#Rome stories

[newintrigue]

Sunset in Rome

Sunset in Rome in February. Warm enough to sit in a t-shirt on the stone steps facing L’Altare Della Patria. I strip off my jacket and I let it crumple to the stone steps below me.  A couple walks by in front. Then two. Then three. In Rome, they hold hands by clinging onto each other’s fingertips. Their hands are splayed out and quietly holding on. There is very little desperation, little…

[moonymoon90]

In the meantime I discovered that yesterday, in Rome, this happened

[izzy02soph]

Generals Daughter and her gladiator 🤎🏛️

Hanno/ Lucius Verus x afab! Reader

I own none of these characters except Y/N (if you even want to consider her a character)

——————

Y/N stood amongst the opulence of Senator Thraex's grand party, her eyes scanning the lavish surroundings. The twin emperors, were seated in places of honor, their presence commanding the room, while their whores rubbed themselves desperately against their emperors. But it was the sight in the center of the room that captured her attention—two gladiators were about to fight for the evening's entertainment.

“What are they going to do Aelia?” Y/N asked her friend next to her who was coincidentally Senator Thraxe’s young wife, Aelia

“What does it look like, silly, they’re gonna fight!” Aelia said getting excited

Among them was a fierce looking dark haired man, and an older barbaric gladiator known for his fierce reputation. As the fight started, Y/N watched intently. The dark haired man seemed reluctant, trying to stop the other man, but the crowd's demands and the emperor's orders left him no choice. With a heavy heart and a fierce determination, after minutes of fighting, the dark haired man eventually impaled his opponent, the crowd in the room erupting in cheers. Y/N and Aelia giggling as they clapped, finding entertainment in these fights.

“What a spectacular fight” Emperor Geta said as he finished clapping dramatically and walked over in front of the dark haired man.

“What’s your name, slave.”

The silence in the room was deafening, so silent you could hear your guards breathing.

“Hanno is his name, Caesar. He only speaks his native tounge, Caesar” Macrinus the stable master said as he reassured him.

The emperor hummed as if he was thinking of what to say next. Finally, the dark haired slave spoke up.

“The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.” He said with a smug look.

“So Hanno is a poet, too” Geta said while chuckling dryly.

“Geta don’t be rude” Caracalla said in a joking manner as he sat up in his seat. All his jewelry clanked as he moved.

For a split second Hanno looked over trying to regain his composure, eyes landing on Y/N

“Can’t wait to see how you are in the arena. Hanno.” Emperor Geta said as he looked at the slave one last time before walking back to his seat

Soon after, the music of the harp started back up. Moved by his internal struggle and the raw power he displayed, Y/N made a swift decision. She turned to her guard and whispered urgently, "I must meet him. Arrange it immediately." The guard nodded and hurried to comply.

______

Soon after, Y/N found herself in the steam-filled bathhouse where Hanno was enjoying his hard-earned reward. He looked up as she entered, jewelry adorning her wrists and her necklace sparkling off the steaming water. His eyes narrowing with suspicion and curiosity. “You’re not supposed to be here" he said, his voice rough and edged with bitterness.

“So he speaks”

Y/N stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "I saw you fight. You did not want to kill him, yet you did. I wanted to meet the man who battles not just with his body, but with his conscience."

Hanno's expression softened slightly, a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "And what do you hope to gain from this meeting? And again why are you here?" His words were still harsh, but there was a hint of something else—perhaps a spark of interest in the boldness of the beautiful lady.

“You heard me the first time” Y/N said, in a challenging tone. She sat down on the ledge of the tub as spoke with a lowered voice. "I want to know where you came from, Hanno. Who you are beyond the fighting. I saw the conflict in your eyes tonight. You're not just a brute for their entertainment."

Hanno's eyes narrowed, though his posture remained relaxed. "You speak with conviction, but words are easy, princess. What makes you think your curiosity will change anything? What makes you think I even want to share my past?"

