your fighters. I really, really don't like being lied to. What's your name again?— The final words sounded almost like a joke. Caracalla chuckled briefly, but there was no joy in his laughter—only mounting tension.
Despite his desperate attempts to explain and plead his case, the lanista failed to placate the young ruler. Caracalla pulled away from him with a look of disgust, as if the mere contact with Cassius was an insult in itself. Lazily, he waved his hand, signaling the Praetorians to seize the offender and drag him to the center of the hall, where the fallen slave still lay.
Cassius struggled, but his feet slipped on the crimson liquid coating the mosaic floor. He writhed in the guards' grasp, trying with all his might to break free and return to his seat. As he was hauled closer to the center, the lanista broke into sobs, begging for mercy. His voice cracked, and his words were drowned in hysterical gasps as he cried out that it was all a mistake, that he deserved another chance.
The emperor was unmoved by Cassius's cries. On the contrary, Caracalla let out an unpleasant, high—pitched giggle that grew louder and sharper with each second. None of the guests dared to intervene. Their silence wasn't a show of disdain for the lanista—they simply feared ending up in his place.
The scene was absurd, terrifying, and cruel. Cassius, trembling on his knees, was held upright by the Praetorians. His toga and tunic, soaked with another man's blood, made a sickening squelch with every movement. He screamed and sobbed so desperately that it was unbearable to watch without shuddering.
— Cut out his tongue,— Caracalla ordered, leaning back on the couch and resuming his reclined position. His face spread into a broad grin, as if the unfolding events were a source of amusement to him.
— No! Please! My Emperor, I beg you!— Cassius choked out, barely able to string words together. His body trembled violently, and his eyes filled with tears.
Footsteps echoed through the hall. Geta entered, accompanied by several praetorians. His face bore signs of fatigue, though he didn't appear alarmed. He had likely just returned from a drawn—out military council—the very one his brother had chosen to ignore. Whether Caracalla refused to attend or had simply forgotten, as he sometimes did, remained unclear.
Geta paused, surveying the scene and taking in the atmosphere. His brown eyes moved slowly across the hall until they met his brother's gaze. The young emperor tapped his fingers lightly on his thigh, unnoticed by the others, as though weighing his words, before taking a few more steps forward.
— Caracalla,— Geta called out to his brother, who lay at the center of the spectacle. — Is this how we treat our guests?
His twin's gaze sharpened immediately. He sat up and, without hesitation, snapped back:
— He's guilty,— he said irritably, sounding like a boy trying to justify his actions.
— Enough to justify torturing him like this?— Geta retorted calmly, maintaining his composure.
A tense silence filled the hall.
After a moment, Geta gave a short but firm order for everyone to leave the hall, leaving the brothers alone. The crowd, eager to obey, scattered in haste, as if their very lives depended on following the command.
***
When the hall finally emptied, Geta allowed himself a weary sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with a hand adorned with rings set with large stones.
— You wanted to humiliate me! — Caracalla suddenly exploded, leaping to his feet and striding toward his brother, his bare feet splashing in the pools of blood.
— You can't maim people—Roman citizens—just because you feel like it, Cara, — Geta said without moving, watching as his brother clumsily stepped over the dead slave's body.
— You weren't here! You don't know how he deceived me!— the red—haired emperor continued, advancing confidently. — Maybe you want to deceive me too? Or mock me?— His anger mounted, his voice growing louder with each word. He wasn't just walking now—he had broken into a hurried stride.
— Caracalla, stop,— Geta said calmly.
He knew exactly what would happen next. It always did when his older brother lost control. Caracalla would lash out with fists, sticks, or sometimes even grab a weapon or anything heavy within reach. These outbursts didn't happen often, but they left behind cold memories and painful bruises.
The red—haired emperor charged at him suddenly, shoving Geta in the chest and hooking his leg in an obvious attempt to bring him down. He shouted insults mixed with incoherent phrases, attacking with ferocity. At one point, he managed to grip Geta tightly enough to throw him off balance. But the younger brother didn't fall backward onto the mosaic; instead, he dropped to his knees, maintaining his coordination.
Caracalla didn't stop. Consumed by his emotions, he had already completely forgotten what had caused the conflict. All he could see were his brother's weary eyes, desperately trying to stay upright.
Geta held his brother's arms tightly, preventing him from changing their position. The expensive fabric of their togas strained and tore under the tension.
— Caracalla, calm down!— the younger brother shouted, his voice loud and firm, while mentally running through options to subdue his relentless sibling and force him to listen.
Caracalla continued to struggle, stubbornly trying to win this absurd fight. Geta decided to lean back, lowering himself to the floor and pulling his unruly brother down with him. Caught off guard, Caracalla fell onto him, but Geta seized the moment, swiftly flipping the older brother off him and pinning him beneath. He pressed Caracalla's arms above his head.
From the side, it looked more like a childish scuffle. Caracalla growled angrily and flailed, trying to break free from the firm grip, but to no avail. Frustrated, he began kicking his brother in the back, landing painful blows. Geta winced but didn't loosen his hold.
— Calm down!— he repeated, leaning closer to his brother's face, but his words had no effect.
In desperation, Geta abruptly grabbed Caracalla by the shoulders, lifted his upper body off the floor, and gave him a violent shake.
The golden wreath slipped from Caracalla's head, hitting the floor with a loud clang and rolling off somewhere. The red—haired emperor froze, blinking.
— What? Are you trying to kill me?— Geta muttered tiredly, still holding his brother by the shoulders.
Caracalla suddenly burst into laughter, throwing his head back before snapping it forward again, meeting his brother's gaze.
— Nonsense,— Caracalla finally replied, his voice unexpectedly calm. — You're my brother. I wouldn't kill you.
He softened, easing the tension in his body, and Geta, sensing the change, reluctantly released his grip.
The younger brother removed his hands but remained seated on Caracalla for a while longer, ready to stop any new outburst. However, Caracalla showed no signs of aggression. On the contrary, he sprawled out on the floor, arms spread wide. Satisfied that the danger had passed, Geta slowly rolled onto his side and then settled next to him on the cold mosaic.
— Why didn't you come to the council meeting?— he asked after catching his breath. Turning his head, he looked at his brother.
— You didn't say anything about a meeting,— Caracalla responded immediately, meeting his gaze.
— I told you yesterday. Several times,— Geta replied calmly, studying the thoughtful expression on his brother's face.
— Oh, I don't remember much about yesterday,— the red—haired emperor drawled, as though discussing something trivial. — Must not have been an important meeting if I forgot about it.
Geta frowned and shifted onto his side to be closer to his brother. His feelings were mixed: on one hand, he was alarmed by the thought that Caracalla's memory lapses might become more frequent. On the other hand, he realized he couldn't fully rely on his brother. And yet, it saddened him to see Caracalla losing himself without even being aware of it.
— It was a military council, Cara. It was important,— he finally said.
— But you were there, so you'll tell me everything, won't you?— the older brother replied serenely, not breaking eye contact.
— Of course, I'll tell you,— Geta agreed, suppressing the urge to reach out and touch his brother. Instead, he simply kept his gaze fixed on him, sinking deeper into his thoughts.
Though Caracalla's fits of rage weren't rare, Geta didn't think of him as weak and had no doubts about his intellect. He knew how to handle his brother's moods for now, but he worried about what to do if they worsened. Still, despite everything, he loved his brother and was always ready to protect him.
📖 Closer| Chapter 3 - About beautiful gifts, nice conversations and poems
The first chapters can be found here.
