Violent Hearts (Finis)
Emperor Geta x reader
Find the series masterlist here
What will become of you and Geta when he finally returns?
A/N: we’re finally here! I know I’ve kept you all waiting but I hope that it’s worth it. We continue to deviate massively from both historical accuracy and the plot of Gladiator II but I’ve had the ending for them planned since around Chapter 3, and I’m relieved it’s finally ready to share.
If you’ve followed the story this far thank you so much. This is the end of the series, but who knows I might write a one shot or two in the future 🖤
Chapter warnings: (18+ minors dni) - smut, angst, violence and fluff (we’ve got it all in this one folks), multiple blood mentions, graphic descriptions of injury and death, attempted death of reader, oral (f receiving), piv, knife play (just a little), if I’ve missed anything let me know! 13k (for the 13th chapter - it was meant to be!)
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With both of the Emperors away there had not been much political work for you to fill your time with.
The Empire ran smoothly even in the absence of it’s leaders, their instructions left and followed to the letter by the senate. You had opinions to offer, but you were not asked to give them often.
But today had been all your doing.
Despite Caracalla’s protests all those weeks ago, you believed that Senator Amulius was correct when he said that the people of Rome were in need of something to celebrate. So many of your people survived on so little, and there were countless families absent of fathers and brothers and sons, the men off fighting a war from which many of them would not return.
You’d heard the whispers of discontent continuing to grow in the city, and knew that it was time something was done.
So you had gone to the senate, ordering them to begin preparing for a festival. In honour of Fides publicae - there would need to be music, entertainment, a feast gifted to the plebeians, and of course plenty of wine to go with it.
Some of the senators tried to argue. Those more in your brother in law’s favour, insisting that it went against the express wishes of the Emperor. But Geta had agreed with you, and even if you did not have much sway in the court, your husband did. So you had won this small battle, and the preparations began.
You insist on attending the event personally. Under the guise that it was beneficial for the Empire as a whole, for the people to see their leaders caring for their needs. But secretly you knew it was more for your benefit and Geta’s than anyone else. If you were the face of the festival then it might strengthen yours and your husband’s position, and win you more favour with the public.
Acacius was initially hesitant. He viewed it as an unnecessary risk. Such public exposure would be the perfect opportunity for someone to make a move against you.
You convinced him in the end, although you felt he put up more of a fight than even the senators.
You could not hold his hesitation against him. You knew that he had sworn an oath to keep you safe. And besides that, there was a personal element too. Marcus and you had become firm friends in the time that he had spent guarding you. You planned to reward him greatly when the time came that his services were no longer needed. He deserved to retire in peace and luxury.
Sometimes you did wonder if there truly would be a time when you no longer needed a guard by your side.
When your husband returned, so too would the biggest threat to you both. As long as Caracalla remained in the picture, your future balanced on a knife’s edge.
Would there ever be a time when you were safe once again?
Thankfully, the festival passes without incident.
The streets of the city are packed with its citizens, loud voices and louder music creating a riotous atmosphere. The air thick with the scent of roasting meat and glazed vegetables, towering platters of sweet honeyed pastries and fresh fruits filling the stalls set up in the main square.
Wine flows generously, many of the revellers lifting their cups to you, calling out there chorus of thanks. You waive from the raised platform on which you sit - Acacius’ compromise. You were near to your people, but not touchable. Surrounded by armed guards on all sides.
You do your duty and do it well. Waiving to your well wishers, smiling sweetly and calling out greetings. Some of the senators seem disapproving of the way that you handle yourself, more used to the coldness of the Emperors who did not great common people with such warmth.
But your plan was coming together. You could hear the people talking, about how grateful they were to you, how you were ruling with an unexpected kindness, rewarding their loyalty.
A young girl approaches the soldiers who guard the steps up to your platform. Only three or four you estimated, in a tattered dress that almost trailed on the ground when she walked, likely a hand me down from an older sibling. In her hands she clutches a posy of small wildflowers. The guards do not break their position, scowling down at her, unmoved by her sweetness.
“Let her through.” You call. You feel Acacius’ eyes on you, already knowing he is not happy.
“She is just a child Marcus. She is no threat.” You say softly.
A couple of soldiers part just enough to allow her entry, quickly closing behind her and sealing off the steps once again. She turns back for a moment hesitantly. A woman, her mother you assume, gives her a nod from the crowd, her face beaming with pride.
Renewed in her courage, the little girl begins to make her way up the steps, clutching her flowers in one tiny fist, the other arm held out to steady herself.
“Help her.” You whisper.
Marcus lingers for a moment, eyes scanning the crowd one last time for any threats, assuming this was an attempt to have him lower his guard. Still, he makes his way down the remaining steps, offering his broad palm to the little girl. She clutches at it to steady herself, her tiny fingers barely closing around one of Acacius’.
He leads her to you and releases her, taking his spot by your side once more.
The little girl casts her eyes to the floor, bowing deeply.
“Th-these are for you.” She whispers shyly. She holds the posy out to you, still not daring to look at your face.
“How kind. Thank you.” You reply. You take the flowers from her.
“Let me see your face child.”
The girl tilts her head back, smiling brightly, all doe eyed innocence.
“These flowers are lovely. Although they pale in comparison to such a pretty face.”
The child giggles, clapping her hands together in joy at the compliment.
“Are you enjoying the celebrations?” You ask.
She nods.
“I like the music.” She says quietly.
“So do I. Would you like to come and sit with me a moment? You can see across the city from up here.”
You extend your arms to her, and with her shyness forgotten in an instant she eagerly climbs onto your lap. She settles back against your chest, letting you hold her gently as she looks out at the crowds.
“I can see my house!” She exclaims, pointing the way for you to see.
You smiles. You had never thought yourself one much for children, you had little exposure to them before.
But she is charming, bouncing excitedly on your lap in time with the rhythm of the drums, humming off key along with the song. People in the crowd are watching, nudging one another to look at their Empress, holding a peasant child in her arms and softly stroking her hair. It surprises them pleasantly, and you feel pride warm your chest.
This was what they deserved. Rulers who were gentle, who showed them kindness.
And this was what you needed. Caracalla may have his small selection of loyal senators, but you Geta would have the people on your side.
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The celebrations continued in the city late into the night. You returned to your home, playing the role of gracious host to Rome’s noblemen and their wives. The banquet hall was filled with drunken laughter and conversation, exquisite food being devoured greedily and wine flowing generously.
You were grateful to have Acacius by your side. You cared little for your guests, feigning interest in their chosen topics of conversation, and forcing yourself to smile politely instead of rolling your eyes.
“You look as though you are mere seconds away from falling asleep right here.” Marcus whispers, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.
“You are not wrong.” You reply, doing your best to suppress a yawn.
“Are you pleased? With how things went today?” He asks.
“Very much so.”
“It appears you made quite the impression on your people.”
“Do you think so?” You ask.
“Absolutely. It has been too long since they were rewarded for their patience and loyalty.”
“I agree. I hope that it will continue. The Empire is wealthy, it is time that Rome’s people shared in the spoils of our advances.”
“You have my full support.” Marcus whispers. He picks up his cup and holds it out to you.
“To Rome. And to your leadership.” He says with a wry smile.
You raise your own cup to find it disappointingly empty.
You waive over a nearby servant who hurries to pour more wine in your chalice. You tap it against the General’s, giving him a small smile, and raise it to your lips.
An unusual odour stops you before you can take a sip. You frown, swirling the dark liquid.
“What is wrong?” Acacius asks.
