A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*
summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...
warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too
word count: ~1k
chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV
«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»
-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)
⋆ ☼ ⋆
She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for death—though even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.
In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sisters—dwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.
But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.
The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chest—at least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.
And of one thing, she is certain—Emperor Caracalla will make sure it’s a grand one.
"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.
She knows where she is. These are the emperor’s private quarters—only they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.
Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.
"Expected my brother?"
His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.
He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.
"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"
Geta paused meaningfully.
"…and he is dead, little bird."
A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.
So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.
Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.
Then she felt the moisture.
Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.
And then she screamed.
His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.
Red.
Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.
"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."
His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.
"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.
She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.
"And oh, that’s not all!"
He releases her, and yet she remains still.
"A gift!"
He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.
But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.
In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.
Caracalla is pleased.
Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.
A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.
She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.
To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.
"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."
"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.
As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.
Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.
How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.
Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.
Geta took it.
Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.
"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.
"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.
In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.
A shiver runs down her spine.
A bet? They were betting? On her?
Caracalla’s expression darkens.
"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.
"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"
"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.
"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"
"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.
He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?
Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.
Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.
"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"
"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"
The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.
What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?
Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.
"Hold her."
And Geta does.
Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.
Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—
But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.
Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.
Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.
When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.
"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."
She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.
He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.
"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.
The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.
Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.
"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.
"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.
"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."
There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.
⋆ ☼ ⋆
Hey friends, we’re almost at the finish line—the next chapter’s gonna be the last one, and it’s kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! 🙂↕️
summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex…
chapter II
chapter III
chapter IV
warnings: 18+ minors dni, noncon, dub-con, when the emperor is a bit insane, he’s cute tho
word count: 9k
«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor’s curiosity.»
—Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)
⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆
As a proper Roman matron, she trailed behind her husband’s broad back, head lowered, careful not to make unnecessary eye contact. Tiberius—three times her age—had only recently become her husband.
Once a great general, a member of the council, and a close companion of the legendary Maximus, Tiberius was now but a shadow of his former self.
The Senate had broken men far greater than him, and his appointment to the imperial court, along with their move from the provinces, had only deepened his sour temper and disturbed mind.
Her father, once a formidable man in his own right, had grown frail with age, which was why she obediently followed behind her husband. She had been given to his household and now belonged to him, for his success meant her family’s success—her father’s, her sisters’.
That was enough for her. After all, Cassandra had never craved ambition.
And yet, her heart pounded so violently that it seemed to throb in her throat. Fear wrapped around her, squeezing tighter with every step as she stood in the grand halls of Senator Thraex’s villa.
Nervously, she adjusted the folds of her white matron’s gown, smooth and chaste as tradition demanded, her palms damp with anxiety. But as she glanced around, a quiet bitterness stirred in her chest. Tiberius had insisted on white to emphasize her innocence and purity as a young bride, but what good was it when around her swirled women draped in crimson silks and glistening gold?
Her cheeks flushed as she met the gaze of a dark-haired beauty—bare-chested, unashamed. Tiberius noticed, too. She saw his lips curl into a sneer, and the grip on her wrist tightened, pulling her through the crowd.
"Senator!" Tiberius’ demeanor shifted instantly. When necessary, he could be charming—Cassandra knew this well.
"Has Acacius arrived yet?"
She knew better than to intrude on men’s conversations; her husband despised even the suggestion she might show interest. So she remained silent, observing. Senator Thraex, host of the lavish affair, was nothing like Tiberius despite their shared senatorial rank. Thraex was effeminate, painted, adorned in a way that seemed theatrical, and yet Tiberius smiled, nodding politely.
"The general does not attend such gatherings, alas, my friend," Thraex said, blinking theatrically. "But we have no less important guests tonight, Tiberius—the emperors are here!"
Her heart fluttered, a mixture of awe and terror. The emperors! In the midst of mere mortals! But her excitement was not shared by Tiberius, whose features grew harder. Since Marcus Aurelius’ death, no emperor had earned her husband’s respect. Though he was careful not to voice his opinion publicly, in private, his bitter thoughts often bordered on treason.
"Do emperors often grace your home, Thraex?" Tiberius asked coldly, his voice heavy with disdain. Thraex shifted uneasily.
"Well, no, my dear friend. But the return of General Acacius has stirred us all, hasn’t it? All of Rome celebrates—and the emperors, too!"
