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Emperor Geta's red gold robe in Gladiator 2 4k

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📖 Closer| Chapter 3 - About beautiful gifts, nice conversations and poems

The first chapters can be found here.

"Non dono, sed animo." — "It is not the gift, but the intention that matters." (Seneca)

A few weeks later, she stood in the spacious atrium of her home, carefully examining the impressive chest that had been carried in by the servants and placed in the center of the room. The sender of this lavish gift was unmistakable: the lid, draped in rich purple brocade, bore a laurel wreath—a clear signature. Lucretia did not rush to approach it, allowing herself first to take in the sight of the chest before pondering her next steps.

She was not surprised that Geta had sent her such a gift. Attention from him was predictable. After admiring the exquisite hue of the fabric, shimmering in the torchlight, and the golden ornaments adorning the sides, she finally decided to approach and lift the lid to peer inside.

The contents were undeniably impressive and, of course, extravagant. Silk and other fine fabrics, shimmering in shades of gold and vivid red—colors clearly favored by the emperor—were neatly arranged in sections. Their richness was evident to the eye and the touch, which Lucretia immediately appreciated.

Another section held jewelry: necklaces, earrings, and rings sparkling with the brilliance of various gemstones. Picking up one of the heavy golden bracelets, she smirked at its weight, feeling the opulence in her hands.

As she continued exploring the chest's contents, Lucretia found herself reflecting on the impracticality of wearing some of these items given her status. The overwhelming array of cosmetics drew an ironic laugh—it rivaled the stock of a small perfumery, ensuring she wouldn't need to visit one for years.

There was no denying the beauty and value of the emperor's gifts, but it was obvious he hadn't personally curated them. Likely, he had merely instructed his servants to prepare the chest. She took no offense at this; Geta undoubtedly had more pressing matters to attend to. Yet the main question that crossed her mind was: "How many such chests had been sent across Rome?" She was well aware of his inclination toward grand gestures and his eagerness to impress. Laughing softly at her thoughts, she continued to sift through the fabrics with care.

Imagining twenty identical chests, carelessly packed in karthea, delivered to the homes of women who piqued his interest, she laughed even louder.

The gift was pleasant to her, but not for the reasons one might expect. It was the utility of it—the ease with which it allowed her to boast or benefit—that she appreciated. Not for affection, and certainly not for the memory of Geta himself. Did he ever give something personally, something imbued with even a spark of genuine warmth? Or was he, like his golden armor and shimmering silks, a dazzling figure of status but ultimately hollow—just a soulless, glittering metal?

The laughter in Lukrecia's eyes faded, replaced by a somber sadness. He had seemed lively and, in his own way, amusing during their recent encounters. Yet, recalling that night at the feast—their one truly stirring moment—Lukrecia resolved to ignore her very existence in his world, determined to avoid any trace of awkwardness.

But the coffer, with its wealth of jewels and silks, left her feeling more unsettled than gratified. Did he believe this was enough to stir genuine feelings? Was this display of extravagance meant to replace sincerity, to mask something emptier beneath?

She remained seated beside the ornate wooden coffer, her thoughts spiraling back to the past weeks' events, grappling with the questions his gesture left behind.

***

After that exhilarating night, much to her deep displeasure and the inner shame that threatened to rise to the surface, she had to cross paths with Geta several more times.

These were events of various kinds, where she was accompanied—or rather, compelled to attend—by Marcus Tullius, under flimsy pretexts such as the need to spend more time in society, to unwind, and similar reasons. Although one extravagant and ostentatious celebration had already been more than enough for her.

Nevertheless, the young widow did not refuse, yielding to the old man's pressure, and attended several lively gatherings and dinners.

Among the pleasant moments, she once again had the chance to meet the witty red—haired woman, Cesellia, and enjoy an evening in her company.

Among the less pleasant—another striking red—haired presence, this time belonging to a man, who seemed to attend every dinner without exception.

And among the truly unbearable, strangely enough, was the heightened attention directed at her by men of various ages and ranks, who delicately tested the waters of her potential interest in remarriage.

The first conversation with Geta took place at a dinner gathering where the guest list was small enough to deprive her of any chance to hide from his attention. His focus was obvious but had, until then, been silent and distant. The young emperor caught her gaze every time they found themselves in the same room, holding it with a heavy, almost oppressive intensity, as though waiting for Lucretia to falter—blush, hesitate, or even momentarily lose her composure. She held firm, deciding it was a staring contest, where the first to look away would lose. The red—haired emperor's clear displeasure with her unshakable demeanor was so evident on his face that, over time, Lucretia began to find these 'staring duels' from across the room rather amusing

He approached her confidently and purposefully, though under the guise of heading toward the elderly senator, just as the man rose from his seat, preparing to step away from the table.

—  Emperor, — Marcus Tullius said respectfully, inclining his head out of habit. — Please excuse me, but I need to step away for a few minutes.

Geta nodded a little too quickly, as though this approach to the senator had been nothing more than a pretense.

—   Of course, I'll keep your charming companion company in the meantime, — the emperor replied with exaggerated politeness, casting a deliberate glance toward Lucretia. She hastily sipped her wine, using the goblet to conceal the ironic smirk that tugged at her lips.

The old man was no fool. He had noticed the overt exchanges of glances between the young emperor and the widow. Disliking Geta as he did, he naturally didn't view their interaction or the emperor's apparent interest in his ward as a favorable turn of events. Still, he chose not to oppose it outright. Instead, he threw a cautionary look at Lucretia, his concern for her well—being evident, particularly given her tendency toward excessive frankness.

She pretended not to notice his silent warning. Moments later, Marcus Tullius departed, leaving the two young people alone.

—  How is your evening progressing? — Geta began smoothly as he settled into the seat beside her. — Are you satisfied with everything? — His second question carried a deliberate note of provocation.

—  Quite so ,— the young widow replied, sensing a subtle tension but choosing not to address it directly. — A very pleasant evening, as is the company, — she added, carefully placing her goblet back on the table. — You see, I don't handle large crowds very well, and tonight's gathering is perfectly balanced for my comfort.

Geta paused, momentarily thrown off by her composed and straightforward response. He had, for some reason, braced himself for a subtle clash of words, similar to the one that lingered in his memory from the banquet. Searching for his next move, he unconsciously began tapping his fingers on the table in a soft, rhythmic pattern—a telltale sign of his underlying unease.

—  And how is your evening going? — she asked, noticing his tapping fingers but keeping her gaze fixed firmly on his face.

—  Evenings like these are meant to foster harmony with advisors; philosophers find this atmosphere inviting and amicable,— he began explaining, his tone oddly formal. Turning his head so she could now only see his profile, he continued speaking, his fingers once again drumming lightly on the table.

—  That's not what I asked, — Lucretia interjected with a faint smile, mirroring a phrase he had thrown at her weeks ago.

Geta's expression flickered with irritation. He turned back to her sharply, faster than the situation warranted, meeting her eyes with a simmering intensity.

—  Of course, it's pleasant. I oversaw the planning personally, — he replied, his voice carrying a slight quaver of youthful defiance, while his amber eyes gleamed with an edge of hostility.

—  Do you always ignite so easily? — she asked, her tone light but pointed.

—  Do you find that amusing? — he hissed, his words laced with a thin veneer of restraint.