You inhale again, deeper this time. The scent is foul.
“I think this wine is spoiled.” You reply, wrinkling your nose in disgust.
You move to place the cup back on the table, but are stopped by Acacius snatching your wrist. Startled by his sudden touch you look at him inquisitively, finding his expression stormy.
Prying the chalice free of your fingers he sniffs the offending drink for himself before taking a small sip. He immediately spits it back out, lips curling into a sneer.
“Who served this to you?” He snaps.
“That boy.” You reply, pointing to the young man who is stood once again with his back to the wall, his eyes sweeping the hall ready to serve your guests.
Acacius scowls. He stands, taking hold of your wrist once again.
“Stay close to me.” He hisses.
You do not dare argue. You have not seen him so incensed since that night all those months ago, when he defended you from attack by his own men.
Acacius pulls you with him as he approaches the servant. He draws his sword in a practiced movement, the tip of the blade pointed at the base of the boy’s throat. The servant’s eyes grow wide with terror, and the bottle he holds slip free of his grasp, shattering against the stone floor and staining the hem of your stola with tainted wine.
The room falls silent in an instant. Every head turned to watch the trouble unfold. More guards move in, forming a semi circle around you and Acacius.
“Traitor.” He spits between gritted teeth.
“S-sir? I do not understand.” The boy whispers.
“You have attempted to poison our Empress. You would dare to assassinate a ruler of Rome?!” Your guard roars, his grip on your wrist tightening so much you wonder if your bones will turn to dust.
“N-no! Never, I swear it! I did not know!” The servant cries. He presses himself against the wall as though he could get away from the sword at his neck. Fat tears spill and roll down his cheeks.
“Who gave it to you? Who told you to serve the Empress from that bottle?!”
“P-please sir. It was given to me in the kitchen. I swear, I am innocent!”
The boy looks to you, his bottom lip trembling.
“Your highness, I meant you no harm! I-“
“Silence!”
You wince at Acacius’ bellowing. He presses the sword just enough to nick the pale skin of the boy’s throat, a crimson bead sliding down to pool in his collar bone.
Marcus turns to the nearest guard, his eyes glowing with a fury that rivals your husband’s temper.
“Arrest him. And secure the rest of the staff. No one leaves until all have been questioned.” He barks.
“Yes General.” The guard replies. Men move in to secure the servant who sobs noisily, still protesting his innocence.
“You three, come with me.” Marcus orders.
He pulls you from the room with the chosen guards following closely behind. He keeps a tight hold on you, pulling your body close to his, his arm now looped around your middle, his hold a bruising grip on your waist. You stumble with him through the corridors of your home, struggling to match his swift pace.
Anxiety courses through your veins. You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, a racing thump that drowns out the sound of Acacius’ voice as he relays more instructions to his men.
Arriving at your bed chamber, your guard keeps you pressed against him while a soldier enters and searches your room.
You glance up at your protector. A vein protrudes from his temple, sweat glistening on his forehead, the lines there deepened with the frown that he wears. His dark eyes scan the hallway, anticipating an attacker that may emerge from the shadows. Attempting to finish the job that was started in the banquet hall.
“It is clear.” The soldier says from the doorway.
Acacius says nothing. He simply pulls you inside, and slams the door closed behind you both, leaving the guards to stand watch.
You linger in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do.
What was the correct response to such a brazen attack on your life, in your own home?
You look to Marcus. You need his instruction now. As much as you are loathe to admit it, you are afraid.
Death had almost reached you tonight.
You could have so easily sipped that wine, willingly poured poison down your own throat. Your chest seizes tight at the thought.
You could have been dead, and Geta would have returned to find himself without a wife. You would have never seen him again, and you know that in those final moments as you choked and spluttered, so aware of your life fading, that you would have thought of him and grieved that bitter loss.
A sob breaks free of you before you can stifle it. Marcus turns in an instant, approaching you quickly and taking your face between his rough palms.
“What is wrong? Do you feel unwell?” He asks. You shake your head.
“Perhaps the food was tainted too. I will send for the doctor.” He says.
“No. Please, I am fine.” You whisper.
“Are you sure?”
Marcus studies your face, his dark eyes reminding you of Geta and the way that he looks at you with such concern when you’re upset.
“I - I am just… frightened.” You admit. You whisper the last word like it’s a closely guarded secret. The rulers of Rome did not show fear. You should be stronger than this.
But in the privacy of your bed chamber, surely you could let that go. It was not like Marcus had not been witness to your emotions before.
“I know you are afraid.” He says tenderly.
“And I have let you down.”
“What? This isn’t your fault.” You protest.
“It is. I should have known that those who move against you would be so cunning. I have been worried about arrows and daggers, when I should have been looking out for more discreet methods of harming you.”
“Marcus, you hold none of the blame for what happened this evening.” You say firmly.
He gives you a half smile, likely not believing your kind words, but choosing not to disagree with you further.
“So… What do we do now?”
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It does not take long for Marcus to establish a plan. It was not one you were fond of, but he was done with taking what he deemed as unnecessary risks, and so begins a far stricter routine, the only focus on keeping you safe.
You are largely confined to your bedchamber. One room where Marcus could keep a watchful eye over you, now that the rest of your home and all those who resided within were deemed a threat.
You are no longer permitted in the senate on his insistence. Your instructions to them are delivered by messengers, men running up and down the halls, relaying discussions in broken fragments. Marcus was working with Amulius and a handful of the other senators who he trusted, those most loyal to Geta and to you, attempting to identify the insurrectionists who would see you come to harm.
Hours passed by painfully slow, days turning to weeks while your boredom threatened to have you descending into madness. The only reprieve was trips to the baths, but even then you could not relax. Heavily guarded as you walk quickly through the corridors, no time allowed for you to linger and enjoy a relaxing soak. You wash quickly and efficiently only to be immediately returned to your prison.
“I am sorry.” Marcus says earnestly one morning, while you complain yet again about your confinement.
“But until we have identified those who ordered you to be poisoned, I cannot allow you more freedom. Please forgive me.”
“I do.” You say with a heavy sigh.
“I do not hold this against you Marcus. You are only doing your duty.”
Still, you are frustrated, and so lonely that it almost brings physical pain.
You have not felt so alone since the days when you were living in your family home. Marcus is too busy to placate you with conversation and games. His mind elsewhere, entirely focused on your protection. So you are left to your own devices for most of the days, dozing in a depressed haze on the couch in your room while he and Amulius whisper in the corner, huddled over parchment spread out across the table. Endless lists of who had been interrogated, the answers they gave, who should be questioned again, pressed harder for the truth.
You can not even eat in peace.
Meals are delivered directly from the kitchen, but before you can take a bite another is forced to test every morsel. A trembling servant girl, sat at the table in your bedroom, given small sips of the wine from your cup and trying the meat and vegetables on your plate. When she is done you all sit in silence and wait, Marcus’ eyes trained on her. It is only when sufficient time had passed and she has not choked to death on poison tainted food that you are permitted to eat. You find no enjoyment in it, your appetite fading along with your will to go on. Meals gone cold pushed around your plate, only meagre forkfuls making their way to your lips.
How much longer could you continue like this? It seemed little progress was being made, those who wished to harm you still unidentified. On Amulius’ instruction all those who worked in the kitchen are dismissed, the staff there entirely replaced with new faces. No harm has come to you yet, but you are not stupid. You know it is only a matter of time before someone tries to kill you again. You can only hope they would be unsuccessful once more.