"Non dono, sed animo." — "It is not the gift, but the intention that matters." (Seneca)
A few weeks later, she stood in the spacious atrium of her home, carefully examining the impressive chest that had been carried in by the servants and placed in the center of the room. The sender of this lavish gift was unmistakable: the lid, draped in rich purple brocade, bore a laurel wreath—a clear signature. Lucretia did not rush to approach it, allowing herself first to take in the sight of the chest before pondering her next steps.
She was not surprised that Geta had sent her such a gift. Attention from him was predictable. After admiring the exquisite hue of the fabric, shimmering in the torchlight, and the golden ornaments adorning the sides, she finally decided to approach and lift the lid to peer inside.
The contents were undeniably impressive and, of course, extravagant. Silk and other fine fabrics, shimmering in shades of gold and vivid red—colors clearly favored by the emperor—were neatly arranged in sections. Their richness was evident to the eye and the touch, which Lucretia immediately appreciated.
Another section held jewelry: necklaces, earrings, and rings sparkling with the brilliance of various gemstones. Picking up one of the heavy golden bracelets, she smirked at its weight, feeling the opulence in her hands.
As she continued exploring the chest's contents, Lucretia found herself reflecting on the impracticality of wearing some of these items given her status. The overwhelming array of cosmetics drew an ironic laugh—it rivaled the stock of a small perfumery, ensuring she wouldn't need to visit one for years.
There was no denying the beauty and value of the emperor's gifts, but it was obvious he hadn't personally curated them. Likely, he had merely instructed his servants to prepare the chest. She took no offense at this; Geta undoubtedly had more pressing matters to attend to. Yet the main question that crossed her mind was: "How many such chests had been sent across Rome?" She was well aware of his inclination toward grand gestures and his eagerness to impress. Laughing softly at her thoughts, she continued to sift through the fabrics with care.
Imagining twenty identical chests, carelessly packed in karthea, delivered to the homes of women who piqued his interest, she laughed even louder.
The gift was pleasant to her, but not for the reasons one might expect. It was the utility of it—the ease with which it allowed her to boast or benefit—that she appreciated. Not for affection, and certainly not for the memory of Geta himself. Did he ever give something personally, something imbued with even a spark of genuine warmth? Or was he, like his golden armor and shimmering silks, a dazzling figure of status but ultimately hollow—just a soulless, glittering metal?
The laughter in Lukrecia's eyes faded, replaced by a somber sadness. He had seemed lively and, in his own way, amusing during their recent encounters. Yet, recalling that night at the feast—their one truly stirring moment—Lukrecia resolved to ignore her very existence in his world, determined to avoid any trace of awkwardness.
But the coffer, with its wealth of jewels and silks, left her feeling more unsettled than gratified. Did he believe this was enough to stir genuine feelings? Was this display of extravagance meant to replace sincerity, to mask something emptier beneath?
She remained seated beside the ornate wooden coffer, her thoughts spiraling back to the past weeks' events, grappling with the questions his gesture left behind.
***
After that exhilarating night, much to her deep displeasure and the inner shame that threatened to rise to the surface, she had to cross paths with Geta several more times.
These were events of various kinds, where she was accompanied—or rather, compelled to attend—by Marcus Tullius, under flimsy pretexts such as the need to spend more time in society, to unwind, and similar reasons. Although one extravagant and ostentatious celebration had already been more than enough for her.
Nevertheless, the young widow did not refuse, yielding to the old man's pressure, and attended several lively gatherings and dinners.
Among the pleasant moments, she once again had the chance to meet the witty red—haired woman, Cesellia, and enjoy an evening in her company.
Among the less pleasant—another striking red—haired presence, this time belonging to a man, who seemed to attend every dinner without exception.
And among the truly unbearable, strangely enough, was the heightened attention directed at her by men of various ages and ranks, who delicately tested the waters of her potential interest in remarriage.
The first conversation with Geta took place at a dinner gathering where the guest list was small enough to deprive her of any chance to hide from his attention. His focus was obvious but had, until then, been silent and distant. The young emperor caught her gaze every time they found themselves in the same room, holding it with a heavy, almost oppressive intensity, as though waiting for Lucretia to falter—blush, hesitate, or even momentarily lose her composure. She held firm, deciding it was a staring contest, where the first to look away would lose. The red—haired emperor's clear displeasure with her unshakable demeanor was so evident on his face that, over time, Lucretia began to find these 'staring duels' from across the room rather amusing
He approached her confidently and purposefully, though under the guise of heading toward the elderly senator, just as the man rose from his seat, preparing to step away from the table.
— Emperor, — Marcus Tullius said respectfully, inclining his head out of habit. — Please excuse me, but I need to step away for a few minutes.
Geta nodded a little too quickly, as though this approach to the senator had been nothing more than a pretense.
— Of course, I'll keep your charming companion company in the meantime, — the emperor replied with exaggerated politeness, casting a deliberate glance toward Lucretia. She hastily sipped her wine, using the goblet to conceal the ironic smirk that tugged at her lips.
The old man was no fool. He had noticed the overt exchanges of glances between the young emperor and the widow. Disliking Geta as he did, he naturally didn't view their interaction or the emperor's apparent interest in his ward as a favorable turn of events. Still, he chose not to oppose it outright. Instead, he threw a cautionary look at Lucretia, his concern for her well—being evident, particularly given her tendency toward excessive frankness.
She pretended not to notice his silent warning. Moments later, Marcus Tullius departed, leaving the two young people alone.
— How is your evening progressing? — Geta began smoothly as he settled into the seat beside her. — Are you satisfied with everything? — His second question carried a deliberate note of provocation.
— Quite so ,— the young widow replied, sensing a subtle tension but choosing not to address it directly. — A very pleasant evening, as is the company, — she added, carefully placing her goblet back on the table. — You see, I don't handle large crowds very well, and tonight's gathering is perfectly balanced for my comfort.
Geta paused, momentarily thrown off by her composed and straightforward response. He had, for some reason, braced himself for a subtle clash of words, similar to the one that lingered in his memory from the banquet. Searching for his next move, he unconsciously began tapping his fingers on the table in a soft, rhythmic pattern—a telltale sign of his underlying unease.
— And how is your evening going? — she asked, noticing his tapping fingers but keeping her gaze fixed firmly on his face.
— Evenings like these are meant to foster harmony with advisors; philosophers find this atmosphere inviting and amicable,— he began explaining, his tone oddly formal. Turning his head so she could now only see his profile, he continued speaking, his fingers once again drumming lightly on the table.
— That's not what I asked, — Lucretia interjected with a faint smile, mirroring a phrase he had thrown at her weeks ago.
Geta's expression flickered with irritation. He turned back to her sharply, faster than the situation warranted, meeting her eyes with a simmering intensity.
— Of course, it's pleasant. I oversaw the planning personally, — he replied, his voice carrying a slight quaver of youthful defiance, while his amber eyes gleamed with an edge of hostility.
— Do you always ignite so easily? — she asked, her tone light but pointed.
— Do you find that amusing? — he hissed, his words laced with a thin veneer of restraint.
— Very, — she replied simply. Though she wanted to smile wider or even let out a soft laugh, she held herself back. — It wasn't my intention to unsettle you. The evening is truly wonderful. I was just curious if you're enjoying it as much as I am.
It was evident he was weighing his responses carefully, seeking the one that would let him reclaim his upper hand in their conversation.
— You're not easily flustered, I've noticed, — he said, his tone bordering on outright disrespect. It was a dirty tactic, bordering on outright disrespect. Then again, he wasn't the one secretly observing someone in such a delicate situation. In truth, he wouldn't have minded being the one doing the watching, given the chance.