—  Very, — she replied simply. Though she wanted to smile wider or even let out a soft laugh, she held herself back. — It wasn't my intention to unsettle you. The evening is truly wonderful. I was just curious if you're enjoying it as much as I am.

It was evident he was weighing his responses carefully, seeking the one that would let him reclaim his upper hand in their conversation.

—  You're not easily flustered, I've noticed, — he said, his tone bordering on outright disrespect. It was a dirty tactic, bordering on outright disrespect. Then again, he wasn't the one secretly observing someone in such a delicate situation. In truth, he wouldn't have minded being the one doing the watching, given the chance.

Lucretia summoned all the strength and composure granted to her by the gods to avoid openly snapping at him. First, because his reaction might prove unpredictable. And second, because he wasn't entirely wrong, having caught her in a rather compromising act. Yet she still didn't feel ashamed of that incident. On the contrary, a warm rush coursed through her body every time she recalled that night.

—  Are you trying to unsettle me,— she asked with a deliberately gentle tone, — or do you simply not know how to express affection?

He exhaled sharply, more in frustration than reply, pulling his hand away from the table as though to stop himself from drumming on its surface. Geta was at a loss. He truly wanted to show his interest, but he wasn't used to treading carefully. After all, with the women who caught his eye, it usually didn't take long for both sides to end up seeing each other unclothed—mutually, of course, unlike in this one—sided instance.

—  Perhaps a bit of both,— he finally found his words.

—  Then consider the first goal accomplished.

—  And the second?

—  I can't say yet — you've only just begun.

Lucretia found herself enjoying his strange sense of uncertainty, as well as their brief yet thrilling conversation. Tonight, the young emperor seemed far more endearing, free of the heavy eye makeup and overly whitened complexion. He appeared strikingly youthful. Geta was clearly restraining his usual impulses toward bluntness, and the effort flattered her. Yet, his current caution gave no promises of tranquility in the long run.

—  Do you enjoy poetry? — he suddenly changed the subject.

—  Only the kind that moves the heart, — the young widow replied, her smile widening slightly.

Geta wanted to continue their increasingly engaging conversation, but one of his advisors interrupted, leaning in to whisper something urgent in his ear. It was clear the matter demanded immediate attention. At that same moment, the elderly senator returned to the table, offering apologies for his extended absence.

The emperor's irritation was evident, but he rose nonetheless, citing pressing matters that required his attention. Before departing, his gaze briefly but pointedly lingered on Lucretia.

***

The young woman froze in her thoughts, absentmindedly fidgeting with the edge of fabric from the coffer. An unusual sound, like the faint rustling of parchment, caught her attention and pulled her back to reality. At the very bottom, beneath the colorful swatches of various textures, lay a small, neatly folded sheet. Lucretia carefully picked it up, and, pulling at the silk ribbon, unfolded the note:

Tu, ne quaesieris, scire nefas,Quis mihi, quem tibi, quem tibi sit futurusTempus, quaeritur semper.

"Do not ask—it's forbidden to know—What tomorrow holds for me,What is destined for you."

She read the handwritten text several times, her gaze slowly tracing each syllable. Exhaling evenly, as though realizing only then that she had been holding her breath throughout the reading, Lucretia set the parchment aside—but didn't fully let go. Her fingers softly caressed its surface.

Geta had written this himself, and for her, such a gesture was worth more than a thousand gilded coffers.

[intimatedear]

Ох, I mean how hard it is to force myself to write 😅

[intimatedear]

Compliments on your writing are better than sex

[intimatedear]

[intimatedear]

[intimatedear]

writers be like “he smiled” and then put that poor man through seven layers of psychological torment because it wasn’t a real smile

[intimatedear]

📖 CLOSER — A Fanfiction Set in Gladiator II Universe

🏛️ CLOSER

A story of empire, obsession, and the silence between power and desire.

📍 Setting: Ancient Rome. 📍 Fandom: Gladiator II · historical drama · original female character 📍 Genre: drama · slowburn · psychological intimacy · 📍 Languages: English (posted here) & Russian (available on AO3) 📍 Status: ongoing — chapters will be posted individually

🩸 In Rome, nothing happens without reason — not a feast, not a whisper, not a glance. Here, people live too close to be honest, and too far apart to truly understand one another. The emperors are young, ambitious, vulnerable. They are surrounded by luxury, blood, and expectation. Lucretia does not seek power — yet each step draws her deeper into the dense fabric of the Empire. She does not fight, but she does not yield.

This is not a story about the struggle for power. It’s a story about how hard it is to remain yourself when everything around you demands you become someone else. And about how, sometimes, silence speaks louder than any command.

“Love is full of both honey and gall.” — Plautus, Curculio

📖 Chapters: → Chapter 0. → Chapter 1. → Chapter 2. → Chapter 3. → Chapter 4. (more coming soon…)

🎭 Themes & Content Warnings: ⚠️ dub-con · coercion · psychological violence ⚠️ deviant behavior · obsession · manipulation ⚠️ toxic relationships · emotional trauma · power imbalance ⚠️ canon-level violence · grey morality · historical setting ⚠️ mentions of incest · implied noncon context 🔞 mature / explicit content

❤️ Pairings & Dynamics: M/F/M threesome · M/F · M/M (both emotional & physical)

Additional themes: • ancient Rome · political intrigue · trauma bonding • hurt/comfort · emotional spirals · unhealthy desire • twins · imperial decadence · moral ambiguity

📌 Posting format: Each chapter will be posted in a separate entry. All links will be gathered here once published. This is a 21+ space — please mind the content.

💬 English version will be posted here. A full Russian version is available — feel free to reach out if you're curious. (You can also find me on AO3 under the same name)

🖋 Written & self-translated by IntimateDear

[intimatedear]

📖 CLOSER — A Fanfiction Set in Gladiator II Universe

🏛️ CLOSER

A story of empire, obsession, and the silence between power and desire.

📍 Setting: Ancient Rome. 📍 Fandom: Gladiator II · historical drama · original female character 📍 Genre: drama · slowburn · psychological intimacy · 📍 Languages: English (posted here) & Russian (available on AO3) 📍 Status: ongoing — chapters will be posted individually

🩸 In Rome, nothing happens without reason — not a feast, not a whisper, not a glance. Here, people live too close to be honest, and too far apart to truly understand one another. The emperors are young, ambitious, vulnerable. They are surrounded by luxury, blood, and expectation. Lucretia does not seek power — yet each step draws her deeper into the dense fabric of the Empire. She does not fight, but she does not yield.

This is not a story about the struggle for power. It’s a story about how hard it is to remain yourself when everything around you demands you become someone else. And about how, sometimes, silence speaks louder than any command.

“Love is full of both honey and gall.” — Plautus, Curculio

📖 Chapters: → Chapter 0. → Chapter 1. → Chapter 2. (more coming soon…)

🎭 Themes & Content Warnings: ⚠️ dub-con · coercion · psychological violence ⚠️ deviant behavior · obsession · manipulation ⚠️ toxic relationships · emotional trauma · power imbalance ⚠️ canon-level violence · grey morality · historical setting ⚠️ mentions of incest · implied noncon context 🔞 mature / explicit content

❤️ Pairings & Dynamics: M/F/M threesome · M/F · M/M (both emotional & physical)

Additional themes: • ancient Rome · political intrigue · trauma bonding • hurt/comfort · emotional spirals · unhealthy desire • twins · imperial decadence · moral ambiguity

📌 Posting format: Each chapter will be posted in a separate entry. All links will be gathered here once published. This is a 21+ space — please mind the content.