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A few weeks into your solitary confinement you and Acacius are disturbed by a knocking at the door to your bedchamber. His head snaps up from the parchment he had been studying, brows furrowing.
“Are you expecting anyone?” You ask.
“No.” He says quietly. He approaches the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Marcus opens the door just a crack, peering around to find a young servant. The boy stands back, eyeing the General’s weapon nervously.
“What is it?” Marcus says sharply.
“I - I have a message s-sir.” The boy stammers.
“Well? Spit it out!”
You cannot help but wince. Acacius was not often one for talking to anyone with such distain, even those who served you. But his patience was wearing thin these days, his nerves fraught and temper flaring at mild inconveniences. You had remarked more than once that he was not unlike Geta in his moods. A comment which had not gone down well.
“The Emperor’s sir. They are returning.”
In an instant you are on your feet, rushing to the door. Marcus blocks the entrance with his arm, sending you a stern look for your carelessness, but you care little for his irritation in this moment. Your heart is too busy soaring in your chest.
“When? When will they arrive?” You ask eagerly.
The servant blinks rapidly, taken aback by you addressing him directly.
“The ship is expected within the week your highness.” He says.
Within the week. It will be just days until your husband returns. After months of loneliness, endless nights dreaming of dark eyes and plush lips, auburn curls and alabaster skin. Geta will finally be home. You will see his face and feel the warmth of his touch like you have so desperately been craving.
“Tell Amulius I need to speak with him.” Marcus says firmly. He shuts the door as the servant hurries away down the corridor.
A weightlessness lifts you. Like you are not trapped in this stuffy room, but instead floating on the cool waters of the lake where you and Geta would spend lazy afternoons. His return surely means an end to your confinement, an end to the fear and isolation. You will feel safer when you are in each others arms again.
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The room is quiet. Marcus sits by the table, his chair turned around so he can face out into the room. He is silent, back straight as an arrow, one hand splayed across the top of his thigh, the other resting on the handle of his sword. He keeps his gaze on the door, only periodically glancing at you.
Sat on the plush sofa, unable to relax back into the perfectly fluffed cushions. You lean forwards, one leg bouncing restlessly, an anxiety coursing in your veins that you cannot settle. Your fingertips twist the fabric of your stola, tangled in the silk and pulling so taught it is a miracle you do not tear clean through it.
All the while your heart beats hard in your chest, it’s racing thump the only sound you can hear. It echoes in your ears like a drum, every beat another second that passes in agonising anticipation.
You know Geta is here. He is back in Rome, back in this same building. A guard had knocked at the door some minutes earlier, notifying you and Acacius of the Emperor’s return. It took all of your resilience to not break free of your guard and go running through the halls, searching for the man who owned your heart. But you could be patient.
You had waited so long. You could last a short while longer.
The pounding of your heart grows louder. It quickens, and… multiplies? A layered beat, like more than one organ was straining against the confines of your ribs.
No. The sound was outside. That steady rhythm was footsteps. Sandals slapping against the stone floor, multiple people moving at a hurried pace, threatening to break into a sprint.
You hold your breath as they get closer. From the corner of your eye you notice Marcus’s fist tightening around his sword.
The footsteps stop outside your door. There is no knocking, no polite formalities. The door swings open so hard that it bangs against the wall from the force.
Marcus jumps to his feet, his weapon drawn in an instant, moving swiftly to put himself between you and the potential threat. His broad figure blocks your view.
“Where is she?”
That voice.
The sharpness of the demand. The confidence in tone. The edge of impatience, like his temper is brewing just below the surface.
It has exhilaration spiking in your blood like the sweetest high. How you have missed it.
“Imperator.” Marcus says with a respectful nod of his head. He sheathes his weapon as he steps aside, allowing you and Geta to see one another for the first time in months.
The relief is immediate. Your husband stands just a short distance from you. Alive and well.
There are some signs of the length of his journey, and the difficulty of his time at war. He appears thinner, his robes hanging more loosely from his frame, the cheekbones you love to dance your fingertips across now more pronounced. There are violet shadows settled in the hollows beneath his dark eyes. His curls are longer, sticking up at odd angles like he has been raking his fingers through them.
But he is here. He is safe.
“Ducissima.” He breathes. Soft. Only for you.
You rise from the sofa, your first instinct to run and throw your arms around him, bury your face against his neck and cling so tightly that you could never be parted again.
But something stops you. The lingering memory of the last time you were together. One that you have done your best to push to the deepest recesses of your mind, but now forces its way in, pain demanding to be felt. There is a bitter taste on your tongue. The same sourness left by your last encounter, when your words of affection were left unanswered and everything else that you had wanted to say turned to ash in your mouth.
I love you.
I know.
With your feet unwilling to carry you forwards, it is Geta who crosses the room. He approaches slowly, almost cautious, and you hold your breath once again. A gentle palm cradles your cheek, the warmth and softness of his skin so familiar. You cannot help but nuzzle into the touch. Butterflies spread their wings to take flight in your stomach. Your body seems to come alive again when he touches you, a magnetic pull that finally has you stepping closer. Chest to chest you both pause, your hands settling on Geta’s waist, your eyes greedily drinking one another in.
You are parched earth, crumbling and cracked from drought, the small smile that plays at Geta’s lips feeling like the rain that you have been praying for.
“I have missed you.” He says softly.
Behind him the door clicks closed. Marcus slipping out silently to give you some privacy.
Geta’s head tilts. He is studying you in your silence.
“Have you not missed me?” He asks.
“I- I have.” You answer. Your voice is little more than a whisper, your mouth dry and throat tight.
Geta smiles wider. Flashing his teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
The image of his face blurs, distorted by the tears that pool in your eyes. You blink hard, embarrassment warming your face, but his hold on you will not allow you to turn away and hide.
“Oh. My sweet dove. What is wrong?” Geta says. He swipes a thumb across your cheek to collect the moisture that drips there.
Your lips part, but no words come. It is like each thought slips through your fingertips before you can grasp it, months of longing mixed with the fear that you would face further rejection from him when he returned.
You were better than this. You were stronger than this. Had you not just spent the last few months running the Empire single handedly? The political battles, the attempts on your life, the bitter isolation. You had dealt with it all. But now you felt like your hardened shell was missing. The way you and Geta had left things, and all that you had been through since - it is simply too much. You are exposed, a raw nerve. You feel vulnerable in a way you never had before.
“Ducissima. Talk to me, please.”
Geta’s eyes meet yours. Those dark pools, as rich as mahogany and flecked with copper. The eyes that had haunted your dreams for the last few months now gaze at you intensely. There is nowhere to hide. Backed into a corner, all you can do is muster up what little bravery you have left and be honest, even if it costs you the last of your dignity.
“You did not say it back.” You admit. So quiet that for a moment you doubt you have even said the words aloud.
But you must have. The way that Geta’s face softens, his lips pulling down at the corners, it confirms he heard you.
“I know.” He whispers.
You cannot help but flinch. Those two words had already inflicted enough damage. Now they feel like salt being rubbed in a wound.
You try to pull away, try to twist yourself out of his hold. But Geta will not allow it, holding you by the back of the neck with one hand, the other squeezing tight at your hip.
“I know I did not say it. And I know I hurt you.” He says.
“Just stop. Let me go.” Your protest weakly.
“No, dove. Listen to me.”
Geta presses his forehead against yours. His eyes close, and when he exhales a heavy sigh you feel his warm breath fan across your face.
“I have thought about you day and night for all these months. I have thought about that moment, relived it over and over in my mind, wishing that I could undo the hurt I caused you. I could spend the rest of my life grovelling for forgiveness and it would never be enough.”
