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palomahasenteredthechat · 3 days ago

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Wonderful worldbuilding. As a fellow traveler in these brothers' story, it's so interesting to read other interpretations of their relationship. Caracalla and Geta are having a moment in the culture.

Fallen Empires - Chapter 1

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Warnings: violence, domestic abuse, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: mention of blood and injuries

Chapter word count: 5.1k

A/N: I started this fic all the way back in April, when we first got the news that Joe was cast as Caracalla in "Gladiator 2". I did a ton of research, read books and academic papers about Caracalla and his reign, the whole shebang. Then in July, we got the confirmation that Joe played Geta instead, but by then, I'd already written about 30k words and didn't want to throw it away. Since I never was going to follow the movie anyway (no spoilers here!), I thought, OK, if the great Ridley Scott wasn't going to be historically accurate, then neither am I! So I replaced "Caracalla" with "Geta", changed a few details, and here we are.

The biggest change I made is that Geta was the one that killed Caracalla, not the other way around (this is a historical fact so it's not a spoiler for the movie.) Their confrontation also followed history (which happened in the presence of their mother, Julia Domna.) The remainder of Geta's reign is based on the real reign of Caracalla - his various military campaigns, the war against Parthia, and his infamous assassination (attempted assassination, in this case) by Justus Martialis while peeing on the side of the road now all happen to Geta. Also, Caracalla is described as sometimes wearing a blonde wig, so my headcanon is that the ginger hair in the movie is a wig as well (sorry Joe, I know you were working that wig for all it's worth, but I can't take it seriously.)

Prologue

Once upon a time, two brothers founded the greatest empire in the world...

He and his brother had grown up with the tale of Romulus and Remus, as any child of Rome would. But unlike other children of Rome, he and his brother had also been told that they would one day inherit the empire that those two brothers had built.

Nobody told them the birth of that empire had come at the price of fratricide. Nobody told them that only one brother was destined to be emperor.

They knew anyway.

The only question was, after the blood had run dry, which one of them would be left standing?

He, for one, refused to wait for an answer. He would find his own. So when the Fates dealt him their blow, he fought back and reclaimed his destiny from them. And as he stood over his brother with the blade still dripping blood in his hand, as he looked at the shocked faces of the Praetorians, as he avoided his mother's horrified eyes, filled with the tears he didn't allow her to shed, he thought he'd done it. He'd had the answer.

"You all saw!" he shouted at them, daring them to contradict him. "You saw what he was going to do, how he was coming for me! I did what I had to do to protect myself!" No one said a word in response. Perhaps they thought, and rightly so, that it would be unwise to oppose a man holding a bloody sword. "He was a tyrant and a would-be murderer," he continued, indicating his brother. "There is to be no mourning of him." His mother flinched, her arms closing instinctively around her son's still-warm body, but she, too, said nothing. "I want his image removed from all paintings, coins melted down, statues destroyed, his name struck from records. Let it be known from this day forward that it is a capital offense to speak or write his name!"

His orders were carried out, of course. He was the Emperor now.

But in wiping all images of his brother off the face of the Earth, he also had to remake his own. They had been so intricately linked, so connected in the minds of the citizens of Rome, two sides of the same monstrous coin, that he had to become someone else to be seen as the true heir, as the sole emperor. Gone were the wig and the makeup. Gone were the flashy clothes and jewelry. He cropped his hair short, grew a beard, and dressed himself in the simple garb of a legionary. He went on campaign after campaign to expand the Empire. Caledonia, Germania, Alexandria, Parthia. He would become a soldier-emperor, like his father. He would become a conqueror, like Alexander the Great. He would build an empire, like Romulus. Because he, like Romulus, was the brother who survived.

Only he didn't expect the price of surviving would be so high.

Chapter 1

The smell of blood was in the air.

As he staggered over the rocky ground, he could smell it all around him, on him, in him, and there was no escaping it. The sharp metallic tang of it brought back unpleasant memories of battlefields, of death and screaming and decay. But this was no battlefield. It was quiet, far too quiet; there was none of the clashes of swords and armors, the panicked whinnying of horses, or the groans of dying men. The only sound was his own ragged breathing and the hammering of pulse in his ears. There were stabbing pains on his back and between his ribs, and it hurt every time he drew a breath. There was a pounding somewhere on the back of his head—he must have hit it when he fell down the slope, though he no longer remembered where that slope was. He no longer remembered anything except for a burning feeling of anger and hatred, almost stronger than the pains of his body, though at whom or what that anger was directed, he didn't know. And underneath it all was a threat of fear. He had never been afraid of anything. Yet now the cold breath of Phobos was on the back of his neck, driving him on, urging him to get away, as far away as he could.

His head felt heavy and light at the same time. More than once, he stumbled over a rock and went down on his hands and knees. That was when he realized he was clutching a dagger in his hand, a dagger sticky with blood—his own or someone else's, he no longer remembered either. He pushed himself up by the hilt of the dagger and continued on. His lungs burned, his skin was icy cold despite the warm spring sunshine, and his limbs were so numb he was afraid the dagger might slip from his fingers. He must not let that happen. That dagger was important somehow. And he walked on, over the rocks and the uneven ground and the thick undergrowth.

