pre-fame hozier tweeting this casually in 2012 like it isnât the best fucking joke iâve ever heard in my life, decimating all my brain cells instantly
A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*
summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...
warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too
word count: ~1k
chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV
«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»
-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)
â ⌠â
She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for deathâthough even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.
In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sistersâdwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.
But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.
The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chestâat least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.
And of one thing, she is certainâEmperor Caracalla will make sure itâs a grand one.
"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.
She knows where she is. These are the emperorâs private quartersâonly they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.
Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.
"Expected my brother?"
His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.
He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.
"My dear, youâve found yourself in quite the predicament, havenât you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And heâŠ"
Geta paused meaningfully.
"âŠand he is dead, little bird."
A handâsomeone elseâsâlands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.
So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.
Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hotâhotter than usual.
Then she felt the moisture.
Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.
And then she screamed.
His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.
Red.
Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.
"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. Youâre a widow nowâcongratulations."
His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.
"I promise, this night wonât count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.
She doesnât want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.
"And oh, thatâs not all!"
He releases her, and yet she remains still.
"A gift!"
He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesnât want to know whatâs inside.
But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.
In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.
Caracalla is pleased.
Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But itâs not.
A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.
She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husbandâs hand.
To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.
"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."
"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.
As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husbandâsâthe ring wouldnât fit any other finger.
Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.
How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.
She couldnât take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ringâher husbandâs ringâthe one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.
Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ringâthe one her husband had given herâonly to remember. It is gone.
Geta took it.
Caracallaâs gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brotherâs ring.
"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Getaâs hand.
"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." Heâs clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirkâbut his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. Heâs wary of his brotherâs reaction, she realizes.
In the short time Cassandra has known them, sheâs learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this tooâthough he holds far more privileges, he doesnât dare to gloat too openly.
A shiver runs down her spine.
A bet? They were betting? On her?
Caracallaâs expression darkens.
"Youâre always like this! You must have cheated, didnât you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesnât approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.
"And you⊠One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"
"YoursâŠ" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.
"No, this time you wonât get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "Youâll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"
"I didnâtâŠ" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.
He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?
Geta watches with interest, tilting his headâjust like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.
Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesnât even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.
"Donât kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"
"I donât need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didnât you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"
The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apartâbut it isnât lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.
What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?
Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.
"Hold her."
And Geta does.
Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.
Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleadingâ
But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.
Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.
Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.
When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.
"Iâll reward you, brand you with your emperorâs name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you wonât forget."
She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.
He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.
"Upânow," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.
The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, heâd found yet another way to break her.
Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didnât look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.
"Whenâs the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.
"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.
"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husbandâs blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours⊠yours starts now."
There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.
â ⌠â
Hey friends, weâre almost at the finish lineâthe next chapterâs gonna be the last one, and itâs kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! đââïž
summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...
warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, dub-con, caracalla is a freak (he's cute tho), geta is mean too
word count: 4k
chapter I
chapter II
chapter III
«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»
-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)
â â ⌠â â
"Please, mistress, stay still," the slave murmured, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a finger, leaving behind a thin layer of ointment.
Cassandra lowered her eyes, as if the girl could somehow know how she had earned that wound. Perhaps she suspected. Perhaps she knew for certainâthere had been enough witnesses to her disgrace.
She had almost forgotten what it was like to live without the emperor invading her thoughts. What had occupied her mind before Rome? Before all of this? Her family. Giving her husband a son, an heir. Becoming an honorable wife and mother, someone her father and sisters could be proud of.
Would they be proud now, if they knew the truth? Would they smile and nod, the way Antoniaâs father had done before the crowd? What would they feel if they knew that the cruel, shameless emperor had begun haunting her dreams? And sheâshe had started turning away from her husband, recoiling at his touch. Everything reminded her of what she had endured. And the worst part? Her husbandâs touch felt worse.