“You think I’m a princess? So eager to jump to conclusions. Well if it make a difference I’m General Acacius’ daughter. Now you know where I come from” Y/N said trying to read the dark haired man

“You didn’t answer me the first time, why are you here?” Hanno said, eyes darkening as he realized who’s daughter he was talking to

Y/N's lips curved into a smirk. "Because I believe there's more to you than what meets the eye. And because I know what it's like to be trapped by expectations, to have your identity overshadowed by a title. We are not so different, you and I.“ She said as she got up from where she was sitting and got ready to walk out.

“In two days time, when you’re in the arena, win the crowd. They’ll love you” She said smugly before walking out.

______

Two days later, the Colosseum was buzzing with excitement. The gladiator games were set to continue, and the crowd was eager for more bloodshed. The Emperors, Macrinus, General Acacius, Lucilla, and Y/N were all present, watching intently from their seats. All in their noble attire, the emperors gold accessories sparkling in the sunlight.

Hanno and the other gladiators were brought into the arena. As they stood there, Hanno knelt and ran the dirt through his hands, a gesture reminiscent of the late warrior Maximus. This caught Lucilla’s attention, and she recognized Hanno. Y/N, noticing Lucilla’s reaction, leaned in.

“Lucilla, you seem troubled. Are you alright?” Y/N asked with genuine concern.

“I am fine, just... a memory stirred dear,” Lucilla replied, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness.

The games commenced with a brutal fervor. Hanno and the other gladiators were pitted against the undefeated gladiator Glyceo, who entered the arena atop his fearsome rhino. The battle was fierce and chaotic, with Glyceo mercilessly slaughtering the other men. The crowd roared with approval as the bodies fell, leaving only Hanno standing against Glyceo.

Y/N nervously started twisting her rings around her fingers, praying to the gods they kept Hanno alive.

Hanno and Glyceo faced each other, the tension palpable. Their fight was intense, each strike filled with raw power. Glyceo managed to knock Hanno to the ground. Geta, watching from above, turned his back looking for someone to help him decide

“Y/N, what do you think we should do with him” Geta asked as the arena waited for an answer

“Caesar, show mercy.” Y/N said in an almost pleading tone. Finding entertainment in these fights. Geta pointed his thumb upwards. Giving Glyceo a chance to spear Hanno

“Mercy is for the weak.”

Hanno, refusing to give up, rose to his feet and continued the fight. With a final, desperate effort, he impaled Glyceo, the champion’s eyes widening in shock as the blade was pulled out of his stomach. The crowd fell silent, holding their breath as they awaited the next move.

Geta, maintaining his cruel demeanor, gave the thumbs-down signal. Hanno, breathing heavily and covered in blood, took two swords and, with a swift, cross-like motion, decapitated Glyceo. The head rolled away as the crowd erupted into a mixture of shock and exhilaration.

Y/n watched intently as Hanno stood victorious, his chest heaving, and his eyes wandered to the Emperors box across the arena. The crowd cheering was deafening. He had won the crowd. In that moment, it was clear that the games were far from over.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, knowing that this was only the beginning of a much larger conflict.

______

“Row. Row. Row” The commander said as the gladiators kept rowing, the practice exhausting them, hands aching.

“Ridiculous” Hanno mumbled as the commander walked past him. The commander immediately stopped in his tracks.

“What did you say, slave?”

“I said this is ridiculous” Hanno said staring him down.

“Alright, everyone out. Except you” The commander said.

“You will row until it isn’t ridiculous” the commander said as he grinned evilly as he stood tall, hands behind his back.

“I guess we’ll be here a while then” Hanno said as he started rowing again.

______

After practice, Hanno woke up by a stinging pain in his hand, still seated in the boat. Ravi, the healer, seated in front of him.

"Calm down, Hanno. It is just vinegar" Ravi said, his voice calm and reassuring as he gathered his materials.