💬 English version will be posted here. A full Russian version is available — feel free to reach out if you're curious. (You can also find me on AO3 under the same name)

🖋 Written & self-translated by IntimateDear

[intimatedear]

Fanfiction is so silly. I am playing with my dolls and people are coming over to watch. Some of them even clap and give me compliments. And when I'm done playing, I can go and watch other people play with their dolls.

[intimatedear]

📖 Closer| Chapter 4- About a possible conspiracy, senseless cruelty, and brotherly love.

The first chapters can be found here.

"Panem et circenses."

"Bread and circuses."

(Juvenal, Satires, X, 81)

The Roman Empire, the epitome of earthly might, had endured for two hundred and thirty—six years, steadily expanding its horizons and solidifying its grandeur year after year. Emperors rose and fell, one after another, crafting a legacy destined to be recounted for millennia. Yet, the last five months of the reign of the young emperors had clearly fallen short of the expectations of both the populace and the Senate.

They ascended to power with grandeur and lavish celebrations, making a bold statement about their reign. However, they chose not to follow the wise path of their father, who had focused on building and strengthening the empire. Instead, they pursued the rapid and rather reckless expansion of Rome's influence into new territories—an approach that, in hindsight, had significant consequences for both the common people and the elite. These new conquests drained the treasury, taxes soared, and yet the celebrations, both for these victories and other occasions, seemed never—ending. The Senate and influential citizens of the empire grew increasingly uneasy with the impulsiveness of Geta and Caracalla. Behind closed doors, they began to discuss the looming challenges and potential solutions.

On this warm evening, the triclinium, the dining room of Lucilla's house, was filled with guests. The table was laden with delicacies, yet none of the attendees touched the food their hostess had so generously provided. The discussions were far more compelling than the prospect of filling their stomachs. Senators Marcus Tullius, Julius Scipio, and Gracchus were fervently debating the new military campaign aimed at seizing the remaining cities of Numidia. The men were deeply opposed to the emperors' decisions and used this safe haven as an opportunity to voice their discontent.

Lucilla remained silent, weighed down by the sorrow of being separated from her husband, who had once again departed for the front lines after spending no more than two weeks in her arms. She shared the senators' perspective on the futility of the empire's expansion, especially in light of this year's food shortages and the growing unrest in several provinces. These senseless wars pained the daughter of the great Marcus Aurelius, and like her father, she secretly yearned for a republic—a system where, in her view, decisions were made collectively and wisely. After all, absolute power inevitably corrupts those who wield it. — And what do you think, dear Lucilla? — the elderly Marcus Tullius pulled her out of her thoughts. — I think I would rather see my husband at home and the people in the streets well—fed, but I fear that day will come only after my death, — Lucilla replied briefly, placing her hand trustingly on the senator's forearm. — Perhaps it is not you who should die, — Julius Scipio interjected hastily, adjusting his toga.

After these words, silence fell over the dining hall.

***

Caracalla was in an excellent mood today, lounging on a sumptuous couch in one of the spacious halls of the Palatine Palace. The high ceilings, supported by massive columns, allowed sunlight to flood the space freely, dancing gracefully on the marble walls and reflecting off the intricate floor mosaics. The couches, upholstered in copper—colored silk, were arranged in a semicircle, resembling an amphitheater.

The young emperor reclined carelessly on the central couch, amusing himself by twirling a lock of hair from one of the servants sitting at his feet. The previous day, he had issued orders to send out invitations for a private gladiatorial spectacle, reserved for an exclusive audience. Caracalla had a particular passion for such entertainments, and while regular games required a more significant occasion than his excellent mood and much more time to prepare, private fights served both as a source of personal delight and as a tool of political maneuvering: every noble sought an invitation to bolster their standing or expand their influence.

However, the most sensitive souls could never endure such spectacles, and those who did witness them often expressed unease. Caracalla's cruelty and his love of bloodshed reached extremes: he devised new rules to make the fights even more brutal. At times, gladiators were forced to fight to the death without weapons, or he would order their hands tied behind their backs, compelling them to battle with their teeth and feet like wild beasts. Yet, if the emperor's chosen bet lost, his rage would be swift and unrelenting.

On this clear, warm day, the hall was packed to capacity. Spectators had taken their seats, eagerly awaiting the start of the games. Caracalla had already chosen his favorite among the slave—gladiators—if the man lived up to his expectations, the emperor planned to buy his freedom and take him into his personal service.

Cassius, a lanista—one of the owners of gladiator schools—was the master of the slave on whom Caracalla had placed both his money and hopes. Cassius, not a Roman by birth, had managed to rise to the upper echelons of society through cunning and an unyielding ambition. He diligently sought to please the young ruler, fully aware of the advantages he could gain from the emperor's favor.

The games had begun, and soon the mosaic floor was awash with fresh blood, seeping carelessly into the cracks between the stones and accentuating the intricate patterns. A heavy, faintly perceptible scent of blood and sweat filled the air, causing some guests to grimace and others to stifle the urge to retch.

Servants hurriedly carried away the fallen bodies, leaving faint traces on the mosaic as they worked to ensure the arena could once again become a pristine canvas for the next clash.

Finally, the fight Caracalla had been waiting for arrived. He shifted from his relaxed posture, sitting upright on the couch. His bare feet slid onto the cool surface of the floor, and his toes twitched slightly, as if sensing the impending victory. The emperor's face spread into a grin—wild, almost deranged. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, and his entire body, as if already savoring the triumph to come, leaned forward.

Two gladiators stepped into the center of the hall. They stopped opposite each other, like statues frozen in anticipation. The first, short and stocky, with a powerful build and reddish, sun—scorched skin peeling in places, resembled a bull. His face, marked by a network of small scars, held a sullen expression. Slowly, he raised his massive fists to his chin. His movements were heavy, yet they radiated unyielding strength.

His opponent was the complete opposite. Tall and wiry, with a chiseled physique and rich, almost shimmering dark skin, he stood with ease and agility. His long arms seemed almost too long for the rest of his body, giving him a clear advantage. The young man's gaze exuded calm confidence, as if he already knew the outcome of the battle was decided.

The hall was steeped in anticipation. Even the faintest rustle suddenly felt unbearably loud, as though the very air had grown heavier. Caracalla inclined his head slightly, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the couch, betraying his impatience.

The emperor's wager had to meet his expectations.

All sounds and people seemed to vanish for the two gladiators the moment the signal to begin the fight was given. The air in the hall grew heavy, almost tangible, as though the entire atmosphere had frozen in anticipation. Two bodies surged toward each other with incredible speed, rapidly closing the distance between them. The sunbeams, which had earlier gracefully framed the space, lost their brilliance, shifting into deep hues of an orange sunset. The cries of the spectators melded into a deafening, endless roar, pressing against the ears and rendering everything around blurred and unreal.