"It certainly looks expensive," Tiberius remarked bluntly.
"Indeed, but what can one do?" Thraex hastily changed the subject, his eyes landing on Cassandra. "Ah, what a delightful child! Tiberius, do introduce us!"
"My wife, Cassandra. You know her father," Tiberius muttered as Thraex took her hand, pressing a theatrical kiss to her fingers. The senator praised her beauty and virtue while Tiberius, clearly enjoying the flattery, beamed with pride.
"Please, come in, eat, drink—everything here is yours!" Thraex declared before being swept away by a dark-skinned man draped in luxurious robes.
Cassandra craned her neck, intrigued. Such sights were unfamiliar to her. In her homeland, foreigners were slaves, not men of wealth and power.
"A gathering of useless spendthrifts and sycophants," Tiberius muttered under his breath, steering them toward the exit. "Acacius isn’t here; we have no reason to stay."
"Let’s stay a little longer, I beg you," Cassandra found her voice, pleading for a few more moments in the glittering crowd.
She was young and curious, and their new villa in Rome did little to satisfy her curiosity.
Tiberius didn’t have time to answer before the dark-skinned man they had noticed earlier threw an arm around his shoulders.
"Tiberius, you old grouch!" The man laughed, clapping him on the back as if they were old friends. "Leaving already? You bring a young wife and then run off? Afraid someone will steal her?" He winked playfully at Cassandra, making her smile despite herself. His casual demeanor was refreshing.
"Macrinus! What brings you here?" Tiberius asked, his mood softening. To Cassandra’s delight, it seemed they would stay after all. Unlike Thraex, Macrinus appeared to be someone her husband genuinely liked.
As they strolled through the opulent halls, Cassandra’s eyes darted greedily from one decoration to the next, drinking in every detail to hold onto later when the gloom of their villa returned.
"The new fighter is something else, Tiberius," Macrinus said. "I’ll wager my right hand he’ll best Thraex’s gladiator, and the senator will owe me a hefty sum."
A gladiator? Cassandra’s heart sank. Could her husband truly be interested in such gruesome spectacles? Though he was stern, she would never have called him cruel.
"Stand here," Tiberius ordered, pointing to a spot behind him.
Obediently, she stood behind her husband, still listening to Macrinus’s chatter. The hall was already buzzing with the hum of a dozen voices, but even through the noise, a shrill, high-pitched laugh cut through like a blade.
She rose on her toes, straining to see where it came from. A little farther ahead, an even larger crowd had gathered in the center, blocking the source of the laughter. Cassandra craned her neck higher, and finally, she saw them. Her throat went dry instantly.
She had never seen the emperors before, only heard whispers of their youth, debauchery, and cruelty. But even without knowing their faces, she knew. No one else in Rome could look like that.
Red-haired, pale, surrounded by half-naked men and women, they stood out. They had to stand out. People called them twins, but it would be hard to find two people less alike. Only their fiery, curly red hair tied them together.
"Which one is Geta, and which is Caracalla?" she whispered to Tiberius.
"The one in silver is Emperor Geta, and the one in gold is Emperor Caracalla, my lady," Macrinus answered with a smirk, beating her husband to the response. Her excitement at seeing such noble figures must have been plain on her face.
Cassandra continued to study them hungrily, hoping Tiberius wouldn’t scold her later for inappropriate behavior; Geta was taller, broader—it was obvious even though they were seated. Caracalla, on the other hand, was shorter, all smooth lines and delicacy. It was his laugh she had heard.
For a brief moment, she caught Emperor Geta’s bored gaze, but he quickly looked away, his piercing dark eyes utterly uninterested. Caracalla didn’t glance their way at all. His gaze was unfocused, cloudy, as if he were staring straight through the crowd. From this distance, she could see the golden shadows framing his eyelids, making his blue eyes appear even more languid.
At his feet, a man smiled obsequiously up at the emperor, his hand gently stroking the bare knee beneath Caracalla’s toga. Cassandra’s cheeks burned, and she quickly turned away, afraid of being caught staring.
When Senator Thraex solemnly announced the wager with Macrinus, and two men were brought into the hall, everything fell silent, only to erupt into an even louder roar. She didn’t want to watch the fight—soft and gentle, as her father and husband had said, Cassandra hated violence, but now she was in Rome, where blood flowed every time the emperors snapped their fingers.