As Ravi worked, cleaning and bandaging Hanno's hands, Hanno couldn't help but think about Y/N. The way she had leaned in to speak with Lucilla, the concern in her eyes—it all intrigued him.

"Ravi," Hanno began, wincing slightly as Ravi applied a salve to a particularly deep cut, "Tell me about Y/N."

"Y/N Acacius? General Acacius’ daughter? Why do you want to know?” Ravi said, chuckling as if it was a funny question.

“Well go on.”

Ravi paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “There’s not much to it. She's the general's daughter…. But.. never mind.

“What Ravi?” Hanno said, starting to get annoyed.

“There's more to her than what meets the eye."

Hanno's interest was piqued. "What do you mean?"

Ravi continued, his hands moving deftly over Hanno's wounds. "She's a warrior, trained in the arts of combat. But she stopped fighting after the death of her mother and her father's remarriage. People know she knows how to fight, but not many bother for her hand because they know she’s strong and the general’s daughter—meaning she was taught very well in combat."

Hanno absorbed this information, a newfound interest growing within him. "A warrior who set aside her sword... I didn't expect that."

Ravi smiled slightly. "Few do. But y/n is not one to be underestimated. She carries the weight of her responsibilities with grace and strength. You'd do well to remember that. Why do you want to know though, I thought you hated the General."

As Ravi finished tending to his wounds, Hanno felt a sense of admiration and curiosity about Y/N. He realized that there was much more to her than he had initially thought, and he was determined to learn more about the mysterious women who had captured his attention.

______

Y/N was lounging in the tablinum area, her mind drifting aimlessly as she tried to relax. The events of the day had been intense, and she needed a moment of peace. Just then, Lucilla walked in, her face etched with worry and tension.

"Lucilla, what's wrong?" Y/N asked, sitting up straighter. She had noticed Lucilla's troubled demeanor earlier at the games but hadn't had the chance to ask.

Lucilla hesitated, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. "Y/N, there's something I need to tell you. But if I tell you, you cannot share this to another soul. And right now only your father knows about this.”

“What troubles you?”

“It's about Hanno... or rather, Lucius." Lucilla says as she finds a seat near Y/N

Y/N's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Lucius? What do you mean?"

Taking a deep breath, Lucilla began to explain. "Hanno is actually my son. His real name is Lucius. After my brother Commodus was killed by Maximus, I had to send Lucius away to keep him safe. He was and still is the rightful successor, and I feared for his life."

Y/N listened intently, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. "So, you sent him away to protect him?"

"Yes," Lucilla nodded, her voice trembling slightly. "Senator Gracchus helped me arrange to meet with Lucius to tell him the truth about his parentage. He is the son of Maximus. But when I told him, he was furious. He ordered me to leave his cell, angry that I had sent him away and blaming Acacius for Arishat’s death."

Y/N's heart ached for Lucilla. She didn’t know who Arishat was or why he was mad at her father, but she had to figure it out"That's a lot for him to take in. What will you do now?"

"I went to your father," Lucilla admitted, her eyes pleading. "I asked him to help Lucius. He needs guidance and support now more than ever."

Y/N reached out, placing a comforting hand on Lucilla's shoulder. "We'll find a way to help him. He's strong, just like you. We'll get through this together."

Lucilla nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Thank you, Y/N. Your support means everything to me."

Together, they sat in the quiet of the living room, the weight of their shared burdens palpable but bearable in each other's company.

______

I hope yall liked it! I got a request from someone to make a story for this, so I did it! Now I know it’s not all comely accurate but I’m working with what I got so take it or leave it! There most likely will be a part 2 if this goes how I want it but let me know if y’all even want a pt 2!🩷

[renonv]

Told y’all I would finish these two pages one day

[whereserpentswalk]

People don't realize how liminal it is to be a time traveler. How you don't ever really feel like you're in the time you are. Even when you're in your own time, everything is off, your coat was something you bought in interwar France, the book you're reading on the train is from a bookstore you had to visit in Victorian London, even your necklace was given to you by a Neolithic shaman, from a culture the rest of the world can never know. You find yourself acting strange even when in the present, much less in the past you have to work in.