“I do not need you to be sorry.” You mutter. Because he is right. It would not be enough.
“But I am. And I need you to know how much I regret that moment. I need you to know that I have spent every second that we were apart wishing I had just told you the truth.”
“What is the truth?”
You brace yourself, so sure you already know the answer to your question. Geta would never feel the same way as you. He could lust after you, he could respect you as his wife and appreciate having you on his arm, by his side in the senate, warming his bed. But he would never-
“I love you.”
Your chest ceases to rise and fall, your lips parting, but with no strength to draw in breath. All the air has been stolen from your lungs. Geta’s quiet admission sucking the air from the room, the bedchamber becomes a vacuum, no movement and no sound, except the ringing in your ears.
“I love you.” He says again, this time the words whispered like a secret against the soft skin of your lips. Trembling hands find yours, fingers squeezing in a bruising grip.
“I should have told you before. I am sorry that I kept you waiting for so long.”
Struck mute, you offer no reply. Your head suddenly empty, no clear thought that you could follow, no understandable feeling that you could articulate.
Geta appears unperturbed by your silence.
He kisses you firmly. Plush, warm lips sealing over yours, pressing insistently, willing you to break.
You will not yet. Despite the way your blood rushes at Geta’s touch, and how your lips long to part to allow his eager tongue to break past their barricade. But you stand firm, stoic, returning none of his affection.
A coldness has settled in your bones. These days your emotions were an ever shifting tide, your mood changing as quickly as the flipping of an aureus. You have spent so long wanting Geta, missing him desperately, praying to the Gods that one day he might feel for you even a shred of what you feel for him.
Now he says the words you have ached to hear. But you find it is not enough. You will not be so easily won over. You will make him suffer, even if it is only for a moment. He deserves to share in your pain.
Geta presses increasingly desperate kisses to your mouth and jaw. His grasp on you turns painful, and a high whine escapes the back of his throat.
“Please dulcissima. My dove, please.”
“What is it you are begging for Emperor?” You reply coldly. It is a tone that would usually have him snapping, temper flaring hotter than the flames that flicker on the candles lighting the room. But now he softens. Melting like warm wax, malleable between your fingertips.
“Please.” He begs, his lips now tracing the line of your jaw.
“Tell me you still feel the same. Tell me I am not too late.”
“Do you think me so easy?” You ask.
“However much you suffered in these past months pales in comparison to the hurt I have felt Geta. Your cruelty wounded me.”
With his face buried into the crook of your neck Geta chokes on a sob.
“I know. I will never forgive myself.”
“And yet you expect me to forgive you.”
“I will do anything to earn your forgiveness.” Geta whispers. The tip of his nose runs up the column of your throat, lips skimming over soft skin to kiss the spot beneath your ear that makes you weak for him. You clamp your jaw tight to silence the pleased sigh that threatens to break free. But you cannot fight the way you shudder, pleasant shivers dancing up your spine. Your body is betraying you. She is a traitor to your mind.
Geta pulls back. His eyes are wet, shining with unshed tears.
To your surprise he drops to his knees. Thumping against the stone floor in a way that must be painful, but he makes no complaint. You watch him curiously as slips his hands beneath your stola, gentle fingers stroking the back of your calves, reaching up towards the plushness of your thighs. You throb between them, feeling warmth spread through the lower half of your body.
“Let me show you.” He pleads.
You offer no encouragement, no words of affirmation or helping hands to lift the fabric that hides you from him. But you do not stop him.
Watching cooly as he pushes your skirts higher, his lips now following the path his hands had just taken. The tips of his fingers brush against something unfamiliar. He pauses his kisses, sitting back on his knees to study the strap of tan leather that is wound tightly about your thigh.
You reach down, fingers curling around the handle and pulling, the dagger slipping free from its sheath. The blade glints menacingly, still as sharp as the day he gifted it to you.
“You kept it.” He whispers, sounding almost reverent.
“I have worn it everyday.” You reply.
“Although I have not yet had cause to use it.”
You twist your wrist, turning the blade over just inches from Geta’s face. There is no hint of fear in his expression.
“Such a curious gift for a husband to give his wife.” You comment.
“I wanted to keep you safe.” Geta says.
“I did not wish any harm to come to you.”
“You have hurt me far more than anyone else could Geta.”
He winces at your words, a single drop escaping to roll down his flushed cheek.
With no hesitation he leans forwards, the edge of the dagger pressing against his throat. A thin line breaks in his skin, crimson ichor beading at the wound. Your breath catches, as though the blade were held to your own neck. When you draw back for fear of inflicting permanent injury he follows your hand, keeping the dagger pressed to his flesh.
“I would let you do it, you know.” He whispers.
“I would put up no fight.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot live in a world where you do not love me.” He says plainly.
“So please dove. End my misery. One way or the other.”
The sincerity in Geta’s tone shakes you to your core. You see no hint of deception in his eyes, and you know that he speaks the truth.
The ruler of Rome.
The leader of the Empire, a man both feared and revered in equal measure, one who rivals the Gods with the sheer power that he holds.
He now kneels at your feet, willing to let you slit his throat.
When you draw your blade back Geta does not flinch. His eyes stay locked with yours, so accepting of whatever fate you have decided for him.
With you free hand you gather a fistful of your stola, bunching the fabric before pulling it taught. The dagger slices through it cleanly, a smooth glide as the silk and linen falls apart. You cut the skirts away at the top of your thighs, leaving nothing but an uneven lip of fabric that skims over your hips. Then you slip your weapon back into place at your thigh.
Your husband does not move. In fact, it seems that he hardly dares to breathe, his chest rising and falling so shallowly, dark eyes looking up at you questioningly. They are no longer wet with tears. Instead you see a familiar fire burning behind the rich umber, the flecks of gold shining like candlelight in his gaze.
A nod is all you give him. Geta understands your wordless command.
Greedy hands snatch for your hips, tugging you forward swiftly as he leans in to meet you. There is no preamble, no teasing. He has grown too impatient for that.
Or perhaps he is worried that you will still change your mind.
Geta’s jaw opens, his head nudging between your thighs. He sighs contentedly, warm breath washing over that intimate part of you, a place that has only known your own fingers for these last months. They have been a poor replacement, and you cannot help but shudder at the anticipation of finally having Geta touch you again.
Thankfully, he does not keep you waiting. He mouths at your cunt eagerly, sloppy in his movements, burying his face in as much as the angle will allow. His tongue is pressed flat, lapping at your entrance so he may swallow down the ambrosia that steadily flows for him.
Geta grunts, moans reverberating from his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head as he drinks all that you will give him. The blunt edges of his fingernails dig into your buttocks, pulling you down to his greedy mouth.
He is neglecting where you need him most. It is unlike him, he has never been a selfish lover, but he appears to be too lost in the taste of you to realise what it is that you need. So you take it for yourself. Slipping your fingers into those auburn curls, as soft as you remembered them being. You grip his roots meanly, tugging hard to drag his mouth higher, until his tongue finally passes over your clit.
The sensation has you keening. Knees shaking as vibrant sparks of pleasure course through your blood, you now hold Geta’s head not to keep him in place but to steady yourself.
He responds to you in the way that only a familiar lover can. One attune to the way that your body talks.
Geta wraps his plush lips around your sensitive nerves and sucks hard enough to have your vision blurring. You gasp, rocking your hips to meet his mouth, a delicious grind that he seems all too happy to accept. Relinquishing more of his power, letting you take full control. You use him, rubbing against his slick lips and tongue for your own pleasure, your toes curling in their sandals as your climax approaches.