The games were supposed to continue today, but judging by the relentless downpour, they would likely be canceled again. The emperors would not take it well.
Tiberius paced the room, irritation evident in every step as he waited for the slaves to finish dressing her. He was growing more restless by the day, lost in his own thoughts, seemingly oblivious to her shattered state.
Once she was ready, his gaze softened.
Her husband pulled her close and pressed a gentle kiss on her lips.
A shudder ran through her at the thought that Emperor Caracalla would have surely enjoyed knowing that Tiberius was now kissing the very mouth he had defiled.
She had no idea where her husband was taking her, and her confusion only grew when they stepped into a grand chamber three times the size of their own. Only the most powerful could live in such luxury. Cassandraâs gaze landed on General Acacius, standing beside his wife, Lucilla. They were clearly expecting Tiberiusâbut not her, if the generalâs surprised look was anything to go by.
Servants brought wine and delicacies, but Cassandra didnât touch them. She sat stiffly, nervous, unsure why she was here. Tiberius and Acacius moved to the side, speaking in hushed tones. Lucilla, ever the gracious hostess, smiled warmly and made light conversation, filling the silence until the men returned.
"Tell him what theyâve done this time," Acacius said, quiet yet firm.
Lucilla met his gaze, then looked at Tiberius, then finally at Cassandra.
"They sent the Praetorians. They knew I wouldnât come willingly," she said.
Cassandra didnât need names. She already knew who she meant.
"And what did those madmen want now?"
"They wanted me to adopt them. To declare them my sons before the people of Rome," Lucilla said, lips curling in disgust. "Oh, Geta was upset when I declined. But Caracalla⊠he had another proposal. One I refuse to repeat."
"That insolent whelp!" Tiberius hissed, as if it were his own wife they had insulted.
She could feel her ears and cheeks burning. Lucilla had the strength to refuse, backed by her husband, the general, the shadow of her dead fatherâthe emperorâand the love of the people. Cassandra had nothing. Her husband was her only shield, but he didnât notice what was happening, and even if he had, there was little he could do about it.
"Their antics are getting worse every day! How much longer are we going to tolerate this?" her husband whispered again.
"Patience, my friend, patience. Iâll handle it," Acacius reassured him, and Tiberius relaxed, his tension easing.
No more was said about the emperors, but Cassandra sat there, as if on needles. What had they talked about? What were they planning? Unfortunately, the conversation shifted to something else and didnât return to the same topic. She wasnât allowed to interfere in such matters. Lucilla excused herself, citing business to attend to, and soon after, Tiberius commanded Cassandra to return to their quarters since there was no more company for her.
â â ⌠â â
The palace was cold and empty. Morning had barely begun, and most noblemen were still asleep. Cassandra shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her bare shoulders and arms. There was no need to rush, so she walked slowly along the covered terrace, watching the rain.
One way or another, he would find her. As long as she remained in the palace, she would never be safe. The realization brought her an odd sense of calm. Let him do as he pleased.
"What business did General Acacius and his wife have that warranted your visit? Has something happened?"
That wasnât Caracallaâs voice.
Cassandra turned to face the unexpected guestâEmperor Geta.
He looked even gloomier than usual today. Dressed in black and gold, with no laurel to soften his appearance, his face powdered white and his eyes rimmed in red, he resembled the harbinger of death more than an imperial ruler.
It was impossible to miss his anger. Geta, though trying to keep his composure, couldnât hide it. His jaw clenched beneath his pale skin, and his lips were pressed into a tight line.
And his eyesâoh, those eyes. Exactly the kind that should belong to a herald of darknessâdark, vast, as though no light could reach beyond his irises. Not the transparent, innocent, deceptive blue ones.
"My husband is close to the general, and I enjoy Lucillaâs company. She is a decent woman," Cassandra answered calmly. She had nothing to hide.
"Oh yes, Lucilla," he said, his voice dropping, rougher now, his lips twisted. "My brother is captivated by her as well."