The floor beneath the fighters' feet was slick with sweat and blood from earlier battles, causing their movements to appear uncertain, almost unsteady at times. This fight marked the culmination of the evening, the most eagerly anticipated event for the guests, who longed to win and multiply their wagers. For one of these men, this fight was also destined to be their last.

The men traded blows without pause. The first, stocky and powerful, relentlessly pressed his dark—skinned opponent with sheer force, driving him backward. Yet the taller gladiator, despite the onslaught, skillfully dodged the heavy strikes and even managed to counter with sharp, precise attacks of his own. As time wore on, their strikes grew slower, their breathing heavier, and their movements lost their initial sharpness. With all the strength they had left, both struggled to bring each other to the ground.

It became clear, however, that the "bull" was more resilient. The emperor's favorite—a young slave with dark skin—began to falter. His legs betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably, and his breathing grew ragged, tearing at his chest. Sweat dripped in heavy beads from his face, stinging his eyes, yet he could not wipe them away. His vision blurred, and he failed to dodge several painful blows. One of them split his brow, sending a crimson stream of blood cascading down his face, dripping onto his chest and the mosaic floor.

Caracalla clicked his tongue in irritation, gripping a lock of hair at the nape of the servant sitting at his feet. His displeasure rippled through those seated nearby, who shifted uneasily.

The shorter fighter seized the opportunity and lunged forward. Dropping his shoulder, he drove it powerfully into his opponent's stomach. The air whooshed from the young slave's lungs, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Yet he managed to defend himself, striking the stocky fighter in the chest with his knee, forcing him to stumble back. A sharp crack echoed—the rib had fractured.

Caracalla's favorite, wasting no time, summoned all his remaining strength and delivered a crushing heel strike to his opponent's face, breaking his nose. The stocky fighter fell onto his back, arms splayed, though he was still alive.

Caracalla leapt up in surprise, his hand slipping from the servant's hair. The emperor clapped his hands loudly, grinning with excitement, the jewelry on his wrists jingling with the sharp movement. —  Finish him! — Caracalla shouted to his favorite, clapping his hands so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls. — Kill him! Kill him! — His voice, brimming with impatience, rose to a near—screech.The red—haired emperor stomped barefoot across the mosaic floor, barely containing his excitement.

The slave, hearing the command, threw himself at his opponent lying in a pool of blood without hesitation. He landed several sharp blows to the fallen man's face, turning his already battered features into a bloody pulp. His heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might burst from his chest. In that moment, he no longer saw a man before him, but the embodiment of death—one that, by some lucky chance, had once again passed him by.

The dark—skinned gladiator grabbed his opponent's chin, staring into his face with a smirk. Then, deciding to finish him for good, he shifted his hands to the man's neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. But at the last moment, as if driven by sheer desperation, the stocky man raised his hands and clutched the back of his attacker's head. His fingers plunged deep into the eye sockets of his enemy. A sickening, squelching sound filled the air, prompting many spectators to avert their gaze instinctively.

The slave's scream pierced the hall. He frantically clawed at his opponent's hands, trying to pry them away from his face, but the grip was too strong. The man, who had been lying helpless just moments before, rolled onto his side and then propped himself up on an elbow, ending up on top. His fingers remained deeply embedded in his rival's eyes as the dark—skinned fighter writhed in agony.

Finally, the stocky gladiator, now towering over his opponent, grabbed his head and began slamming it against the mosaic floor, each blow harder than the last. A sickening crunch echoed, followed by a spray of blood mingled with brain matter. The floor beneath them turned sticky, and the cries ceased. The dark—skinned slave went limp, his hands falling lifelessly to his sides, fingers unclenched.

The fight was over.

Caracalla froze, watching the final moments of his favorite's life. His face, brimming with excitement just seconds ago, now bore no expression. The emperor seemed to have turned to stone, except for his fingers, which tapped softly against the fabric—covered seat.

The guests remained silent, exchanging uneasy glances as they awaited their ruler's reaction. But Caracalla seemed utterly oblivious to them. —  You knew he would lose, didn't you? — he said, his voice hoarse, as though it no longer belonged to him.

Cassius, seated to the young emperor's left, flinched and then began to stammer, almost squealing as he spoke: — M—my Emperor, w—w—what are you... This was my best f—fighter... — The lanista raised his hands in a defensive gesture, turning his entire body toward Caracalla.

The room fell silent. In the vast hall, bathed in crimson light from the setting sun, a suffocating tension filled the air. —  You knew! — Caracalla suddenly shrieked, springing to his feet. He shoved the servant at his feet away, striking him with the back of his hand so hard the sound reverberated under the high ceilings. In an instant, the emperor was looming over the terrified Cassius. His pale blue eyes glinted with madness, his pupils so tightly constricted they looked as if he were staring directly into the blazing sun. —  I will punish you, — he continued, his voice still unnaturally high—pitched. At the end of the sentence, he let out a hoarse laugh, as though unable to contain the malice surging within him. — I will puuuunish you! — he repeated, drawing out the words like a child toying with his victim.

The young emperor suddenly seized the lanista by the back of his neck and slowly leaned toward his ear. His voice dropped, quieter now but no less threatening: —  You stole from me the joy of victory. I must take something from you in return.— Cassius tried to jerk away, to pull back, but Caracalla's hands held him with alarming strength. The grip was almost painful, a stark contrast to the emperor's otherwise frail physique. —  Perhaps an ear? Or a tongue? So you can no longer lie to me about your fighters. I really, really don't like being lied to. What's your name again?— The final words sounded almost like a joke. Caracalla chuckled briefly, but there was no joy in his laughter—only mounting tension.

Despite his desperate attempts to explain and plead his case, the lanista failed to placate the young ruler. Caracalla pulled away from him with a look of disgust, as if the mere contact with Cassius was an insult in itself. Lazily, he waved his hand, signaling the Praetorians to seize the offender and drag him to the center of the hall, where the fallen slave still lay.

Cassius struggled, but his feet slipped on the crimson liquid coating the mosaic floor. He writhed in the guards' grasp, trying with all his might to break free and return to his seat. As he was hauled closer to the center, the lanista broke into sobs, begging for mercy. His voice cracked, and his words were drowned in hysterical gasps as he cried out that it was all a mistake, that he deserved another chance.

The emperor was unmoved by Cassius's cries. On the contrary, Caracalla let out an unpleasant, high—pitched giggle that grew louder and sharper with each second. None of the guests dared to intervene. Their silence wasn't a show of disdain for the lanista—they simply feared ending up in his place.

The scene was absurd, terrifying, and cruel. Cassius, trembling on his knees, was held upright by the Praetorians. His toga and tunic, soaked with another man's blood, made a sickening squelch with every movement. He screamed and sobbed so desperately that it was unbearable to watch without shuddering. —  Cut out his tongue,— Caracalla ordered, leaning back on the couch and resuming his reclined position. His face spread into a broad grin, as if the unfolding events were a source of amusement to him. —  No! Please! My Emperor, I beg you!— Cassius choked out, barely able to string words together. His body trembled violently, and his eyes filled with tears.

Footsteps echoed through the hall. Geta entered, accompanied by several praetorians. His face bore signs of fatigue, though he didn't appear alarmed. He had likely just returned from a drawn—out military council—the very one his brother had chosen to ignore. Whether Caracalla refused to attend or had simply forgotten, as he sometimes did, remained unclear.