You remember meeting a eunuch in 10th century China, and having him be one of the only people smart and observant enough to realize you were from a diffrent time. You could talk honestly with him, though still you couldn't reveal too much about your time. And it was still so strange hearing him talk casually about work and mention plotting assassinations. You're not allowed to but you still visit him sometimes.

You remember that the few times you were allowed to tell someone everything it was tragic. You knew a young woman who lived in Pompeii, who you had gotten close to, a few days before she would inevitably die. On your last day there you looked into her eyes, knowing soon they'd be stone and ash, that the beauty of her hair would be washed away by burning magma. And you hugged her, and told her that you wanted her to be safe, and told her she was wonderful and that you wanted her to be comfortable and happy. And you let her tongue know the joy of 21st century chocolate, and her eyes see the beauty of animation, knowing she deserved to have those joys, knowing it wouldn't matter soon. And you hugged her the last time, and told her she deserved happiness. And when you left without taking her it was like you were killing her yourself.

You want to take home everyone you're attached to. There's a college student you befriended in eighteen fifties Boston. And you can't help but see him try to solve problems you know humanity is centuries away from solving. And you just want to tell him. And it's not just that, the way he talked about the books and plays he likes, his sense of humor. There's so many people you want him to meet.

You feel the same way about a young woman you met on a viking age longship. She tells stories to her fellow warriors and traders, stories that will never fully get written down, stories that she tells so uniquely and so well. She has so many great ideas. You want so dearly to take her to somewhere she can share her stories, or where she can take classes with other writers, where she can be somewhere safe instead of being out at sea. She'll talk about wanting to be able to do something, or meet people, and you know you're so close to being able to take her, but you never can, unless she accidently finds out way too much then you can't.

You remember the longship that you met that young storyteller on. You were there before, two years ago for you, ten years later for the people on it. The young woman who told you stories wasn't there ten years later, you had been told why then but you only realize now, her uncle, who ran the ship, had been one of the first people to convert to Christianity in his nation. He killed her, either for not converting or for sleeping with women, you're not sure, but he killed her, and bragged about it when you met him ten years later.

You talk to the storyteller on the longship, ask her about the myths you're there to ask her about, the myths that she loves to tell. You look into her eyes knowing it's probably less then a year until her uncle takes her life. You ask her if you think that those who die of murder go to Valhalla. She tells you she hopes not, she doesn't see Valhalla as a gift but as a duty, she hopes for herself to go to Hel, where she wouldn't have to fight anymore. You slip and admit you're talking about her, telling her that you hope that's where she goes when she's killed. You hope to yourself you'll be forced to take her to the twenty first century, you're tempted even to make it worse, you want to have ruined her enough to be able to save her.

[sforzesco]

some "new" designs for different crassus and pompey, specifically for a side project I've been playing with that's so removed from anything relevant (action/adventure/horror standalone story lmao) that they kind of needed their own thing. this story's pompey has a neck scar from an Incident™, crassus has shorter hair and wears (checks notes) jewelry sometimes.

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[reneechoices]

The GOATs of Choices imo:

[audreyhepburninblackandwhite]

Audrey Hepburn during the production of The Nun's Story in Rome in 1958 Photography by Pierluigi Praturlon

[dootznbootz]

The fact that Diomedes gets kicked out after getting home in four days only to basically meet up with Aeneas and fuck around in Italy is so much fun. He gets CULTS :D

[neoclassicalblobphilosopher]

Diana et Callisto; Federico Cervelli 17th AD

[scriobh-an-iontas]

Christmas in Occupied Palestine

I have rewritten the Christmas story so that it will better fit modern times.

This is will make no one but me truly happy and will probably anger a great many more people than it will satisfy.

