charlotte

.

[anon-0000000]

"You see how Caracalla and Geta are these unbelievably corrupt people, one of whom is truly unhinged. You've given them this absolute power. And we all know that is probably the worst thing you can do. It's like taking a person and creating an evil child. And that's what you have. You have these two emperors who are like evil children, and you have to survive but also somehow create a coherent state under these crazy people."

[postarcadian]

also re: my comment that sex is violence in Roman poetry - I do not mean this flippantly or to be edgy, but because the social construction of sexuality in the Roman world is inextricably linked with violence. there is a reason that the two socially acceptable objects of sexual desire for a Roman male citizen are women and enslaved persons - both are legally confined into a state of lesser personhood than that of male citizens, and sexuality is ultimately conceived in Roman society as being a power relation. an extremely hierarchical slave society is going to reflect that its sexual norms, precisely because slavery and patriarchy are systems that turn human beings into objects and that includes sexual objects. this is a conclusion that I share with feminist scholars of Roman literature including not least my own teacher, whom I cannot name for the sake of not doxxing myself.

all this is to say - sex is violence in Roman poetry because sex is violence in Roman society. I just reblogged a good post yesterday about the absurdity of the question of whether Odysseus "cheats" on Penelope in the Odyssey given the nonexistence of social norms regulating male marital fidelity in Archaic Greece, and I think a similar principle applies to the question of whether it's possible to uncouple sex and violence in Roman society. were there social equals having sex with each other in ancient Rome on relatively non-coercive terms? almost certainly yes. was that the norm? almost certainly not.

[preachersdghtr]

Pure domination. One senator’s son literally killed himself after Catullus hinted he enjoyed going down on girls, because that was considered a submissive act for a man. The passive partner in gay sex? They literally just called him "mulier" — "woman."

Being "on the bottom" was completely unacceptable. A proper Roman man always had to be the one in control. Always the penetrator, never the penetrated. To receive a blowjob was expressed by the verb irrumo — an active form, where the dominant role belongs to the man doing it. The literal meaning? "To fuck someone in the mouth."

And of course my brain immediately went: Catullus 16. Because yeah, mouth-fucking someone was the ultimate act of dominance. That’s literally why he wrote to his haters and rivals:

[inseparabiles]

Hello! I’ve only just stumbled upon your account so forgive me if you’ve answered this question before

I had Gladiator II on as background noise the other day and remembered the interview Denzel gave where he said something about a kiss between him and another man being cut from the final film. I haven’t seen much deep speculation on who or what the context might have been other than a passive suggestion that maybe it was either Lucius/Hanno or one of the twins.

There was that scene with Senator Thraex that was sort of a “kiss of death” but that was included in the film (unless there’s a take where Denzel got WAY too intense with it and that’s what he’s referring to, but that wouldn’t make it a cut scene, rather an unused take). I enjoy reading your interpretations on gladiator so I was wondering: What do you think the cut scene was about? How does this add (or take away) from Macrinus’s lore?

Hey! Welcome to here. <3

So, what we know about that scene is basically what you say - Macrinus kisses someone full on the mouth, minutes before killing them, therefore it being a "mark for death" in a Roman fashion.

Because the kiss with Thraex is both on the screen and he survives the story, it can't be him, though Macrinus certainly fucks him over.

Lucius, too; not only does Lucius survive, but he would never sit back to receive a kiss like that.

With Acacius, they never share a situation where that would make sense - and Lucilla, as a woman, is automatically out as an option.

The way Denzel talks about the kiss, joking that it must have been "too much" for the film, that the industry "wasn't ready for it", does not give the impression that it was a fatherly kiss. And because his hook into Geta is primarily paternal, this makes me doubtful it was Geta, either. He has a chance for this in the scene where he leaves to "reason" with Caracalla, and from a cinematic perspective, it would make sense there.

But Geta has never been attracted to Macrinus, and a fatherly kiss seems unlikely to be too saucy to make it into the final cut. Too uncomfortable, perhaps, but that isn't exactly the impression that Denzel gives.

Therefore, honestly, I think it's Caracalla. Because Macrinus has him absolutely under his control. Because Caracalla's relationship to caretaker figures is always mixed with sexuality. Because, in the script, he explicitly invites Macrinus to have sex with them in the banquet scene. Because his sexuality is both his defining characteristic and his vulnerability, and something he's judged for, and what makes others look down on him. Another example of this is the explicit graffiti on the wall during Acacius's mission to the Colosseum; next to a (historically based, funnily enough) threat of sexual assault and humiliation, the person behind the graffiti has sketched Caracalla with his monkey.