He came across a stream, its banks overflowing from the winter rain. He still had the presence of mind to tuck the dagger into his belt before plunging in. The water was much deeper than he'd expected. His feet went out from under him. The pains in his back and his ribs melted into one scorching spear that went through him from chest to shoulder blades, and he had no strength left to fight the current. A branch of driftwood floated past. He held on to it, by instinct rather than a conscious desire to live. Doing so hurt his chest, but the water cooled his pounding head and washed away some of the searing pain and the blood, so the smell no longer assaulted his nostrils. He let the stream carry him away.

So this is how it ends, he thought, feeling blood and life drain out of him. This little stream was to be his River Styx. Not for him the glorious death of the battlefield. Not for him the quiet, peaceful death after a lifetime of ruling and conquering. Not for him even the sudden, tragic death of a great man cut down in his prime. No, for him would be an ignominious death, befitting an ignominious life. Somehow he'd always known it. This was what the Fates had in store for him.

He never quite lost consciousness, though he didn't know how long he floated. At some point, the light shining through his eyelids lost its brightness, but he couldn't tell if it was because the sun was going down or he was dying.

Hands came down on his shoulders. It brought the pain back, and that was how he knew he was still alive. He'd stopped floating. Someone was hauling him up the bank of the stream, dragging him by the arms. So they'd found him, then. He was dropped unceremoniously over the rocky ground, where he lay motionless, waiting for the soft whisper of a sword being drawn from its sheath, for the final blow to end his misery, for eternal darkness to engulf him at last.

When it never came, he forced his eyes open.

For a moment, he thought he really was dead, and he was facing Charon—a dark shape loomed over him, with fire for eyes and a hairy, oddly-shaped head. The words of the Aeneid, learned from his youth, came to his mind unbidden.

Now he knew he was dying. Since when did he start remembering poetry?

A sordid god: down from his hairy chin;

A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;

His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire...

Something warm and moist brushed his face, a snort stirred his wet hair, and the illusion broke. It wasn't Charon that stood over him, but some sort of animal, perhaps a horse. The fiery eyes moved, and he realized they were a torch, held in the hand of a person—a real person, with a cowl covering the head, keeping the face in the shadow. Savior or executioner?

He twisted his head to avoid the animal's inquisitive nose. Even such a tiny movement hurt. A pair of small feet, clad in old leather sandals, stood beside him. A pair of slim ankles, brushed by the long hem of a dark gown. A woman's feet.

Gentle hands turned him over. He tried to focus. In the light of the torch, he found himself looking into a pair of green eyes, as green as the hills of Caledonia, as green as the forests of Germania, as green as the water of the Euphrates, eyes that soothed and calmed and took away his pains.

And, as he looked into those eyes, Emperor Geta, the Imperator Caesar Publius Septimius Geta Augustus, uttered the one word he'd never thought he would say, in all twenty-eight years of his life: "Help."

Darkness took him then.

***

Daphne stared at the soldier lying on the bank of the stream by her feet. He was a soldier, that much she was certain of, despite his lack of armor. It was a good thing too, for he would've sunk to the bottom of the stream had he been wearing all those heavy metal plates. But what had happened to him? How did he come to be here, all bedraggled and bloody? Had there been a battle nearby that she didn't know about? Ever since the previous spring, when war with Parthia had broken out again, Daphne had seen her fair share of soldiers marching through the countryside. Her village was too small, tucked away as it was amongst the hills, to receive much attention from the army, but she'd heard complaints of people from bigger towns who had had their crops taken, their draft animals seized, and their lives disrupted by the war. Even her younger brother, Attikos, had been recruited by the army. He was now serving in a garrison somewhere in the north, and every day her family lived in fear that he would not come back. Daphne, whose own life had been disrupted by another war that took place nearly ten years ago and thousands of miles away, tried her best to ignore the battles that raged on just across the border, knowing there was nothing she could do about them.

But now, it seemed, the battles had found their way to her.

The soldier at her feet let out a groan, and her healer's nature took over. Putting the torch down, she slipped her hands under his arms and lifted him up. The soldier, though muscular, wasn't a big man, and Daphne was strong from all the climbing and walking she had to do every day, so with only some grunting and heaving, she managed to put him on the back of her donkey, Midas, who was hovering helpfully nearby. "Come, Midas," she said, and with the torch in one hand, she led the donkey back to their camp, in one of the many caves that dotted the bottom of the hills.

That spring, as soon as the pistachio trees began putting out their clusters of green blooms tipped with pink, Daphne had left her hut for her bi-annual journey to gather herbs and medicine, while hoping that nobody at the village would be so inconsiderate as to fall ill or go into labor while she was away. It was a journey she had been making with her grandmother since she was old enough to tell wild carrot from poisonous hemlock, and one she'd always looked forward to as a child. For days on end, the two of them would wander up and down the hills and valleys of the Balikh River, searching amongst the new growth that had sprung up after the winter rain, looking for leaves and flowers with healing powers. For Daphne, it had been like playing, running through the plants, gathering up armfuls of fragrant leaves and flowers, cooking on an open fire, sleeping under the stars or in a cave. It was the only playtime she ever had. In the autumn, they would come back for roots and seeds and dry branches, but she loved the spring trip the best.