Enjoy!

The Birth of Yeshua Foretold

God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Northern Israel, to a virgin, Miriam, who was pledged to be married to a man named Yosef, a descendant of David. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Miriam was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Miriam; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Yeshua. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Miriam asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elisheba, your relative, is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Miriam answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her.

Yosef Accepts Yeshua as His Son

This is how the birth of Yeshua the Messiah came about: His mother Miriam was pledged to be married to Yosef, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit. Because Yosef, her husband, was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.

But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Yosef son of David, do not be afraid to take Miriam home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Yeshua, because he will save his people from their sins.”

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” (which means “God with us”).

When Yosef woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took Miriam home as his wife.

The Birth of Yeshua

In those days America issued a request that a census should be taken of the population of Israel. (This was the first census that took place while Mohammed al-Bashir was the transitional prime minister of Syria.) And everyone went to their hometown to register.

So Yosef also went down from the town of Nazareth in Northern Israel to the West Bank, to Bethlehem, the town of David, because he was from that area of occupied Palestine. He went there to register with Miriam, who was also Palestinian, pledged to be married to him, and expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in swaddling cloths and placed him in a manger, because the nearby hospitals in the region had been bombed.

And there were UN aid workers, living out in tents nearby, keeping watch by night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.”

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest heaven,     and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the UN aid workers said to one another, “Let us go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

So they hurried off and found Miriam and Yosef, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told to them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the UN aid workers said to them. But Miriam treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. The UN aid workers returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told.

The Magi Visit the Messiah

After Yeshua was born in Bethlehem in the West Bank, during the time of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, several scholars from around the world came to Jerusalem and asked, “Where is the one who has been born the Messiah? We saw the signs marking his birth when they appeared and have come to pay our respects to him.”

When Netanyahu heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him. When he had called together all the people’s chief priests and teachers of the law, he asked them where the Messiah was to be born. “In Bethlehem in the West Bank,” they replied, “for this is what the prophet has written:

“‘But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,     are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler     who will shepherd my people Israel.’”

Then Netanyahu called the scholars secretly and found out from them the exact time the signs had appeared. He sent them to Bethlehem and said, “Go and search carefully for the child. As soon as you find him, report to me, so that I too may go and pay my respects to him.”

After they had heard Netanyahu, they went on their way, and the signs they had seen led them to the place where the child was, and they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Miriam, and they paid their respects to him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him gifts befitting both his needs and his status. And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Netanyahu, they returned to their country by another route.

The Escape to Egypt

When they had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Yosef in a dream. “Get up,” he said, “take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Netanyahu is going to search for the child to kill him.”

So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Netanyahu. And so was fulfilled what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.”

When Netanyahu realized that he had been outwitted by the scholars, he was furious, and he gave orders for Bethlehem and everything in its vicinity to be bombed, in accordance with what he had learned from the scholars. Then what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled:

“A voice is heard in Ramah,     weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children     and refusing to be comforted,     because they are no more.”

The Return to Nazareth

After Netanyahu was removed from office, an angel of the Lord appeared in a dream to Yosef in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother and return to your homeland, for those who were trying to take the child’s life are no longer in office.”

So he got up, took the child and his mother and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that someone no different politically than Netanyahu was prime minister in his place, he was afraid to go there. Having been warned in a dream, he withdrew to Northern Israel, and he returned to Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

[blueiscoool]

Rome is Building an Eight-Story Underground Museum – But Treasures Keep Getting in the way

Rome, as it’s often said, wasn’t built in a day. And nowhere is that more evident than its state-of-the-art Metro Line C, an ambitious project meant to help relieve the Italian capital’s renowned traffic hellscape and celebrate its rich archeological history with a unique-in-the-world underground museum.

