…in which Geta acts like an utter buffoon, and the ginger cat—well, acts like a ginger cat.
summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?
chapter I
warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon
tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here
word count: ~3k
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On one of those warm, cozy days, Livia sat in her chamber in the House of the Vestals, just a short walk from the temple. Caesonia lay at her feet, reading aloud from Hesiod, while Livia slowly braided her hair, slipping into a light trance. The steady rhythm of her sworn sister’s voice lulled her, and every so often, she startled, lifting her head to keep from drifting off.
"You’re falling asleep!" Caesonia exclaimed, breaking off mid-sentence. "Is this how you study?" Her tone was scolding, but not entirely serious. They had been sitting there since dawn, and for most of that time, Livia had listened diligently.
"Sorry, I’m listening," she mumbled, trying to gather her thoughts as she straightened up, letting go of her sister’s hair.
"No, this won’t do. Let’s go get some fresh air."
The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.
They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.
"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.
"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.
"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.
"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"
It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.
Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.
Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.
"That bandit again!"
The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.
"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."
The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.
It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.
Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.
"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.
"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."
They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.
"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.
"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.
Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.
The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.
Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.
The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.
Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.
At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.
Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?
A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.
"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.
The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?
"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.
"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.
"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.
Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.
He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.
"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.
"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.
For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.
She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.
"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.
"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"
He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.
Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.
Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…
"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.
Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.
"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.
Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.
"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.
She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.
"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.
Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.
"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.
He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.
"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.
"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.
The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.
"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."
The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?
"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.
Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.
They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.
Livia caught only fragments of his words:
"…where is he?"
The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.
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The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.
The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.
Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.
In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.
That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.
"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.
"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.
Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.
"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.
If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?
He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.
"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.
His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.
"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."
"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?
"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."
Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.
"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!
Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.
A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.
With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.
The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?
As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.
"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"
"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.
"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.
"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"
His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.
"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"
What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!
"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.
She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?
No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.
"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.
"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"
Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.
Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.
"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.
"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.
Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.
Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.
"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.
At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.
The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.
Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.
This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.
As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.
Truly alike, indeed.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.
summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta’s eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it’s common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?
warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon, violence, blood
tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here
word count: ~3k
"No vow of chastity or sacred duty could restrain him who deemed himself a god, for he believed himself above the laws that bind mere mortals."
-Decimus Rufus, Gods Among Men: The Erosion of Roman Law.
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"This is wrong!" Livia protested, though her outrage came more from personal feeling than from a desire to argue with her mentor. "There are countless priests for that!"
Caesonia, her sworn sister, was ten years older, but always so gentle and easy to talk to that Livia could be honest with her. As long as no one else found out.
"You know how things are," Caesonia said, her voice flat with boredom as she absentmindedly smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her snow-white tunic, making it clear that the matter was settled. "The emperors want to win back the people’s love, and what does the crowd love more than the games?"
"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.
"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"
Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.
"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."
Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.
"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"
"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."
"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"
They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.
Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.
The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.
Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.
"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"
She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.
"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?
Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.
The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.
She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.
To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.
"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.
From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.
The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.
When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.
The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.
"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.
A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.
The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.
"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.
They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.
Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.
Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.
"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."
Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.
The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.
The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.
"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.
Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:
"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"
The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.
A moment. A sound—low and guttural.
And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.
The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.
A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.
The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.
Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.
Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.
As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.
The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.
Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.
The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.
He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.
Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.
"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.
Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.
"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.
Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.
The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.
While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.
Oh, he was nothing like his brother.
Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?
Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.
He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.
Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?
The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.
"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.
"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.
Geta.
Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.
"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."
"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.
Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.
"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.
"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."
"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."
"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."
"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.
"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"
Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.
"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.
To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.
"Thank you, Caesar."
The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.
"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.
Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.
"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.
Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.
"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.
Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.
"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.
"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"
"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.
They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.
A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.
She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.
"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.
A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.
Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.
"It is blood, my Caesar."
"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!
When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?
In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.
He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.
"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.
For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.
Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.
She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.
She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.
Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…
"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.
"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.
"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.
A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.
"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.
"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.
The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.
"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"
Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.
"What did you do to anger the emperors?"
"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."
Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.
Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.
Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.
"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.
"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.
"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"
"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."
Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.
The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.
"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."
Amata. Beloved.
She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.
Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.
And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.
A touch.
A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.
She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.
It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.
Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.
Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story.
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