Now, as a grown woman, Daphne still loved the journey, though she also understood why her grandmother had taken her along all those years ago. It wasn't because Daphne had been that much help, or because her grandmother had wanted to give Daphne a rest from helping her mother and taking care of her brothers. It was simply because the old woman wanted someone to talk to. Back at the village, there were always people coming and going, seeking help. Out here, with nothing but the sky above and the ground beneath her, Daphne sometimes felt as though she was the only person alive in the whole of creation. There was Midas, of course, but as sweet as he was, a donkey was not much company.

So it was with a strange sense of relief and gratitude that Daphne lowered the soldier onto the ground, stoked the fire higher, and cut open his tunic to look at his wounds. Yes, this was something odd and unsettling and perhaps dangerous as well, but at least she wouldn't have to be alone with her thoughts for the night. She would have company, even if he was unconscious, and more importantly, she would have something to occupy herself with.

The wounds—there were two, one on his back near the shoulder and one between his ribs, just below his chest��were deep but clean, clearly made by a blade. Whatever had happened to him, the soldier had certainly been favored by Fortuna. His cloak had softened the blow, and the blade had only gone through the fleshy part of his shoulder. At the front, the blade had also been deflected somehow and had slipped between his ribs instead of burying itself in his heart. There was no blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, and his breathing was shallow but steady, meaning his lung had been spared. The soldier's trip down the stream had cleaned the wounds, leaving only a small trickle of blood.

Daphne opened her jar of vinegar, which she always brought along in case she found some plants that needed preserving, cut a strip of linen from the soldier's tunic, which was ruined anyway, dipped it in the vinegar, and carefully cleaned the wounds again. There was also a rather nasty bruise on the back of his head, but that would have to wait. Thank the gods she had her suturing needle and thread with her. She'd never gone on a long journey without them, not after the time she fell down a ravine and cut her foot. Had she been further away from home then, she would not have made it back. Yet another reason her grandmother had insisted on bringing along a helper.

The soldier's flesh trembled and twitched under the vinegar cloth. Daphne, bending over the wounds, didn't see him move. She only heard a hiss of steel and jumped back just in time to avoid the blade as it flashed in the firelight, right across her face. The soldier shot up, a dagger clutched in his hand, his eyes wide open, dark and enormous in the dimness of the cave. They were blank and unfocused, and she knew he saw nothing at all.

"Murderer!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Traitor!"

Something hot and wet oozed down her cheek. Daphne clamped a hand to it and felt pain blaze across her cheekbone. The soldier's dagger had cut her. Had she been a fraction of a heartbeat slower, it would've taken out her nose or even her eye.

"You fool!" she shouted. Her grandmother would have something to say about the wisdom of arguing with a delirious man wielding a dagger, but Daphne had no time for wisdom at the moment. "You utter fool! I'm trying to save your life!" Blood was dripping down the side of her face, warm and sticky on her jaw.

The soldier wasn't listening. He was still ranting and raving about murderers and traitors, and something else in Latin, which Daphne couldn't understand. Then he tried to push himself to his feet, only to collapse in a heap by the fire. The dagger clattered out of his hand.

Daphne approached him cautiously, holding her injured cheek. He was motionless, though his chest was still moving up and down in weak, rapid breaths. Not wanting to take any risk, she picked up the dagger and tucked it into her pack, and, as extra precaution, bound the soldier's hands with some rope. Then, after wrapping some bandages around her cheek to stop the bleeding, she put more wood into the fire to stoke it higher, so its light filled the cave and reached even the furthest corner. Under that light, she sutured the soldier's wounds, using small, careful stitches just the way her grandmother had taught her. Once this was done, she went out again, torch in hand, passed the snoozing Midas by the mouth of the cave, and started searching the ground along the stream. She had seen some early-blooming goldenrods there—she never bothered to gather them, since they were abundant all around the hills of her village and in her own garden, but now she filled her mantle with the small yellow flowers.

The soldier was still unconscious by the time she came back. Good. She didn't want him awake and squirming and tearing the stitches. She crushed the goldenrod blooms and mixed them with vinegar into a bitter-smelling poultice, put it on his wounds and his bruise, and wrapped them in clean bandages. Some of the poultice she saved to put on her own wound as well, though the suturing would have to wait until the morning, when she could see her face more clearly.

With a sigh, Daphne sat back by the fire, trying not to wince as the vinegary poultice pressed into her cut. Her patient was lying peacefully enough, covered in her blanket, though he still writhed and grimaced from time to time.

She looked at him more closely, with curiosity. He was not a young man, though he was not yet old either, perhaps close to thirty. The same age as her husband, Galen, had he lived. But this man was no common foot soldier like her Galen had been. For all the ordinariness of his clothing, she could tell he was a patrician. It was there in the fine wool of his tunic, much finer than the coarse undyed linen of a soldier's, in the soft leather of his boots, in the gleaming buckles of his belt, in the carved ring on the little finger of his left hand. It was there in his face as well, in the high forehead framed by short dark curls, in the eyebrows that seemed locked in a permanent scowl above his fine-shaped nose, in the strong mouth and firm jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard. Those noble features only heightened the riddle of the man, a riddle Daphne had no hope of solving any time soon.