As if reading her thoughts, Emperor Caracalla lazily stretched his words, playing with them, as if he weren’t talking about human lives at all. Anxiously, she pressed closer to her husband’s shoulder.
"Swords! Bring them swords, and let blood be spilled!" the emperor commanded, sprawling on the couch. His brother didn’t object, only nodded.
And the spectacle began. She tried not to look at the fight, focusing instead on her breathing, attempting to calm herself. The crowd roared in delight, gasping and shouting encouragement to the combatants. The noise became unbearable. People swayed and scattered, dodging sword points or the splinters of a broken table where one man—representing Macrinus—was thrown.
She didn’t notice when the fighters came too close to them, forcing her husband to step awkwardly back, pushing her against the wall. Struggling to keep her balance, she leaned against a small side table, knocking over a porcelain vase. No one paid any attention, not even her husband, who was too absorbed in the spectacle.
A dull pain pierced her hand, and to her surprise, Cassandra realized she’d cut her palm on a shattered piece of the vase.
"A deep cut… it’ll scar," she thought absentmindedly. A shard had sliced across her palm horizontally, blood flowing steadily even as the pain subsided. She wanted to leave, to tell Tiberius about the injury and return to the villa; but then, the hall fell silent, and the air was suddenly heavy with the metallic tang of blood.
Too much blood for one day.
Her stomach churned as the body of a slain gladiator was dragged out by the legs like a sack of grain. Neither the presence of emperors nor the distinguished guests around her brought any comfort- even the bold words of the victor, who dared to argue with Emperor Geta, failed to impress her. All she wanted now was to leave.
She cradled her injured hand like a child, unwilling to stain her white clothing. Tiberius would surely be furious.
If the audacity of the barbarian didn’t move her, her husband and Macrinus were visibly enthralled. Quietly exchanging a few final words, Macrinus left the hall with his gladiator in tow.
"Let’s go. It’s time," Tiberius finally said, still oblivious to her wound.
She pressed her lips together and followed him.
"Senator!" They were stopped again, and this time, simply leaving wasn’t an option.
For a moment, she noticed her husband’s face pale, the hard crease between his brows betraying his fury. Yet when he turned to the voice, he was smiling. Emperor Geta’s smile was equally false.
"We were informed of your return, but seeing you here is truly a gift," his voice was low and smooth. "Surely, you weren’t planning to leave without greeting us?"
Her heart froze as she watched the emperor extend his pale hand, adorned with rings. Tiberius bowed, brushing his lips against one of the jewels. The emperor’s thin smile deepened, while his brother, standing behind, burst into shrill laughter. There was nothing amusing, yet the guests followed suit, grinning along with their ruler.
Caracalla, judging by his expression, barely grasped where he was. He swayed slightly, struggling to remain upright.
"You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? Even back when our father was around," Caracalla rasped, his voice hoarse, his gaze unfocused, and a faint smile curling his lips. "No fun, just work, work!" He laughed again, and the guests eagerly followed suit.
Cassandra felt a wave of fear.
Her husband’s pride was limitless, and even a teasing public remark—though lighthearted—could push him into actions with dangerous consequences, ones that would inevitably affect her.
"Join us, Tiberius," the young emperor taunted, still grinning.
Cassandra caught a flash of gold and soon realized—one of his teeth was gold. The emperor was practically drowning in luxury, and his wide smile proudly revealed the golden tooth. Hardly anyone in the empire could boast such a thing.
"Boys, girls, whoever you like! Let’s see if you’re as serious in bed as you are in politics!"
"Thank you, Caesar, but I am married and loyal to my wife," Tiberius answered with calm dignity.
It felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over her when he mentioned her. Both emperors immediately looked past Tiberius, their gazes landing on her. She had no choice but to step forward.
Brown eyes studied her, more bored than intrigued, and Emperor Geta quickly looked away. Caracalla, however, stared longer. She thought to herself that it must be difficult for him to focus after drinking so much… but no, the piercing blue of his eyes wasn’t fixed on her face. His gaze lingered lower, where her hands clutched desperately at the fabric of her dress.
Distracted, Cassandra glanced down. She’d forgotten about the wound; blood had stained her white gown with a vivid red, the bright scarlet blotch marking the spot where her hand had just rested.