She remembered what Lucilla had saidâhow the emperors had asked her to adopt them. Remembered how they told her she looked like their mother. And how Caracalla had forced her to wear his motherâs robes. Even now, she stood there wearing his motherâs tunic, The cloak, the earrings, the bracelets, the ringsânone of them were hers. And Geta knew that too.
Had his conversation with Lucilla upset him this much? Who else could cut an emperor so deep? Wellâperhaps only another emperor.
"And you⊠you enchant him too, donât you, little bird?"
His tongue darted out, wetting his pale lipsâa nervous habit, perhaps. He stepped forward again, then again, until he was so close she could feel his breath. One more step, and theyâd be too close.
"Thatâs what he calls you, isnât it?"
Hereâs no warmth from him, just coldness, like heâs made of marble. And he smells different, not sweet at all; she can clearly sense the familiar scent of powder, but the sharp herbal scent that lingers around him is unfamiliar.
Geta, despite his involvement in her torment, had always seemed distant to her, withdrawn, uninterested in the games his brother played. Or so she thought. Caracalla wanted somethingâGeta indulged him. Thatâs how it had been until yesterday evening, when one of the brothers had claimed something that wasnât his.
"Iâve always been his," the emperor breathed. "I shared everything with him. Protected him. Stood by his side. I love him."
His thumb brushed the wound at the corner of her lips. He knew. He knew exactly who had done this to her.
"We forgive a lot when it comes to familyâeven when that family is insane. Donât we?â His voice dropped lower, darker. âAnd this is how he repays me? With mockery?"
She didnât understand, but his gaze darkened even further, his brows knitting together, aging his young face.
"I⊠Iâm sorry that you and your brother are at oddsâŠ"
"At odds?" He let out a bitter, low laugh. "Oh, this isnât a quarrel. But he knows better than anyone how to wound me."
A cold hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up. He was taller than his brother, his hand was rougher.
"And your rejection wounded me, little bird. Am I so unappealing? Or do you simply prefer my brother?"
She barely stopped herself from pulling away. No, not this again. She had learned to endure Caracallaâbut not both of them.
What twisted game was this for her attention? They could take her by force, anytime, anywhere. Caracalla already did. So why did Geta care whether she showed him favor?
"If he wonât share, Iâll take what I want myself."
And he did.
They were alike and yet so different. His touch may be cold, but his mouth is like his brotherâsâgreedy, hot. He was rougher. No smiles, no soft touchesâhis hand clamped down on her waist, tight enough to bruise. Teeth sank into her lower lip, then a hot tongue traced the same spot, creating a sharp contrast.
"He took you from your husband, now Iâm taking you from him. What do you think?" he whispers into her mouth.
She didnât want to answer. She wanted to pull away, to run. The sound of rain mixed with the pounding of her own heart. He looked different now. The powder was gone from his lips, and Cassandra could still taste it on her tongue after their kiss. His lips were red, full, and gave life to his pale face. He was handsome. In his own way. Caracalla was handsome too. But both of them were corrupted, debauched, greedy. What is she supposed to do?
"Please, donât involve me in this! I beg you! Iâll be leaving soon, and youâll never see me again, I promise!" she mumbled.
His eyes flickered with barely contained irritation.
"Do you beg my brother the same way? And whatâhe just lets you go?" A rough laugh escaped his lips.
Was this all about Caracalla? Does he really want to get under his brotherâs skin this much?
Cassandra had three younger sistersâshe had raised them after their mother died, fought with them, argued with them. But she had never wanted to truly hurt them.
But these twoâtwins. Co-rulers. The most powerful men in Rome. No one could wound them except each other.
A strong hand grabs hers once more, sliding the ring off her left handâs fourth finger. Geta twisted the delicate band between his fingersâso simple, compared to the heavy signet rings adorning his own handâbefore removing one from his pinky and replacing it with hers. Now, her fragile, tiny ring rested on his pinky.