Well, a good night's rest would bring clarity and wisdom in the morning, as her grandmother had always said. Leaving the mysterious soldier on the other side of the fire, Daphne wrapped herself in her mantle, lay down on the hard floor of the cave, and fell into a tired sleep, her cheek still smarting.

***

The fire had burned down to embers and the pale gray light of dawn was shining in from the mouth of the cave when Daphne was wakened by a shuffling sound. It was the soldier, who was pulling weakly at his bound wrists. His eyes were open, and though they were still dazed, some of the delirium in them had faded.

"What's the meaning of this?" he croaked. "Who are you? What have you done to me?!"

"Please, calm yourself," said Daphne, scrambling to her feet and holding up a hand. "I have to tie you up because you were tossing about. Calm yourself before you tear your wounds open. You're safe."

"Safe?" he repeated, almost to himself. "No... not safe... not safe..." The delirium was settling in again. She had to get a few things out of him before he lost consciousness or worse.

"What's your name?" she asked. "Which legion do you belong to? Is your camp close by?" He showed no sign of hearing her and only looked about the cave with wide, panic-stricken eyes. Daphne stepped closer and pulled her mantle down so he could see her face more clearly. "Is there anyone I can go to for help?"

His hand shot out and gripped her wrist so tightly it hurt. He fixed those enormous eyes on her. "No!" he shouted, though it came out little more than a rasping whisper. "Tell no one! Danger... must hide..." Then his eyes glazed over, and he dropped to the floor, fingers slowly loosening from her wrist.

Daphne made her way back to the other side of the dying fire and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, rubbing her sore wrist. The soldier's fear was contagious. What had happened to him was no mere battle wounds, she could see that now. He had rambled about murderers and traitors... but was he the victim of murderers and traitors, or was he himself a murderer and traitor? Was he in danger, or was he the danger?

It was a two days' journey to the nearest town, Carrhae, and four days back to her village. The sensible thing to do was to bring him to Carrhae and leave him there for the authority to deal with. But with his injuries, he may not survive the trip. And even if they made it to Carrhae, a lone soldier, very possibly a deserter or even a turncoat, would not merit much attention. The magistrate there may leave him to die. Daphne wasn't sure she could live with that on her conscience. As she watched the unconscious soldier, she couldn't help thinking of her Galen, dead these eight years and buried somewhere in the cold, barbaric hills of Caledonia. What if something like this had happened to Galen as well? What if he'd been separated from his fellow soldiers and stumbled through a foreign land, lost and injured? And what if some woman had also happened upon him, but had decided to let him die because she thought he was too much trouble? What if this soldier had someone waiting for him?

With such thoughts circling around her head like a swarm of angry bees, there was no going back to sleep for her. As soon as the light turned from gray to white, Daphne went to the stream to fetch a pan of water, stopping briefly to check on Midas, who was contentedly cropping the grass around the mouth of the cave.

Her reflection in the stream made Daphne realize why the soldier had been so frightened upon seeing her. With dried blood down one side of her cheek, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep, and her hair all wild, she must have looked, to him, like one of the Furies. Returning to the cave, she tried to stitch the cut on her cheek as best she could, using the pan of water as a mirror. It was going to leave a scar for sure. Oh well. She had never been a great beauty anyway.

She then boiled the water to make some porridge for breakfast. As she ate, she dug around in her store of foraged plants and herbs and found some valerian, which she steeped into a tea to help the soldier sleep. He swallowed the tea easily enough, though Daphne knew what he really needed was some tincture of poppy, which was stored in a precious glass vial on the highest shelf back in her hut, four days away. But could she bring him back there? The villagers would not take kindly to a stranger.

Leaving the soldier in the cave, Daphne returned to the stream with Midas by her side. Mysteriously wounded men or not, she was determined to finish her trip. Throughout the morning, she worked hard on the bank, cutting down armfuls of young willow, as these large trees were of better quality than the scraggy bushes near her village. She took care not to stray too far from the cave and returned from time to time to check on the soldier, who remained unconscious. In the light of day, he was looking very pale. Whatever she was going to do with him, she had to decide quickly. Although his wounds were not fatal, he had lost a lot of blood, and if the wounds became poisoned, there was little she could do for him out here.

Daphne was busy stripping the leaves from the willow branches to get at the medicinal bark when Midas gave a warning bray. She turned around and saw two soldiers striding toward her from upstream. She quickly pulled the mantle over her head to conceal her face, while still keeping an eye on them. They were dressed much more elaborately than her patient, in chainmail and helmets, and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with a scorpion. Dressed for battle. What kind of battle could they expect here, in this lonely valley amongst these rocky hills of Osroene?

The soldiers had spotted her and were quickening their steps. She remained where she was, with her back to them, feigning oblivion.

"You there! Old woman!" shouted one of the soldiers in Greek. Old woman? They must have been fooled by her dark mantle and her hunched form. Part of Daphne was offended, but another part of her was glad. She didn't like to think what such beastly men would do to a lone woman in the wilderness. "On your feet! We have some questions for you!"

Daphne gripped her knife more tightly in her palm, concealing it between the folds of her chiton. With her other hand, she pulled herself up by holding on to a willow tree, making sure to keep her back stooped, trying to appear like an old, decrepit hag.

"Have you seen a wounded man around here?" one of the soldiers asked. He was young, with a face like a rat. He took off his helmet to wipe at his forehead, revealing thin tuffs of pale blonde hair.