Lucretia summoned all the strength and composure granted to her by the gods to avoid openly snapping at him. First, because his reaction might prove unpredictable. And second, because he wasn't entirely wrong, having caught her in a rather compromising act. Yet she still didn't feel ashamed of that incident. On the contrary, a warm rush coursed through her body every time she recalled that night.
— Are you trying to unsettle me,— she asked with a deliberately gentle tone, — or do you simply not know how to express affection?
He exhaled sharply, more in frustration than reply, pulling his hand away from the table as though to stop himself from drumming on its surface. Geta was at a loss. He truly wanted to show his interest, but he wasn't used to treading carefully. After all, with the women who caught his eye, it usually didn't take long for both sides to end up seeing each other unclothed—mutually, of course, unlike in this one—sided instance.
— Perhaps a bit of both,— he finally found his words.
— Then consider the first goal accomplished.
— And the second?
— I can't say yet — you've only just begun.
Lucretia found herself enjoying his strange sense of uncertainty, as well as their brief yet thrilling conversation. Tonight, the young emperor seemed far more endearing, free of the heavy eye makeup and overly whitened complexion. He appeared strikingly youthful. Geta was clearly restraining his usual impulses toward bluntness, and the effort flattered her. Yet, his current caution gave no promises of tranquility in the long run.
— Do you enjoy poetry? — he suddenly changed the subject.
— Only the kind that moves the heart, — the young widow replied, her smile widening slightly.
Geta wanted to continue their increasingly engaging conversation, but one of his advisors interrupted, leaning in to whisper something urgent in his ear. It was clear the matter demanded immediate attention. At that same moment, the elderly senator returned to the table, offering apologies for his extended absence.
The emperor's irritation was evident, but he rose nonetheless, citing pressing matters that required his attention. Before departing, his gaze briefly but pointedly lingered on Lucretia.
***
The young woman froze in her thoughts, absentmindedly fidgeting with the edge of fabric from the coffer. An unusual sound, like the faint rustling of parchment, caught her attention and pulled her back to reality. At the very bottom, beneath the colorful swatches of various textures, lay a small, neatly folded sheet. Lucretia carefully picked it up, and, pulling at the silk ribbon, unfolded the note:
Tu, ne quaesieris, scire nefas,Quis mihi, quem tibi, quem tibi sit futurusTempus, quaeritur semper.
"Do not ask—it's forbidden to know—What tomorrow holds for me,What is destined for you."
She read the handwritten text several times, her gaze slowly tracing each syllable. Exhaling evenly, as though realizing only then that she had been holding her breath throughout the reading, Lucretia set the parchment aside—but didn't fully let go. Her fingers softly caressed its surface.
Geta had written this himself, and for her, such a gesture was worth more than a thousand gilded coffers.
Fanfic Closer
The kind of night that tastes like wine on skin and secrets between teeth.
Heat lingering on fingertips. A glance held too long.👁️
This scene?
Let’s just say — boundaries blur, and empires aren't the only thing at stake.⚔️💋
Here’s a glimpse.👇
Geta was clearly doing everything right—but not out of seasoned skill. More likely, he had simply given in to the moment, never expecting it to unfold like this. He was never one for this sort of thing, preferring to take rather than give—but now... Now he liked it. Liked giving her pleasure. Liked watching her body twist in response, watching her crave more.
He felt her hips moving to meet him, how she held him in place, not letting him change rhythm—making it clear: this was what she wanted. Her skin erupted in tiny goosebumps, and he could feel them under his fingertips. A groan caught in his throat, and he no longer tried to suppress it.
They were in the middle of the room, a light sheen of sweat on their bodies. Lucretia—completely naked. Geta—fully dressed. And that contrast only made everything burn hotter.
📖 Closer| Chapter 2 – About Bad Dreams, the Effects of Strong Wine, and Voyeurism.
“Timor animi auribus officit.” — “Fear blocks the ears of the mind.”
— Quintilian
The young emperor awoke before dawn, as he did on most other days. Dreams tormented him, filling his veins with hot fear or bewildering him with rapidly shifting images. He had slept like this for as long as he could remember, and as a child, he saw nighttime as a kind of punishment. Oh, how angry his father had been at every mention of nightmares, likely believing Caracalla was merely seeking attention or refusing to grow up as expected of him. In truth, Caracalla craved attention, but not because he was spoiled—he was terrified.
On particularly difficult nights, his mother would come to his chambers, if his screams were louder than usual, and her embrace chased away his fears while her words pulled him back to reality. After her death, the nightmares continued, but no one came to wake him anymore.
Caracalla stood in front of the open window, staring sleepily at the intricate patterns of the bronze grille designed to protect him from unwanted guests. His red hair was tousled, as though he had just been in a fight. The warm summer breeze brushed against his bare skin, light and pleasant, prompting him to spread his arms and fully embrace its touch. He turned back to the bed, feeling the cool air tickle the back of his neck. His nose crinkled at the mess before him—the crumpled sheets and scattered pillows betrayed the restless night he'd endured.
Dawn slowly crept in, gradually illuminating the emperor's chambers. He must have stood there for a long time, staring at the empty street below.
Affairs of state,— Caracalla murmured to himself, his gaze fixed on the bed. —I will be deciding matters of state today.— He chuckled softly, as though laughing at his own joke.
He knew he was emperor now, and he liked it, especially the celebrations or the thrill of watching two men fight to the death. He relished their screams, the sight of broken noses, or, worse, eyes gouged out in a frenzy. War fascinated him, too—his father had filled his childhood with stories of conquests that sounded more mythical than real. Caracalla showed enthusiasm for military education, earning praise from his tutors, but they often warned him that impatience and mismanagement of resources could lead to the loss of conquered provinces. He dismissed such warnings as folly. "If you inspire enough fear, you can hold onto anything," he thought. Thankfully, he kept these thoughts to himself; his mother, Julia, would hardly have approved. Her philosophical nature rejected senseless violence, though she understood the necessity of force when used wisely.
After her death, Caracalla often revisited memories of her endless lectures with a bittersweet longing, thinking he would gladly listen now, even if disinterested, just to avoid upsetting her. Over time, he struggled to recall details of her face, her hair, or even her voice. His memory, once sharp, seemed to blur everything into a cacophony of sounds and images, much like his dreams. Though his forgetfulness embarrassed him, it rarely concerned him.
Looking again at the bronze patterns on the window, Caracalla thought how much they resembled a cage. But he wasn't a beast to be kept behind bars, was he?
The dawn silence was interrupted by a servant, a slender boy of thirteen in a plain linen tunic. He carried a tray of water and figs, Caracalla's favorite breakfast. The boy didn't flinch at the sight of the emperor's nakedness, as if this were a daily routine. Yet, despite the familiarity, Caracalla remained lost in thought, arms still spread wide. The boy coughed gently to draw his attention, but the emperor didn't move. Unsure of what to do, the boy hesitated, trying to place the tray quietly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Caracalla noticed the boy's silhouette. A shiver ran down his spine, though the room was already bathed in light. In the dim dawn, the servant looked like a blurred shadow, eerily similar to the figures from Caracalla's nightmares. He cursed loudly, whirling around with his arms raised defensively.
— I beg your pardon, sir,— the boy stammered, his trembling hands extending the tray forward like a shield.
A sudden surge of anger flooded Caracalla—perhaps from fright or frustration at having his quiet moment interrupted. Without thinking, he lunged at the servant, knocking the tray aside. The bowl of water clattered to the floor, and figs scattered across the room.
— Out, out!— the emperor bellowed. His voice grew louder with each word until the boy fled the chambers, almost tripping in his haste. Caracalla continued shouting, his words becoming increasingly incoherent.