It seems most likely that Macrinus would use romantic or sexual affection with him, specifically, to control him. It is what works with him, what lowers his defenses - unlike with other characters.

So if the kiss was not paternal, it was most certainly with Caracalla, likely at the Colosseum, but maybe even in the deleted scene where Macrinus comes to greet Caracalla as he is departing the palaces for the Colosseum.

And so what it says about Macrinus, rather regardless of his target, is that he is a master manipulator who more often than not utterly despises the people he tramples beneath his feet. As a formerly enslaved man who likely suffered much under the control of Rome's nobility, particularly the control of the emperor, he holds a vast amount of what he himself titles rage towards these individuals, and everything he does is motivated by it.

[preachersdghtr]

It’s not Caracalla, Fred talked about it in an interview

[noiselessbuck]

he's bisexual, loves swords, loves milfs, has killed multiple people, has an abusive father, hates his brother, is a twin, has illegitimate claim to the throne, remembers being in the womb, has syphilis, has dementia, has rosacea, has a pet monkey #my monkey

I didnt say a name but he popped into your head didnt he?

[calstrato]

more twin emperors yep (cropped from a self indulgent art)

[getaapologist]

Can You Say You've Been Thinking of Us?

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x sartrix!reader

Warnings: none, blog is 18+ in general

A/N: Happy birthday @prettycalla !!!!! I debated posting this earlier but I wanted to make sure you had something to "open" for your birthday. I do know I don't know anything at all about clothesmaking so please excuse my ignorance here. I want to have fun with these two again in the future, but no set eta. I hope you enjoy this.

"This one," Caracalla ordered, placing a heavily ringed hand onto the sheer red fabric. "She will make great things with this," he mumbled to himself.

A waiting merchant gestured at the fabric, and a servant stepped forward to pull it from the table. As Caracalla finished perusing the stall's wares, the fabric was sent on its way.

Loaded onto a cart. Hauled up to Palatine Hill. Set just inside a more quiet part of the palace. Carried into a room, and added to a pile of other bolts of fabric. On a table strewn with small pins, shears, scraps, and strips used for measurement.

"This is beautiful," you smiled, touching the fabric.

You knew how it got here. Caracalla.

And within a few hours, there he stood, draped in the very same fabric.

"You must stop moving, please, Emperor," you agonized. Careful, steady hands held the panels together just so. When they were as you wanted them, you pulled a thin piece of metal from between your lips and pressed it against where they met.

Caracalla moved slightly. A loud giggle sounded as the pin passed through the material and poked at his skin.

"Sorry, Emperor! I just… one second…" You stuck your hand into the collar and shielded his skin with your own, adjusting the pin placement before pulling your hand free.

"My dear sartrix," Caracalla grinned. "Do you touch my brother like this?"

Heat filled your cheeks, but you smiled, turning back to another cut piece of fabric.

"No. He does not stand for me here as you do."

Now it was Caracalla's turn to blush. Your words were taken as intended. He did not have the upper hand he thought he did.

"Always a layabout, my brother," he deflected. "No taste, either. Isn't this color nice? Much brighter than anything he'd wear, as you know."

Distraction. But you didn't mind. This was normal for him.

"It suits you, Emperor."

And it did. The bright red hue contrasted with his light eyes and promised to be eye-catching in a sea of more muted colors. You were also lucky that he seemed to indulge your more eccentric ideas. He was more daring than his brother, to be sure.

He brightened under your praise, but put on a display of humbleness. "Please, how many times must I tell you, these lofty titles aren't necessary. Caracalla is just fine."

"A habit, I suppose… Caracalla."

He hummed his approval.

He watched you carefully as you worked, eyes alert as you moved fabric carefully into place. He waited patiently as you pinned it together, noting what to trim.

"Might you hold this in place for me, Caracalla?" You pressed at a piece of the material. Whe he didn't move, you looked up at him. He was already looking down at you, fighting hard to contain his amusement.

"You must say 'please,' my sartrix."

The room grew a bit warmer. While your friend, the scribe, had eyes for Geta, you… definitely had your eyes on the other twin. You did not need to daydream up scenarios or steal small glances and make them into more than what they were.

You held the full weight of his gaze frequently. Like right now.

"Please."

A finger ghosted along your cheek before falling to press at the fabric in question. A satisfied smile spread across his face. "Was that so hard?"

Your face burned as you looked ahead at the fabric, avoiding his finger as you pinned it into place carefully. "Not at all."

He allowed you to pull the beginnings of a tunic off him, his chest laid bare. He was slow in pulling his robe on over his shoulders, he always was. You bit back a smile.