It is over all too quickly, the time apart leaving you desperate and all too easy to push over the edge. When your orgasm hits the last of your strength gives out, and you cry Geta’s name loud enough for the heavens to hear as you falter and fall.
He catches you before you can land on the cold floor, strong arms winding tight around your waist to push you back towards the softness of your bed. You could curse the loss of his mouth, but you get no opportunity.
Geta kisses you desperately as your back crashes to the mattress. All resistance has been wiped from you, and your lips part willingly, tasting yourself on his tongue when he licks into your mouth.
How you have missed his kisses. You do not want to spend another moment without his lips on yours.
You whine in protest when Geta finally pulls back, his lips red and glossy like they are stained with wine. Sitting up on his knees, he hurries to drag his tunic, a simple comfortable thing fit for travel, up and over his head. It reveals the body you have dreamt of for so many lonely nights. Smooth ivory skin, firms pecks dusted with freckles and fine auburn hair. The thick cock that hangs between his legs, so firm it looks almost painful, the tip flushed red with want and leaking small pearls.
You need to be bare. Need to feel his skin pressed to yours, feel him everywhere. You need to hold him so close that the boundaries of where you end and he begins become blurred, and you are one.
You wrestle with the tattered remains of your dress, hissing in frustration when you cannot shed it.
Geta presses a firm hand to your hips, forcing you to still your movement. He wraps his fist around the handle of your dagger, pulling it out in a fluid motion. You watch as he takes ahold of your stola, careful to lift the fabric away from your body before he slides the blade beneath and drags it upwards. It falls apart, splitting straight up the middle so that you can easily shrug your shoulders free.
The dagger clatters noisily when Geta carelessly tosses it to the ground, his hands now busy roaming across the flesh that has been exposed to him. Rough but not painful in the way that he skims over your hips and stomach, taking hold of your breasts and kneading them beneath his palms.
“Beautiful.” He whispers. So sincere and sweet that you think you may begin to weep.
Instead you kiss him. Dragging him down to press his weight over you, capturing his lips once again and losing yourself in the shape of his mouth, the warmth of his tongue.
On any other night Geta would take the time to prepare you. Especially after it had been so long since you had taken something so thick. But it is because of how long it had been, how desperate you both are, that he does not open you up first on his fingers. He rolls his hips, notching the head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward until it breaches your heat. The sting has you gasping, and Geta swallows the pained sounds that you make, mouthing apologies between kisses.
You do not need him to be sorry. You just need more. Need him to push past that point of discomfort, to take you to that place where your body adjusts and welcomes the intrusion of him.
Hooking your ankles over his lower back you encourage him further, meeting his thrusts with weak rolls of your hips until he is completely inside you. The fullness is so welcome. This is what you have been missing.
Letting him own you.
Owning him completely in return.
It does not take long for the ache to subside, replaced by more of that pleasant warmth spreading through your core, the friction of his coarse hair rubbing your clit making you writhe and whimper.
Geta’s skin sticks to yours, lewd slapping sounds echoing from him slamming into you, too lost in euphoria to be gentle. If any of the guards still linger at the door then they will surely hear you. You want them to hear. Want everyone in this palace to know how you sing for him, and him alone.
You cling to Geta’s back, nails scratching deep into his skin. Crimson stains your fingertips, painting a picture of your love that only you will ever see. Because you do love him. Of course you do. There was no use in either of you denying the truth any longer.
“I love you.” You gasp, voice stretched thin.
The brutality of Geta’s thrusts does not cease, but he rests his forehead against yours in a tender touch, your noses brushing sweetly together.
“I love you.” He replies.
The words do not shock you now, do not have you struck dumb and left reeling. Instead they bring a quiet kind of calm to your mind. As though no worry could ever cause you concern again, so long as Geta loves you.
You kiss him deeply until it makes you dizzy. Moaning unashamedly into his open, panting mouth when his fingers begin a rapid, flurrying dance over your clit. Tension builds within you, a frayed line so near to snapping.
“Come for me dove. Please, let me feel it.” Geta begs.
So you do. You are powerless to resist, liquid fire running in your veins, setting every nerve in your body ablaze as you feel yourself falling.
Geta follows you over the edge. Sticky heat flooding deep, your name a prayer on his lips, his hips still rolling in small aborted thrusts, pushing through the sensitivity to force his seed as deep as possible. To make sure that this time, it sticks.
The comedown is soft. A stark contrast to the previous rough and desperate touches. The two of you lay entwined, bodies slick with perspiration, heartbeats gradually slowing in time with one another. The room is quiet now. Deep breaths the only sound, along with the occasional smack of lips when you press a kiss to Geta’s shoulder, or he mouths his way up your neck.
You do not speak. Both of you have said all there is to say for now. There will be plenty of time for talking, and plenty of conversations to be had. Of threats and danger and betrayals. But you will not taint this moment with such things.
For now it is enough to have each other, and to drift to sleep in one another’s arms. Where you belong.
≿━━━━༺ ✦ ༻━━━━≾
The calm could only last so long. You wished that there was a way to protect the bubble of peaceful bliss you and Geta were living in, suspending time so that you could stay lying in his arms, the world beyond your bed unimportant and forgotten.
But of course that was not to be. When morning came it was time for Geta to learn all that had transpired in his time away.
He reacts as you had expected. That infamous temper making an appearance. He rants and rages, spewing curses without a care who hears.
His morning meal falls victim to his fury: a chalice ricocheting off the wall and plates shattering to tiny shards, food crushed into the stone floor by his stomping feet.
The poor girl who was brought in to sample both yours and your husband’s breakfast cowers in her seat, and with a look of pity you dismiss her. She did not need to bear witness to Geta’s outburst.
“I will kill him. I will end this now!” He screams. His face turns puce with fury, veins bulging in his neck and throbbing at his temples.
Thankfully, Marcus has the forethought to block the door.
“Imperator, I know you are upset-“
“Upset?! You think I am upset?!” Geta roars.
“Move Acacius. That is an order!”
With an impressive amount of patience, the General does not so much as flinch, even with Geta spitting and snarling an inch from his face.
“My Lord, with all due respect, you know that I cannot let you act in haste. We must choose our next actions carefully.”
“My next actions are to cut the damn bastard’s head clean off!”
“Geta.” You call from your place at the table, patting the empty space between you and Senator Amulius.
“Please come and sit down.”
He spins, fixing you with a glare that would send shivers down your spine were you not used to dealing with his tantrums.
“He tried to kill you dove.”
“I know darling.” You reply calmly.
“But if you rush into this now and attack him then the Empire will descend into chaos. You are smarter than that.”
“But-“
“No buts.” You say firmly, ignoring the way that Geta’s jaw clenches.
“Sit down. We must formulate a plan.”
An awkward silence falls over the room. You and Geta are in a wordless standoff, each looking at the other expectantly, neither willing to break.
He is the first to avert his gaze. He glances over his shoulder at Marcus. The General gives him an apologetic look, but still does not move. You would giggle at his boldness if you were sure it would not ignite your husband’s inferno like temper once again.
With a huff and a pout Geta gives in. He reluctantly takes his seat. Despite the heavy breaths he exhales through his nose like an angry bull, he still lets you take his hand beneath the table, your fingers entwined and squeezing tight.
Marcus joins you. Amulius clears his throat.
“Right then. Shall we begin.” He says hesitantly, looking to his Emperor.
Geta shrugs.
So Amulius starts.