Daphne hesitated. These men could be her patient's fellow legionaries, and she could simply hand him over to them and not have to worry about him any longer. However, she was now seeing them more clearly, and the brutal, fierce look on their faces made her knees tremble. She could be handing her patient to his executioners.

"Wounded?" she said in a low rasp. "Why would there be any wounded men around here? Was there a battle? Have the Parthians invaded us?"

"Calm down, you silly old hag," the other soldier said. He was older and darker. A scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, making him look even more vicious. "There was no battle," he continued. "Our fellow soldier simply—had an accident while marching, and we lost track of him. We're trying to find him before he gets seriously hurt. If you've seen him, tell us, and the army will reward you handsomely."

A likely story. Those wounds were no accident. Daphne shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I haven't seen a soul."

The two soldiers glanced at each other in exasperation and something else, too. Fear? Worry?

"He can't have gone this far," the blonde soldier said. "If Martialis had managed to wound him before he was killed—"

"Quiet, you idiot!" the dark one hissed. He pulled his partner away from Daphne's earshot, but some of his angry words floated back to her. "This is your fault! If you'd gone with Martialis to make sure the deed was done, none of this would've happened! Now we're trampling all over this Gods-forsaken land, searching for a needle in a haystack..."

So Martialis—whoever he was, or had been, by the sound of it—must have been the one who attacked her patient. And then her patient had killed Martialis and escaped? Daphne wasn't quite sure what the soldiers' conversation meant, but she was sure that there was some conspiracy here, and those men were in on it.

Her heart stopped. The two soldiers had noticed the cave and were making their way toward it. If they found her patient, they would know she'd lied...

"I wouldn't go poking around in there if I were you, young masters," she called out. The soldiers paused near the mouth of the cave and turned back to frown at her. She bent down a little, so that her cowl fell over her face. "These hills are teeming with scorpions and venomous snakes, and they like nothing more than a cool, dark place like that to hide from the sun," she continued. "They would not take kindly to being wakened from their nap."

The soldiers drew back, peering into the dark of the cave warily as if they could see these snakes and scorpions lurking there.

"I told you, he can't have gone far," the blonde, rat-faced soldier repeated to his partner. "We would've seen him by now. Unless he'd fallen into the stream. And if he had, he's done for anyway."

The dark-haired soldier lifted his heavy mail away from his neck and looked at the sun, which was getting higher in the sky and burning hotter. "Yes, I don't think anyone can survive such wounds out here," he said. "Let's go."

They went back the way they came and eventually disappeared behind the rocky hills. Daphne let out a breath of relief. Carrying her bundles of willow bark, she returned to the cave, where her patient was still lying by the remnants of the fire, breathing his shallow breaths and wincing in his sleep. Daphne sighed. It looked like she was going to have to cut her trip short this year.

"Don't make me regret this," she said, though he couldn't hear her.

A note on the setting: I know that based on the location of the story (Osroene, now southeastern Turkey), the people were more likely to be Mesopotamian than Greek, but I don't know much about Mesopotamian culture and the research overwhelmed me a bit, so I went with Greek for simplicity's sake. A later chapter does include an explanation as to why there is a Greek community in the middle of Mesopotamia (I doubt anyone would care, but I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, even in an alternate history fic.)

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 (as usual, if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

#geta #caracalla #gladiator II #make way for the emperor

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palomahasenteredthechat · 3 days ago

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Mom and Dad at your extra cousin's theme wedding

#pedro pascal #connie nielsen #gladiator 2

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palomahasenteredthechat · 4 days ago

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You will be entertained, or else

youtube

Final Gladiator 2 trailer

#gladiator 2

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palomahasenteredthechat · 4 days ago

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Paramount Takes Promotional Stunt to New Level for ‘Gladiator II’

The studio plans to air the same 60-second trailer on 4,000 TV, radio and digital channels on Monday.

For a snapshot of what movie marketers think it now takes to get the public’s attention — even for a sequel to a popular movie — consider the astounding stunt that Paramount Pictures has planned for “Gladiator II.”

On Monday at 9 p.m. Eastern, Paramount will debut a final 60-second trailer for the film on more than 4,000 television networks, digital platforms, local stations, Spanish-language outlets and radio stations simultaneously.

Based on average audience totals for a Monday evening, the trailer could reach roughly 300 million potential customers, according to Marc Weinstock, Paramount’s president of worldwide marketing and distribution. “We aimed to create a big moment to match the scope and grandeur of Ridley Scott’s epic film,” Mr. Weinstock said.

#gladiator II

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palomahasenteredthechat · 4 days ago

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Yo, Ridley

The enigmatic emperor Caracalla. Lucius Septimius Bassianus, renamed Marcus Aurelius Antoninus at age 7, was born on April 4, 188 in Lugdunum, Gaul (Lyon, France). Like 'Caligula', he's known by a nickname rather than his name.

His father, Septimius Severus, became the first Roman emperor of North African origin in 192; His mother, Julia Domna, was a noble lady of Arab origin born in Emesa (Homs, Syria)

Publius Septimius Geta was born in Rome, 11 months after his brother 'Caracalla'. All historical sources claim that they never had a brotherly relationship. According to historians, Geta was more appreciated by the Senate and the people than his brother. Herodian wrote that they constantly fought for any reason and "it was impossible to hide the rivalry between the brothers, although the emperor Septimius tried in vain to keep this from being known".