"Now weâre bound, huh? The vein leads straight to the heart, right, little bird?" He seemed like himself again, the brooding crease gone, his eyes no longer angry. But still, he mocked her.
"The vein of love," they had told her and Tiberius when she married him, claiming it ran through the fourth finger and bound spouses together. Now she had neither love nor the ringâonly a large gold signet with a blue stone.
"Now go, Iâm no longer holding you," he said, swiping his tongue over his lips again, a half-smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as if heâd done something wicked.
â â ⌠â â
Not wanting to tempt fate, she nearly ran back to her chambers, rushing past the very spot where Caracalla had defiled her mouth just a day ago. Gods, this entire palace felt like nothing but a place of fear and shame. Now, she was terrified Caracalla might find out about today. Cassandra stopped herself. Since when did the opinion of another man matter more than her own husbandâs? It was him she had betrayed. It was him she had been unfaithful to. Not Caracalla.
The thought of running to her father, or even confessing everything to her husband, Lucilla, or anyone else, spun through her mind again and again. She didnât care anymore. If the Gods wouldnât listen to her prayers, if they had abandoned her to be torn apart, what did she have left to lose?
This time, she was truly resolved. If Tiberius wouldnât leave with her, she would ask for a divorce. She hadnât given him an heir, she had dishonored him and his house by lying with another man. Let her reputation be ruined, let her be sent back to her father in disgrace, let her name be erased from the inheritance, but at least she would be free.
As she angrily packed the few things she had, her hands trembled and her thoughts raced. It was his fault. He swore to protect and honor her, yet he was so consumed by his own affairs that he still failed to see what everyone else already had. She didnât belong to him anymore. She didnât even belong to herself.
"What are you doing?" Hearing her husbandâs voice, Cassandra didnât turn around.
"Iâm leaving, with or without you," the words finally escaped her lips, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her.
He didnât answer immediately, but his heavy hand landed on her shoulder, forcing her to turn.
"Hit me, tie me up, do whatever you want. I canât stay here anymore!"
To her surprise, Tiberius was calm, subdued. His hand gently stroked her cheek, and she immediately felt a wave of disgust at the bad memories.
"Please, just one night," he pleaded, his voice full of desperation. "Just one night, and Iâll lay Rome at your feet. If you want, you can go back to the villa, or to your father, but not now. Not today."
Cassandra didnât love him. Right now, she even hated him, but her heart softened, and despite all her self-scolding, she had no choice but to agree. One last night.
"In the morning, l'm leaving," she said firmly.
She'd never been so resolute. When you have nothing left to lose, there's no fear.
That's what she thought.
The rest of the day, Cassandra stayed in her chambers, comforted by the thought that tomorrow everything would end.
No more games, no more emperors, no more palaces, no more humiliations.
Maybe she'd stay with her husband and give him a son after all, or maybe she'd ask for a divorce and return to her father, childless and unmarried, but with what little honor she had left.
She glared at Geta's signet ring with hatred. What if he hadn't claimed her today? Would she have endured her brother's debauchery until the end of the games? Probably.
A nervous laugh escaped her lips. So, should she thank him? She had just reached to pull the ring off when a sharp knock at the door made her freeze. Who could it be? Tiberius wouldnât knock.
"Imperial Guard! Open up!" a voice commanded from the other side.
Night had long fallen. A visit at this hour could mean nothing good.
Still, she obeyed, schooling her face into something unreadable as she pulled the door open.
"Come with us, domina. Youâre expected."
There was no room for argument; that much was clear.
Not wanting to be dragged through the halls like a criminal, Cassandra followed the Praetorians. But inside, panic twisted her stomach, her palms damp with sweat. This wasnât just some summons. Something was happening. Something final.