Geta paused, surveying the scene and taking in the atmosphere. His brown eyes moved slowly across the hall until they met his brother's gaze. The young emperor tapped his fingers lightly on his thigh, unnoticed by the others, as though weighing his words, before taking a few more steps forward. —  Caracalla,— Geta called out to his brother, who lay at the center of the spectacle. — Is this how we treat our guests?

His twin's gaze sharpened immediately. He sat up and, without hesitation, snapped back: —  He's guilty,— he said irritably, sounding like a boy trying to justify his actions. —  Enough to justify torturing him like this?— Geta retorted calmly, maintaining his composure.

A tense silence filled the hall.

After a moment, Geta gave a short but firm order for everyone to leave the hall, leaving the brothers alone. The crowd, eager to obey, scattered in haste, as if their very lives depended on following the command.

***

When the hall finally emptied, Geta allowed himself a weary sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with a hand adorned with rings set with large stones. —  You wanted to humiliate me! — Caracalla suddenly exploded, leaping to his feet and striding toward his brother, his bare feet splashing in the pools of blood. —  You can't maim people—Roman citizens—just because you feel like it, Cara, — Geta said without moving, watching as his brother clumsily stepped over the dead slave's body. —  You weren't here! You don't know how he deceived me!— the red—haired emperor continued, advancing confidently. — Maybe you want to deceive me too? Or mock me?— His anger mounted, his voice growing louder with each word. He wasn't just walking now—he had broken into a hurried stride. —  Caracalla, stop,— Geta said calmly.

He knew exactly what would happen next. It always did when his older brother lost control. Caracalla would lash out with fists, sticks, or sometimes even grab a weapon or anything heavy within reach. These outbursts didn't happen often, but they left behind cold memories and painful bruises.

The red—haired emperor charged at him suddenly, shoving Geta in the chest and hooking his leg in an obvious attempt to bring him down. He shouted insults mixed with incoherent phrases, attacking with ferocity. At one point, he managed to grip Geta tightly enough to throw him off balance. But the younger brother didn't fall backward onto the mosaic; instead, he dropped to his knees, maintaining his coordination.

Caracalla didn't stop. Consumed by his emotions, he had already completely forgotten what had caused the conflict. All he could see were his brother's weary eyes, desperately trying to stay upright.

Geta held his brother's arms tightly, preventing him from changing their position. The expensive fabric of their togas strained and tore under the tension.

—  Caracalla, calm down!— the younger brother shouted, his voice loud and firm, while mentally running through options to subdue his relentless sibling and force him to listen.

Caracalla continued to struggle, stubbornly trying to win this absurd fight. Geta decided to lean back, lowering himself to the floor and pulling his unruly brother down with him. Caught off guard, Caracalla fell onto him, but Geta seized the moment, swiftly flipping the older brother off him and pinning him beneath. He pressed Caracalla's arms above his head.

From the side, it looked more like a childish scuffle. Caracalla growled angrily and flailed, trying to break free from the firm grip, but to no avail. Frustrated, he began kicking his brother in the back, landing painful blows. Geta winced but didn't loosen his hold. —  Calm down!— he repeated, leaning closer to his brother's face, but his words had no effect.

In desperation, Geta abruptly grabbed Caracalla by the shoulders, lifted his upper body off the floor, and gave him a violent shake.

The golden wreath slipped from Caracalla's head, hitting the floor with a loud clang and rolling off somewhere. The red—haired emperor froze, blinking. —  What? Are you trying to kill me?— Geta muttered tiredly, still holding his brother by the shoulders.

Caracalla suddenly burst into laughter, throwing his head back before snapping it forward again, meeting his brother's gaze. —  Nonsense,— Caracalla finally replied, his voice unexpectedly calm. — You're my brother. I wouldn't kill you.

He softened, easing the tension in his body, and Geta, sensing the change, reluctantly released his grip.

The younger brother removed his hands but remained seated on Caracalla for a while longer, ready to stop any new outburst. However, Caracalla showed no signs of aggression. On the contrary, he sprawled out on the floor, arms spread wide. Satisfied that the danger had passed, Geta slowly rolled onto his side and then settled next to him on the cold mosaic.

—  Why didn't you come to the council meeting?— he asked after catching his breath. Turning his head, he looked at his brother. —  You didn't say anything about a meeting,— Caracalla responded immediately, meeting his gaze. —  I told you yesterday. Several times,— Geta replied calmly, studying the thoughtful expression on his brother's face. —  Oh, I don't remember much about yesterday,— the red—haired emperor drawled, as though discussing something trivial. — Must not have been an important meeting if I forgot about it.

Geta frowned and shifted onto his side to be closer to his brother. His feelings were mixed: on one hand, he was alarmed by the thought that Caracalla's memory lapses might become more frequent. On the other hand, he realized he couldn't fully rely on his brother. And yet, it saddened him to see Caracalla losing himself without even being aware of it. —  It was a military council, Cara. It was important,— he finally said. —  But you were there, so you'll tell me everything, won't you?— the older brother replied serenely, not breaking eye contact. —  Of course, I'll tell you,— Geta agreed, suppressing the urge to reach out and touch his brother. Instead, he simply kept his gaze fixed on him, sinking deeper into his thoughts.

Though Caracalla's fits of rage weren't rare, Geta didn't think of him as weak and had no doubts about his intellect. He knew how to handle his brother's moods for now, but he worried about what to do if they worsened. Still, despite everything, he loved his brother and was always ready to protect him.

[intimatedear]

📖 Closer| Chapter 3 - About beautiful gifts, nice conversations and poems

The first chapters can be found here.

"Non dono, sed animo." — "It is not the gift, but the intention that matters." (Seneca)

A few weeks later, she stood in the spacious atrium of her home, carefully examining the impressive chest that had been carried in by the servants and placed in the center of the room. The sender of this lavish gift was unmistakable: the lid, draped in rich purple brocade, bore a laurel wreath—a clear signature. Lucretia did not rush to approach it, allowing herself first to take in the sight of the chest before pondering her next steps.

She was not surprised that Geta had sent her such a gift. Attention from him was predictable. After admiring the exquisite hue of the fabric, shimmering in the torchlight, and the golden ornaments adorning the sides, she finally decided to approach and lift the lid to peer inside.

The contents were undeniably impressive and, of course, extravagant. Silk and other fine fabrics, shimmering in shades of gold and vivid red—colors clearly favored by the emperor—were neatly arranged in sections. Their richness was evident to the eye and the touch, which Lucretia immediately appreciated.

Another section held jewelry: necklaces, earrings, and rings sparkling with the brilliance of various gemstones. Picking up one of the heavy golden bracelets, she smirked at its weight, feeling the opulence in her hands.

As she continued exploring the chest's contents, Lucretia found herself reflecting on the impracticality of wearing some of these items given her status. The overwhelming array of cosmetics drew an ironic laugh—it rivaled the stock of a small perfumery, ensuring she wouldn't need to visit one for years.

There was no denying the beauty and value of the emperor's gifts, but it was obvious he hadn't personally curated them. Likely, he had merely instructed his servants to prepare the chest. She took no offense at this; Geta undoubtedly had more pressing matters to attend to. Yet the main question that crossed her mind was: "How many such chests had been sent across Rome?" She was well aware of his inclination toward grand gestures and his eagerness to impress. Laughing softly at her thoughts, she continued to sift through the fabrics with care.