An unusual empress

Busts of Julia Domna. Photos :Bibi Saint-Pol, and Daderot (CC)

Julia Domna always accompanied her husband in all the campaigns, the reign of Septimius Severus was extremely militarized. She received the title Mater Castrorum (Mother of the legionary camps). She made political decisions directly, something unprecedented in Rome for a woman. After the death of Septimius, Julia Domna was granted the titles: Mater Senatus and Mater Patriae (Mother of the Senate, Mother of the Nation). She was a scholar in Philosophy, and had a notable influence on that subject. She was involved in several architectural projects including the famous Caracalla Baths, enormous work planning by her husband and completed by her son. She was highly respected by the Senate throughout her reign (192-217).

"Let there be peace among you both, pay the army well and forget the rest". -Septimius Severus to his children on his deathbed

'Geta Dying in his Mother's Arms' by Jacques Pajou

Britannia, February 4, 211: The emperor died of natural causes, accompanied by his family. Caracalla and Geta, aged 22 and 21, had been emperors with their father since childhood, but after the death of Septimius, as expected, such co-government would not last long.

According to contemporary historian of that period, Herodian : "The co-emperors constantly quarreled and feared that one of them would poison the other, so they did not eat at the same table."

Rome, December 27, 211: 'Caracalla' ordered the execution of Geta, claiming to have discovered that his brother was plotting to assassinate him. The execution carried out by two centurions was in the presence of Julia Domna. Following this he ordered the execution of all Geta's supporters, among them Lucius Aurelius, the only grandson of Marcus Aurelius, son of Lucilla and Pompeianus.

The curious thing is that empress didn't leave her son Caracalla; This caused the Empress to lose popularity among the people, especially in the eastern provinces.

It doesn't matter your ethnicity nor hometown; If you were born in Roman territory so you're a Roman.

In 212 he decreed a revolutionary edict that granted Roman citizenship to every free man and woman living in Roman territory, and from then on every free child born in the Roman Empire was Roman. This was criticized by historians contemporary with him, but modern historians agree that he simply understood what the Roman elite refused to understand. For them, Rome was a city-state and the other territories were the property of Rome; Only those born in the city were Romans, those from southern Italy, and certain privileged people who obtained Roman citizenship. 'Caracalla' was living proof that the elite had an anachronistic vision; being emperor of Rome he was a descendant of Arabs and Berbers, and born in Gaul; Evidently it was no longer the city-estate of the Romans but the capital of a multiethnic world called Rome.

An awesome site

Baths of Caracalla. Reconstruction made by team of 'History in 3D'

The Caldarium (sauna) was built in the Pantheon style and the vestibule was in basilica style; Just two simple parts of a baths building were something magnificent in themselves. It was an immense complex that, in addition to the typical cold, warm, and hot baths, dressing room, massage and beauty salons, included two libraries, gym, impressive swimming pools, a stadium , vast gardens, a small museum with exhibitions of works of art, and a shopping center with a wide variety of businesses.

The Alexandria Massacre

After a trip through the eastern provinces, in December 215 he arrived in Alexandria. The Alexandrians, outraged by the death of emperor Geta, began to public perform plays of satire mocking Caracalla and in which they called empress mother "Jocasta." According to the famous legend, Jocasta was the mother of Oedipus who, after killing his father, had married his own mother. Upon discovering this his wrath was such that ordered a massive executions. Caracalla attacked the city with his troops for several days, in a kind of personal war against Alexandria.

Unexpected death

Gold medal bust of Caracalla with the shield of Alexander the Great. By Sailko /CC BY 3.0 /wikimedia commons.

In 216 he offered King Artabanus IV of Parthia to marry his daughter, but the king rejected the offer. Caracalla took advantage of this "snub" to start a campaign against the Parthian empire. He began attacking the countryside east of the Tigris. In early 217 he was in Edessa (modern Şanlıurfa,Turkey) preparing to restart the campaign.

On April 8, 217, four days after his 29th birthday, he was traveling to a temple near Carras (Harran, southern Turkey) and when he stopped to urinate, the praetorian soldier Martialis assassinated him with his sword. According to historical sources, the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Macrinus commissioned him to assassination. Martialis was executed immediately after Caracalla's death, and three days later Macrinus proclaimed himself emperor.

Empress Julia Domna was in Antioch, upon learning of the assassination decided to take her own life.

This seems like the end of The Severan dynasty, however it wasn't. Julia Maesa, older sister of Julia Domna, was a strong lady.

In her hometown, Emessa, where Macrino had forced her to return, she took advantage of the fact that it was a place with an important military base. She organized with the legions a war against the usurper Macrinus. She placed his grandson Elagabalus on the throne on May of 218. Macrinus, who had fled to Cappadocia, was executed two months later. After Heliogabalus, his cousin Alexander Severus ruled until 235.

"I know that none of you like what I do, that's why I have weapons and troops: so that at no time do I have to worry about what you say about me." -Caracalla to the Senate

Emperor Caracalla. Marble. Acquired from Rome, Italy, in 1875. Altes Museum, Berlin. Photo: Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP (Glasg) CC BY-SA 4.0- Wikimedia Commons

He is known as 'Caracalla' because that is what the Romans called a Gallic garment with a hood that they say this emperor didn't take off even to sleep.