The €700 million line ($757.7 million) was originally envisioned for the Catholic Jubilee of 2000 as a vital link between Rome’s San Giovanni Cathedral and Vatican City’s St. Peter’s Basilica, making it easier for visiting pilgrims to collect indulgences by walking through the churches’ holy doors. Rome’s major basilicas open their holy doors only during Jubilee years, allowing Catholics from all over the world to make pilgrimages to the city to walk through them, symbolizing an openness to receive mercy and reconciliation.

But the 2000 dream never happened, thanks to a series of problems ranging from a corruption scandal in the city government and the sheer number of archeological objects – 40,000 in all, from petrified peach pits to pottery and vases and even the walls and mosaics of Emperor Hadrian’s 2,000-year-old military barracks – found with each shovel full of dirt during the initial preparations.

Now the hope is to have the line’s showcase Piazza Venezia stop, featuring an eight-story underground museum, ready in 10 years, according to engineer Andrea Sciotti, who is in charge of the metro museum complex. This will allow them to open around the Jubilee of 2033, which will mark 2,000 years since the death of Jesus Christ.

“It’s true, 10 years seems like a long time, but we aren’t just dealing with the engineering issues,” Sciotti said inside the construction site. “This station will be judged as the most beautiful in the world … we don’t have to rely on museum items being brought in, the museum station is in its original context in ancient Rome.”

Displayed where they were found:

During the initial phases of work carried out in the last five years, Sciotti said all of the artifacts were removed from the site for restoration. Each will be placed exactly where it was found inside the metro museum, which is being dug some 85 meters (280 feet) deep, encompassing eight stories below the modern city of Rome.

Over the millennia the modern city has been built over covered ruins. Only around 10% of ancient Rome has been excavated, with the rest still buried some nine meters (30 feet) below the current city, according to Rome’s tourist bureau. The city dates back to the stone age and construction work is notoriously hampered by the discovery of ruins that are too plentiful to even excavate and are often reburied to preserve them. Even simple infrastructure work, like sewage repairs, have to be attended by archeologists who have the power to stop the work if something is found.

There will be 27 escalators, six elevators and 66,000 square meters of archeological exhibit space. Ancient walls found during excavations will be placed “in situ” in the modern station and the ancient Via Flaminia that ran through the ancient city to the nearby Roman Forum and Colosseum.

The station’s three main entrances will connect the three museums around the square: the Vittoriano, the Palazzo Venezia and the outdoor ruins of the Roman Forum anchored by the Colosseum at the far end, which has its own metro station that will also feature museum and exhibit space.

Several of the archeological sites will have access points from inside the metro museum, meaning commuters and tourists alike can exit the station by rambling through historically significant ruins like Hadrian’s Auditorium, which was discovered when the initial archeological investigation into the project started and was meant to be the location of the station entrance. Since then, they moved the site and excavated the ruins, which are currently only visible looking down from street level.

‘Top down’ excavation system:

To secure the site as they dig, engineers are using a “top down” excavation system, which has never been used in Italy but was an integral part of the Jubilee line in London. Cross walls and diaphragms are being buried deep into the soil to form the perimeter of the underground complex, with the dirt taken out recycled and enhanced to be used in the building materials, Sciotti said.

The train tunnels themselves are not the issue since they will be more than 100 feet below ground.

The Venezia station museum stop is not the only treasure on the new line. In 2016, archeologists working on the site of the Porta Metronia (previously known as the Ambra Aradam) station found a 39-room complex that spanned more than 9,700 square feet that has been incorporated into the underground station, which will open by the end of 2024. In 2025, the new Colosseo-Fori station, complete with a four-level underground museum to showcase artifacts including 25 archaic wells unearthed when it was built, will also open after activation tests, meant to begin in October, are completed.

The entire 26-kilometer C-line will be Italy’s first fully automated driver-less subway system and will reduce road traffic by 400,000 vehicles a day, meaning CO2 emissions will be reduced by some 310,000 tonnes a year, according to the WeBuild group, which is the main contractor for the project.