Imagining twenty identical chests, carelessly packed in karthea, delivered to the homes of women who piqued his interest, she laughed even louder.

The gift was pleasant to her, but not for the reasons one might expect. It was the utility of it—the ease with which it allowed her to boast or benefit—that she appreciated. Not for affection, and certainly not for the memory of Geta himself. Did he ever give something personally, something imbued with even a spark of genuine warmth? Or was he, like his golden armor and shimmering silks, a dazzling figure of status but ultimately hollow—just a soulless, glittering metal?

The laughter in Lukrecia's eyes faded, replaced by a somber sadness. He had seemed lively and, in his own way, amusing during their recent encounters. Yet, recalling that night at the feast—their one truly stirring moment—Lukrecia resolved to ignore her very existence in his world, determined to avoid any trace of awkwardness.

But the coffer, with its wealth of jewels and silks, left her feeling more unsettled than gratified. Did he believe this was enough to stir genuine feelings? Was this display of extravagance meant to replace sincerity, to mask something emptier beneath?

She remained seated beside the ornate wooden coffer, her thoughts spiraling back to the past weeks' events, grappling with the questions his gesture left behind.

***

After that exhilarating night, much to her deep displeasure and the inner shame that threatened to rise to the surface, she had to cross paths with Geta several more times.

These were events of various kinds, where she was accompanied—or rather, compelled to attend—by Marcus Tullius, under flimsy pretexts such as the need to spend more time in society, to unwind, and similar reasons. Although one extravagant and ostentatious celebration had already been more than enough for her.

Nevertheless, the young widow did not refuse, yielding to the old man's pressure, and attended several lively gatherings and dinners.

Among the pleasant moments, she once again had the chance to meet the witty red—haired woman, Cesellia, and enjoy an evening in her company.

Among the less pleasant—another striking red—haired presence, this time belonging to a man, who seemed to attend every dinner without exception.

And among the truly unbearable, strangely enough, was the heightened attention directed at her by men of various ages and ranks, who delicately tested the waters of her potential interest in remarriage.

The first conversation with Geta took place at a dinner gathering where the guest list was small enough to deprive her of any chance to hide from his attention. His focus was obvious but had, until then, been silent and distant. The young emperor caught her gaze every time they found themselves in the same room, holding it with a heavy, almost oppressive intensity, as though waiting for Lucretia to falter—blush, hesitate, or even momentarily lose her composure. She held firm, deciding it was a staring contest, where the first to look away would lose. The red—haired emperor's clear displeasure with her unshakable demeanor was so evident on his face that, over time, Lucretia began to find these 'staring duels' from across the room rather amusing

He approached her confidently and purposefully, though under the guise of heading toward the elderly senator, just as the man rose from his seat, preparing to step away from the table.

—  Emperor, — Marcus Tullius said respectfully, inclining his head out of habit. — Please excuse me, but I need to step away for a few minutes.

Geta nodded a little too quickly, as though this approach to the senator had been nothing more than a pretense.

—   Of course, I'll keep your charming companion company in the meantime, — the emperor replied with exaggerated politeness, casting a deliberate glance toward Lucretia. She hastily sipped her wine, using the goblet to conceal the ironic smirk that tugged at her lips.

The old man was no fool. He had noticed the overt exchanges of glances between the young emperor and the widow. Disliking Geta as he did, he naturally didn't view their interaction or the emperor's apparent interest in his ward as a favorable turn of events. Still, he chose not to oppose it outright. Instead, he threw a cautionary look at Lucretia, his concern for her well—being evident, particularly given her tendency toward excessive frankness.

She pretended not to notice his silent warning. Moments later, Marcus Tullius departed, leaving the two young people alone.

—  How is your evening progressing? — Geta began smoothly as he settled into the seat beside her. — Are you satisfied with everything? — His second question carried a deliberate note of provocation.

—  Quite so ,— the young widow replied, sensing a subtle tension but choosing not to address it directly. — A very pleasant evening, as is the company, — she added, carefully placing her goblet back on the table. — You see, I don't handle large crowds very well, and tonight's gathering is perfectly balanced for my comfort.

Geta paused, momentarily thrown off by her composed and straightforward response. He had, for some reason, braced himself for a subtle clash of words, similar to the one that lingered in his memory from the banquet. Searching for his next move, he unconsciously began tapping his fingers on the table in a soft, rhythmic pattern—a telltale sign of his underlying unease.

—  And how is your evening going? — she asked, noticing his tapping fingers but keeping her gaze fixed firmly on his face.

—  Evenings like these are meant to foster harmony with advisors; philosophers find this atmosphere inviting and amicable,— he began explaining, his tone oddly formal. Turning his head so she could now only see his profile, he continued speaking, his fingers once again drumming lightly on the table.

—  That's not what I asked, — Lucretia interjected with a faint smile, mirroring a phrase he had thrown at her weeks ago.

Geta's expression flickered with irritation. He turned back to her sharply, faster than the situation warranted, meeting her eyes with a simmering intensity.

—  Of course, it's pleasant. I oversaw the planning personally, — he replied, his voice carrying a slight quaver of youthful defiance, while his amber eyes gleamed with an edge of hostility.

—  Do you always ignite so easily? — she asked, her tone light but pointed.

—  Do you find that amusing? — he hissed, his words laced with a thin veneer of restraint.

—  Very, — she replied simply. Though she wanted to smile wider or even let out a soft laugh, she held herself back. — It wasn't my intention to unsettle you. The evening is truly wonderful. I was just curious if you're enjoying it as much as I am.

It was evident he was weighing his responses carefully, seeking the one that would let him reclaim his upper hand in their conversation.

—  You're not easily flustered, I've noticed, — he said, his tone bordering on outright disrespect. It was a dirty tactic, bordering on outright disrespect. Then again, he wasn't the one secretly observing someone in such a delicate situation. In truth, he wouldn't have minded being the one doing the watching, given the chance.

Lucretia summoned all the strength and composure granted to her by the gods to avoid openly snapping at him. First, because his reaction might prove unpredictable. And second, because he wasn't entirely wrong, having caught her in a rather compromising act. Yet she still didn't feel ashamed of that incident. On the contrary, a warm rush coursed through her body every time she recalled that night.

—  Are you trying to unsettle me,— she asked with a deliberately gentle tone, — or do you simply not know how to express affection?

He exhaled sharply, more in frustration than reply, pulling his hand away from the table as though to stop himself from drumming on its surface. Geta was at a loss. He truly wanted to show his interest, but he wasn't used to treading carefully. After all, with the women who caught his eye, it usually didn't take long for both sides to end up seeing each other unclothed—mutually, of course, unlike in this one—sided instance.

—  Perhaps a bit of both,— he finally found his words.

—  Then consider the first goal accomplished.

—  And the second?

—  I can't say yet — you've only just begun.

Lucretia found herself enjoying his strange sense of uncertainty, as well as their brief yet thrilling conversation. Tonight, the young emperor seemed far more endearing, free of the heavy eye makeup and overly whitened complexion. He appeared strikingly youthful. Geta was clearly restraining his usual impulses toward bluntness, and the effort flattered her. Yet, his current caution gave no promises of tranquility in the long run.