Her eyes darted back to the emperor, only to find him already watching her with a smile. Yet his eyes didn’t match the curve of his lips—they didn’t smile at all. They flicked back and forth between the crimson stain and her face.
She swallowed hard.
Caracalla licked his lips before turning to his brother, unsettlingly silent. Without realizing it, Cassandra stepped back. She didn’t know why she felt afraid, but the fear was instinctive.
A hand settled on her waist, steadying her and pulling her closer. It was Tiberius.
Both emperors broke into identical grins.
"Well then, enjoy your young wife, Tiberius," Geta said, his tone casual, though his words carried a veiled command. His eyes flicked between the two of them as he added, "We’ll expect you tomorrow. At the arena. The fights will be spectacular, and we want the senators there with us." He chuckled softly. "The young lady, too. General Acacius and his wife have already agreed. I think she’ll appreciate the company."
"With pleasure, my emperor," Tiberius replied smoothly, bowing his head.
For once, Cassandra fully shared her husband’s feelings—neither of them wanted to attend.
⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆
Modesty and loyalty—these were the weapons of a noblewoman, her mother had taught her. But what if her modesty went unappreciated? What if her shy glances and lowered head brought only mockery?
The stands were alive with people eager to witness the bloody spectacle. The air was thick with excitement, buzzing with the restless energy of an audience awaiting carnage. Even the imperial viewing box, where the Praetorians had escorted them, was steeped in that same anticipation.
The moment they entered, Emperor Geta rose from his seat to greet her husband. Cassandra, ever modest, remained quietly in the background. Despite the luxury of the box, there was still too little space, and both emperors ended up uncomfortably close to her. Caracalla, however, didn’t bother to rise. His pale blue eyes stayed fixed on them, watching intently.
In the daylight, she could see him more clearly now: the powdered face, faint red marks scattered across his cheekbones, and vivid orange shadows encircling his eyes. His expression shifted—his gaze cold, almost hostile. Embarrassed, Cassandra quickly looked away, realizing she had stared too long, it seemed he didn’t appreciate being stared at.
Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes lingering on her, their weight pressing against her like a physical force.
To her surprise and growing discomfort, Emperor Geta addressed her as well. He took her fingers in his cold hand and pressed his lips lightly against them.
"Your wife looks stunning, Tiberius," he praised her, turning to her husband. Cassandra felt a flicker of irritation. None of the men spoke directly to her, as if she were an object rather than a person. She quickly pulled her fingers from his grasp. Geta immediately looked at her, his dark eyes no longer smiling. Cassandra couldn’t help but think that, in that moment, he and his brother looked more alike than ever and she suddenly felt the urge to leave, to hide from the weight of his gaze, from the tightness of his lips and his clenched jaw muscles visibly twitching beneath his pale skin. Had her small gesture really angered him so much?
She never got an answer. Geta returned to his seat beside his brother, turning his attention to General Acacius, who was also in the box. Cassandra sat down next to her husband, right behind the daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius—Lucilla.
The woman leaned back against the carved chair and quietly spoke to her:
"I know your father, child, a good man. I’m glad to see you here."
Cassandra smiled, flattered. Finally, someone was speaking to her as an equal, especially someone like the beloved daughter of the great emperor. Catching her husband’s approving nod, Cassandra leaned toward the woman, continuing the simple conversation. Here, far from home, it was rare to have such a casual, kind-hearted talk.
The fights were already underway in the arena, and all the attention in the box was focused on the gladiators. Only she and Lucilla were not captivated by the battles. Truth be told, she was trying not to watch the arena at all, instead asking her companion about trivial things that piqued her curiosity.
When Lucilla didn’t answer her question, Cassandra grew puzzled, but then noticed that the woman was staring straight ahead, down at the arena, clearly lost in troubling thoughts. Another dangerous maneuver, and blood spilled across the sand, prompting a roar from the crowd.
Cassandra quickly turned away and caught the gaze of Emperor Caracalla. He was watching them over his shoulder, shifting his eyes from her to Lucilla. The red lips of the Caesar curled into a smile again, this time different—no longer cruel, but genuinely pleased, as if they had done something to please him. Still smiling, Caracalla turned away. Neither Lucilla nor Tiberius noticed the strange look from the young emperor, but she did. It wasn’t angry or annoyed. Maybe she had misjudged him? He seemed almost sweet now, in a way, charming. She immediately shook her head, pushing away the improper thoughts.