He has already begun to sow the seeds of his plan, starting all those months ago when Vibius made his attack on Geta’s life.
The senators most loyal to your husband have been meeting in secret, slipping through the palace in the dead of night like spectres, congregating in a room known only to those who have been told where to find it. Even you do not know its location.
They have all come to the same conclusion. Rome cannot continue with two warring Emperors. The Empire must have a single ruler, and that ruler must be Geta.
In the senate they outweigh their opponents. Over half of the men are loyal to your cause. And they have been carefully growing their numbers. Recruiting in more men of power and influence, Rome’s richest, the heads of noble families. All who share in their vision for the Empire’s future.
Preparations are being put in place. Deals made in the dark, to guarantee their loyalty when the time finally comes.
It is the matter of time that causes contention.
Of course Geta would be happy to wipe his brother out in an instant. You too must admit you would feel safer when the deed is done. But Amulius is firm in his belief that you must continue to wait.
“We will only get to do this once. If mistakes are made, or we make our move too early, then we risk fracturing the Empire. Our plans and progress will grind to a halt, and we will descend into war. We must do this right.” He says solemnly.
His plan requires patience, something that does not come naturally to Geta.
But you both know deep down, that Amulius is correct. He has never lead you wrong before. So it is agreed that you will wait. Continuing as though nothing at all is wrong, Geta will sit at his brother’s side and swallow his loathing. Caracalla will be lured into a sense of security, and only then, when his guard is lowered, will you strike.
It is not a plan that Geta is fond of. But it is the best that you have.
≿━━━━༺ ✦ ༻━━━━≾
The quiet is making you agitated.
It has been so long since you have been left alone. Marcus was your shadow for months, moving in step with you at all times, a constant presence that offered reassurance, even if at times it was stifling.
And since Geta’s return some weeks ago the two of you have been inseparable. The months apart had been enough for you to both realise that you could not bear to be alone. You wanted eyes on him at all times. It felt like the only way to truly know that he was safe.
But now both your husband and your protector were gone. Called to the senate for a meeting, something minor about trade deals in the west. When you had groaned and rolled your eyes at the prospect Geta laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Stay here little dove. There is no reason for both of us to spend our afternoon in total boredom.” He had said.
You knew of course that you were not truly alone. There were guards stationed at your door like always, men who knew better than to leave the entrance to your bedchamber unattended, lest they face the wrath of both the General and the Emperor.
Still, you could not shake the unsettled feeling growing in the pit of your stomach.
What was it that had the hairs on the back of your neck raising, and goosebumps breaking out on your flesh? You were safe. Geta was safe, for he was with Acacius. There was no reason for concern.
So why could you not shake this sense of impending trouble?
You pace back and forth across your room, the only sound the quiet slapping of your sandals against your heels, and the rustling of your skirts.
That is when you realise what is troubling you so.
It is too quiet.
You can hear no sound from beyond your bedroom door. The guards were never raucous, of course, but you were usually aware of their presence. A few whispered murmurs, a quiet sigh, the clinking of metal from their armour if they adjusted their stance.
Now there was only silence.
You must be imagining things. Convincing yourself of danger when there is none.
Still, you creep closer to the door. Wanting only to reassure yourself. You press your ear to the wood, straining to hear even the slightest of sounds. All you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Do not panic you think to yourself. You are being a fool, scaring yourself unnecessarily.
The door handle is cool beneath your clammy palm, your fingers slipping as you grip it tight.
Just a peek, you think. To calm down. One quick look and you will realise how illogical you are being. You will see that you are as protected as always.
Before you can turn the handle a sound from the corridor has you freezing. Footsteps, quiet but quick, approaching your bedchamber. Only one set, you think.
The sharp knock on the door has you flinching.
There had been no conversation. No announcement of intentions, no discussion with the guards.
You reach down with your free hand, blindly petting your thigh until you feel the reassuring shape of your dagger, strapped to your leg and hidden beneath your stola. Geta had been insistent you continue to wear it, even now that he was home. You had been happy to agree, feeling far more comfortable knowing that the weapon was within arms reach at all times.
Whoever it is knocks again.
There can be no harm in opening the door, surely? If it was a threat then you would have heard the guards. They would have put up some kind of fight.
Taking one last deep breath to steady your nerves you open the door.
A servant stands before you. Just a young boy, a good foot shorter than you, and of slight build. He is not particularly intimidating, but your blood still runs cold.
Because he is alone. He is not flanked by guards, and when you turn your head you find no soldiers waiting at the end of the corridor.
“Your highness.” The boy says with a bow.
“I have been sent to collect you.”
“By who?” You ask sharply, your suspicion obvious.
“The Emperors.” He replies.
You do not believe him. Why would Geta send a simple servant to collect you? He would not want you walking the halls unguarded.
But before you send the boy away another thought enters your mind.
Yes, this could very well be a trap. But if it is, does that mean Geta is in danger? There must be a reason for this strange turn of events. By leaving your room you will be putting yourself at risk, but if it means you have a chance to help Geta then you cannot stay. And how safe can you really be in a room that is left unguarded?
“Very well. We should not keep them waiting.” You say, stepping out and closing the door behind you.
The servant seems surprised that you have agreed so easily, but he does not question you. He bows once more then begins to make his way along the hall, with you following close behind.
He leads you for a few minutes, and with every step you grow more uneasy. You have still yet to pass another soul. It is as though your home is deserted, you and this boy the only two left behind.
Even the route you take is suspicious. You are walking further and further from the senate, instead venturing into the east wing, an area of your home that you are less familiar with. You have had no reason to venture this way before. It is the area occupied by your brother in law.
Perhaps you should turn back. You curse yourself for your foolishness, sure that if Geta or Marcus could see you now they would chastise you furiously for being so naive. Yet you continue onwards. Walking silently behind the boy who does not look back at you once, and who seems unconcerned by the lack of activity around you both.
Finally, he comes to a stop outside of a room you have not seen before. Much like every door you have passed on your journey there are no soldiers waiting outside.
“They are in here your highness.” He says quietly.
You know it is a lie.
You follow him inside regardless.
The room is similar to your own bedchamber in both size and layout. Where it differs is its decoration.
Caracalla has ostentatious tastes: every surface in the room bears ornate treasure, gold chalices and decorative plates, multiple mirrors with gilded frames that you can only imagine he spends hours in front of admiring his own reflection. Were the walls not stone they would surely groan under the weight of all the artwork that hangs on them, detailed paintings of brutal battle sites, along with a few of nymphs that border on lewd. You cannot help but wrinkle your nose in disgust.
The door closes behind you. You swear you hear the click of a lock, but when you turn questioningly the servant boy has already slipped into the shadows in the corner of the room, his head bowed.
“So good to see you Empress.” A familiar voice sneers.
Caracalla emerges, a glass of wine clutched between his ringed fingers, his lips already stained a dark plum. He grins at you, a mean thing, like a wild animal baring its teeth.
“Where is my husband?” You ask. You have no patience for niceties.
Your brother in law merely shrugs.
“I am sure he is around here somewhere. No doubt plotting my demise with his little crew of loyalists.”
You are surprised to hear him speak so nonchalantly. It is the first time you have ever heard him address the dark depths of their brotherly feud.
“Do not look so shocked.” He continued.
“Let us not insult one another with feigned ignorance. You know as well as I do that my brother should like to see my head upon a stake.”
The imagery delights you too, but you cannot help but feel perturbed by Caracalla’s lack of accountability. He was the other side of the coin in this battle for power.