—  Do you enjoy poetry? — he suddenly changed the subject.

—  Only the kind that moves the heart, — the young widow replied, her smile widening slightly.

Geta wanted to continue their increasingly engaging conversation, but one of his advisors interrupted, leaning in to whisper something urgent in his ear. It was clear the matter demanded immediate attention. At that same moment, the elderly senator returned to the table, offering apologies for his extended absence.

The emperor's irritation was evident, but he rose nonetheless, citing pressing matters that required his attention. Before departing, his gaze briefly but pointedly lingered on Lucretia.

***

The young woman froze in her thoughts, absentmindedly fidgeting with the edge of fabric from the coffer. An unusual sound, like the faint rustling of parchment, caught her attention and pulled her back to reality. At the very bottom, beneath the colorful swatches of various textures, lay a small, neatly folded sheet. Lucretia carefully picked it up, and, pulling at the silk ribbon, unfolded the note:

Tu, ne quaesieris, scire nefas,Quis mihi, quem tibi, quem tibi sit futurusTempus, quaeritur semper.

"Do not ask—it's forbidden to know—What tomorrow holds for me,What is destined for you."

She read the handwritten text several times, her gaze slowly tracing each syllable. Exhaling evenly, as though realizing only then that she had been holding her breath throughout the reading, Lucretia set the parchment aside—but didn't fully let go. Her fingers softly caressed its surface.

Geta had written this himself, and for her, such a gesture was worth more than a thousand gilded coffers.

[intimatedear]

📖 Closer| Chapter 1

The road was surprisingly fast, and the Palatine Palace exuded opulence as soon as they arrived. Huge, massive marble columns stood proudly to greet the arrivals, urging one to tilt their head back and admire their grandeur. Lucretia stopped alongside Marcus Tullius, who held her forearm firmly but gently. His calloused hand slid gently over her arm, reminding her to slow down and take in her surroundings. He gazed at the mosaic floor, which depicted a scene from the myth of Bacchus. The surface of the floor shimmered under the glow of the lamps. The old senator then took a slow, deliberate glance around.

And even that, just the first element of the feast, was impressive. Dancers and acrobats in strange but artistic costumes welcomed the guests, guiding them into the depths of the palace. Music accompanied them from the very entrance, enhancing the atmosphere.

The young widow realized that the escort wanted to give her time to look around, and she repeated his unhurried gaze, studying the decorations of the hall and what was going on around her. Her attention was drawn to two small children, about five years old, who were showering rose petals on the red carpet in front of a woman in a magnificent tunic embroidered with gold threads. The woman's hair was arranged in an elaborate hairdo decorated with golden details, and a loose strand fell gently into a face that held nobility and traces of former beauty.

The old senator, standing at Lucretia's right hand, noticed the woman and instantly turned his attention to her, bowing his head respectfully.

 — Mark, my dear friend! — she said warmly, shedding her cold mask and breaking the image of impassability that Lucretia had imagined.

— Lucilla, how glad I am to see you this beautiful evening! — replied Tullius warmly, gently squeezing her palm in his hand.

Lucretia remained silent, avoiding the stranger's direct gaze. Her eyes were drawn to the children, who stood awkwardly, holding armfuls of petals and baskets. They looked confused and turned their golden—brown eyes toward her, sensing her attention. The whole scene seemed ridiculous to Lucretia: the lavish clothes, the strange dancers, and the stiff children. She chuckled involuntarily, drawing everyone's attention to herself. The senator looked at her with reproach, while the woman glanced at her with mild interest.

 — Please forgive me, — Lucretia said hastily, turning to Lucilla. — I rarely attend such events. I found the excessive pageantry amusing. Lucilla gave a pleasant smile that finally destroyed the image of a cold aristocrat.

  — I couldn't agree with you more, — she answered, leaving the sentence unfinished, as if waiting for the name of her interlocutor.

  — Lucretia — the young widow added calmly.

  — Oh, so you are the ward Marcus Tullius told me about. I dare say he was very accurate in his description of you — Lucilla noted with mild interest as she glanced at Lucretia. But it did not make the widow uncomfortable.

  — A bit rude in places — the senator added dryly, as if warning of possible difficulties in the conversation. Lucretia lowered her gaze, but she didn't look too guilty. Her face retained a slight irony.

  — Don't be silly — Lucilla grinned. — I'll be glad to talk to you and your companion later. With those words, she headed deeper into the palace, treading on the rose petals with natural grace.

After she left, Marcus Tullius explained that she was the daughter of the great emperor Marcus Aurelius. Lucretia felt awkward for a moment — her laughter might have been taken the wrong way. But she quickly dismissed the thought, deciding it was not worth attaching too much importance to the situation.

As she entered the main hall, Lucretia barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief: what had seemed excessive on the approach now seemed only a prelude to the true splendor of the feast. Long tables stretched down the hall, displaying the magnificence of the food, many of which she was seeing for the first time. Servants with silver trays offered fruit, figs, and cheeses, and goblets of rich, strong wine appeared as if by magic.

Dancers in colorful costumes and painted faces drew attention with their performances. Some of them engaged the guests, while others danced on improvised stages. On one of these stages was a bathtub, shaped like a wine or water bowl, made of transparent material that hid the contours of the bodies inside, creating the illusion of a mosaic.

Lucretia longed more than ever to be in her quiet bedroom. Sounds that had seemed annoying before would now be a comfort to her. She wasn't shy or timid, but the noise and the abundance of people made her feel uncomfortable, and how to deal with it with as little loss as possible, she didn't know yet. Nothing better came to mind than draining her glass and asking the senator sitting next to her for a refill. He was a little taken aback by her impulsiveness, especially when he noticed how quickly the glass was empty. But he poured her wine again, even more than he should have.

The alcohol burned her stomach, reminding her to eat. Lucretia didn't mind it and reached out first for a fig and then for a flatbread with honey. The food tasted surprisingly good, or perhaps she was just very hungry. But her shaky comfort was rudely disrupted: the sharp sound of the carnix, a Roman wind instrument that makes a loud and prolonged sound, rang through the hall. She froze, carefully placing the flatbread on her plate, but not letting go of her glass in case she needed it again. Lucretia looked toward the main table, following the others. Instantly, the noise died down, the sound of instruments, the clinking of glasses, and even the whispering of the guests stopped. There were footsteps, loud at first, as if someone were deliberately stomping, followed by quieter, more leisurely steps. The sound echoed through the great hall. At the head were two massive chairs trimmed with gold and stones, more like thrones. They glittered with splendor and ornate costliness, and it was to them that the owners of the steps were heading. The first to take his seat was a tall young man. He did not sit down but stood beside it, emphasizing his stateliness. His hair was a light red, almost wheat—colored, neatly styled, and his head was framed by a golden wreath that almost blended in with his hair, though it was still visible. His face appeared serious, with a hint of sternness, though it hardly reflected his true nature. His eyelids and the skin around his eyes were enhanced with makeup, presumably antimony or some other dark substance, which looked extravagant, if not strange. The eyeliner made his dark brown eyes appear like black holes, giving him an almost inhuman look. His pale complexion only added to the effect. His gold toga, richly patterned, complemented his black and gold tunic, the folds of which lay neatly at the sleeves. The emperor raised his hands to the ceiling, as if drawing energy from above.