After the games, everyone was invited to continue the evening in the imperial palace. To Cassandra’s surprise, Tiberius agreed immediately when he heard that General Acacius would also be present.
The palace was nothing like Senator Thraex’s house. The luxury of the imperial halls made her mouth fall open and left her feeling like a country bumpkin. The guests here were even more distinguished than at the senator’s home, and she felt uncomfortable. Cassandra wanted to find Lucilla, to talk to her, perhaps then the evening would be more enjoyable, but Tiberius stopped her.
"Wait here, I have a little business to take care of."
She had no choice but to stand alone by the lavishly laden table. She didn’t feel like eating or drinking. Tiberius was gone longer and longer, and inside her, frustration began to boil. Some guests stole glances at her, quietly whispering among themselves. The young wife from a fallen house was hardly an important figure, but her husband—he was. Unable to stand it any longer, she quickly stepped out onto the wide balcony, holding her tunic and greedily breathing in the air, leaning against the railing.
The sun was setting behind the horizon, painting Rome before her in red.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?"
She quickly turned at the sound of the male voice. A respectable matron shouldn’t be alone with another man. And then she froze.
Red on red. The fading sun’s rays turned Emperor Caracalla’s red hair to flame, his clothes bled scarlet, and his jewelry shimmered. Too bright, too much red, with only his face pale, lifeless.
"My Emperor," she respectfully lowered her head, completely unsure how to act.
"Where is your husband?" He looked her up and down, examining her slowly, his mouth slightly open, before his gaze lingered on her face, not allowing her a moment to look away.
"I don’t know, Caesar. He promised to return any moment now," she lied.
"He’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?" He lazily leaned against a column, continuing to observe her, a smirk exposing her lie.
Her cheeks immediately flushed, and she didn’t know what to say. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her. Caracalla didn’t seem cruel or frightening. In fact, she had imagined him differently before this meeting. The emperor was short, delicate, with no sharp angles—only soft, flowing lines accentuated by jewels and fine clothing. She could have sworn that if she got any closer, they’d be the same height. Apparently, this didn’t bother him in the least, as he continued to look at her with that condescending gaze, like she was a foolish child.
"How long have you been married?"
The question was tactless, but he was the emperor, and his questions could not be ignored.
"Six months," she replied reluctantly.
"Are you carrying a child?" His gaze immediately darted to her stomach.
Cassandra felt herself blushing more and more. It was not fitting for her to talk about such things. Moreover, the topic was indeed very painful.
"No. Not yet."
"Why?"
Caracalla approached her slowly, too close for a married woman. She was enveloped by the sweet scent of aromatic oils, powder, and wine. A dizzying mix.
Just as she was about to answer, he spoke again, leaning in too close, taking her hand in his. Gods! Was he flirting with her? What did all this mean? Her face, already red, burned with embarrassment and shame. What if someone saw them? What would they say about her?
Yet, Cassandra could not deny that she enjoyed this attention; it flattered her that the Emperor of Rome himself, the first among equals, showed interest in her. She truly melted...until she heard the next question.
"Does the old senator not fuck you enough? Or can he not do it at all?"
She froze, blinking in shock. What did he say? He looked just as innocent with a soft smile on his face and a curious gaze. Maybe she had misheard?
"I asked, does Senator Tiberius fuck you well?" His thumb pressed into the inner part of her palm, right where she had cut her hand the day before.
His soft white hands turned out to be surprisingly strong and tenacious. Cassandra tried to pull away, to reclaim her hand, but no, the emperor held firm, continuing to press on the wound, turning her hand so he could see the blood welling up from the barely healed cut.
She didn't dare object to him, didn't even dare open her mouth, though the pain was becoming unbearable. With his fingernail, he scraped off the scab, letting a bead of blood form. Cassandra saw how his pupils dilated, filling the blue of his irises with darkness, saw how his nostrils flared. It made her feel vulnerable, unprotected. That brief illusion she had about him shattered. He was cruel and insane, just as they said.
More than anything in the world, she regretted not staying home, safe in her chambers. The anxious realization that she had somehow become the object of his interest made her heart race frantically. Clamping her lips tight, she prayed to the gods for protection. But what use were the gods when here he was, right in front of her – the embodiment of Jupiter himself, father and ruler of Rome. Her lips trembled helplessly, holding back a whimper.