"When can I expect this new creation of yours?" He stepped off the small platform and neared your side.

You laid it out gently, already seeing it take shape in your mind. "If I stay up late, a matter of days."

"Please, do not rush on my account, dear sartrix. I desire you to be well rested more than I need this," he lifted a piece of the material and let it fall from his hand.

"That is kind of you, Caracalla. That you would think of me."

"I do find myself thinking about you," he mumbled.

"In what way?"

His fingers pulled at the thin golden trim falling from your shoulder, a soft hum leaving him. And then he walked over to the door, leaving the question hanging in the air. Leaving you wanting his answer.

Taglist: @prettycalla @cheesesandwichsanto @razzeith @chaos-istheonlyway @glassbxttless @creat1venat1on @sweetpeapod @rennespekrou

[glassbxttless]

Tell Me Something I Can Carry

emperor caracalla x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k+

summary: Fred Hechinger Frenzy Prompt 1: Sidequest/Remember When | After a dinner party, you must bring Caracalla back down to Earth and remind him that he is the only face you want to remember.

warnings: caracalla is havin a hard time, an obsessive and maybe a lil bit controlling? love story, bouts of madness, reader has long hair and blushes

notes: here’s my submission for @fredhechingerfrenzy! i can’t wait to continue participating in the future for this little freak. I read over this a few times, so if there are any mistakes feel free to let me know.

The night began in the great triclinium, where every surface present seemed to burn bright with gold. The torches along the walls threw flickering light across those strong ivory pillars you’d come to know and love, gilding the carved gods in wavering golden halos. The air was full of the aroma of roasted lamb, honeyed figs, and the perfume of too many senators’ wives— sweet oils layered and layered and layered until the scent had nothing to do but cling to the back of your nostrils.

You had taken your place at the low table beside Caracalla just as you did every single evening for dinner. The weight of the emerald necklace he had chosen for you stays cool against your collarbones. He had insisted you wear it tonight, saying it made you look like a gift carved from a single jewel given straight to him from the Gods above. At the beginning of the night, he’d spoken of nothing but you— your dress, the way the candlelight shone in your hair, the precise shade of red wine he’d have the servants bring because it “matched the flush in your cheeks.” But as the night stretched on, his attention to the details around him grew dimmer, he was becoming more restless with each passing moment.

You were listening to a patrician recount the progress of repairs on the Via Appia when you felt Caracalla’s gaze drift to you. It was heavy enough to still your breath. He was leaning back on one elbow, cup in hand, his eyes fixed not on the speaker in front of you but on the way your lips curved as you answered each inquiry politely. He brings the cup to his lips, sipping wine oh-so-subtly as he watches. Not even a heartbeat later, the conversation at the table stumbles greatly when Caracalla pushes up from that elbow abruptly and sits. “I think,” he says with a hum, his voice still calm and collected, but carrying easily, “my wife has heard enough of roadwork for one night.”

The patrician flushes deeply, stammering out an apology to the Emperor, though you knew the offense was all imagined. Caracalla’s hand finds your knee beneath the table, his thumb pressing firmly against the silk of your robes. “You should talk to me,” he murmurs, low enough that no one else can hear him. “Not them.”

You do not answer him at first, you just trace the rim of your goblet instead, but his grip on your leg tightens— not in anger, but in a way that was more of a warning to you than it should be. As the courses pass, his mood only continues to deteriorate further. You could feel it in the way he refuses to let a senator’s wife sit on his other side and in the way his gaze cuts across the table to meet their eyes instantly whenever someone addresses you directly. He pours your cup before filling his own, places morsels on your plate as if no servant in the palace can be trusted with such a task, and yet every gesture carries the undertow of something much heavier coming.

By the time the musicians strike up their final song and the first of the guests begin to drift away one by one, you feel his palm slide firmly up the side of your thigh to settle on the small of your back. He leans forward, his body heat radiating in waves, to whisper into your ear, “we’re leaving.”

He guides you out of the triclinium through the side archways without even as much as a goodbye to the others, Geta included. He leads you away from the warm light of the banquet still going steady, into the quieter marble corridors of the palace. His palace. His pace is steady but too swift for any sort of conversation, the long folds of his cloak whispering over the tiles with each step. Occasionally his hand would flex against where it had settled at your spine, like he was making sure that you were still there and you weren’t a figment of his imagination.