Geta, in his room far away, lay awake, staring at the high ceiling. His brother's cries had ruthlessly torn him from the embrace of sleep. He sighed heavily, gripping the edge of his sheet as if willing himself to stay in bed.Mornings like this never bode well; the day ahead was already set to be difficult, and now he would have to tread more carefully around his brother than ever.These episodes were becoming all too frequent, a fact that troubled Geta deeply, yet he stayed in bed, pretending not to notice.
___________________________________________________
The events that followed the feast were unusually varied and rapid, disrupting Lucretia's otherwise measured and unhurried life.
She often returned her thoughts to that evening, overwhelmed by the grandeur of the event, new acquaintances, and, of course, the excessive amount of wine consumed.If the feast had initially overwhelmed her with its magnitude and pomp, over time, she found herself drawn deeper into the merriment, drunkenness, and constant conversations that greeted her at every turn.
After the events in the private box, Lucilla, whose educated warmth had briefly conquered her with its charm, grew visibly weary. Realizing she had attended enough of the feast to satisfy the young emperors for the sake of propriety, she hurriedly bade farewell to the more or less pleasant company present and left for home. Conversations among the remaining guests resumed, taking on a sharper tone and expressing mild dissatisfaction with the rulers and their approach to state affairs.
Feeling the same weariness, Lucretia decided to leave the hidden corner where she had been seated. The old senator accompanying her nodded approvingly, silently praising her impulse to engage in social life. However, he didn't miss the opportunity to remind her:
"Be careful and prudent, my dear."
Lucretia, already warmed by the wine, nodded obediently, though inwardly considering the old man's warnings overly cautious.
She strolled through the banquet hall, her eyes catching on the ornate decorations and the increasingly animated guests, who were no longer seated as coherently as they had been at the start of the evening. Her attention was drawn to one of the grand columns supporting the hall. Beside it, on a makeshift stage more akin to a pedestal, a lean but surprisingly flexible man moved with smooth, rhythmic grace. His dark, almost ebony skin contrasted beautifully with the milk—colored snake draped over his shoulders.
— I see you share my enthusiasm for today's festivities, — a young woman remarked stealthily, appearing at Lucretia's left.
Lucretia flinched slightly, careful not to let the stranger notice her surprise.
— In part,—the young widow replied politely, shifting her gaze to assess the speaker.
The woman had luxurious dark red hair, styled in large, high curls, and her olive—toned skin gleamed in the light, scented with exotic oils.
— Cesellia, my name,— the redhead said briskly. — Wife of Titus Flavius. — She spoke haughtily, as if Lucretia should immediately recognize the name—likely one of the many senators, a high—ranking official, or perhaps just someone wealthy.
Lucretia introduced herself in turn, all the while rifling through her memory to determine whose wife now stood before her.
Cesellia turned out to be a surprisingly lively and unreserved woman, and thankfully, uninterested in politics. They spent a considerable amount of time chatting and moving from one dance performance to another, evaluating each. Cesellia was also a great drinker, more so than the young widow, and together they drained a significant number of glasses, bantering with each other and enjoying the vibrant crowd.
Despite her intoxication, Lucretia managed to maintain her composure and, more importantly, stay within the bounds of propriety—something not all the guests at the feast could claim. Rome did not frown upon the open display of passion and emotions tied to physical attraction, but even so, the degree of exposed bodies and unabashed demonstrations of lust seemed to escalate, as if on a runaway chariot, as the evening wore on.
At some point, when she felt that her state had crossed the threshold of acceptability, Lucretia carefully withdrew from the company she had been keeping for most of the evening. Politely, as much as her slightly unsteady condition allowed, she offered her apologies and headed toward what she assumed was the palace exit. She didn't appear overtly drunk, nor did she entirely feel it, but a growing irritation churned within her—a dangerous blend of restlessness and impulsivity that made her aware of the risk of doing something foolish. Deciding to avoid further temptation, she resolved to return home, hoping, perhaps, to find Marcus Tullius there—assuming he hadn't drunk too much himself or simply forgotten about her.
She cast her gaze around the hall, with its maze of entrances and exits, trying to retrace her steps to the place where she had eagerly escaped dull conversations just hours earlier. But her slightly foggy vision played tricks on her, and the intricate architecture only deepened her confusion, leaving her wandering amidst shadows and uncertainty.
After weaving between a few towering columns and peering into several dimly lit nooks and corridors, Lucretia stumbled upon sights she would later wish to erase from her memory. It wasn't so much the lust itself that disturbed her, but the ugliness of it—ungainly bodies and faces, all consumed by primal desires, which only amplified her unease. She was no stranger to physical pleasure and would not have shunned it with someone appealing to her eye and senses, but she knew better than to put herself in a compromising situation at such an occasion.
As she took another turn, now thoroughly lost in the winding palace corridors, her ears caught the sounds of heavy sighs and wet, smothered noises. By this point in the night, such things no longer surprised her, and she unashamedly pressed on. Yet, a strange drunken curiosity tugged at her, urging her to peer through the slightly open door of a nearby room. Secretly hoping to witness a passion more refined and pleasing to the eye, Lucretia crept softly toward the door, her movements cautious, and froze.
He was sitting in a massive chair covered in an expensive dark maroon cloth, completely naked. His toga and tunic were lying carelessly in the corner of the room, and only a golden wreath still remained in his wheaten, slightly reddish hair, making him look like a deity.
The dark makeup of his eyes, neatly applied and intimidating looking at the beginning of the evening, was smudged, resembling a thin layer of blackened ink on a face as pale as a majestic statue.
Geta looked down at the girl whose head was moving rhythmically towards his groin. Her hands glided over his unexpectedly slender and captivating body, pausing to scratch and squeeze at certain spots.He roughly ran his fingers through her blonde hair, harder than he intended, sharply pulling her head toward him, nearly pressing her nose against his pubic hair and holding her there for a moment. The girl recoiled, resisting the pressure, coughing and shifting her weight to her right arm as if trying to move her face and entire torso away from the emperor. The young emperor grinned, lifting her face to his chin and wiping the imperceptible saliva from her lips with his thumb.
— Ask,— his voice was no longer as deep as it had been when he first met Lucretia. Instead, it took on an oddly high pitch, but mingled with his ragged breathing, it sounded strangely beautiful.
— Please,— the kneeling stranger cried pitifully, leaning closer to him, but he held her back.
— Ask better,— the emperor's voice now sounded entirely like a boy's—impatient and demanding.
— I beg you, my Emperor,— he squeezed her face painfully, running his other hand through her hair again, still refusing to let her get any closer.
— Please, please, please,— the girl pleaded rapidly, and on the last word, seemingly unable to restrain himself any longer, he forced her head down on his cock, perhaps even harder than when she'd coughed.
The blonde didn't resist, relaxing her throat as he pushed forcefully into her mouth. She gently placed her hands on his thighs, eyes closed, tears forming, yielding to the dominant advance.
Lucretia remained standing at the door, her mouth slightly ajar at the sight before her. The man and the woman were positioned in profile, allowing her to see every detail: Geta's contracting muscles, especially in the area of the hand he was rigidly guiding the young girl with, and his stomach, clenching, heralding his imminent release. The expression on the face of the woman who was giving him pleasure, her eyes tightly closed, her movements submissive as a doll's, did not go unnoticed. Excess saliva dripped carelessly from the corners of her mouth in an attempt to cope with the almost violent penetration.
While watching them, Lucretia could clearly feel the heat slowly spreading throughout her body, pooling at the bottom of her stomach. She knew she should move on, but all she wanted was just to watch. Geta sensed the gaze and suddenly turned his face directly towards the door, locking eyes with the girl standing there. He noticed the flushed cheeks and the hand unconsciously gripping the door. His hand slowed down, giving the girl, with him in her mouth, a break and the chance to continue on her own.