She expected to be taken to Caracallaâs chambersâbut no, they led her straight to the throne room. And when she saw her husband kneeling on the cold marble, with General Acacius and Lucilla standing nearby, surrounded by Praetorians, a terrible weight settled in her chest.
She wanted to run.
This wouldnât end well.
Then she saw them. And she realised she probably wouldnât survive the night. They werenât thinking about her anymoreânot their petty games, not their rivalry, and certainly not her body. Before her stood not bickering brothers, but emperorsâfurious, merciless, ready to pass judgment.
They didnât even look like themselves. Both had clearly been dragged from their beds. Geta was wrapped in a red silk robe, barefoot, without his usual powdered face. He looked youngâalmost boyishâwith his trembling lips and restless movements.
And Caracalla⊠to meet Caracallaâs eyes now was to court death. She couldnât tell who he hated moreâher or the ones who had betrayed them. Though, the difference was probably negligible.
The emperor is vulnerable. Cassandra watches as he pulls the sheet tighter around himself, stripped of his makeup and fine clothesâyoung, looking almost innocent, just like his brother. Heâs irritated, uncomfortable that sheâs seeing him like this, his lips, red even without paint, twisting in displeasure. She almost let out a nervous laugh, but there was no room for laughter now.
Pretorians shoved her to her knees next to her husband, doing it roughly, without any care. Acacius and Lucilla have already been dragged from the throne roomâtheir sentence has been passed, judging by the rage still burning in the emperors' eyes. Now itâs their turn.
"Our general! The Senate! All of themâtraitors, liars!" Geta paces back and forth, clutching the fabric of his robe against his pale body. His voice trembles, breaking into something close to hysteria.
Through the sting of tears, she barely saw him. Just a red blur, darting back and forth.
"I gave you everything! I pulled you out of that wretched hole you called home! I gave you a position, a roof over your headâmy friendship!" His voice cracked. "And this is how you repay me? With betrayal?"
"What do I need your friendship for, boy?" Tiberius' voice was like ice. "You and your brother are insane. If you think Iâm the last, youâre wrong. Others will come. They will betray you again and again, until youâre both dead."
Cassandraâs stomach dropped.
Silence, gods, silence him!
If he stopped now, maybe their deaths would be quick. Maybe it wouldnât be so painful. But as she looked up, she knewâit was too late.
Geta had gone deathly pale, his face frozen in pure, seething rage. Only his eyes burned, black as coal.
"You'll be crucified like the worthless filth you are, and your name will be forgotten!" he spat. "You and your wife will feel our wrath in full."
For the first time since the praetorians had brought her in, Cassandra was mentioned, but Geta didn't even glance at her, unleashing his fury on Tiberius instead. But Caracalla was watching her.
She could feel his gaze like a physical weight. Cold, hateful-he wasn't playful anymore, not even trying to force a smile. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his light brows were furrowed. For the first time, the emperor seemed fully human, wrapped in a white sheet, sitting on one of the golden thrones.
"She didn't know anything. There's no need to kill her," her husband interjected, clearly making things worse.
At his words, Caracalla suddenly erupted in high-pitched laughter, clapping his hands. He stood up, and Cassandra instinctively shrank back, wanting to vanish. A long sword fell from his lap, one he didnât even bother to pick up. The sound of his bare feet was oddly loud. She didnât dare raise her gaze, fully convinced that he would kill her right then and there. His little pet wasnât what he had expected, and the games needed to stop.
"Didnât know anything," he drawled. "Poor, innocent girl, huh?" He stopped right in front of her, forcing her to lift her head, painfully grabbing her chin, squeezing.
"Leave her alone!" Her husbandâs words no longer mattered. Both emperors could see that he didnât regret his betrayal and was ready for death, but⊠but she wasnât part of his plan. It seemed he truly cared for her.
Geta seemed calmer now, though he still nervously snapped his fingers. Following his brother, he moved closer, looking directly at her for the first time. Not breaking eye contact, he spoke:
"Macrinus, when did you learn of the conspiracy?" He addressed someone behind her.