“You speak as though it was not your instruction that had an arrow soaring straight at my husband’s head.” You sneer.
Caracalla shrugs again.
“And I suppose you mean to tell me that it was not your desire that poison be slipped into my cup while you and Geta were overseas?”
“No, no, I am responsible for both.” Caracalla says casually, that grin never faltering.
“Although I must say I was pleased to return and find you well.”
You scoff.
“I am sure you do not believe me. But I had... a change of heart, let us say. I have bigger plans for you now than you choking to death on your own vomit.”
Caracalla moves to the plush couch, laying back against the cushions, the picture of composure. He pats the empty space beside him.
“Come. Sit. We have much to discuss.”
Your eyes dart to the door. For a moment you consider fleeing, banging and screaming until someone hears you. But there is no guarantee that anyone will. And what would Caracalla do then?
He chuckles softly, like he can hear every thought in your head. You finally decide that your best course of action is to play along with whatever silly little game he has concocted, and you reluctantly take a seat at the opposite end of the couch. Your posture stiff and back straight, ready to jump if he so much as shifts in your direction.
“What is it that you are planning?” You ask impatiently.
Caracalla takes a slow sip of his wine, his cold blue eyes glinting at you.
“How rude of me, I have been a poor host. Would you like a glass?” He smiles.
“No.”
He barks a laugh, so loud and sharp that you flinch.
“That is fair. You do not trust me. But I hope that in time you will.”
“Why would I trust you?” You snap.
He studies the liquid in his cup, swirling it gently. He is taking his time. Toying with you, like a cat that has caught a tiny mouse between it’s paws.
“We both know that my brother and I cannot continue to rule the Empire together. There is no chance of reconciliation, I loathe him as he does me.”
“This war will only end one way. Rome will have one Emperor, and I intend it to be me.”
Your fists squeeze tight in your lap.
“But there is no need for me to rule alone. It is time that I settled down, time that I find a good wife who will give me strong heirs.”
“I do not see how I fit into this.” You say.
Caracalla regards you with a look that can only be described as pity. As though you are slow, simple, unable to grasp something that is blindingly obvious.
“You are well liked Empress. Our people look up to you, the senate respects you, as much as they can respect a woman. You are certainly stronger willed than I would like, but I think it could have it’s advantages. I want you to marry me.”
Now it is your turn to laugh. You cannot contain it, a shrill, almost hysterical sound escaping your throat.
“You cannot possibly be serious!”
“Oh but I am. Think of all we could do together, all we could accomplish. Without my brother standing in our way we would be unstoppable.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
You have heard quite enough of his nonsense. It was clear that Caracalla had reached a new level of insanity. You stand, refusing to listen to him for another minute.
“I thought you might say that. So let me put it to you this way.” He replies, standing to face you. It does not go unnoticed that he positions himself between you and the only door.
“You can join me willingly. I will crush my brother like the pathetic insect he is, and you will rule by my side as my wife. You will continue to live in this luxury, a life that I am sure you never anticipated, given the lowly rank of your birth.”
“Or?” You ask.
“Or, I will kill you where you stand.” Caracalla says plainly.
You take a hesitant step back.
“If you lay a hand on me then Geta will kill you.” You wish for the words to come out biting, but there is a tremor in your voice that gives away your fear. It has Caracalla laughing mockingly again.
“My dear, if I kill you, then all it does is saves me the trouble of dealing with Geta myself. It is obvious from the way he spent these last months pining like a pitiful dog kicked out by its master. He would sooner kill himself than spend a day without you.”
His words slice deep into your belly like a blade.
You can picture it so clearly. Geta discovering you bloody and unmoving. Him weeping over your lifeless body, inconsolable with rage and despair. You know deep down that Caracalla is right. Geta had made it clear when he pressed his throat to your dagger, willing to let you end his life if you did not love him.
Your dagger.
Your anxious hands twist the fabric of your stola, a motion that you hope Caracalla will dismiss as mere hopelessness. But you feel it. The weight of it against your thigh, held in place by the tight leather strap. Your only way out.
Stall him, a quiet voice says in the back of your head. Buy yourself time.
“No. Geta would never do that. He would take revenge on you, and see to it that the whole city bore witness to your execution.”
“You and I both know that is untrue. Let us not lie to one another.”
Caracalla whistles sharply, a flick of his wrist beckoning the servant boy closer. He hurries to his Emperor’s side, head still hanging low.
Caracalla passes the boy his wine, while his other hand slips under a fold in his tunic.
You move to step back once more, but feel the cold, smooth surface of a wall behind you. You have backed yourself into a corner.
“I am afraid I need a decision little dove.” Caracalla sneers.
Hearing that name, the name Geta had given you, falling from his lips has bile rising and burning your throat. Your fingers close around the handle of your dagger through layers of fabric, but your trembling fingers cannot blindly navigate a way through. Sweat beads on your brow, and you fumble to get the weapon free, hoping the man across from you will not notice.
“Should I take your silence as a no?” He says mockingly.
“Fuck you.” You snap, your frustration getting the better of you.
Caracalla tuts.
“Such a pity.” He says quietly.
His hand slips free of his stola, a blade similar to the one you are subtly reaching for clenched in his fist.
The movement is quick and precise, expert in the way he plunges the dagger into the side of the servant boy’s neck, tearing across in a fluid motion. Grabbing hold of his close cropped curls and tugging his head back, the bright red mouth drawn across the boy’s neck opens it’s jaws wide. Crimson spray spews forth, splattering your face and landing in your mouth that opens on a horrified gasp.
The boy splutters and gurgles, chalice clattering to the floor when he clutches his hands to his throat, fingers coated with blood slipping and feebly pressing in attempt to stem the flow.
Caracalla’s smile never falters, and he laughs maniacally when you wretch and gag, spitting out the blood that pools on your tongue.
It takes only a few more seconds for the servant to lose the will to fight, his arms falling limp and useless at his sides. Caracalla drops his body carelessly. The boy lays face down in a pool of red, hot sticky blood mixed with spilt wine, staining the stone floor and the plush fur rug beneath your feet.
“What- why..” you stammer, tasting iron on your tongue that has your stomach turning again.
“Come now, I thought you were smarter than this, Empress.” Caracalla says.
“I cannot have our people thinking that I killed you. I told you, you are well liked. It would be a disaster for my reputation.”
He pauses, wiping the dirtied blade on his clothing, then admiring his reflection in its shine.
“No, instead I will tell them all that he attacked you. He was a crazed insurrectionist who infiltrated our palace to destroy the Empire. After luring you here he gutted you like a pig right in front of me. I tried to intervene of course, but sadly I was too late to save you. Then he turned on me, and in the ensuing struggle I managed to overpower him and slay him with his own knife.”
“Th-they will know. Everyone will know what you are.” You hiss.
“I will be a hero.” He snarls.
“And you will be nothing but a whore who met a tragic end. History will forget your name, and my brother’s too. It will be I that becomes a legend to rival the Gods.”
Caracalla takes a few steps towards you.
Your time has run out, you realise. Unable to grasp your weapon the only option left is to flee.
You dart right, hoping that if you can reach the door perhaps you can break free, maybe the adrenaline coursing in your veins will give you the strength to kick it open despite the lock.
You do not make it that far.
You have barely cleared half of the distance before a hand takes hold of your hair, yanking back with so much force you fear your neck will snap.
Caracalla throws you to the ground. You land in the puddle of blood, head slamming against the stone so hard that for a second your vision turns black.