The young emperor recognized her by the faded, uniquely hers and fitting no one else, color of her eyes. He smirked, feeling a strange sense of superiority, clearly expecting the girl to be embarrassed by the realization that she was caught spying on such an intimate scene.
But Lucretia was not timid; she looked directly at him, blushing not out of shame but rather the opposite. Holding the emperor's gaze, she slowly let her eyes drift down to his erection, which would disappear and reappear with the movements of the fair—haired girl kneeling before him. At one point, she took him particularly deep, releasing him with a characteristic, moist sound. Geta groaned deeply but did not take his eyes off the girl at the door, just as she did not look away from them. The woman on her knees, entirely oblivious to the fact that she and the emperor were not alone, continued her task, quickening her movements and drawing new sighs and moans from him.At a certain moment, the young emperor, overcome by the peak of his pleasure, tilted his head back and released a deep, drawn—out moan, his body taut as his hips arched upward. Lucretia inhaled deeply and heavily in unison with him, struck by the peculiar grace in the intensity of his culmination, and felt an urge to touch the emperor's finely tensed abdomen, even if just for a split second. Of course, she immediately pushed the thought aside.
When it was over, the blonde suddenly glanced toward the young widow standing in the doorway. Unsteady, she awkwardly shifted from her kneeling position to sitting. Geta looked at the unexpected observer once more, blinking away the haze of his recent orgasm, still basking in the lingering euphoria.
— Good night to you, my emperor,— Lucretia quickly said, bowing with exaggerated formality and infusing her words with as much audacity as she could muster, even as her heart clenched with nervous pounding. Then, without lingering, she swiftly left the room, practically running out of the palace.
The wine had worn off—perhaps from the running, perhaps from the shock, or perhaps from the realization that she had enjoyed it. She relished what she had just witnessed and couldn't shake the feeling.
The road was surprisingly fast, and the Palatine Palace exuded opulence as soon as they arrived. Huge, massive marble columns stood proudly to greet the arrivals, urging one to tilt their head back and admire their grandeur.
Lucretia stopped alongside Marcus Tullius, who held her forearm firmly but gently. His calloused hand slid gently over her arm, reminding her to slow down and take in her surroundings.
He gazed at the mosaic floor, which depicted a scene from the myth of Bacchus. The surface of the floor shimmered under the glow of the lamps. The old senator then took a slow, deliberate glance around.
And even that, just the first element of the feast, was impressive. Dancers and acrobats in strange but artistic costumes welcomed the guests, guiding them into the depths of the palace. Music accompanied them from the very entrance, enhancing the atmosphere.
The young widow realized that the escort wanted to give her time to look around, and she repeated his unhurried gaze, studying the decorations of the hall and what was going on around her. Her attention was drawn to two small children, about five years old, who were showering rose petals on the red carpet in front of a woman in a magnificent tunic embroidered with gold threads. The woman's hair was arranged in an elaborate hairdo decorated with golden details, and a loose strand fell gently into a face that held nobility and traces of former beauty.
The old senator, standing at Lucretia's right hand, noticed the woman and instantly turned his attention to her, bowing his head respectfully.
— Mark, my dear friend! — she said warmly, shedding her cold mask and breaking the image of impassability that Lucretia had imagined.
— Lucilla, how glad I am to see you this beautiful evening! — replied Tullius warmly, gently squeezing her palm in his hand.
Lucretia remained silent, avoiding the stranger's direct gaze. Her eyes were drawn to the children, who stood awkwardly, holding armfuls of petals and baskets. They looked confused and turned their golden—brown eyes toward her, sensing her attention. The whole scene seemed ridiculous to Lucretia: the lavish clothes, the strange dancers, and the stiff children. She chuckled involuntarily, drawing everyone's attention to herself.
The senator looked at her with reproach, while the woman glanced at her with mild interest.
— Please forgive me, — Lucretia said hastily, turning to Lucilla. — I rarely attend such events. I found the excessive pageantry amusing.
Lucilla gave a pleasant smile that finally destroyed the image of a cold aristocrat.
— I couldn't agree with you more, — she answered, leaving the sentence unfinished, as if waiting for the name of her interlocutor.
— Lucretia — the young widow added calmly.
— Oh, so you are the ward Marcus Tullius told me about. I dare say he was very accurate in his description of you — Lucilla noted with mild interest as she glanced at Lucretia. But it did not make the widow uncomfortable.
— A bit rude in places — the senator added dryly, as if warning of possible difficulties in the conversation.
Lucretia lowered her gaze, but she didn't look too guilty. Her face retained a slight irony.
— Don't be silly — Lucilla grinned. — I'll be glad to talk to you and your companion later.
With those words, she headed deeper into the palace, treading on the rose petals with natural grace.
After she left, Marcus Tullius explained that she was the daughter of the great emperor Marcus Aurelius. Lucretia felt awkward for a moment — her laughter might have been taken the wrong way. But she quickly dismissed the thought, deciding it was not worth attaching too much importance to the situation.
As she entered the main hall, Lucretia barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief: what had seemed excessive on the approach now seemed only a prelude to the true splendor of the feast. Long tables stretched down the hall, displaying the magnificence of the food, many of which she was seeing for the first time. Servants with silver trays offered fruit, figs, and cheeses, and goblets of rich, strong wine appeared as if by magic.
Dancers in colorful costumes and painted faces drew attention with their performances. Some of them engaged the guests, while others danced on improvised stages. On one of these stages was a bathtub, shaped like a wine or water bowl, made of transparent material that hid the contours of the bodies inside, creating the illusion of a mosaic.
Lucretia longed more than ever to be in her quiet bedroom. Sounds that had seemed annoying before would now be a comfort to her. She wasn't shy or timid, but the noise and the abundance of people made her feel uncomfortable, and how to deal with it with as little loss as possible, she didn't know yet. Nothing better came to mind than draining her glass and asking the senator sitting next to her for a refill. He was a little taken aback by her impulsiveness, especially when he noticed how quickly the glass was empty. But he poured her wine again, even more than he should have.
The alcohol burned her stomach, reminding her to eat. Lucretia didn't mind it and reached out first for a fig and then for a flatbread with honey. The food tasted surprisingly good, or perhaps she was just very hungry. But her shaky comfort was rudely disrupted: the sharp sound of the carnix, a Roman wind instrument that makes a loud and prolonged sound, rang through the hall. She froze, carefully placing the flatbread on her plate, but not letting go of her glass in case she needed it again. Lucretia looked toward the main table, following the others. Instantly, the noise died down, the sound of instruments, the clinking of glasses, and even the whispering of the guests stopped.
There were footsteps, loud at first, as if someone were deliberately stomping, followed by quieter, more leisurely steps. The sound echoed through the great hall.
At the head were two massive chairs trimmed with gold and stones, more like thrones. They glittered with splendor and ornate costliness, and it was to them that the owners of the steps were heading.
The first to take his seat was a tall young man. He did not sit down but stood beside it, emphasizing his stateliness. His hair was a light red, almost wheat—colored, neatly styled, and his head was framed by a golden wreath that almost blended in with his hair, though it was still visible. His face appeared serious, with a hint of sternness, though it hardly reflected his true nature. His eyelids and the skin around his eyes were enhanced with makeup, presumably antimony or some other dark substance, which looked extravagant, if not strange. The eyeliner made his dark brown eyes appear like black holes, giving him an almost inhuman look. His pale complexion only added to the effect. His gold toga, richly patterned, complemented his black and gold tunic, the folds of which lay neatly at the sleeves. The emperor raised his hands to the ceiling, as if drawing energy from above.