#caracalla #geta #julia domna #are we not entertained #gladiator II #pedro should have been martialis

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palomahasenteredthechat · 5 days ago

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palomahasenteredthechat · 6 days ago

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Reposting for the Geta and Caracalla whores

Catacomb

Is he Geta or Caracalla? Does it matter?

Warnings: Adults only; Minors DNI. M/F intercourse, oral, implied violence. Our emperors are baaaaaaaaaaad boys.

The labyrinth was an endless series of twists and turns in the dim light as her frantic steps propelled her forward. The only sound was of her ragged breathing. The musty smell of the city’s rot emanated from the damp walls.

For a while she sensed she was moving downward, away from the imperial palace into some older, darker part of the sprawling city. Torches flickered from the walls and the ceiling dropped so low she had to duck, tripping over the hem of her stola, the ribbons coming undone at her shoulder. Rats scurried along the seams of the walls.

She didn’t care. She had to get away, to run from what she had seen, but when she closed her eyes the images remained.

Two brothers. Each more sinister than the other. Their depravity unfathomable.

Emperors of Rome.

She had felt their eyes upon her flesh at first, as they had slithered among the concubines who had been brought for their pleasures. The first squat in his features, his face bleached white, fat fingers reaching beneath the draping fabric, to pinch and squeeze. His prominent nose smelling the aroma of their perfume in the evening breeze. Some of the women tittered at his ministrations as his fingers unwound the silk ribbons holding their stolas in place.

The second, lingering in shadow. The evening light revealing burning eyes underneath a head of fire. Eventually, he joins the fray, his hand ghosting along her lower back and exposed buttocks.

She had heard whispers of Caracalla and Geta’s wickedness, rivaling only the legendary Caligula in perversion. But hearing and seeing were a different matter.

The brothers dove into the pile of women like men starved after a long winter. It was difficult at first to determine whose fingers were between her legs, which hands around her throat. The women sighed and laughed and rose to pour ever more cups of wine. Eventually only three women were left on the bed with the emperors.

She watches as one kisses the woman next to her, as the other dives between her legs. Soon the woman’s screams of ecstasy echo off the marble. Turning to the next, the brothers switch places, sticky secretions wiping away the white paint from around their mouths.

The realization that they will be upon her next makes her fingers clutch as the brocade curtain alongside the bed. Turning aside, she looks to see if any of the servants have brought more when the screams of the second woman send a chill down her spine.

Caracalla (or is it Geta) lifts his head from her body, and his face is smeared with blood. A knife is in his hand. “I just wanted to see what it looked like,” he whines, and it is almost plaintive.

Her hands are drawing the curtains aside, her feet have a mind of their own, and she runs.

She feels dampness on her shift and realizes that it is blood.

Now she reaches the end of a long tunnel, the sound of rushing water drowning out the roaring in her ears. Is it the harbor? She has thoughts of boarding a ship, perhaps to Egypt, earning her keep with her skills for the journey.

But she has only arrived at the baths.

Fountains of running water echo off the marble as moonlight flickers along the surface of the water. Her face damp with sweat, she kneels to bring water to her neck when she hears a sound. Trapped, she shrinks into the corner, curling up into a ball, as the sound of footsteps echoes, heavy and deliberate.

She sees him in the dim light. The one who kept to the shadows. Passing underneath a torch, the light bounces off the burned hues of his hair, illuminating the poisoned honey of his eyes.

There’s no where to go. He slowly approaches and kneels down in front of her. His fingers ghost along the edge of her tunic, touching her toes. She wonders if he brought a knife to slice them off.

“I wasn’t finished with you yet,” he whispers. “I was saving you for last.”

His eyes pin her to the wall. Her heart is beating so fast she feels faint.

Slowly, he raises the hem of her tunic and pulls her by her calves toward him. As if in a trance, she lies backward until she is flush against the marbled tiles, the stone cold against her skin. His lowers his head between her legs and attacks her furiously with his lips and tongue, his fingers wrapped around her wrists, binding her in place.

He brings her to the edge before rising and freeing himself of his simple toga, his body glistening in the moonlight. She doesn’t speak as he enters her, lifting her legs around his waist so he can penetrate her more deeply.

He thrusts savagely, his eyes burning, and she closes hers and prays to whatever god that will listen that his brother will not join them.

The pleasure builds. She feels herself crest, her secretions making their union slippery. He folds her legs against his chest and plows into her mercilessly, his face in a grimace until she feels his heat.

Slowly, he releases her and stands. She stares up at him, legs and arms spread against the tile, and holds her breath.

He stares at her, his chest still rising and falling from the exertion of their coupling. She wonders where the other is, if he will come to the baths to wash the blood from his skin.

Geta (or is it Caracalla) smiles then, and it is the smile of a wolf. “I will see you again,” he says, before turning and vanishing into the darkness.

Many minutes pass before she feels brave enough to sit up and rearrange her tunic. Slowly, she rises and makes her way along the wall toward the giant entrance, leading out into the warm night.