"Doesn't the obedient little bird arouse our stern senator or what? Who's to blame that your womb is still empty?" he purred, running his knuckles over her stomach.
She continued to pray silently for salvation, but who could stand against the Emperor of Rome?
"Brother?" - perhaps only another emperor.
Caracalla's eyes narrowed unkindly, his lips pressed into a line, he was clearly not pleased to see him. Yet he didn't back down, didn't even try to pretend everything was okay. Caracalla still stood inappropriately close, holding her hand in his. What if her husband had walked in? He would hardly have been more frightened by him than by his co-ruling brother. Cassandra swallowed hard.
"Emperor Geta, I…" - her words were ignored as Geta kept his dark eyes fixed on his brother.
"What do you think you're doing?" Emperor Geta whispered, as if fearful they might be overheard. Judging by how he nervously twisted the ring on his finger, Geta was anxious.
"What I said," Caracalla released her hand, giving it one last painful squeeze, but didn't step back, continuing to stand close, "I'm showing attention to the sweet wife of our beloved Senator Tiberius," his lips twisted mockingly.
It became absolutely clear to her why he had turned his attention to her. She was too young to remember those events herself, but from the gossip, Cassandra knew that Tiberius had opposed the boys' appointment as emperors after their father's death. The good relationship between the emperor and the Senate had ended with Marcus Aurelius's death.
"And do you remember what I told you? Or has your memory failed you again?" Caracalla bristled at his brother's words, his brow furrowing. "Why do you never listen to me?"
"And why should I?" The younger emperor's voice was no longer playful or soft, instead, it turned low and hoarse. "Or do you think you're in charge? Do you think I'm your dog?"
She wished she could sink into the ground rather than witness this confrontation. Cassandra took a step back as discreetly as she could, then another, hoping to slip away quietly.
"And who said she minds?" Of course, he noticed her, his blue eyes quickly shifted from his brother to her. Her hand was once again in his tight grip. “Do you mind?”
Oh, how much she minded, but Cassandra knew she couldn’t answer that way. Judging by the angry look in Caracalla’s eyes, she might be thrown right over the balcony.
"To serve the emperor is the highest honor for a Roman citizen," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
"See?" He wrapped his arm around her waist, turning her towards Emperor Geta. "She likes it, so leave us be."
"Go, find your husband," Geta didn't back down, this time addressing her.
"No, she stays!" The hand on her waist tightened, fingers digging into her soft skin. She was hardly that necessary to him, but Caracalla clearly didn't want to yield to his brother.
"You heard me, go, he won't touch you," Geta exhaled wearily, personally approaching them and removing his brother's hands, holding onto her wrist.
Caracalla shot her such a hateful look that she recoiled. Gods, he would kill her! If Geta was his blood, then she was just a worthless simpleton who had rejected an emperor. In terror, she almost ran from the balcony, melting into the crowd. She didn't want to know how the brothers' dispute ended, but she saw four Praetorians enter the balcony just as she left.
⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆
Thoughts of the emperor's hate-filled gaze didn't leave her even at night, not even when she and her husband lay in bed. How could they, when, as a sign of "friendship and goodwill," the emperors had assigned them quarters right in the palace, insisting that the journey back to their villa was too long?
Here, amidst the gold and silk, she couldn't close her eyes.
Even when her husband was inside her, his hot breath scorching her neck, her mind was elsewhere. It never lasted long and brought her no pleasure. Each time, Cassandra prayed that the seed would take root and these absurd attempts at intimacy would at least pause for a while.
Tiberius, wrapped in a sheet, slept soundly. Her naked body was covered in goosebumps from the cold, but she didn't think to cuddle up to her husband. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep, she silently rose from the bed and pulled her husband's short tunic over her head to at least cover her nudity. At home, she could walk around naked, but not here.
The Praetorian at the door didn't surprise her, of course, they had been assigned a guard. Or rather, she had.
"May I go out?" she whispered, trying to appear submissive and innocent, though she was overcome by a strange nervousness and irritability.
He was young, barely older than her, and thus his eyes widened at her appearance, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.
"The Emperor ordered to watch over your safety," the young man whispered back.
The Emperor. One of them. If it was Caracalla, this felt more like intimidation than concern. If it was Geta, then...it became even more frightening, since the protection was presumably from his own brother.
"You can come with me. I can't sleep," she pleaded.