The second young man, moving more quietly, seemed less intimidating but no less extravagant. His clothes were a deep red, fading into a dark wine color, embroidered with gold threads. He wore noticeably more jewelry than his brother: a massive earring in his left ear and a set of jingling bracelets spanning his wrist. He was shorter, with rich red hair, closer to a copper hue. The wreath on his head appeared heavy, as if pressing him down. There was a strange confusion in his blue eyes, which sparkled brighter than any jewel. He seemed to be either looking through the crowd or directly at someone invisible in front of him. His hands were not raised like his brother's; instead, he clasped them together and twirled the burgundy ring on his middle finger impatiently.
— We are gathered here to tell you that Rome has entered a New Age. We are favored and guided by the gods! It will be long and great! — said the tall emperor, raising his goblet of wine. His rings clinked against the glass.
— So be it! — His brother raised his goblet sharply, spilling some wine on the table.
The brothers exchanged a brief glance before turning their gaze to the guests, clearly expecting applause.
And the hall erupted in loud cheers, applause, and supportive toasts.
Lucretia raised her cup with the others, but remained silent, only scrutinizing the young men in their golden wreaths. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla, the young sons of the recently deceased Emperor Severus, now joined by the gods. Naturally, she had heard of them: spoiled, cruel, and fond of foolish waste — in short, nothing admirable. She wasn't surprised by the hypocrisy of the guests — the crowd is always the same. But the way the brothers desperately demanded this ostentatious celebration gave her a strange sense of pity, especially for the blue—eyed Caracalla. He seemed lost, which did not align with the image of a cruel, evil ruler.
As she blinked away the rest of her thoughts, Lucretia flinched at the light touch on her shoulder. When she turned, she met the old senator's warm gaze and instantly relaxed.
The old man extended his hand with an inviting gesture. Although Lucretia had just settled at the table and didn't want to leave, she had to offer her hand in return. As she followed her companion, she thought that perhaps he had changed his attitude and was now planning to introduce her to potential candidates for a new husband.
Her fears were quickly dispelled when Marcus Tullius led her to a separate table, where Lucilla, a woman she already knew, was sitting. The table was tucked away in a secluded corner of the hall, where the emperors' seats were clearly visible, but the guests remained hidden from view. It was a corner reserved for the richest of the rich.
Lucretia apologized again for her insolence, but she did so quietly, so that only Marcus Aurelius' daughter could hear her. Lucilla affectionately touched her shoulder, almost maternally, to reassure her that there was no offense. Then she returned to her conversation with Marcus and the two senators already present in the privileged box.
The conversation continued, gradually boring the young widow. She listened attentively, though she did not interrupt, realizing that she had nothing to add. But the abundance of gossip was overwhelming. Sometimes, it seemed as if it would never end. Lucretia noted that neither the senators nor Lucilla herself seemed favorable to the young rulers, either politically or personally. This left more questions than answers. Were things truly as grim as they had been told in that narrow circle?
The velvet curtain trembled slightly, revealing a bright light and the figure of the young emperor. In an instant, the conversation died down, exposing the hypocrisy of those present.
— My Emperor, — one of the senators stood up hurriedly. Lucretia didn't even remember his name.
Geta nodded in satisfaction and sat down at the small table, positioning himself so that Lucretia was close by, at his right hand. The distance was just enough to avoid violating her personal space, but not so great that he wouldn't accidentally touch her.
— I hope you were impressed with today's festivities. We did our best to surprise the guests, — his voice was low, but with a distinctly boyish note. Geta looked around at the senators, as if waiting for their approval. His gaze lingered on Lucilla, who smiled hurriedly. The smile was so unnatural that it became sad. The emperor seemed to ignore it or simply didn't understand. His gaze slowly slid over those present until it stopped on Lucretia. She wasn't smiling, but she was looking at him directly, studying him, but without too much insolence. The old senator beside her visibly tensed, not knowing how to get her to show respect or say anything. Geta raised an eyebrow, waiting.
— Who came up with rose—petal babies? Very extravagant, — she said, looking him straight in the face. There was no offense in her voice, no desire to insult. Rather, the slight excitement from the wine she had drunk gave her words a playful but not offensive tone. Lucretia smiled openly, unashamedly. She leaned on her arm, her fingers pointing casually in his direction.
She found him strangely charming, despite the makeup and his apparent demanding nature.
— You didn't like it? — His voice lowered, though he didn't yet know why. Perhaps it was an attempt at intimidation, in case it was necessary.
— I've never seen anything like it, that's all,— she replied quickly, still radiating ease and barely perceptible banter.
— The people present fell silent, as if they were all waiting for the storm to begin.
— That's not what I asked,— Geta repeated.
— In that case, more like no than yes,— Lucretia continued in the same easy tone.
— Why?—He tensed and leaned a little closer.
— It looks funny,—she unknowingly moved a little closer too. —Please don't misunderstand. You've put your heart into this party, I can see that. It was wonderful.
Geta was already quite close, but still within the bounds of propriety. He felt annoyed and knew there was a tinge of mockery in her words, but there was no outright disrespect to latch onto.
— And you, dear lady?— He clarified, obviously referring to her name and related information. His eyes slid to Marcus Tullius, obviously realizing that the girl had come with him.
— Darva Lucretia, widow of Tiberius Claudius Lentulus, who left us not long ago,— she answered herself, without waiting for her companion's intervention. — Marcus Tullius accompanied me to this beautiful feast, so that I would not be alone with my grief.
Geta found her beautiful yet annoying in direct proportion to her every word. He sympathized with her loss without averting his gaze, which she accepted without looking away either. For a while longer they simply looked at each other in silence. Then the Emperor rose abruptly and left the private box, citing non—existent business.
After he left, Marcus expressed his displeasure with Lucretia's behavior. She lowered her eyes defiantly, but she remembered Lucilla's words of caution.
The conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.
Geta walked back to his throne, deep in thought about the young widow. She was undoubtedly laughing at him, but she did so carefully, as if she genuinely didn't want to offend him.
Her beauty was strange: instead of smooth, tanned skin, it was almost unnaturally pale, with a slight bluish tint, reminiscent of the whitewash he himself had applied to his face. Could she be unwell? But she appeared quite confident nonetheless.
Her eyes had an unusual murky green hue, as though the colors had been diluted in water. Faded, but somehow perfectly fitting for her. She didn't look refined or smooth, though she was slender and graceful. Even her hair was an odd grayish shade with a metallic sheen, pulled back in a simple, unadorned style.
He liked that she wasn't being hypocritical, but it irritated him that she didn't show even the slightest admiration, and wasn't afraid of him—at all.
She was very beautiful, he suddenly decided.
Geta wanted to see her again...
✒️ Written by @IntimateDear
🔞 21+ content, warnings apply
📎 Full story index → here
Underwater, sounds blur, leaving cacophony and extraneous noises above the surface. There is no anxiety, no pesky breeze that blows against her skin, making it prickly and tugging at the fine hairs. She wishes she could stay in this calming, quiet, and cool cocoon. But the lack of air stings her lungs—nasty, squeezing. She has to leave the cozy vacuum.
Her head appears above the surface, breaking the water surface. The water, impregnated with the scents of herbs and oils, splashes over the sides of the brass tub. Hands grasping the edges firmly pull her body halfway to the surface. Sitting in the rippling water, the girl takes a deep, jagged, and long—awaited breath. She breathes greedily, as if almost drowning in this small bronze trough, and stares straight ahead. Various sounds fill the room. She looks around: the window is open, and the wind is playing with the curtains more than is usual in good weather. She hears the creaking of the old wood of the table, and the hurried footsteps of the servant who is about to break the relative silence of the room.