When your eyes regain their focus you find Caracalla standing over you, that terrifying smile still stretching his lips wide, his eyes blazing with fury. You try to scramble back, but your hands find no purchase, slipping uselessly on the wet ground.
In the commotion your stola has risen, rucked up around your waist. Your bare legs thrash, but Caracalla steps over you like you pose no threat, your kicks inflicting no damage. He drops to his knees, straddling your stomach. Pinning you in place.
“N-no. Please, don’t.” You beg.
You loathe how it seems to fuel him, this sick, twisted man clearly enjoying you pleading for your life. Tears spill from your eyes, rolling down to wet your hair line. You scratch and slap, screaming until your throat burns, and all the while he laughs, like he so enjoys the show you are putting on for him.
Caracalla raises the dagger high, holding it over your chest, waiting and taunting you, knowing that you cannot escape.
You turn your head. Desperate for something, anything that is within arms reach that may save you.
Then you see it.
Where your skirts have risen your thigh is now exposed. The dagger lays in its sheath, the handle glinting at you in the low light.
“Do not cry little dove.” Caracalla’s coos.
“My brother will join you soon enough.”
The metal is cool against your palm. Your fingers close around it in a tight fist, and you pull hard. There is no time for you to turn your wrist, no time for you to aim or deliver a blow with any kind of precision. As Caracalla’s arms move to drive his dagger down into your chest, your own blade slices blindly through the air.
Your fist collides with something solid.
Above you, Caracalla gasps, his eyes widening in shock. The tip of his dagger is just inches from your heaving chest, but it hovers there unmoving.
He glances down, seeing crimson bloom at his side like roses, blood spreading out across the fabric.
A second of hesitation is all you need.
You draw your dagger back and thrust it in again.
The force of the blow is enough to unsteady him, and you get your legs beneath yourself, turning until your positions are switched. This time you aim square for Caracalla’s chest, stabbing down with all the force your shaking arms can muster, feeling flesh tear and ribs crack. He stares up at you, the smile finally wiped from his face. His lips now a twisted grimace, weak grunts of pain punched out of him with every strike of your blade.
You scream and cry, unable to stop, unable to think. You do not register the moment that Caracalla draws his final rasping breath, or the moment that the light dims behind his cruel eyes.
Finally exhaustion hits. The dagger slips free of your blood soaked hands and clatters to the ground. Dizzy and weak, you slide off of Caracalla’s lifeless body, sitting with your knees hugged close to your chest. You cry quietly, tears leaving streaks through the gore on your face.
You do not know what will happen now. You have killed an Emperor. There is no way of knowing if the senate, and Rome’s people, will be understanding of the circumstances. It may be that Caracalla will still get his wish, and you will die.
You do not know how long you sit and weep, consoling yourself and preparing to meet whatever fate awaits you.
When a little of your strength returns you rise shakily to your feet. You leave the bodies where they lay and make your way out into the corridor, a trail of sticky red footprints left in your wake.
Wandering in a daze through the maze like hallways you still do not find another soul. But as you approach the centre of your home you finally hear voices, panicked shouts and the pounding of quick feet.
A set of guards turn the corner up ahead, jaws dropping when they see you.
“She is here!” One of them shouts.
“We have found her!”
“Where?! Move!” A familiar voice barks.
Geta pushes between the two men, Acacius and other soldiers hot on his heels.
The sight of your husband, who just moments ago you had resigned yourself to never seeing again, is enough to break the composure you had managed to regain. Your knees hit the ground with a painful thump, more sobs breaking free, but this time they are cries of relief.
Geta races to you. His expression panic stricken, perspiration shining on his brow. He throws himself down, scooping you in the arms, uncaring about the blood and viscera that will stain his clothes.
“Ducissima. My love, are you hurt? Where are your injuries?” He says.
You cannot stop yourself from crying long enough to answer him.
“Dove, please. I cannot - where is the blood coming from?” Geta questions with increasing desperation, his hands roaming over you to find the source.
Head resting on his chest, you manage a whisper between heaving breaths.
“I am unhurt. The blood is not mine.”
“Thank the Gods.” Geta murmurs. He winds his arms tighter around you, rocking you gently like a babe, his lips pressed to the crown of your head.
“What happened?” Marcus says softly, crouching beside you. You turn your face away from Geta’s chest enough to be heard.
“I am sorry. I’m s-so sorry. He.. he tried to kill me. I had to.”
Acacius looks to Geta. A silent exchange passes between them.
“Check on Emperor Caracalla.” The General instructs his men.
“Come your majesties. Let us get you back to your chambers.”
It takes both Geta and Acacius to pull you to your feet. When your knees buckle beneath you once more, the General decides that you are unfit to make the short journey on your own two feet. He scoops you up into his arms and carries you. Geta walks in stride with him, his wet eyes darting to you constantly, like he will not trust that you are truly fine unless he can see it for himself.
≿━━━━༺ ✦ ༻━━━━≾
Hours later you are finally alone with your husband. Skin cleaned and perfumed, the gore rinsed away by Geta’s gentle hands as he cradled you close in the baths.
Now he lays with you on silk soft sheets, one hand pressed to your chest. He seeks comfort in the rhythmic thumping beneath his fingertips, the warmth of your skin, and the slow breaths you exhale. You are exhausted from crying, and from repeating the afternoon’s events over and over to all who needed to hear them. Now, finally, there is nothing more to say.
You and Geta do not need words. It is clear from the kisses he leaves on your throat, and the way that your fingers entwine together beneath the sheets. The two of you silently thanking the Gods that saw fit to protect you and keep you together, praying with tender touches and soft kisses until sleep finally comes.
≿━━━━༺ ✦ ༻━━━━≾
You receive no punishment for killing Caracalla. There is no trial, no public humiliation, no brutal execution for what you have done.
In the end, it is Caracalla’s own fabricated story that becomes the chosen truth.
The servant boy was a traitor: loyal to neither Emperor, nothing but a madman who wanted to rip the Empire apart from the inside. Unable to get to Geta, who was heavily guarded in the senate on that fateful afternoon, he instead chose to lure you to Caracalla’s bedchamber. There he launched a vicious attack on the Emperor, leaving him with wounds no mortal could survive. His plan had been to kill you both, but he had not expected the Empress to be armed. And so you slit his throat, too late to save your brother in law, but quick enough to spare your own life.
Nobody questions the version of events that you, Geta, and Acacius relay to the senate.
In the days that follow, anyone who may have known the real truth, like Caracalla’s most loyal guards who had conveniently abandoned their posts on that day, all flee the palace and the city itself. No doubt knowing that their days were numbered without their Emperor to protect them.
You and Geta play your roles well. You appear suitably distressed by the events that had taken place, and Geta plays the part of the grieving brother while maintaining his dignity.
At Caracalla’s funeral you stand hand in hand, faces solemn but eyes dry. There are few in the crowd who weep.
Most of Rome’s citizens will not miss their fallen ruler. With Caracalla gone Geta is free to rule as he sees fit, with no one to question or undermine him. You know he will be fair, and strong, and righteous. He has Acacius, in a newly appointed role in the senate, to offer him guidance.
And he has you. Your love for him unwavering and absolute. You see every part of him, as he does you: all the ugly and the dark and the twisted, but also all the vulnerability and the sweetness.
It is obvious that you were fated. You were always meant to find one another.
And now that you have, there will be nothing that can ever tear you apart.
≿━━━━༺ ✦ ༻━━━━≾
Translations:
Fides publicae - a public celebration honouring Fides, the Roman goddess of trust and faithfulness
Plebeians - common people
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