Under the supervision of the Praetorian, Cassandra went out into a small garden located right inside the palace. She had been there during the day, after the clash with the emperor, but now, in the bright moonlight, everything looked different.
Weary, she sat on the edge of a small fountain topped with a marble statue of a naked nymph. The Praetorian stayed at the entrance, still flustered by her appearance, so she unhesitatingly stretched out her bare feet, dipping her toes into the sand.
The peacocks, sleeping nearby, rustled quietly, disturbed by her presence. Her mother had taught her that peacocks were a symbol of Juno, the wise and brave goddess.
"Grant me strength..." she whispered, looking at the moon.
"A strange place you've chosen for prayer, domina," a man's voice mocked from somewhere above.
She jumped up in fright, quickly pulling her hair from her back to her chest to cover herself. Her gaze darted around until it settled on the balcony directly above the garden.
Emperor Geta stood there, leaning on the railing with his arms, his head tilted to one side. For some reason, she couldn’t help but think of an owl, and almost let out a giggle. He looked different from how she remembered him. Without makeup, laurels, or rich clothing, just a red silk robe and unruly red curls. Apparently, he couldn't sleep either.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean to disturb you," she said, lowering her head in shame, hoping Geta was as reasonable as he seemed. Although at one point, she had liked Caracalla too.
"Oh, no, the palace is at your disposal," he said, spreading his arms to encompass everything around. She relaxed.
"You are so kind, Caesar."
"It's the least I can do for you after what my brother did today," his voice grew quieter, more serious.
Was he genuinely concerned about what had happened? She lifted her head again, looking at the emperor and giving him a genuine smile this time. Geta smiled back, nervously licking his lips.
“Nothing terrible happened, but thank you… Thank you for your concern.”
He was still smiling, but his gaze had changed, becoming heavier, almost ominous in the light of the moon and torches.
"Yes, nothing happened…yet. But it will. So, I’ll apologize in advance. You’re no street girl, but what can I do? He’s my brother, and I love him."
She felt as if she'd been doused with ice water. Somewhere behind her came an animalistic screech, and in fear, she turned around, spotting a figure in the darkness. The scream continued as the figure approached. Cassandra already knew who it was. Geta turned out to be just like his brother after all.
The source of the unpleasant screeches turned out to be a small pet monkey perched on Emperor Caracalla's shoulder. Unlike his brother, he was still in his formal attire, minus the laurel wreath. Seeing her distorted face, he grinned as if she were greeting him with nothing less than a joyful smile.
Alone, in just a spacious white tunic, barefoot and with her hair loose, she wanted to cry. He wouldn't let her go just like that, she could see it in his face, his smile, his narrowed eyes - the bad thoughts buzzing in his red-haired head. Silently, he handed the noisy monkey, adorned with a gold chain around its neck, to a young slave, who bowed his head and left the garden.
Now she was his monkey. In his eyes, she had no more rights than that pet creature. Put a collar around her neck, attach a chain, and do whatever you want. The real monkey was luckier.
"What a delightful surprise, my dear," the emperor purred, his voice dripping with honey.
Geta watched from the balcony as if this were a spectacle in the Colosseum. Only she wasn't a gladiator. Cassandra stepped back, and he stepped forward. A cat and mouse game, where the cat would surely devour the mouse.
"Today you broke my heart, sweetheart," he said, closing the distance, "and I’m a bit sensitive, you know," with a couple of long strides, he caught up to her. His touch was like fire, his ring-laden hand caressing her cheek, making her freeze. "But I can also be merciful. Those who apologize properly deserve forgiveness, don't they, little bird?"
She swallowed hard. He didn't know her name, she realized. The humiliation was palpable. Caracalla lowered his hand and leaned in. In terror, she expected a kiss, but instead, he rubbed his nose against her cheek like a cat seeking affection. Her heart raced in her chest. She knew no man but her husband, and these intimate, bold touches terrified her. Once again, the scent of aromatic oils and powder invaded her senses, mixed with his hot, ragged breath. Unconsciously, she exhaled heavily in response.
"Please, no," she pleaded with her last shred of hope.
"No what, wifey? Do the work your senator can't? If the Senate fails, the task falls to the emperors, right, brother?" Caracalla laughed, addressing Geta, who was still watching.
"Right," the other emperor answered hoarsely.