You pass servants who flatten themselves against the walls at the sight of him, some offer quick bows of their heads and others pretend not to look. The palace at night had its own life— full of distant murmurs, the faint scrape of sandals on marble tiles, the drip of water from the courtyard fountains— but here, in the lamplit hush of the corridors, you could feel his tension pressing closer and closer to your throat. And when you reach your shared chamber, he closes the door behind you both with much more force than you thought necessary. The sound echoes briefly through the high ceilings before it finally settles into silence. He does not speak. He only stands there, looking at you as if he were counting each and every breath you took.

The torches had been burned low by now, throwing gold shadows across the chamber walls. Beyond the tall windows, Rome sleeps under a veil of mist, the hum of the city is reduced to a distant, restless heartbeat in your ears. 

You take a moment to let him watch you. Then you begin to move about the room, taking your comb from the vanity before you sit on the edge of the bed. You smile at him, comb still in your hand. You drag it slowly through your hair. The silence between every stroke is long, but not empty— he was pacing the floor again. Back and forth along the mosaic tiles as you wait for him to say anything. The hem of his robes sweep the tiles below with each turn, his bare feet, now free of his sandals, soundless but for the occasional soft scuff when he pivots too sharply. Every few passes, his eyes flick over to where you are sitting, like the general in him was checking the position of his most prized standard.

“You should be sleeping,” you say at last, voice not much louder than a whisper.

He stops dead in his tracks, like you’d tethered him down to that spot with those words. It takes him a moment to collect himself, but then he crosses the room in just three quick strides. “And leave you here alone?” He sinks to his knees before you, catching your wrists so suddenly the comb slid from your fingers and clatters against the tile floor. “Do you think I could close my eyes knowing you were somewhere else? Knowing you could be—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, his gaze catching on your face as if the rest of the sentence had vanished from his train of thought. His thumbs trace the inside of your wrists, his touch was grounding… if not for him then for you. “I can’t,” he says finally, his own voice much softer now, though his grip on your wrists does not ease. “If I slept, I’d wake to find you gone. And if I found you gone—” He shakes his head, a shiver running through his spine.

You reach up, knocking your wrists free slightly and smooth your hands over swaths of red hair and downward. You can feel the tension in his shoulders, the restless pulse in him like a storm just offshore. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, but even then, his hands that had fallen from wrists stay curled around the fabric at your thighs, some part of him buried deep must fear you would certainly vanish if he let go.

When he looks up again, the torchlight caught in his irises, bright and unblinking. “You don’t understand,” he mumbles. “Everything else— Rome, the armies, the Senate— none of it matters if I can’t see you. If I lose sight of you, I lose everything.” He leans forward then, pressing his forehead to your knees, the weight of his head is heavy, grounding, and unyielding all at once. His hands lock tight around your thighs.

You let your fingers linger in his hair, combing gently through the curls at his temples, feeling the way his skin is warm under your touch, warmer than the room around you. His breathing comes quick and shallow, chest rising against your shins like a restless tide. He was somewhere else in that head of his— half here with you, half circling the jagged edge of whatever mood had seized him earlier in the night. “Come to bed,” you say quietly. It wasn’t an order, just a gentle coaxing, like calling someone back from the far end of a darkened garden.

He didn’t lift his head, but you felt his jaw tighten where it brushed your legs. “If I lie down, I’ll dream,” he sighs. “And if I dream—” His voice cut itself off, almost startled by the direction it was going. He swallows, then tries again. “—I’ll wake and you’ll be gone.”

You bend over him, your hair spilling across his shoulders, and press your lips to the crown of his head. “I’ll still be here, my love,” you say softly, letting each word be slow enough to catch and hold. “I’ll be here until morning. And then I’ll even be here after that.”

For a long moment, he still doesn’t move. The only sound was the faint hiss of oil in the nearest brazier. When you finally eased your hands down toward his own on your thighs, coaxing his fingers to loosen their grip on you, he let you, slackening fingers bit by bit until his palms were free of fabric.

He rises from his knees with the heaviness of someone carrying a weight they’d been holding for too long. The folds of his tunic shift around his body as he moves. You reach for him immediately, lacing your fingers with his, and lead him up into the bed. The linen sheets were cool where you turned them back, the faint scent of cedarwood from the chest they’d been stored in still clinging to them.

He sits first at the edge of the mattress, his elbows on his knees, looking down at the patterned mosaic floor between his feet as if the shapes there might shift away without warning. You watch him for a moment, the lines of his shoulders sharp in the lamplight, before you lean forward, a hand on his back and the other coming up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead. That was enough— he lets you guide him the rest of the way down until he was lying on his side beside you, though even then, one of his hands stays knotted in the fabric at your waist.