The second young man, moving more quietly, seemed less intimidating but no less extravagant. His clothes were a deep red, fading into a dark wine color, embroidered with gold threads. He wore noticeably more jewelry than his brother: a massive earring in his left ear and a set of jingling bracelets spanning his wrist. He was shorter, with rich red hair, closer to a copper hue. The wreath on his head appeared heavy, as if pressing him down. There was a strange confusion in his blue eyes, which sparkled brighter than any jewel. He seemed to be either looking through the crowd or directly at someone invisible in front of him. His hands were not raised like his brother's; instead, he clasped them together and twirled the burgundy ring on his middle finger impatiently.

      —    We are gathered here to tell you that Rome has entered a New Age. We are favored and guided by the gods! It will be long and great! — said the tall emperor, raising his goblet of wine. His rings clinked against the glass.

      —  So be it! — His brother raised his goblet sharply, spilling some wine on the table.

The brothers exchanged a brief glance before turning their gaze to the guests, clearly expecting applause.

And the hall erupted in loud cheers, applause, and supportive toasts.

Lucretia raised her cup with the others, but remained silent, only scrutinizing the young men in their golden wreaths. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla, the young sons of the recently deceased Emperor Severus, now joined by the gods. Naturally, she had heard of them: spoiled, cruel, and fond of foolish waste — in short, nothing admirable. She wasn't surprised by the hypocrisy of the guests — the crowd is always the same. But the way the brothers desperately demanded this ostentatious celebration gave her a strange sense of pity, especially for the blue—eyed Caracalla. He seemed lost, which did not align with the image of a cruel, evil ruler. As she blinked away the rest of her thoughts, Lucretia flinched at the light touch on her shoulder. When she turned, she met the old senator's warm gaze and instantly relaxed.

The old man extended his hand with an inviting gesture. Although Lucretia had just settled at the table and didn't want to leave, she had to offer her hand in return. As she followed her companion, she thought that perhaps he had changed his attitude and was now planning to introduce her to potential candidates for a new husband.

Her fears were quickly dispelled when Marcus Tullius led her to a separate table, where Lucilla, a woman she already knew, was sitting. The table was tucked away in a secluded corner of the hall, where the emperors' seats were clearly visible, but the guests remained hidden from view. It was a corner reserved for the richest of the rich. Lucretia apologized again for her insolence, but she did so quietly, so that only Marcus Aurelius' daughter could hear her. Lucilla affectionately touched her shoulder, almost maternally, to reassure her that there was no offense. Then she returned to her conversation with Marcus and the two senators already present in the privileged box. The conversation continued, gradually boring the young widow. She listened attentively, though she did not interrupt, realizing that she had nothing to add. But the abundance of gossip was overwhelming. Sometimes, it seemed as if it would never end. Lucretia noted that neither the senators nor Lucilla herself seemed favorable to the young rulers, either politically or personally. This left more questions than answers. Were things truly as grim as they had been told in that narrow circle?

The velvet curtain trembled slightly, revealing a bright light and the figure of the young emperor. In an instant, the conversation died down, exposing the hypocrisy of those present.

      — My Emperor, — one of the senators stood up hurriedly. Lucretia didn't even remember his name.

Geta nodded in satisfaction and sat down at the small table, positioning himself so that Lucretia was close by, at his right hand. The distance was just enough to avoid violating her personal space, but not so great that he wouldn't accidentally touch her.

      — I hope you were impressed with today's festivities. We did our best to surprise the guests, — his voice was low, but with a distinctly boyish note. Geta looked around at the senators, as if waiting for their approval. His gaze lingered on Lucilla, who smiled hurriedly. The smile was so unnatural that it became sad. The emperor seemed to ignore it or simply didn't understand. His gaze slowly slid over those present until it stopped on Lucretia. She wasn't smiling, but she was looking at him directly, studying him, but without too much insolence. The old senator beside her visibly tensed, not knowing how to get her to show respect or say anything. Geta raised an eyebrow, waiting.

    — Who came up with rose—petal babies? Very extravagant, — she said, looking him straight in the face. There was no offense in her voice, no desire to insult. Rather, the slight excitement from the wine she had drunk gave her words a playful but not offensive tone. Lucretia smiled openly, unashamedly. She leaned on her arm, her fingers pointing casually in his direction.

She found him strangely charming, despite the makeup and his apparent demanding nature.

    — You didn't like it? — His voice lowered, though he didn't yet know why. Perhaps it was an attempt at intimidation, in case it was necessary.

     —  I've never seen anything like it, that's all,— she replied quickly, still radiating ease and barely perceptible banter.

    — The people present fell silent, as if they were all waiting for the storm to begin.

    — That's not what I asked,— Geta repeated.

    — In that case, more like no than yes,— Lucretia continued in the same easy tone.

    — Why?—He tensed and leaned a little closer.

    — It looks funny,—she unknowingly moved a little closer too. —Please don't misunderstand. You've put your heart into this party, I can see that. It was wonderful.

Geta was already quite close, but still within the bounds of propriety. He felt annoyed and knew there was a tinge of mockery in her words, but there was no outright disrespect to latch onto.

    — And you, dear lady?— He clarified, obviously referring to her name and related information. His eyes slid to Marcus Tullius, obviously realizing that the girl had come with him.

    — Darva Lucretia, widow of Tiberius Claudius Lentulus, who left us not long ago,— she answered herself, without waiting for her companion's intervention. — Marcus Tullius accompanied me to this beautiful feast, so that I would not be alone with my grief.

Geta found her beautiful yet annoying in direct proportion to her every word. He sympathized with her loss without averting his gaze, which she accepted without looking away either. For a while longer they simply looked at each other in silence. Then the Emperor rose abruptly and left the private box, citing non—existent business.

After he left, Marcus expressed his displeasure with Lucretia's behavior. She lowered her eyes defiantly, but she remembered Lucilla's words of caution.

The conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.

Geta walked back to his throne, deep in thought about the young widow. She was undoubtedly laughing at him, but she did so carefully, as if she genuinely didn't want to offend him.

Her beauty was strange: instead of smooth, tanned skin, it was almost unnaturally pale, with a slight bluish tint, reminiscent of the whitewash he himself had applied to his face. Could she be unwell? But she appeared quite confident nonetheless.

Her eyes had an unusual murky green hue, as though the colors had been diluted in water. Faded, but somehow perfectly fitting for her. She didn't look refined or smooth, though she was slender and graceful. Even her hair was an odd grayish shade with a metallic sheen, pulled back in a simple, unadorned style.

He liked that she wasn't being hypocritical, but it irritated him that she didn't show even the slightest admiration, and wasn't afraid of him—at all.

She was very beautiful, he suddenly decided.

Geta wanted to see her again...

✒️ Written by @IntimateDear 🔞 21+ content, warnings apply 📎 Full story index → here

[intimatedear]

[intimatedear]

names: geta, caracalla title: emperor of rome cause of death: terminal boredom [ "poetry! very clever, macrinus; I've grown so bored, but you've surprised me." ]

[intimatedear]

And you know I’ll always go with the first option anyway 😔

[intimatedear]

When you read your fic back and read a line so fire it makes you