"The day you were attacked in the Colosseum, Emperor," a voice behind her replied. "After we left the box, Senator Thraex kindly told me. That same day, the traitors plotted the conspiracy."
Geta and Caracallaâs lips curled into synchronized, sinister smiles.
"Lucilla and your wife, it seems, were close, yes?" Geta began, dripping with false sweetness.
"She didnât know anything, stop this game!"
"And why should we believe the words of a fucking traitor, hmm?" The usual Caracalla seemed to be back, playfully twisting her head from side to side, still squeezing her chin painfully. The last time she had knelt before him, it hadnât ended well. Her cheeks flushed, and her heart pounded in fear.
Nothing could escape his gaze; his eyes, black from dilated pupils, immediately locked onto her face, examining, scrutinizing, reading every emotion. His lips stretched into a grin, revealing a gold tooth. Even naked, wrapped only in a sheet, he was tied to gold.
"But letâs ask our esteemed Roman matron, weâre not tyrants after all, right, brother?" Geta's chuckle served as his answer. No one in the room believed those words. "Where were you when your husband was plotting against us? Where were you after the games?"
He knew the answer. And so did she. Her neck, cheeks, and ears flushed with color. Tiberius had remained proud and defiant to the end, and they had decided to play a different game. Judging by the dilated pupils and smug grins on their faces, everything had taken a turn they both enjoyed. They would destroy her husband's spirit, then hers, and then kill them both.
"With you, Caesar," she replied obediently, knowing silence would only make things worse. She had been told this countless times by the emperors themselves.
Tiberius immediately turned at her words, looking at her with his lips pressed tight. She hadnât said anything terrible yet, butâŠ
"You know, my brother can be so forgetful at times," Geta's tone took on a softness, a slyness akin to Caracalla's. Now they were bound by shared hatred, a common penchant for sadism, and the desire to destroy them. "Could you remind him what that meeting was about?"
"Caesar, I..." she couldn't say it. She couldn't say anything at all. Tears silently streamed down her cheeks. The last humiliation remained, and then it would all be over. Suddenly, she felt a bit of relief. They couldn't reach her once she was dead.
"Speak, girl," Caracalla's thumb slid across her mouth, tracing its outline harshly, roughly, anything but tenderly, "or you'll lose your little tongue and won't be able to defend yourself."
"I was with Emperor Caracalla. One of the slave girls saw us. After the games... We were at the altar, and..."
Yet, the words wouldn't come; she just couldn't voice the filth they expected from her, not while Tiberius looked at her with such disappointment in his eyes.
"Oh, how I love that even after everything that's happened between us, the little bird is still so pure," Caracalla burst out laughing, releasing her face. "I remember and will answer for her. I fucked her on my father's ashes, and because of that, she will live. Once again, the emperor has been too merciful, hasn't he, Senator?"
Live? She felt sick. She didnât want to live. Not now, when the disgust in her husbandâs eyes was so palpable. Ashamed, she turned away, sobbing.
"What, little bird? Did you truly believe you could get rid of me so easily? Your emperor?" His hand stroked her hair, soothing her as if she were an untamed animal. "No," he drawled, "youâre not capable of such a thing. You could have ended me, not once and not twiceâbit off my cock, after all," and again, that hysterical laughter escaped him, his gaze fixed on her husband. Caracalla wanted to ensure Tiberius truly understood his words, "but no, you obediently took it, as you should."
She will never have it her way; he'll never let her simply leave or die, he'll keep playing until the very end.
"And yet," Geta began, "she deserves punishment, doesn't she?"
Cassandra lifted her tear-stained face to him. Why? Why was he partaking in this? Was it her refusal that offended him, or was it simpler, that he, like his brother, just enjoyed tormenting her?