You shift closer to him and tuck your arm under his neck so you could draw him in until his head rests gently against your shoulder. He resists for the slightest moment, the stiffness being a product of habit or of his pride, before his body begins to fit itself along yours as he begins to relax. His hair is warm under your palm, soft despite the faint scented tang of wine and smoke clinging to it. You let your fingers roam over his locks slowly, threading through the curls, tracing the back of his skull gently, trying to coax every knot of tension you found stuck there. 

His breaths are still uneven, but he manages to ask, “Tell me something,” his voice is much quieter now, stripped of the earlier commanding nature he held. “Something I can carry with me.”

You think for a moment, then begin to speak— you don’t tell him of politics or of the palace or even of the city sleeping beyond the windows, but you tell him a story you most certainly have told him before. The one about the fisherman who sails past the edges of every map to find an island no one else believed in. He loves that one. You let the words come out slowly, letting them wind around him like the tide laps at your ankles, your fingers idly trace the curve of his ear, the back of his neck, and you don’t stop.

He doesn’t interrupt, though now and then his eyes flick up to study your face. He watches you with such reverence, as if he were trying to memorize each expression you made between syllables. You could feel the shift in him— how the tight coil of his body began to ease with each word you speak, his breaths lengthen, his hand loosens in your clothing until it simply is just resting there. When you reach the end of the story, he stays quiet for quite some time. His gaze soft now. He reaches up then, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, almost absent-mindedly, before he leans in just close enough that the words you speak would be for him and him alone. “And when the world ends,” you whisper to him quietly, your lips brushing his temple. He lets his eyes close and his forehead press against your shoulder as you continue whispering, cradling him close, “your face is the one I’m not forgetting.”

tags ;; @getaapologist @samslvrgirl @littlemissholy @prettycalla @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife @punkrockmlchael

[taniyanss]

cheeky story timeeee !!

i got to see fred hechinger at a gladiatorii premier bc my friend is a sweetheart, knew i loved gladiator n got the tickets for me for an early screening (we were nerdin tf out the whole time it was such a good experience)

but! back then i didnt know fred hechinger... but i was taking a vid of him bc all the actors were being asked questions n i was like FOR POSTERITY (.... but also bc denzel n connie were there and theyre both so cool i wanted a recording of the moment)

in the video, i said "i think i like him,(referring to mr. hechinger)"... which is crazy foreshadowing bc i do ! now im a big fan n i think his filmography is quite interesting. granted it might not be crazy amazing... yet, but his movies have a lot of really meaningful stories or concepts i really like.

haha oh silly whimsical ginger, i am enamored by you. you are the dondas to my caracalla.

[calstrato]

twin emperors

[jimmygingerr]

Obsessed with the idea that I read a book about Emperor Caracalla bc Fred Hechinger played him in Gladiator II and now I'm very much interested in the actual historical figure that is Emperor Caracalla and I'm starting another book, this time about his military tactics 🤡🤡

[preachersdghtr]

A Thorny Path by George Ebers 🙂‍↕️ It’s about when he came to Alexandria and massacred all the men in the city.

Caracalla feels weirdly similar to the movie version in a lot of ways. He’s obsessed with blood, cruel, arrogant, prone to sudden rages and fits of madness that alternate with moments of razor-sharp clarity. He dotes on his pet lion, and on top of that he’s fixated on someone else’s bride for a completely hallucinatory, deranged reason lol. And that’s not even mentioning that he’s short, has these perfectly manicured hands covered in rings, a sly smile, and can be ridiculously charming. Also, the writing about how his feud with Geta began is just chef’s kiss

And the funniest part is that at the very end of the book, after his death, Elagabalus puts up a monument to him in Alexandria… like pure mockery. Peak petty. Honestly, a worthy successor 💕

[aphmiky]

The hyperfixation is hyperfixating :3

( in order: Ottaviano Augusto, Tiberio, Caligola, Claudio and Nero)

[sarinalmk]

I'm on my period and it genuinely pains me that I cannot experience the Colosseum when it was in its prime. I've seriously had that thought atleast 10 times this week. SOS. That being said, I can't get over the freaky gingers of Gladiator II and so I decided to draw them since this fandom is on the brink of death. It's a bit rough cause I drew it on magma :>

[anon-0000000]

Details of Geta and Caracalla costumes.

[nagapiezz]

Forgot to post this

Augustus and caligula life stages

[inseparabiles]

( gladiator ii // behind the scenes )

[kabuki-draws]

{You always lie. LIE. LIE. LIE}

[preachersdghtr]

"The Youthful Emperor Constantine" by Rubens vs Caracalla Gladiator 2