#geta #gladiator II #geta smut #caracalla smut #fred hechinger #joseph quinn #caracalla

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palomahasenteredthechat · 8 days ago

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All that's past is prologue

He smiles, coy.

Sits and anticipates her coming to him.

For someone who doesn’t seek attention, once he’s ready, he lies back in wait. Drawing them closer.

The humidity makes his curls droop on the back of his neck and his shirt sticks to his back. He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke upward, the moon hanging low in the lavender sky. He closes his eyes and counts to three. When he opens them, she’ll be at his table, and he’ll invite her to sit down. One thing will lead to another…

“Nice night.”

His eyes snap open and he’s surprised to see his most experienced co-star standing in front of the table. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course.” Recovering his composure, he stands and gestures to the chair across from him. The woman has drifted off.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, I haven’t, the heat has affected my appetite, I’m afraid.” He smiles his polite smile, but the anxiety stirs in his stomach. Has he done something wrong? Is that why he’s here?

“You know, we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other. I like to get to know the people I’m working with. But you’re always out.” He chuckles. “So I decided in order to get to know you, I needed to be out too. Lucky for me tonight you chose the hotel bar.”

He smiles wanly, extinguishing the cigarette, and takes a sip of his drink. His companion orders a scotch and soda and toasts him when it arrives.

They drink together in silence.

His companion shakes the ice in his glass. “Hits the spot.”

Under the table, his leg is jiggling. He fiddles with his napkin. The anxiety is in full bloom.

His companion smiles. “I just wanted to say I’ve seen a lot of talented young actors over the years. But you, well, you’re something else.” He shakes his finger. “I’ve been very impressed with what I’ve seen from you so far. Tremendously impressed.”

He nods his head in gratitude. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“These talented actors, all of them gave great performances. But not all of them went the distance. Some of them flamed out, couldn’t sustain a career. It’s always a shame when that happens. It gets to the point where you kind of get a feeling. Of who’s going to go the distance.” He sips his drink.

He desperately craves a fresh drink but picks up his lukewarm water and sips carefully. “I see.”

His companion looks off into the distance, as if searching for the right words. “It’s the best career in the world, but at the end of the day when everyone goes home, you’re left alone with yourself. If you don’t like who that person is, you can get lost. And once you get lost, it’s too easy to fall off the path.”

He wants to cry. Instead, he takes a deep breath. “That’s..very astute. Thank you for that.”

He fiddles with his lighter, his cheeks flushing hot. His companion sits and watches him, sipping his drink carefully. Finally, he looks up and meets his eyes. “Um…it’s been a difficult year.”

“I can imagine it has.”

“It’s been mad. It happened overnight. And I feel like-like I haven’t been able to draw a breath.”

“I’ve heard that, about those streaming shows. That’s it’s instant. That’s terrible. You have to recalibrate your whole life over a weekend. Hell, a year isn’t enough time for that. You must have whiplash. I can imagine it’s put a strain on your relationships too.”

He laughs mirthlessly. “Yes, it has indeed.”

“Friendships, family. They don’t really understand what you’re going through. And people come out of the woodwork trying to take a piece of it. I’m lucky I had my wife by my side. She’s my rock. I wouldn’t have made it this far without her.”

He nods politely. “Yes, it would be nice to meet someone like that.” His companion smiles. “Something tells me meeting women isn’t your problem.”

He grins sheepishly. “No.”

“Do you trust of any of them?”

The question startles him. “Er, sorry?”

“Do you trust them? The women you meet.”

He contemplates the thought, turning it over in his mind. He’d never thought of things that way. His companion waits, eyes on his face, giving his full attention to the answer.

“I think…I trust some of them. Not all. Some of them…haven’t proved themselves very trustworthy.”

“So if I may be so bold as to ask, why keep company with someone you know you can’t trust?”

He nods, playing with his lighter. He feels like he’s in school. There’s a right and wrong answer, and he doesn’t know the difference. He looks up and tries to lighten the mood. “Did my mum send you down here to talk to me?”

“No, though I’m a father and I can understand if she’s worried about you. It just seems to me that you’re burning the candle at both ends, and you’re searching for something you can’t find.”

He nods resolutely. “Duly noted.”

His companion laughs. “Point taken. I’m just an old man, and you really want me to shut up.” Still chuckling, he finishes his drink, before taking out his wallet and laying several bills down on the table.

“I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m just telling you what I see. What do you with that information is up to you. I just want you to know that I’m here, and my door is always open if you need to talk.”

He nods, grateful and terrified. “Thank you-I’ll, I’ll remember that.”

His companion claps him on the shoulder and rises. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, see you tomorrow.” He watches him go, relieved.

The moon has risen higher in the sky. He signals the waiter for another. Just one more. When it arrives, he relishes it, the icy liquid coating his throat, soothing his nerves, quieting the anxiety.

He knows he should talk to someone. He’s known that since the holidays. He just can’t, not yet. Leaning back, he takes in the view, the ocean breeze beginning to rise in the dark. For a moment he feels a sense of peace. He just needs to keep working, keep moving, keep finding new views to contemplate, and things will turn out all right. Just get through this patch.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

He glances up and the woman is there. She smiles at him, sipping her drink. Her red nails tap against the glass.

He smiles back. “It certainly is.”

#the 27th of May #2023

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