The door of her chambers creaks louder than usual. On the threshold stands a woman of advanced years, stout and plainly dressed. Her appearance is stern, but her gaze is soft. Wrinkles gather around her eyes, though her lips barely curve into the semblance of a smile.
— You must think you're a fish, my dear. You've been sitting in this tub for so long,— the woman's voice is bassy and raspy, matching her appearance. In her hands, she holds a large piece of cloth prepared for Mistress to wipe herself after the bath.
— Maybe I want to drown myself, and you and your stomping are just in the way,— the girl in the bathtub replies with a little hesitation and reaches out for the cloth.
— Ah, my sweet girl. I was full of enthusiasm at your age, not this strange melancholy,— the woman did not hand over the cloth, but instead grabbed her mistress by the wrist and pulled her so that she had to stand up to her full height to get the towel.
The girl rolls her eyes at the old servant's comments.
— I thought I could afford to grieve for my late husband a little longer, not walk around the feast after only a week and a half,— she wraps herself in the fabric, feeling the breeze from the window unpleasantly tickle her exposed skin, and looks at the prepared outfit neatly laid out on the bed.
Everything is folded to match the tone of the event and, thankfully, the mood of the hostess. The silk tunic shimmered beautifully in the light, its hue a deep green. Her husband often bought things to match the color of her eyes. A pale cream palla is carefully tucked nearby. Lucretia shuffles her feet nervously, clutching them against the cold, and wrinkles her nose at the variety of jewelry stacked on the small table. She'd never liked earrings, and there were even several variations of them here. Just looking at them makes her ears prickle, anticipating the heaviness of the pieces. The massive necklace, more like a chain, no longer embarrasses her like it used to. The upcoming feast is a display of wealth, and she has plenty to show for it. Truth be told, she has little interest in it.
On the table are bracelets — beautiful, obviously expensive, and massive. In a small box are rings. These are the ones she loves. If it were up to her, she'd wear nothing but rings.
Yuna, that's the elderly maid's name, laughs loudly at her words and slyly parries:
— Grieving for your husband, my dear? Not a living soul in this house mourns for him. The old wretch has lost his mind in recent months. May the gods take him to their house and give him clarity of mind.
— If he'd known how you'd talk about him, he'd have peed twice as often in the pot you changed,— the young mistress grinned, rubbing her body with the towel one last time before she threw it off. She leisurely pulled on her tunic, unashamed of her nakedness, pointing her finger at the jewelry she'd decided to wear.
— You'd better hurry up, baby,— the maid replies, still smiling. She serves the jewelry and helps you to arrange and secure the palla properly. — Marcus Tullius has been waiting for you for about half an hour. You shouldn't disrespect his favor.
Lucretia nods. In truth, she had no purpose in lingering. Nor any desire to go anywhere. And it was not from longing for her old husband, but simply because she disliked large gatherings and the scale of showmanship that comes with feasts. Tonight for some reason did not fill her with energy, and the noisy feast promised to take the last of her crumbs.
The young emperors were loudly proclaiming the beginning of their power, hence the need to attend the event. Smile — if possible. Make useful contacts — if desired. Lucretia was neither stupid nor overconfident not to understand the complexities and specifics of her position. But being a widow was more pleasant to her than being someone's wife, undoubtedly. Her last husband had been kind in his own way and had not deprived her of property, but neither had he burdened her with the responsibilities and status that forced her to participate in such masquerades.
And Marcus Tullius, senator and good friend of the deceased, for some unknown reason, felt a trembling sympathy for her society. This sympathy resembled rather the attitude of a father towards his daughter. The reason might have been the loss of his own daughter, but Lucretia did not wish to know. She enjoyed his attention and the calmness he lavished on her every time they met. She also liked that he didn't call her to marry or offer her others, but instead created the opportunity for her to establish herself in society on her own. Something she could have handled on her own, but as the saying goes, — only fools and proud men refuse help.—
She walked out to him, collected, with a strained but strained smile, and spun on her axis, showing off her outfit. Her hair wasn't completely done up, but Yuna had part of it pinned up with a gold barrette that contrasted nicely with her dark, gray—tinged hair.
— How lovely you look, my dear child. But you look pale,— the senator said warmly, hastily adjusting his toga and offering his hand to Lucretia.
— Thank you,— she replied demurely and immediately extended her palm.
She felt at peace with him, like under a column of water. — Marriage to him isn't such a bad option, but I wouldn't want to go through another old man. — she thought as they headed for the Palatine Palace.
✒️ Written by @IntimateDear
🔞 21+ content, warnings apply
📎 Full story index → here
📖 Closer| Chapter 3 - About beautiful gifts, nice conversations and poems
The first chapters can be found here.
"Non dono, sed animo." — "It is not the gift, but the intention that matters." (Seneca)
A few weeks later, she stood in the spacious atrium of her home, carefully examining the impressive chest that had been carried in by the servants and placed in the center of the room. The sender of this lavish gift was unmistakable: the lid, draped in rich purple brocade, bore a laurel wreath—a clear signature. Lucretia did not rush to approach it, allowing herself first to take in the sight of the chest before pondering her next steps.
She was not surprised that Geta had sent her such a gift. Attention from him was predictable. After admiring the exquisite hue of the fabric, shimmering in the torchlight, and the golden ornaments adorning the sides, she finally decided to approach and lift the lid to peer inside.
The contents were undeniably impressive and, of course, extravagant. Silk and other fine fabrics, shimmering in shades of gold and vivid red—colors clearly favored by the emperor—were neatly arranged in sections. Their richness was evident to the eye and the touch, which Lucretia immediately appreciated.
Another section held jewelry: necklaces, earrings, and rings sparkling with the brilliance of various gemstones. Picking up one of the heavy golden bracelets, she smirked at its weight, feeling the opulence in her hands.
As she continued exploring the chest's contents, Lucretia found herself reflecting on the impracticality of wearing some of these items given her status. The overwhelming array of cosmetics drew an ironic laugh—it rivaled the stock of a small perfumery, ensuring she wouldn't need to visit one for years.
There was no denying the beauty and value of the emperor's gifts, but it was obvious he hadn't personally curated them. Likely, he had merely instructed his servants to prepare the chest. She took no offense at this; Geta undoubtedly had more pressing matters to attend to. Yet the main question that crossed her mind was: "How many such chests had been sent across Rome?" She was well aware of his inclination toward grand gestures and his eagerness to impress. Laughing softly at her thoughts, she continued to sift through the fabrics with care.
Imagining twenty identical chests, carelessly packed in karthea, delivered to the homes of women who piqued his interest, she laughed even louder.
The gift was pleasant to her, but not for the reasons one might expect. It was the utility of it—the ease with which it allowed her to boast or benefit—that she appreciated. Not for affection, and certainly not for the memory of Geta himself. Did he ever give something personally, something imbued with even a spark of genuine warmth? Or was he, like his golden armor and shimmering silks, a dazzling figure of status but ultimately hollow—just a soulless, glittering metal?
The laughter in Lukrecia's eyes faded, replaced by a somber sadness. He had seemed lively and, in his own way, amusing during their recent encounters. Yet, recalling that night at the feast—their one truly stirring moment—Lukrecia resolved to ignore her very existence in his world, determined to avoid any trace of awkwardness.
But the coffer, with its wealth of jewels and silks, left her feeling more unsettled than gratified. Did he believe this was enough to stir genuine feelings? Was this display of extravagance meant to replace sincerity, to mask something emptier beneath?
