So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for… and deserved. Which ever since I’ve… ever since I’ve always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I’d like to think this isn’t weakness or… evasion… but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness.
summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta’s eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it’s common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?
warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon, violence, blood
tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here
word count: ~3k
"No vow of chastity or sacred duty could restrain him who deemed himself a god, for he believed himself above the laws that bind mere mortals."
-Decimus Rufus, Gods Among Men: The Erosion of Roman Law.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
"This is wrong!" Livia protested, though her outrage came more from personal feeling than from a desire to argue with her mentor. "There are countless priests for that!"
Caesonia, her sworn sister, was ten years older, but always so gentle and easy to talk to that Livia could be honest with her. As long as no one else found out.
"You know how things are," Caesonia said, her voice flat with boredom as she absentmindedly smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her snow-white tunic, making it clear that the matter was settled. "The emperors want to win back the people’s love, and what does the crowd love more than the games?"
"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.
"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"
Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.
"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."
Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.
"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"
"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."
"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"
They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.
Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.
The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.
Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.
"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"
She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.
"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?
Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.
The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.
She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.
To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.
"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.
From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.
The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.
When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.
The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.
"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.
A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.
The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.
"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.
They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.
Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.
Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.
"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."
Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.
The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.
The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.
"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.
Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:
"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"
The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.
A moment. A sound—low and guttural.
And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.
The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.
A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.
The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.
Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.
Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.
As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.
The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.
Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.
The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.
He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.
Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.
"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.
Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.
"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.
Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.
The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.
While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.
Oh, he was nothing like his brother.
Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?
Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.
He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.
Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?
The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.
"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.
"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.
Geta.
Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.
"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."
"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.
Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.
"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.
"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."
"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."
"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."
"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.
"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"
Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.
"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.
To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.
"Thank you, Caesar."
The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.
"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.
Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.
"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.
Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.
"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.
Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.
"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.
"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"
"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.
They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.
A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.
She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.
"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.
A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.
Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.
"It is blood, my Caesar."
"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!
When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?
In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.
He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.
"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.
For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.
Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.
She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.
She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.
Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…
"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.
"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.
"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.
A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.
"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.
"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.
The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.
"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"
Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.
"What did you do to anger the emperors?"
"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."
Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.
Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.
Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.
"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.
"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.
"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"
"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."
Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.
The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.
"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."
Amata. Beloved.
She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.
Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.
And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.
A touch.
A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.
She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.
It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.
Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.
Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story.
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