"See? It's all fair. Besides, you told me yourself you were eager to serve Rome, didn't you? I am Rome, I am Jupiter," he breathed hotly into her ear, sending shivers down her spine.
"I am ready to serve you, truly, but not like this... Please!"
And her plea was a colossal mistake. His eyes turned black, all traces of amusement vanished. He seized her neck roughly, turning her back to him, pressing her against the fountain's edge, pinning her down, his body against hers from behind, whispering with malice:
"By the gods, I was merciful, but you test me," his voice breaking, the grip on her throat tightening, "if you try to resist out of some foolish wish to preserve your chastity, I'll kill you right here, and I'll kill that Praetorian too. Your bodies will lie side by side, accused of debauchery, punished for the insult to your husband. Your death will be a disgrace, your body won't even get a proper burial. Understand?"
This time, she couldn't hold back the tears. What was worse, the shameful violation known only to her or the eternal disgrace that would mark her earthly life? Sobbing, she surrendered, relaxing beneath him, and the grip on her throat loosened.
"There we go, cry if you want, but let’s not make a scene, hm? Or do you want the whole palace to hear about our lovely little meeting?”
She shook her head silently, tears flowing incessantly, shame burning her cheeks, as she felt the emperor press against her from behind. The humiliation was compounded by the fact that Emperor Geta still watched, and at the entrance, she was absolutely sure, Praetorians stood guard.
"Tell me, how does your husband take you? I've always been curious about what that old bastard is like behind closed doors," his tone shifted every moment, now, Caracalla was tender, nuzzling her neck so she felt his gold earring glide through her hair. His lips touched her earlobe, first softly, teasingly, then his teeth took over, sharp and greedy. She gasped, but didn't protest. "Stay silent and I won't be gentle," he warned.
"Listen to him, girl, you might enjoy it," Geta's voice cut through from above.
"So, does he take you from behind, like a bitch in heat?" He thrust against her, testing, grinding into her hips. A soft moan escaped his lips, and to her horror, that sound resonated warmly in her abdomen, spreading lower.
She had stopped crying and now just breathed heavily, feeling him grip her hips as he rubbed against her. She couldn't ignore the hot hardness of his body, especially when one hand pressed down on her lower back, making her arch more. The tunic shamelessly rode up, exposing her thighs.
"So how then? Tell me, dear," he whispered hoarsely, continuing to move.
"He...he's not very tender, and my pleasure doesn't concern him much. I just lie on my back while he does his thing," she blurted out. Why had she said that!? Cassandra immediately bit the inside of her cheek, cursing herself.
"Ah, the Senator doesn't satisfy his lovely young wife? What a waste!" She felt his hot tongue trail down her neck, his grip on her hips tightening, his nails digging into her skin, causing a slight pain as his hand went to her neck, squeezing...and felt a heat between her legs. May the gods curse her! He was a demon, sent to test her, to challenge her will!
"But don’t worry, I’ll take care of that" his whisper broke, his lips finding that tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, deceptively gentle before he kissed her, then Cassandra felt pain. He bit her, quietly growling and pressing his whole body against hers, thrusting his hips once more before he stilled. With her bare skin, she felt the fabric of his tunic dampen. Biting her lip, she dropped her head, trying not to cry again. That slight arousal she had felt receded.
To her tear-stained face, he responded with laughter, reminding her she was just a monkey on a gold leash. That he hadn't taken her today meant nothing. A humiliating slap on her cheek, and a sneering smile were his parting gifts. And in his cold, almost glassy eyes, there was no sign of amusement.
"Tomorrow we have more games, don't forget!" - and she knew Emperor Caracalla spoke not just of the gladiators.
I want to write down everything that’s going on between us, but I’m never able to describe the spark. There’s no words I can use to talk about the passion, the look in your eyes and everything I feel - the lust, the want, the need. There’s no words that could come even close to describing what is happening to my body as your hands grab me greedily and your mouth devour mine. To say what is on my mind while I moan helplessly, left to your skilful hands. When my eyes roll and my head falls back, reaching the climax and you don’t let go just yet, taking me for another round. When my nails dig in your back as you bury yourself in me, again and again. You groan and rest your forehead on mine, we’re both sweaty, looking in each other’s eyes and there’s only a Nicholas Sparks’ quote left on my mind: “Come bother me baby. Bother me for the rest of my life.”
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