"An unfaithful wife," Caracalla mused, tapping his finger against his lips as if her trial were happening right then in front of all Romeâs esteemed citizens. Only, there were no esteemed citizens here. "What a heinous crime!" He gasped theatrically, covered his mouth in mock horror. "Tiberius, you were faithful to your wife, werenât you? I believe you were, but your sweet young wife, she was not so loyal. And if I, an honorable man unburdened by the chains of marriage, can partake in such acts, then, by the gods, what was she thinking?"
She wanted to sink into the groundâor maybe charge at the emperor, and then theyâd kill her right there, so she wouldnât have to endure these humiliating speeches anymore. But Cassandra didnât move; she didnât have the courage. Humiliated and cowardly, she stayed on her knees, arms wrapped around herself in a pitiful attempt to find some comfort. Tiberius didnât even look at her. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, focused on where Caracalla was caricaturing a trial.
"Women are inherently corrupt, you know," Geta joined in. "'Chaste is she whom no one has coveted' isnât that right?"
In the torch-lit darkness of the hall, their hair seemed to burn against their pale skin. Both had dark, piercing eyes, still furious over the betrayal, yet satisfied with their petty revenge. Cassandra watched as they exchanged looks, their smiles perfectly synchronized. Caracallaâs grin only grew wider at his brotherâs words. There they were, the very embodiment of vice, pride, and wrath.
How can he say such things? How dare he speak as if she wanted all the terrible things the emperor did to her!? Was he blaming her? She looked at her husband desperately, but he seemed to share the emperorâs view, his lips tight, his Adamâs apple bobbing under his pale skin.
Oh, they had gotten what they wantedâhe was enraged, furious! And all because of her. Was she really to blame for everything? Maybe it was the way she looked at the emperor, maybe sheâd allowed too much, given the slightest hint? Her heart pounded so violently, it felt like it might shatter her ribs.
"But donât worry, Tiberius, Iâll punish her as she deserves," the mockery and the insinuation so obvious it made her want to scream. "After your death, of course, but if you ask nicely, I'll show you how to handle women so they don't betray they vows, right now."
He leaned slightly toward her, his hot hand on her neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow between her collarbones, making her gasp and cough.
"Wouldn't a golden collar look exquisite on this little neck, hm? For the next games, I'll take you with me," his whisper burned her ear. "Naked."
Cassandra recoiled, bracing her hands against her knees, her head dropping. He was insane. The feverish gleam in his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the way he bit his lower lip, his heavier breathing-all of it terrified her. He wasn't a mere sadist; he was completely out of his mind.
It seemed that even his brother found his words too deranged this time.
"Sheâll be judged as she should be. The Senate⊠or whatâs left of it, and we, of course, will pass a sentence fitting her crime."
"But I want her for myself!" Caracallaâs voice turned bitter, low with anger. How dare his brother forbid him anything!
"This wonât do. Sheâs still the daughter of a powerful man, and how do you think the Senate will react? Will you take their wives too?"
"Iâll take them if I wish!" Caracalla snapped petulantly, his playful mood shifting to fury.
It seemed they were about to clash, to fight right in front of them. Gods, her life was hanging by a thread, and they were acting like spoiled children! How insignificant she must be in their eyes.
And yet, the fight never came. In a gesture of reconciliation, Geta pulled his brother into an embrace, his arms settling around his delicate shoulders. Leaning in, he whispered something into his ear. Cassandra caught his gaze and knew at onceâhe was speaking of her. Caracalla smiled again.
At Getaâs command, she was taken away. No one spoke to her after that.
Tiberius remained in the hall. She knew she would never see him again. One last time, she turned to look at her husband, hoping to catch his eye, but he never looked back.
To him, she was already dead.
â â ⌠â â
Hey friends! The next chapter will be a short one, but itâs coming out tomorrow! Honestly, I didnât think anyone would like my work since I love dark and tragic stories, and theyâre usually not very popular. So Iâm really grateful for all the kind wordsâit truly inspires me! đ
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