She remained seated beside the ornate wooden coffer, her thoughts spiraling back to the past weeks' events, grappling with the questions his gesture left behind.
***
After that exhilarating night, much to her deep displeasure and the inner shame that threatened to rise to the surface, she had to cross paths with Geta several more times.
These were events of various kinds, where she was accompanied—or rather, compelled to attend—by Marcus Tullius, under flimsy pretexts such as the need to spend more time in society, to unwind, and similar reasons. Although one extravagant and ostentatious celebration had already been more than enough for her.
Nevertheless, the young widow did not refuse, yielding to the old man's pressure, and attended several lively gatherings and dinners.
Among the pleasant moments, she once again had the chance to meet the witty red—haired woman, Cesellia, and enjoy an evening in her company.
Among the less pleasant—another striking red—haired presence, this time belonging to a man, who seemed to attend every dinner without exception.
And among the truly unbearable, strangely enough, was the heightened attention directed at her by men of various ages and ranks, who delicately tested the waters of her potential interest in remarriage.
The first conversation with Geta took place at a dinner gathering where the guest list was small enough to deprive her of any chance to hide from his attention. His focus was obvious but had, until then, been silent and distant. The young emperor caught her gaze every time they found themselves in the same room, holding it with a heavy, almost oppressive intensity, as though waiting for Lucretia to falter—blush, hesitate, or even momentarily lose her composure. She held firm, deciding it was a staring contest, where the first to look away would lose. The red—haired emperor's clear displeasure with her unshakable demeanor was so evident on his face that, over time, Lucretia began to find these 'staring duels' from across the room rather amusing
He approached her confidently and purposefully, though under the guise of heading toward the elderly senator, just as the man rose from his seat, preparing to step away from the table.
— Emperor, — Marcus Tullius said respectfully, inclining his head out of habit. — Please excuse me, but I need to step away for a few minutes.
Geta nodded a little too quickly, as though this approach to the senator had been nothing more than a pretense.
— Of course, I'll keep your charming companion company in the meantime, — the emperor replied with exaggerated politeness, casting a deliberate glance toward Lucretia. She hastily sipped her wine, using the goblet to conceal the ironic smirk that tugged at her lips.
The old man was no fool. He had noticed the overt exchanges of glances between the young emperor and the widow. Disliking Geta as he did, he naturally didn't view their interaction or the emperor's apparent interest in his ward as a favorable turn of events. Still, he chose not to oppose it outright. Instead, he threw a cautionary look at Lucretia, his concern for her well—being evident, particularly given her tendency toward excessive frankness.
She pretended not to notice his silent warning. Moments later, Marcus Tullius departed, leaving the two young people alone.
— How is your evening progressing? — Geta began smoothly as he settled into the seat beside her. — Are you satisfied with everything? — His second question carried a deliberate note of provocation.
— Quite so ,— the young widow replied, sensing a subtle tension but choosing not to address it directly. — A very pleasant evening, as is the company, — she added, carefully placing her goblet back on the table. — You see, I don't handle large crowds very well, and tonight's gathering is perfectly balanced for my comfort.
Geta paused, momentarily thrown off by her composed and straightforward response. He had, for some reason, braced himself for a subtle clash of words, similar to the one that lingered in his memory from the banquet. Searching for his next move, he unconsciously began tapping his fingers on the table in a soft, rhythmic pattern—a telltale sign of his underlying unease.
— And how is your evening going? — she asked, noticing his tapping fingers but keeping her gaze fixed firmly on his face.
— Evenings like these are meant to foster harmony with advisors; philosophers find this atmosphere inviting and amicable,— he began explaining, his tone oddly formal. Turning his head so she could now only see his profile, he continued speaking, his fingers once again drumming lightly on the table.
— That's not what I asked, — Lucretia interjected with a faint smile, mirroring a phrase he had thrown at her weeks ago.
Geta's expression flickered with irritation. He turned back to her sharply, faster than the situation warranted, meeting her eyes with a simmering intensity.
— Of course, it's pleasant. I oversaw the planning personally, — he replied, his voice carrying a slight quaver of youthful defiance, while his amber eyes gleamed with an edge of hostility.
— Do you always ignite so easily? — she asked, her tone light but pointed.
— Do you find that amusing? — he hissed, his words laced with a thin veneer of restraint.
— Very, — she replied simply. Though she wanted to smile wider or even let out a soft laugh, she held herself back. — It wasn't my intention to unsettle you. The evening is truly wonderful. I was just curious if you're enjoying it as much as I am.
It was evident he was weighing his responses carefully, seeking the one that would let him reclaim his upper hand in their conversation.
— You're not easily flustered, I've noticed, — he said, his tone bordering on outright disrespect. It was a dirty tactic, bordering on outright disrespect. Then again, he wasn't the one secretly observing someone in such a delicate situation. In truth, he wouldn't have minded being the one doing the watching, given the chance.
Lucretia summoned all the strength and composure granted to her by the gods to avoid openly snapping at him. First, because his reaction might prove unpredictable. And second, because he wasn't entirely wrong, having caught her in a rather compromising act. Yet she still didn't feel ashamed of that incident. On the contrary, a warm rush coursed through her body every time she recalled that night.
— Are you trying to unsettle me,— she asked with a deliberately gentle tone, — or do you simply not know how to express affection?
He exhaled sharply, more in frustration than reply, pulling his hand away from the table as though to stop himself from drumming on its surface. Geta was at a loss. He truly wanted to show his interest, but he wasn't used to treading carefully. After all, with the women who caught his eye, it usually didn't take long for both sides to end up seeing each other unclothed—mutually, of course, unlike in this one—sided instance.
— Perhaps a bit of both,— he finally found his words.
— Then consider the first goal accomplished.
— And the second?
— I can't say yet — you've only just begun.
Lucretia found herself enjoying his strange sense of uncertainty, as well as their brief yet thrilling conversation. Tonight, the young emperor seemed far more endearing, free of the heavy eye makeup and overly whitened complexion. He appeared strikingly youthful. Geta was clearly restraining his usual impulses toward bluntness, and the effort flattered her. Yet, his current caution gave no promises of tranquility in the long run.
— Do you enjoy poetry? — he suddenly changed the subject.
— Only the kind that moves the heart, — the young widow replied, her smile widening slightly.
Geta wanted to continue their increasingly engaging conversation, but one of his advisors interrupted, leaning in to whisper something urgent in his ear. It was clear the matter demanded immediate attention. At that same moment, the elderly senator returned to the table, offering apologies for his extended absence.
The emperor's irritation was evident, but he rose nonetheless, citing pressing matters that required his attention. Before departing, his gaze briefly but pointedly lingered on Lucretia.
***
The young woman froze in her thoughts, absentmindedly fidgeting with the edge of fabric from the coffer. An unusual sound, like the faint rustling of parchment, caught her attention and pulled her back to reality. At the very bottom, beneath the colorful swatches of various textures, lay a small, neatly folded sheet. Lucretia carefully picked it up, and, pulling at the silk ribbon, unfolded the note:
Tu, ne quaesieris, scire nefas,Quis mihi, quem tibi, quem tibi sit futurusTempus, quaeritur semper.
"Do not ask—it's forbidden to know—What tomorrow holds for me,What is destined for you."
She read the handwritten text several times, her gaze slowly tracing each syllable. Exhaling evenly, as though realizing only then that she had been holding her breath throughout the reading, Lucretia set the parchment aside—but didn't fully let go. Her fingers softly caressed its surface.
Geta had written this himself, and for her, such a gesture was worth more than a thousand gilded coffers.