The original plans from the 2000 Jubilee have been modified to eliminate several stations in the historical center that would have simply been too difficult to excavate.

By Barbie Nadeau.

[arbiterlexultionis]

Instant Eternity

Time travel involving the infinite realms is truly a bizarre thing. Sometimes it follow one set of rules, and sometimes that set of rules may as well not exist. Usually, however, it works in one of two ways, the first is when the time travel is achieved through artificial means such as clockworks portals and allows for the altering of the timeline as one would expect time travel would allow. The other type of time travel is through natural means, portals usually, and it’s just that, Natural. That portal to the past opened up in the past the same moment it did in the present. If you step into the portal in the year 2000 then you already stepped out of the portal hundreds of years ago. It’s A Thing That Already Happened. Danny himself experienced this, as while chasing Vlad through time they fought in the middle of a Roman coliseum and, whoopsy daisy, set a really big fire. A fire which Danny had learned about years before he even had his accident.

So, the infimap can take the user anywhere, anywhen. And the infimap is just that, a map. It doesn’t make new roads, it just drags you across already existing paths. So it is a natural form of time travel, if you use it to go in time to kill your grandfather in order to insure your never born your interference will result in your grandparents falling in love and your birth.

Danny realizes that anytime he needs to heal from a battle or has gone 156 hours without sleeping or eating he can use the infimap to pop back to the past for a few days and then have the map bring back to the “Present”, exactly one second after he left. A three week vacation that lasted one second. At first he’s really wary about using this, worried about accelerated aging or getting lost in the time stream and a hundred other issues. At first.

It’s been months sense the accident. Sam and Tucker have both shot up several inches. Danny, on the other hand, hasn’t grown sense the accident. At all. They fought a ghost who could rapidly age opponents, a single slap turned Tucker into a decrepit old man. The ghost wrapped his hands around Danny’s throat and spent 5 minutes trying to strangle him while Danny bought time for Sam and Tucker to pull off the plan. The sucked him into the thermos, his influence on time ceased so Tucker returned to his proper state. “Jeez it sure is lucky he didn’t try and age me, right guys? Ha ha ha”. Danny gets blasted through a natural portal while making a trip through the zone and spends years trying to get home, not aging a day.

He can’t deny it after that, can’t ignore it. He’s immortal. He’s going to live forever. He’s going to watch his friends and family whither away and die out. He’s going to have to spend the rest of his life wandering from place to place trying not to get outed as the same 14 year old who save someone’s great great grandma 100 years ago.

After having his first middeath crisis, suddenly the only reasons he had to not spend years on end wandering the world and the past is gone, even if he loses the infimap, worst case scenario he’ll just take the long way home. Suddenly, he’s dreading the next 80 years of the “Present”. He decides that if he’s going to watch his friends and family grow old and frail he’s going to make sure it’s takes as long as it possibly could, from his perspective. By the time they’re 20 Danny’s gonna have 200 years under his belt.

He becomes a temporal tourist, hopping into the past every time the late night fights and schoolwork become to much. Spends years in every civilization imaginable, mastering every skill he can, leaving legends in his wake.

I feel like Danny and his adventures do have a lot of potential for story’s, as it’s a pretty good setup for having Danny in any type of time period or historical event for extended periods of time, fighting in the trenches of World War I, exploring the Americas during the era of colonialism, sailing the seas a swashbuckling vigilante pirate. I, however, have most of my related ideas being based around crossovers. So most of that will be in part two, so that people who like to filter out all that can still see this post.

[goldenstarprincesses]

Alfred: An academically smart and intelligent man that probably has multiple college degrees on top of his formal colonial aristocratic English education

Also Alfred: Stunned into tragic silence in the 1940s when finding out the trojan horse story was just a legend

[chillentertainer]

are you even a tobias menzies fan if you don't know the exact article i'm referring to when i mention his 'unusually deep vertical creases that frame his face' hmmmmm